Popular Movements and Democratization in the Islamic World (New Horizons in Islamic Studies)

Popular Movements and Democratization in the Islamic World

Ever since the terrorist incident of September 11, a general understanding seems to have arisen among people that the challenges posed by Islam have now acquired human and global dimensions. What is particularly worthy of note in this debate is the tendency to view all such confrontations from a dualistic standpoint as tussles between the Western (democratic) world and the world of Islam. Popular Movements and Democratization in the Islamic World contains case studies of people’s movements in diverse areas and periods, and it seeks to develop a comparative view of Islam and democracy. It also presents an alternate picture of the world’s Muslim societies, one transcending the simple dichotomy of “Islam and democracy.” Unraveling the complexities that have arisen between Islam and democracy is the principal task of Islamic scholars, and this book will undoubtedly prove a starting point for all such endeavors. While primarily intended for students and scholars, Popular Movements and Democratization in the Islamic World will prove of interest even to general readers with interests in Islamic studies. Masatoshi Kisaichi is currently Professor of Islamic Studies at the Institute of Asian Cultures, Sophia University in Tokyo, and his research deals with the socio-political roles of Sufi orders in Egypt and Algeria. At present he is studying the relationship between popular Islam and Islamist movements in Algeria, and his recent publications include A History of the Islamist Movements of the Maghreb (in Japanese), Hakusuisha Publisher Co., Tokyo, 2004.

New Horizons in Islamic Studies Series Editor: Professor Tsugitaka Sato

The series New Horizons in Islamic Studies presents the fruitful results of the Islamic Area Studies Project conducted in Japan during the years 1997–2001. The project had planned multidisciplinary research on the dynamism of Muslim societies in both the Islamic and non-Islamic worlds, considering the fact that areas with close ties to Islam now encompass the whole world. This series provides the newest knowledge on the subjects of “symbiosis and conflict in Muslim societies,” “ports, merchants and cross-cultural exchange,” and “democratization and popular movement in Islam.” The readers will find multifarious, useful achievements gained through international joint research with high technology of geographic information systems about Islamic religion and civilization, particularly emphasizing comparative and historical approaches. Persian Documents Social history of Iran and Turan in the fifteenth–nineteenth centuries Edited by Nobuaki Kondo Islamic Area Studies with Geographical Information Systems Edited by Atsuyuki Okabe Muslim Societies Historical and comparative aspects Edited by Tsugitaka Sato Intellectuals in the Modern Islamic World Transmission, transformation, communication Edited by Stephanie Dudoignon, Hisao Komatsu and Yasushi Kosugi Popular Movements and Democratization in the Islamic World Edited by Masatoshi Kisaichi

Popular Movements and Democratization in the Islamic World

Edited by Masatoshi Kisaichi

First published 2006 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 270 Madison Ave, New York, NY 10016 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business

This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2007. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” © 2006 Islamic Area Studies Project All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested

ISBN 0-203-96121-8 Master e-book ISBN ISBN10: 0–415–39896–7 (Print Edition) ISBN13: 978–0–415–39896–1

Contents

List of illustrations Notes on contributors Preface Acknowledgments 1

Saints and sultans: religious authority and temporal power in precolonial Morocco

vii viii x xii

1

MOHAMED EL MANSOUR

2

Saints and Sufis in post-Communist Albania

33

NATHALIE CLAYER

3

Bridging the gap between pre-Soviet and post-Soviet Sufism in Ferghana valley (Uzbekistan): the Naqshbandi order between tradition and innovation

43

THIERRY ZARCONE

4

The Burhami order and Islamic resurgence in modern Egypt

57

MASATOSHI KISAICHI

5

The uprising of the “fearsome ruler of Lanao”: banditry and the internalization of violence in a southern Philippine Muslim society during the 1930s

78

MIDORI KAWASHIMA

6

Democratisation in Indonesia and Malaysia SYED FARID ALATAS

100

vi Contents 7

Penetration of “moderate” Islamism in contemporary Indonesia

126

KEN MIICHI

8

The development of secularism and non-sectarianism in the Middle East

143

YOSHIKO KURITA

9

Democratization and Islamic movements in Turkey

161

YASUSHI HAZAMA

Index

184

Illustrations

Figures 4.1 4.2 4.3 4.4 9.1 9.2 9.3 9.4 9.5 9.6 9.7

Organizational structure of all Sufi orders in Egypt from 1812/1813 to 1892/1895 (1903) Organizational structure of Sufi orders in Egypt from 1892/1895 to 1952/1975 to present Administrative structure of the Burhami order Levels of membership in the Burhami order Percentage of Turkish parliamentarians of religious profession Percentage of religious associations to the total associations, 1946–1968 Number of imam-hatip lisesi and their students Number of mosques constructed or renovated Percentage of imam-hatip lisesi graduates of total high school graduates, 1957–1996 Percentage of religious associations in Istanbul province, 1946–1995 Vote percentage for the pro-Islamic party in general elections

67 69 70 70 164 168 171 172 173 175 176

Tables 4.1 4.2

Names of Sufi orders currently recognized in Egypt Annual report or istibyan (questionnaire) submitted to High Commission of Sufi orders on May 23, 1999 4.3 Number of new entrants in the Burhami order 4.4a Occupations of the members in the Burhami order 4.4b Occupational distribution of members in seven prefectures 4.5 Number of members in cities and villages 4.6 Regional distribution of the members 4.7 Marital status at the time of registration (among official members above khalifa) 7.1 Educational and occupational background of members of the parliament from PK, 1999–2004

59 62 63 71 72 72 73 74 136

Contributors

Syed Farid Alatas is Associate Professor in the Department of Sociology at the National University of Singapore, Singapore. His research areas are Sociology of Religion and Philosophy of Social Science. His important works include: Democracy and Authoritarianism: The Rise of the Post-Colonial State in Indonesia and Malaysia, Houndmills: Macmillan; New York: St Martins, 1997; Alternative Discourses in Asian Social Science: Responses to Eurocentrism, New Delhi: Sage, 2006. Nathalie Clayer is Research Fellow in the Department of History at the CNRS (National Center for Scientific Research), Paris, France. His research area is Contemporary Islam of the Balkan countries. His important work includes Mystiques, État et société. Les Halvetis dans l’aire balkanique de la fin du XVe siècle à nos jours, Leiden, Brill, 1994. Mohamed El Mansour is Professor of History at Mohammed V University, Rabat, Morocco. His research area is Modern History of North Africa. His important works include: Morocco in the Reign of Mawlay Sulayman, Menas Press, Wisbech (UK), 1990 and The Atlantic Connection: Two Hundred Years of Moroccan-American Relations, 1786–1986, co-edited with Jerome Bookin Weiner, Edino Press, Rabat, 1991. Yasushi Hazama is Director of Comparative Politics at the Middle Eastern Studies Group, Area Studies Center, Institute of Developing EconomiesJETRO, Japan. His research area is Turkish Politics. His important works include: “Social Cleavages and Electoral Support in Turkey: Toward Convergence?” The Developing Economies, Vol. XLI, No. 3 (September 2003); “Constituency Service in Turkey: A Survey on MPs,” European Journal of Turkish Studies (2005), online (http://www.ejts.org/document471.html). Midori Kawashima is Professor at Sophia University, Tokyo, Japan. His research areas include International Relations and Political History – Conflict in the Southern Philippines, Islam in the Philippines. His important works include: “The Battle of Tamparan: A Maranao Response to the Japanese Occupation of Mindanao” in Southeast Asian Minorities in the Wartime Japanese Empire,

Contributors ix Paul H. Kratoska (ed.), London: Routledge Curzon Press, 2002, pp. 223–243; “Japanese Administrative Policy towards the Moros in Lanao” in The Philippines under Japan: Occupation Policy and Reaction, Ikehata Setsuho and Ricardo Trota Jose (eds), Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila Press, 1999, pp. 99–125. Masatoshi Kisaichi is Professor of History at Sophia University, Tokyo, Japan. His research area is Social Movement of the Maghreb. His important work includes A History of the Islamist Movements of the Maghreb (in Japanese), Hakusuisha Publisher Co., Tokyo, 2004. Yoshiko Kurita is Professor in the Department of History, Faculty of Letters, Chiba University. His research area is Modern History of Egypt and Sudan. His important works include: “The Concept of Nationalism in the White Flag League Movement” in The Nationalist Movement in the Sudan, Mahasin Abdelgadir Hag Al-Safi (ed.), Khartoum: Khartoum University Press, 1989, pp. 14–62 and ‘Ali ‘Abd al-Latif wa Thawra 1924 (‘Ali ‘Abd al-Latif and the 1924 Revolution), Cairo: The Sudanese Studies Centre, 1997. Ken Miichi is Researcher/Advisor of Political Science at the Embassy of Japan in Singapore. His research areas include Southeast Asian Studies and Islamic Movements and Society in Southeast Asia. His important works include: Islamism in Indonesia (in Japanese), Tokyo: Heibonsha, 2004; “Islamic Left and Intellectual Network in Indonesia” (in Japanese), Southeast Asian Studies, 2002, 40–1. Thierry Zarcone is Research fellow in the Department of History at the CNRS (National Center for Scientific Research), Paris, France. His research area is Intellectual History of the Turkic Area in the Eighteenth to the Twentieth Century. His important works include: Mystiques, Philosophes et Francs-macons en Islam (Paris: Ed. Jean Maisonneuve, 1993); La Turquie moderne et l’Islam (Paris: Ed. Flammarion, 2004).

Preface

It is unfortunately true that not a day goes by when we do not hear of wars or conflicts in areas and nations of the world that are often reported as being related with Islam. Indeed, ever since the terrorist incident of September 11, a general understanding appears to have arisen among people that the challenges posed by Islam have now acquired human and global dimensions. What is particularly worthy of note in this debate is the tendency to view all such confrontations from a dualistic standpoint, namely as tussles between the Western (democratic) world and the world of Islam. Ever since the termination of the cold war, areas that were once viewed as individual bodies such as the Middle East, Central Asia, and Southeast Asia, have now come to be grouped together as a single Islamic unit, and this has brought about the added aggravation that every problem surfacing in the Islamic world has of necessity to be analyzed in conjunction with the Islamic religion. Even with regard to the much-debated issue of Islam and democracy the naive reasoning has been proposed that Islam either hinders democracy or that the two can never be mutually compatible. On the other hand, however, when we inspect the Islamic religion from its own inimitable standpoint, we note that it is blessed with a unique value system that distinguishes it from Western democracy, and its associated notions of freedom and human rights. Antipathy, hatred, and mutual exclusion are the outcome of this situation, with the two adversaries choosing to remain apart after the September 11 incident. In March of 2003, the US-UK led coalition forces launched an attack on Iraq, with a view to realizing democracy in that nation. While this ongoing war may prove an appropriate cause to explain the animosity now existing between the Muslim world and the West, yet in acknowledging such a motive and directing our minds solely toward the dynamics of international power relations, we run the risk of failing to spot the budding glow of change taking place in little corners of the world’s diversified Islamic societies. In Iran for instance the pro-reform leader President Hatami was elected in 1997, and his party won an impressive victory in the national assembly of the year 2000. In Malaysia and Sudan charismatic Islamic leaders who had long retained power were eliminated in 1998 and 1999, respectively. In Algeria, where at one time the storms of terrorism prevailed, one now notes a slow but steady salvaging of social stability. One doubts if we are justified in interpreting such changes merely as the outcome of the decline of Islamic forces or the reinforcement

Preface xi of military regimes. While such factors may be reasonable causes for this change, yet at the same time we should not by any means overlook the many innovative developments now occurring in Muslim societies, and the roles these developments play in this political transformation. In this context special mention needs to be made of the youth and women who joined the mainstream of society in the late 1990s and who played a key role in this social transformation. The contents of this book are based on talks delivered at an international symposium, organized by the Islamic Area Studies Project and funded by the Government of Japan. The topic of the symposium was “The Dynamism of Muslim Societies: Toward New Horizons in Islamic Area Studies,” and it was held at the suburb of Kisarazu near Tokyo from October 5–8, 2001. I personally was privileged to lead project II of the symposium, tackling the issue, “People’s movement and democratization in Muslim regions.” One of the reasons for our having chosen that particular issue was the urgent need felt to straighten out the complications persisting in the relationship between Islam and democracy and seek ways and means whereby the two could mutually face up to and live with each other. Since the conception of democratization lies at the core of modern Western political thought, to explore its relevance to Islam is a difficult task. Any generalized argument would necessarily end in the irreconcilability of the two, and in fact such a dichotomy has consistently overshadowed all discussion on the subject of democratization in the Muslim world. To overcome such an unproductive, if not harmful debate, it would perhaps be meaningful if we were to view the links between Islam and democracy in multiple contexts. In an attempt to probe the issue of Islam and democracy, our book focuses on people’s movements and activism. While elements within such movements in Islamic societies may not be wholly identical with Western notions of democratization, nevertheless we do observe in many such movements a feeling of resentment on the part of the common man with regard to power and a unique style of realizing political participation. Through scrutinizing such movements in different regions and periods we seek to explore the possible links that might have existed between Islam and democracy, while maintaining a position of impartiality with regard to both. In our analysis we have focused especially on the Sufi tariqa, for it is known that many of the people’s movements in Islamic societies during the pre-modern period have either been linked to or led by Sufi organizations, which politically, economically, and socially have played significant roles. This book contains case studies of people’s movements in diverse areas and periods, and it seeks to develop a comparative view of Islam and democracy. It is intended to present an alternate picture of the world’s Muslim societies, one that goes beyond the simple dichotomy of “Islam and democracy.” There await other empirical studies that need to be carried out in order to unravel the intricacies that have arisen in the interim and that now pervade Islam and democracy, and I sincerely hope that this book of ours will prove a starting point for all such endeavors in the future. Although this is a work primarily intended for students and scholars, it may even prove of interest to the general reader, and to all who have an interest in the subject of Islam. Masatoshi Kisaichi

Acknowledgments

No book is the work of one person. This book would have been impossible without the help of friends, professors, and students and members of academic associations, who supported me in a variety of ways. In particular, however, I would like to express my gratitude to the following individuals and associations. This book is part of the Islamic Area Studies Project (1997–2001) that was carried out with the support of the Ministry of Education, Science, Sports, and Culture, of the Government of Japan. It is composed of papers presented at an International symposium on the subject, “The dynamism of Muslim Societies: Toward New Horizons in Islamic Area Studies” (at Kisarazu, Japan, October 5–8, 2001), and several workshops organized by Group 2 of this project. I would like to express my sincere gratitude to the participants of the symposium and members of the project, especially the Project Leader, Professor Tsugitaka Sato. My gratitude also goes out to the many secretaries involved in the project and my graduate students, for without their help this book would not have seen the light of day. Finally, I thank the Ministry of Education, Science, Sports, and Culture, both for supporting this project financially and for promoting it. Masatoshi Kisaichi

1

Saints and sultans Religious authority and temporal power in precolonial Morocco Mohamed El Mansour

Sometimes historians come across phenomena, the understanding of which is not possible with the historian’s tools alone. Maybe the most important one is the question of sainthood and its place in the historical process. In fact, no discipline by itself, be it history, sociology, anthropology or psychology, can alone offer a reasonable and satisfying explanation for this phenomenon which happens to be at the intersection of so many epistemological sensibilities. Manifestations of sainthood such as the notions of baraka, for instance, which the historian encounters at every turn of his/her journey across the historical texts, cannot be appraised without recourse to anthropology for the simple reason that ‘baraka’ is first of all part of a ‘cultural logic’ that falls more within the anthropologist’s domain than into any other discipline. This is not to say that the anthropologist alone retains the key to the puzzle of sainthood. A historian, for instance, does not fail to perceive the incongruity of pure anthropological interpretations when the historical dimension is overlooked and chronology is sacrificed in favour of oral accounts, the validity of which is questionable and never extends beyond the informant’s immediate world view.1 Many scholars are conscious of this dilemma and have attempted to bring together history and anthropology or sociology with the aim of elucidating a most complex subject. The result was the emergence in Europe of a ‘sociology of sainthood’ school led by Pierre Delooz and others. However, much remains to be done for Islamic sainthood despite a few recent promising attempts.2 The study of power relations between institutionalized sufism and the state is not less complex, because the issues at stake are not always political as it is often assumed. In all societies political power, as illustrated by kingship, for instance, had always some religious bearing, the king being a sacred person in many cultures. The case is even more so in Islamic societies in which the boundary between din and duniya or between religion and worldly affairs is not always clear. The khalifa, or head of the community of Muslims, is God’s shadow on earth and the Prophet’s successor. The defense of the faith is his first duty and to him the subjects (ra‘iyya) – all the subjects, be they Sharifs, murabits or common people – owe obedience and submission. On the other hand, those who claim to represent the divine in one way or another, such as the ‘alims and the awliya’ (God’s friends and God’s deputies on earth) arrogate the responsibility of guiding and protecting the same ra‘iyya. This responsibility is not only spiritual but

2 Mohamed El Mansour becomes a fact of material life as it is obvious in saintly mediation, protection, intercession, healing or providing food and shelter for the needy. The seeds of competition between saints and sultans are already present, and the history of the Islamic peoples has turned one way or another based on the resolution of this clash of competing sovereignties and finding some accommodation between the two rival claims.

Sainthood and power Sainthood involves power which is delegated by God to those he has chosen to be his friends, awliya’. The wali is never a saint just for himself, meaning that the relation between God and his ‘friends’ is not a bilateral relation but rather one in which God’s creatures have their place. ‘Ahl Allah (God’s friends) are entrusted with God’s creatures and act on their behalf as their family and ra‘iyya’, says the author of Mumti’Al-Asma’.3 The social aspect of Islamic sainthood is thus made clear. Many saints have spoken of a ‘kingdom’ which God has entrusted to them, a kingdom being much larger than worldly kingdoms which are limited in terms of territory and the people living in it. If a worldly king is concerned with particular people over whom the sultan’s jurisdiction extends, the wali’s ra‘iyya includes all of God’s creatures (khalq Allah), which leaves room even for non-humans.4 It is interesting to note that saints extended their protection even to animals. Among the celebrated deeds of the venerated Nasiri shaykh, Muhammad Ibn Nasir (d.1674), for instance, is his intervention in favour of a lame donkey employed by his owner to carry loads of dates despite its ailment. ‘Tell your father that if he does not let the donkey to rest until it recovers from its sickness I will no longer be able to guarantee his safety!’ said the shaykh to the owner’s son.5 In other words it is a universal dominion with no common comparison with the kingdom of sahib al-waqt (the worldly ruler or the commander of ‘the here and now’). To the sahib al-waqt (temporal leader) the celebrated Muhammad Ibn Sulayman Al-Jazuli (d. 1465 AD) and others propose instead the sahib al-tasrif (spiritual manager), a saint who receives from God a wider delegation of authority over all his creatures, beyond the limits of the ‘here and now’. In other words the saint chosen for this task acts as God’s deputy on earth. However, this delegation of tasrif is not given to any saint. One has to attain the highest scale of sainthood (qutbaniya, qutb being the axis of the world) to gain this divine favour. Only a qutb, also called ghawth (the saviour), or al-shaykh al-kamil, the accomplished saint, can enjoy this privilege. In principle the sufis admit that there can be only one qutb at a time, but hagiographical writings would mention several aqtab (pl. of qutb) at one time, since more than one sufi order would want to elevate its shaykh to this distinguished spiritual position. Criteria for the attainment of this position are known to God alone, but ‘the community of saints’ can sense God’s choice through signs of divine predilection. Al-Jazuli, who was conscious of his own spiritual authority and supremacy vis-à-vis his contemporary fellow saints, claimed to be the sahib al- tasrif. ‘All the kings of the earth are in my hand and

Saints and sultans 3 under my foot’, he said.6 The delegation of authority to him was made not only by God but also by the Prophet from whom Al-Jazuli claimed descent. ‘Don’t you know, he said, that the Prophet, peace be upon Him, is closer to me and his authority has been placed in my hands? Anyone who follows me is following the Prophet . . . I heard Him say to me: you are the mahdi (the awaited-for-saviour), let those who are in quest of happiness come to you!’.7 Claiming qutbaniya is not always as explicit as in the case of the self-confident Al-Jazuli, but even ordinary saints who never arrogated this privilege still saw themselves as superior to the ‘rulers of the time’. They considered themselves to be entrusted with the divine mission of guaranteeing the good of human beings by virtue of their sainthood which is a proof of God’s election. The seventeenthcentury saint of Fes, Ahmad Ibn ‘Abd Allah Ma’n (d. 1708), falls within this category. Although his spiritual radiation remained limited to his native city, he could still claim the right to protect his urban community against the menacing mighty ‘Alawid sultan Mawlay Isma’il. While the people of Fes were expecting their city to be invested anytime by Mawlay Isma’il who was made furious by the stubborn opposition of the people of Fes to his scheme of enlisting the haratin (former black slaves) in his army, the saint stepped in to act as a shield for the city. He assured the people of Fes that they had nothing to fear and that his sword would remain brandished over the sultan’s head as long as the city was in danger.8 The saint’s biography also dwells upon Ahmad Ibn ‘Abd Allah’s daring summons to the sultan’s governor of Fes who became notorious as a brutal executioner of Mawlay Isma’il’s policy in the city. On issues nobody could even raise with the heavy-handed governor, ‘Abd Allah Al-Rusi, the saint was able to intervene and bring about the abrogation of the unjust and unpopular taxation (maks). The author of Al-Maqsad Al-Ahmad, ‘Abd Al-Salam Al-Qadiri (d. 1698) relates that not even the muhtasib (market regulator), whose prerogatives are religious in nature and who in principle is not accountable to the sultan or his deputies, could speak out against this arbitrary imposition and had to seek the saint’s intervention because no one in the country could approach the governor on such a delicate question. When Ahmad Ibn ‘Abd Allah went to meet Al-Rusi over the maks issue, he used very harsh language and reprimanded him for his illegal action. The aweinspiring governor who, in fact, was granted enough powers by the sultan – which made him ‘a governor of governors’, or nowadays a minister of interior – could do nothing but listen and comply with the wishes of the saint. The author of Al-Maqsad also mentions that the same mighty governor used to say, ‘I fear no one but God and Sidi Ahmad Ibn ‘Abd Allah’, an attitude which resulted, according to ‘Abd Al-Salam Al-Qadiri, from the unrivaled shawka (power, literally, prick) of the saint which made all rulers dread him.9 The shawka mentioned by Ibn ‘Abd Allah’s hagiographer has nothing to do with the sultan’s shawka which is based on material might, be it what Ibn Khaldun calls ‘asabiyya (corporate solidarity) or the military force without which no effective authority can be exercised. The saint’s power, on the other hand, is derived from God’s and, therefore, is with no common measure with the ruler’s worldly power. It is not only the kingship vocabulary which through this example is

4

Mohamed El Mansour

appropriated by saints but even the ritual. The hagiographical biography of the founding shaykh of the Wazzani sufi order, who claimed the ‘universal imamate’ against the background of the ‘Alawids’ struggle to conquer Morocco, resorts to the same lexical repertory. Thus the author of Tuhfat Al-Ikhwan compares the divine canonization of Mawlay ‘Abd Allah Al-Sharif (d. 1678) to a royal proclamation (bay’a) resorting to the same terms used for khalifas and sultans. Thus, at the time of the divine call (al-fath) Mawlay ‘Abd Allah Al-Sharif heard the trees, the rocks and everything he met on his way utter the conventional formula pronounced when a new sultan is proclaimed: ‘May God bless our Lord (Mawlay ‘Abd Allah Al-Sharif)!’10 However, what distinguishes the saint’s bay’a from that of the sultan is the fact that it emanates not only from humans but from all the elements of God’s creation (khalq Allah), including the animal and mineral kingdoms. This confirms the universality of the saint’s authority which because it is derived from God extends to all of his creation. Hagiographic writings, as well as historical chronicles, abound in examples through which the saints exercise their authority and carry out their duties of protection regarding their constituency. As far as political power is concerned, one of the most common occasions of the saints’ intervention is related to unjust taxation. We have already mentioned Ahmad Ibn ‘Abd Allah Ma’n’s action in favour of the people of Fes under Mawlay Isma’il’s rule (1672–1727). The authority of saints remained alive even after their death and people could still seek their protection in times of crises when all ways out were closed. In the absence of living saints, dead ones such as the patron saint of Fes, Mawlay Idris, could be called upon. During the second half of the nineteenth century the same saint was implored to deliver the city from unjust maks impositions by the sultan’s amin (tax collector), Al-‘Arbi Bannis, in 1873.11 Saints could intervene to free the city people from other forms of exactions. Another source of discontent in Fes during the Isma’il period was the question of forced conscription in the urban militia (rumat), something the city people regarded as yet another means by which the sultan wanted to bring them down to their knees. Here again the saint intervened to display his baraka and to make it possible for powerless individuals to escape this unpopular military enlistment.12 In fact, Ahmad Ibn ‘Abd Allah Ma’n looked as the providential saint whose role was to counterpoise the despotic rule of Mawlay Isma’il. If we remain within the walls of Fes we find that saints also intervened to ease the sufferings of the urban population when it was under siege by government troops, usually stationed in the neighbouring garrisoned city of New Fes. During the troublesome post-Isma’ili period (1727–1757) Fes was frequently exposed to sieges by Makhzan (state) forces, and the population had to suffer not only scarcity and the lack of provisions but also heavy shelling by the sultan’s artillery. At one time Fes was about to be invaded by the sultan’s black army, were it not for the intervention of a majdhub (attracted-to-God saint) Al-‘Arbi Ibn ‘Ayshun, who on God’s injunction went out alone to meet the invading armies outside one of the city gates. The saint was killed but his death saved the city, we are told.13 As illustrated by the preceding examples, the saint’s authority did not remain a mere figure of speech or part of a suggestive hagiographic discourse. It consisted

Saints and sultans 5 also of more than simple ‘symbolic violence’ attributed to them by some anthropologists.14 Saints disposed of real means not only to demonstrate their power in an abstract manner but also to make use of the tasrif God endowed them with and cause tangible injury in the form of divine punishment to those who transgress the will of God and that of his friends. They had no armies but they had the baraka, the divine empowering which allowed them to implement their sentences even if they had to hit at the sultan himself. The Sa’di sultan Muhammad Al-Shaykh who dared impose unjust taxation on a murabit family woke up one day to find that his body had swollen beyond proportions. He became so alarmed that he called his secretary and ordered him to write a zahir (royal decree) immediately by which the murabit’s family would be exempted from all forms of arbitrary dues and taxes.15 Al-Yusi’s story with Mawlay Isma’il also implies the saint’s superiority in a duel which ended with the sultan’s recognition of the saint’s baraka.16

Sanctity and might It is usually assumed that sainthood is by definition peaceful and violence free. Saints are supposed to be peaceful preachers whose tools are the word, the counsel, the effort of persuasion and the adoption of intercession as a means of conflict resolution. In fact, sainthood being identified with authority and the ability to influence the course of events cannot be dissociated from the idea of might. A saint who does not have the means to implement the divine will of which he is the manifestation, who cannot punish infringements of the divine sanctions he pronounces has very little chance of being recognised as a reliable friend of God on whom people can count in time of need. He might be respected for his piety and asceticism but if he cannot act to provide assistance and protection he might never turn into a popular figure sought by people in time of need and distress. Ibn Khaldun has drawn attention to the fact that men of religion also need power ‘to bring [their activities] to a successful conclusion’.17 Even ‘prophets in their religious propaganda’, he said, ‘depended on groups and families, though they were the ones who could have been supported by God with anything in existence, if He had wished’.18 No serious religious endeavour, argued Ibn Khaldun, can be fulfilled without the necessary means of implementation or ‘asabiyya. For instance, a reformer who wants to reform religion without having those means is in his view either an insane person needing treatment or a dangerous adventurer to be stopped and punished.19 In Islam religious and spiritual authority was never distinct from the idea of power and practical authority. Every religious figure who is endowed with authority necessarily needs the means to turn this authority into practical reality. This is true of the imam, or head of the Muslim community, as it is true of the saint. This is why the theoreticians of the imamate and the hagiographers share the same vocabulary. While Ibn Khaldun talks about ‘asabiyya and shawka as the sine qua non condition for kingship (mulk), a hagiographer such as the author of Al-Maqsad Al-Ahmad uses the same term of shawka to refer to the saint’s ability to act and punish those who go against the will of God and his friends.20

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‘Abd Al-Salam Al-Qadiri mentions that the dignitaries of the Isma’ili Makhzan ‘feared him (the saint, here Ahmad Ibn ‘Abd Allah Ma’n) and apprehended his shawka’. Hagiographers also use the terms of hayba (awe, in the sense given by Webster’s dictionary, ‘fearful veneration inspired by something sacred’), which is also attributed to sultans by historiographers, even if in the case of sultans hayba has more to do with fear than veneration.21 Reporters of saintly biographies do not seem to be embarrassed by the association they make between sanctity and might, or even its violent manifestations. Among the followers of the Hansali zawiya in the Atlas mountains, oral tradition has it that when the founder saint, Sidi Sa’id Ahansal (d. 1702), was introduced to the tariqa of his master Salih Al-Majiri he received a token of initiation consisting of three items: a pen, a sickle and a cooker’s stirring stick. The first item stands for knowledge, the second one for power (to defeat his enemies and detractors) and the third one for abundance and plenty to meet the needs of his guests in terms of hospitality.22 The association of power and sanctity becomes clearer when we consider the situation of the ‘alim, whose status is also derived from religion and compare it with that of other religious figures such as the imam or sultan, and the saint. Unlike the sultan or the saint, who both dispose of authority and the means of its implementation, the ‘alim has no might, that is neither ‘asabiyya nor shawka. He might have the authority of religious knowledge but to become flesh his word always needs the intervention of those who possess the might. This is why the ‘alims are more dependable on the worldly powers than saints who turn to God rather than to humans for the implementation of their authority, and this is why sultans have always been more suspicious of saints than of ‘alims who are usually more vulnerable and therefore more likely to be compliant with the sultan’s wishes. Ibn Khaldun did not fail to notice this fact when he denied the ‘alims the right to figure among those who tie and untie the affairs of the community (ahl al-‘aqd wa al- hall) precisely because they have no power. The nature of civilization he argues, does not require that jurists and scholars have any share in authority. Advisory and executive authority belongs only to the person who controls group feeling and is, by it, enabled to exercise authority to do things or not do them. Those who do not have group feeling, who have no control over their own affairs, and who cannot protect themselves, are dependent upon others. How, then, could they participate in councils, and why should their advice be taken into consideration? Their advice as derived from their knowledge of the religious laws (is taken into consideration) only in so far as they are consulted for legal decisions. Advice on political matters is not their province, because they have no group feeling.23 Considering the saints in Moroccan history one can see the connection which existed between holiness and might or ‘asabiyya. The most prestigious saints such as Mawlay Idris of Fes or Mawlay ‘Abd Al-Salam Ibn Mashish of Jabal Al-‘Alam disposed of strong ‘asabiyya as represented by the compact groups of Idrisid and ‘Alami Sharifs. In Fes any injury to an Idrisid Sharif was seen as

Saints and sultans 7 an outrage against his ancestor and was always an occasion for the manifestation of group solidarity, and if the living Sharifs were unable to get redress Mawlay Idris would never abandon his holy progeny and would see to it that justice was done.24 Historians and genealogists differentiate between those Sharifs with a strong ‘asabiyya (ahl al-‘asabiyya) and those who lacked this group feeling. This group solidarity which crystallized around the saintly ancestor was a fact to be taken into consideration by society and by the Makhzan whenever the fate of the group was in question. It was much harder for sultans to launch a punitive attack against zawiyas enjoying a strong Sharifian ‘asabiyya such as the Wazzaniya or the Raysuniya than zawiyas lacking this capital of deterrence such as the Sharqawiya in central Morocco. Sultan Sidi Muhammad Ibn ‘Abd Allah was able to destroy the Sharqawi zawiya in 1786, because it served as a sanctuary for outlaws according to the Makhzan, but he never envisaged to invest the shrine of Mawlay ‘Abd Al Salam Ibn Mashish where his rebellious son had taken refuge. This connection between sainthood and ‘asabiyya also manifested itself in the case of tribal saints or holy figures who identified with a particular tribe. One can mention the examples of the Berber Hansali and Imhawish igurramin (pl. of agurram, saint) for the Atlas Mountains or the example of the Sharradi murabits near Marrakesh for the low Arabic speaking country. In these cases, and in many others, the saint was above all the saint of the tribal group. His concerns were most of the time those of the tribe and the subject matter of his karamat (miracles) reflected the concerns of the group to which he belonged. Here the overlapping of sanctity and ‘asabiyya cannot be much clearer. In this respect saints not only relied on ‘asabiyya to enhance their authority but made use of it when necessary by indulging in violent actions against the tribe’s neighbours or against the Makhzan. This tribal ‘asabiyya could even serve as the springboard for some murabits to conquer political power as was the case with the Dila’is in the seventeenth century.

Mightier than you, therefore holier Now it would be interesting to look at this contest between saint and sultan from the other perspective that of political rulers. In other words, how did princes or those who recorded their histories interpret what hagiographical works always present as a victory of the saint? Although sultans believed that the ultimate sentence was that of material might which they retained, they never abandoned the symbolic aspect or left it in the hands of those who claimed to represent God’s will and to be the protectors of the same ra’iyya (God’s creatures or subjects) he was in charge of. The religious character of their authority, at least as far as the legitimation process is concerned, made it imperative for them to bring out all the claims which justified their actions and neutralized or weakened those of their competitors. The sultan is first of all God’s representative on earth (khalifat Allah). He is God’s shadow, zill Allah, under which people find shelter. He is also the Prophet’s successor, the khalifa who perpetuates the authority of God’s messenger. As such the ra’iyya owes him submission, something without which not only social peace but also the exercise of religion becomes impossible. From this perspective

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his authority extends to all people without distinction. Being a religious duty, obedience to the ruler is binding on all, even to those who claim to have direct access to the divine through sainthood or through God’s law such as the ‘alims. Anthropological studies usually assume that the sultan’s supremacy vis-à-vis the religious groups finds its origin in his Sharifian baraka. But if we look back beyond the Sharifian dynasties we find that Moroccan sultans did not need to be Sharifs to claim baraka. In fact, the sultan’s spiritual authority is in the first place derived from his position as God’s deputy on earth. This is why even non-Sharifian Berber kings could claim supremacy over the Prophet’s progeny, as well as over the murabits, when they delivered certificates of distinction (zahir al-tawqir wa alihtiram) or zahirs of sharifdom to those who deserved them. This is particularly clear in the case of the Marinid sultans, whose policy was to a large extent aimed at gaining the sympathy of both the Sharifs and the Sufis.25 Another example is that of al-Yusi who, according to Geertz’s account, asked Mawlay Isma’il to grant him a zahir recognizing ‘his sharifdom’. Actually al-Yusi was not only addressing the sultan in his role of superior Sharif but also in that of God’s deputy on earth who retains religious legitimacy regardless of his personal relationship to the Prophet. He would have probably asked for the same recognition had he been in front of a Berber sultan. This also explains why some Sharifian groups such as the Idrisids who, while considering their sharifdom to be purer and more prestigious than that of the ‘Alawid sultan, but still resorted to him to authenticate their claims to sharifdom. A further illustration of this fact is the more recent delivery of sharifdom zahirs by the Berber nationalist leader Muhammad Ibn ‘Abd al Karim Al-Khattabi (d. 1963) to the Sharifs of northern Morocco during the Rif uprising (1921–1926). Among the Sharifs who obtained a ‘royal decree’ from this Berber leader we find the ‘Imranis in the Jbala region.26 Why would then some of the most prestigious Idrisid Sharifs resort to a ‘Berber sultan’ (for he was proclaimed sultan by northern Moroccan tribes) to authenticate their holy genealogy?27 It is interesting to note that the tradition of delivering sharifdom zahirs started before the Sharifs took over political power in the sixteenth century. The significance of this fact needs to be underlined because it simply means that the sultan’s authority allowed him to act as provider and regulator of sharifdom and sanctity regardless of whether he was Sharif himself or not. His sharifdom would, of course, enhance this authority since he would combine the acquired charisma he enjoyed as head of the Muslim community and God’s deputy on earth with the ascribed charisma he possessed as a descendant of the Prophet. This has been the case of Sa’dian and ‘Alawid sultans until now. But the fact that for the past five centuries we have been dealing with Sharifian sultans should not influence us to believe that the sultan granted certificates of sharifdom just because he was sharif. As a result of ‘the epidemic of sharifisim’ which affected the country since the sixteenth century even oral tradition which Western ethnographers and anthropologists collected during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries tended to turn saints and sultans alike into Sharifs. This is true of a ‘saint’ such as al-Yusi as it is true of the Almohad sultan as seen in the account recorded by Raymond Jamous in the Rif.28 Just as Berber murabits tended increasingly to be identified as Sharifs

Saints and sultans 9 in the people’s imagination, so did all sultans who, as a result of the Sa’dian and ‘Alawid experience, could not be conceived of as laymen. The sultan’s supremacy is above all derived from his position of imam. According to Ahmad Ibn Al-Haj, the historian Mawlay Al-Hasan (ruled from 1873–1994) entrusted with the writing of a multi-volume history of his reign, kings have been entrusted by God with the basic necessity of ensuring peace and preventing social disorder, which is a condition for a normal human existence. This is why every Muslim should revere and respect the imam.29 The implied argument is that any disobedience to the imam or any action which might undermine his authority vis-à-vis the ra‘iyya would be against the divine order and the imam as an incarnation of God. Mawlay Isma’il reminded the Hansali murabits that for saints to succeed they had to revere the imam who is God’s shadow on earth.30 In fact, the role of saints as understood by sultans is to exhort the ra’iyya to obey the ruler and preserve the unity of the community behind the legitimate commander (khalifa, or caliph). In a letter to the Wazzani shaykh Mawlay Al-Tuhami (d. 1715) Mawlay Isma’il defined the saint’s duties as the following: (1) to provide advice and guidance to the ra‘iyya, (2) to educate people and make them aware of their worldly and religious duties and (3) to induce them to revere and obey the ruler (sahib al- waqt).31 Without denying sanctity to other religious figures such as the Sharifs or the murabits, sultans attempted to prove through their daily practice that the sultan was not only sahib al-waqt, a temporal ruler devoid of holiness. In fact the sultan’s paths to holiness were many. One of them was his office of imam and God’s deputy on earth. But as mentioned earlier the sultan’s holy character might be part of a kingly nature with roots in the pre-Islamic past. Robert Montagne for instance suggested that the pre-Islamic Iguillid (prince, king) among the Atlas Berbers disposed most probably of magical powers which conferred upon him some form of sanctity.32 How much of the sultan’s holiness is derived from this pre-Islamic tradition and how much is it a function of his character as an imam is difficult to determine, especially that sharifdom has made the picture even more opaque. Nevertheless, it is very likely that the Berber tribesmen who took the sultan hostage in 1819 and at the same time showed him utmost respect and veneration were motivated by a combination of all these elements.33 The sultan’s holy standing is also reflected in deep-rooted popular beliefs. In fact, studies about Moroccan tribal societies have shown that the belief in the sultan’s holiness and baraka is deeply entrenched among the people. Without the sultan’s blessing, it was believed, crops would fail and the country would be exposed to all kinds of calamities.34 When people suffered from drought or some other adversity it was very common to explain it in terms of the sultan’s satisfaction (rida) or dissatisfaction (sukht). Causing the sultan’s displeasure made one identifiable as ‘maskhut al-sultan’ in which case the person or the tribal group would be exposed to divine malediction and rejection on the part of society. This is why it was customary for people to seek the sultan’s blessing which they saw as indicative of God’s solicitude (‘inaya). For the same reason they implored the sultan to intercede before God on their behalf. Even those who claimed sainthood

10 Mohamed El Mansour and Sharifian noblity such as the shaykh of the Wazzani zawiya solicited the sultan’s prayers ‘because people’, wrote Mawlay Al-Tuhami to Mawly Isma’il, ‘need the amir al-muminin’s blessing invocation (du’a’) just as the earth needs rain’.35 Sultans recognized the saint’s spiritual authority, but they wanted to regulate it and neutralize it politically. To achieve this goal they disposed of an array of means and policies ranging from accommodation and arranged partition of authority to the outright use of physical violence. Historically sultans and saints always ended up finding formulas of coexistence on the basis of a delimitation of influence zones according to a boundary which was never clear and final. Accommodation was usually based on a commitment by which the saint backed the ruler using his moral influence among the ra’iyya in exchange for a recognition of the saint’s spiritual authority (baraka) and the granting of a number of material privileges to be used by the saint in the exercise of his religious duties: teaching, guidance, mediation, providing shelter, assistance to the poor, etc. The arrangement depended on the balance of power between the two and was always subject to reassessment and renegotiation in the light of the prevailing balance of power. When the Sa’dis at their beginning needed the support of the zawiyas and the murabits they followed a policy by which these religious groups were granted large privileges. However, as soon as the Sa’dis consolidated their rule they began to suspect the faithfulness of their former allies and inaugurated a policy of repression against many saintly figures.36 The ‘Alawids, whose route to power passed by the uprooting of the Dila’i zawiya, had every reason to be suspicious of the saints’ worldly ambitions. During the consolidation period of their rule they ensured the verification of the good intentions of every zawiya shaykh who was likely to cross the boundary line defining the spiritual realm. Thus Mawlay Isma’il invited the two shaykhs of the most influential zawiyas, the Nasiriya and the Wazzaniya to his capital Meknes where they were subjected to a minute scrutiny. In each case the two saints had to resort to miracles to neutralize the sultan’s wrath and avoid a violent outcome for the contest of authority. The authors of hagiographic works dwell on the miracles manifested by both saints and see in them a sign of God’s favour and the supremacy of the saint’s authority over that of the temporal ruler. After meeting the Nasiri shaykh Ahmad Ibn Nasir, Mawlay Isma’il recognized the saint’s baraka and declared to his entourage: ‘when I put my hand into that of Sidi Ahmad Al-Khalifa I felt the firmness of his hand and the trembling of mine! This never happened to me with anyone else. I realized then how firm was his position before God!’ Immediately after the encounter the sultan turned to the members of his court and said: ‘Now you may seek Sidi Ahmad’s baraka!’.37 This was a miraculous victory for the saint, but in fact it was no more glorious than the mythical victory of al-Yusi in his contest with the same sultan. While hagiographers present it as a manifest victory for the saint, the sultan’s historiographers are more discrete about their master’s achievement, preferring to concede the success to the sultan’s competitor as long as it was no more than a moral gain, and as long as it could be used to demonstrate the sultan’s respect for God’ friends, thus enhancing his religious standing.

Saints and sultans 11 The victory of the Wazzani saint is perhaps more eloquent. Mawlay Isma’il’s strategy was the same. According to Wazzani hagiographical sources the saint was invited (summoned would be more accurate!) to the capital with the clear intention of ‘teaching him a lesson’ and cautioning him against any interference in the sultan’s realm. According to a Makhzanian ritual which has not changed since, Mawlay Al-Tuhami, just like Ahmad Al-Khalifa, was kept waiting for some time before he received the visit of a royal delegation made up of a number of officials. Their task was to convey to the saint what the sultan thought about him or suspected him of. Noticing the display of wealth surrounding Mawlay Al-Tuhami the sultan’s envoys made the following comment: ‘a real faqir (sufi) does not need this pomp and this large retinue you have. All he needs is a mule for mount and two assistants, one to hold the bridle and the other to carry the ablutions utensil.’38 Then the questioning began and ended in a humiliating interrogatory. At one time Mawlay Al-Tuhami lost his temper and could no longer control his anger. As a result his body expanded beyond normal proportions, we are told by the saint’s hagiographers, until it nearly filled the room in which he was staying. The wooden ceiling began to crack, says the story, and the room began to vibrate. Alarmed by this miracle the officials immediately left the place and reported the extraordinary happening to their master. The sultan’s attitude towards the saint changed upon this and Mawlay Isma’il decided to go personally to meet him. When he arrived at the saint’s residence he dismounted his horse in respect but Mawlay Al-Tuhami held the bridle and insisted on helping the sultan get back on his mount. This encounter resulted not only in the sultan’s recognition of the saint’s baraka but inaugurated a ritual, consisting in the saint’s holding of the bridle, which was to last until the beginning of the twentieth century and by which the Wazzani shaykh manifested his blessing for every newly-proclaimed prince. In fact, the significance of this meeting rested in the understanding reached by the two Sharifs according to which the saint would lend his support to the ruling dynasty and set aside any political ambition the Wazzanis might have had before then. Hagiographers, however, do not see this arrangement as a capitulation on the part of the Wazzanis. The Meknes understanding was just a division of tasks by which the Wazzani Sharifs would rule over the universal spiritual realm while the Alawids would be left with the temporal authority.39 But even with temporal authority conceded to the ruling dynasty the Wazzanis still had to grant their benediction on the basis of a well-known saying ‘never will he (the sultan) be one of us, but never will he rule without us’. In this competition over the symbols of sanctity the sultan insisted on having the last word since the issue ends up being one of political legitimacy. Here again he disposed of numerous tools to undermine the prestige of the saints. He did not need to use them all and could retain some of them just for deterrence, or use them only when relations between the two deteriorated. One way to discredit saints was through the manipulation of the saintly lexicon. For instance, it has been part of sultanian tradition under the Sa’dis and ‘Alawids to avoid calling or referring to a living saint by the terms of ‘wali’ or ‘salih’. Instead he was addressed as ‘murabit’, thus underlining his social, or even tribal, role in brokerage and mediation at a

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local level, often on behalf of the sultan himself. In this case the Berber term of ‘agurram’ would render perfectly the meaning sultans wanted to convey. Furthermore, the use of ‘salih’ would imply recognition or confirmation by the sultan of the person’s sainthood, something which would upgrade the ruler’s status and entitle him to a greater share of the religious realm. It is significant to note that at one time even the prestigious Wazzani Sharifian saint Mawlay Al-Tuhami did not deserve, in the eyes of sultan Isma’il, more than the designation of ‘murabit’.40 It is also interesting to note that another way of downgrading the status of those who claimed sainthood among the Sharifs was to maintain uncertainty about their sharifdom. Thus the ‘Alawid sultans never had a clear cut position on the sharifdom of the Baqqalis of northern Morocco who for sultan Mawlay Al-Hasan (d. 1894), for instance, were just ‘murabits’ while his grandfather Mawlay ‘Abd Al-Rahman recognized them as Sharifs.41 Another means to belittle claimants of sainthood was to discredit their miracles and their miracle-laden discourse. Relying on the shari’a the sultan’s apologists affirmed that miracle claims are not to be taken for granted but have to be screened through the shari’a filter.42 In other words every miracle which contradicts the shari’a should be dismissed. Using the same logic the court historian Ahmad Ibn Al-Haj argues that the saint’s speech in which he goes against the shari’a and common sense is usually delivered during times of ‘spiritual bewilderment’ (sukr) and, therefore, is not binding on the saint who in this psychological state is not to be held responsible for his sayings or actions (saqit al-taklif ).43 In other words, the saint can be at times no more responsible than a child or a madman. Ibn Al-Haj mentions the example of Mawlay ‘Abd Allah Al-Sharif, the founder of the Wazzani zawiya, whose claims of offering salvation for everyone who happened to see him were denounced by his grandson, Mawlay Al-Tuhami, because such claims were absurd and contrary to the shari’a, argues Ibn Al-Haj.44 Sultans could also tolerate those majadhib (pl. of majdhub) who voiced popular grievances no one else could mention publicly as long as they did not pose a threat to the social or political order. This was the case, for instance, of Ahmad Ibn Yahya Al-Badisi, popularly known as Bugammusa, who ‘spoke to the sultan (Mawlay Isma’il) in a language no one else could have used’.45 Nevertheless, the author reports that the sultan unexpectedly met the saint at a shrine near Fes and addressed him in very insulting language referring to him as ‘the most despicable [safali] among saints’.46 Finally the sultan could, and usually did, discredit the zawiya shaykhs by unveiling their worldly pursuits at the expense of their religious mission. The Wazzanis, for instance, were often reminded by sultans that the pompous retinue they had was not compatible with the religious mission they assigned to their zawiya.47 Sultans also underlined the materialist aspect of the zawiyas in which they saw nothing but a worldly enterprise from which benefited the successors of the founding shaykh.48 Clearly, by reducing the zawiyas to their materialist aspect the ‘Alawid sultans were discrediting these religious institutions at a time when the shaykhs had distanced themselves from the mystical ideals of the founding saint, devoting more time and energy to their worldly pursuits than to spiritual meditation and guidance.

Saints and sultans 13 Having succeeded in imposing his religious authority and being in possession of a substantial capital of sanctity why would the sultan need the murabits and the Sharifs anyway? Why did the sultan, with all his attributes of holiness which he derives from his function of imam and from his quality of Sharif, still need the protection of a murabit, or another Sharif, often less prestigious than him, to travel from Fes to Marrakesh? A murabit who might insure safe passage for the sultan but at the end of the journey might very well implore him to grant him a zahir of tawqir. This situation is not much different from that of the Ait Umalu Berbers who in 1819 captured the sultan but still sought his baraka. It is not very different either from the situation described by Hassan II when talking about the 1971 military coup. A mutineer, who like his comrades wanted to overthrow the king and his regime, suddenly threw away his machine gun when he came in contact with the king and ran to him to kiss his hand!49

Curbing the miraculous The institutionalization of sufism carries with it in a sense the seeds of its dissolution. When a murabit or a sufi shaykh establishes a zawiya of his own and attempts to endow it with the conditions of continuity and expansion he is already running the risk of compromising on, at least, some of his principles. In the process of institution building he necessarily gives up some of his time and energy to guarantee the survival of his institution and the well-being of his followers, thus turning into a manager, even if it be on a part-time basis only. The material necessities of everyday management would ultimately put him in contact with the temporal rulers with whom he would have to find some kind of accommodation, even if it is just to tackle questions directly associated with his duty of protecting or helping those who seek his assistance. The urge for accommodation and compromise would become even more pressing with the second and third generations of shaykhs when the zawiya develops into a social institution with important economic assets and important obligations towards its adepts and sympathizers. The first Nasiri shaykh could afford to disregard the sultan and behave like an ideal pious man who ‘was never seen at the door of kings’.50 He could even avoid mentioning the sultan’s name in the Friday sermon under the pretext that this was contrary to the Prophet’s sunna.51 His successor, however, could not maintain the same behaviour. Once summoned to Meknes by the sultan he had to ‘normalize’ the zawiya’s relations with the Makhzan and commit himself to an accommodationist stance if he were to guarantee the survival and expansion of his order. The Wazzani shaykh Mawlay Al-Tuhami was faced with the same dilemma and his choice was not different. In return accommodation would bring enormous benefits to the zawiya and allow it not only to brush away the Makhzan’s suspicions and harassment but also to obtain a wide range of privileges, particularly in the form of land donations and tax exemptions. It has always been part of the sultans’ policy to encourage sufis and saints to found a zawiya of their own and develop material interests that would make them

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dependable on the temporal powers. This would also allow the sultan to control the zawiya’s ambitions and regulate its activities. Mawlay Isma’il would have preferred to see all major zawiyas transfer their headquarters to the capital where they would be under close control, but this idea never materialized. Actually, what sultans feared most was not institutionalized sufism in the form of established zawiyas but those free-lance saints who gained the popular reputation of miracle performers and whose enigmatic and suggestive discourse could very well be interpreted by the common people in a way considered to be subversive by the rulers. Among this category of saints we find those majadhib who were in a state of constant ‘spiritual bewilderment’ and who in times of political and social crises became highly solicited oracles. This populist form of sainthood could very well turn into mahdist manifestations with unpredictable consequences for the politico-social order. Therefore, sultans kept a watchful eye on these saints and did not refrain from resorting to violent means to neutralize their threat. In the sixteenth century the Sa’dis had to face a number of such miracle manipulating saints some of whom pretended to be ‘sultans’ and ‘sahib al-waqt’.52 The ‘Alawid sultan Sidi Muhammad Ibn ‘Abd Allah put to death two murabits who ‘claimed sainthood and the ability to predict the future’. One was Al ‘Arbi Buskhur in the Jbala region, and the second one was Mahmud Al-Shinquiti in Fes. What infuriated Sidi Muhammad in both cases was the prediction made by the two saints about the imminent death of the sultan, something which usually created panic among the population and paved the way for the emergence of all kinds of political adventurers.53 In fact, populist sufism was perceived as a danger by both the Makhzan and the established zawiya. This convergence of interests and attitudes resulted in a tacit understanding between the sultan and the shaykh to curb this type of sufism. The most relevant example is that of Ahmad Al-Tastawti, prominent adept of the Nasiri tariqa, whose emotional sufism assumed features of mahdism which neither the Makhzan nor the zawiya leadership itself appreciated. Al-Tastawti ended up spending two years in prison without any significant move on the part of Ahmad Al-Khalifa to bring about his release.54 However, the best way to combat this brand of populist and moody sufism which usually inflamed popular passions and remained difficult to control by the state was to cultivate institutionalized sufism or what came to be known as sunni sufism. In this type of sufism the ‘alims usually played a significant role in defining and shaping this elitist mysticism. The sufism proned by the ‘alims was more respectful of the shari’a norms and therefore less likely to drift into the miraculous and unpredictable type of sufism. The Nasiri zawiya which preached this type of sunni sufism received the encouragement of the Makhzan and the ‘alims of the establishment were exhorted to join the Nasiri tariqa. The Sultans even gave the example themselves by adopting the Nasiri wird. This was the case, for instance, of Sidi Muhammad Ibn ‘Abd Allah and his son Mawlay Sulayman. These two sultans were particularly instrumental in introducing the Nasiri tariqa into the scholarly milieu of Fes where the leading scholars such as shaykh al-jama’a (senior ‘alim) Al-Tawdi Ibn Suda (d. 1795), his son, the qadi of Fes, Ahmad Ibn Suda (d. 1820), and others joined the Nasiri order.

Saints and sultans 15 Such a strategy on the part of the ruling dynasties not only set the norm for a more moderate and shari’a conformable sufism, it also allowed them to play their role of guardians of the faith, a role which involved preserving orthodoxy and eradicating what they considered to be deviations from authentic sunna. As such sultans would reaffirm their status as leaders of the Muslim community and emphasize their role of protectors and guardians of the faith vis-à-vis the ‘alims and the murabits alike. From this perspective sultans never failed to remind zawiya shaykhs of their duty of guiding the ra’iyya according to the shari’a norms.55 ‘Alawid sultans also made it a tradition to promulgate at the turn of every century the famous risalat al-qarn (message of the century) which was a long sermon about the virtues of the sunna and the evils of bid’a or reprehensible innovations. This sermon which was read in the mosques throughout the country aimed, in principle, at reforming religion through the eradication of practices considered to be in contradiction with the shari’a and renovating the faith (tajdid al-din). By so doing sultans contributed to disarm their two main religious competitors, the ‘alims as guardians of the faith and those charismatic saints who might feel the divine urge to play the role of the awaited-for-saviour (mahdi), whose mission consists in renovating the faith as foretold by the Prophet.

The institutionalization of sufism or the dynastic drive Probably the most important development of Moroccan history during the past five centuries has been the affirmation of Sharifian genealogy as the basic principle of political and religious legitimacy. Before it was made an instrument of political legitimation by the rising Sharifian dynasties it had already been incorporated into sufi theory. Actually, the whole pro-Sharifian policy of the late Marinids was geared towards taking advantage of the growing popularity of sufis who had incorporated the Sharifian principle into their doctrine. Therefore, Sharifism became such an overriding ideology that both men of religion and rulers made use of it as an important tool of political mobilization and channeling popular fervour. During the first half of the sixteenth century the rising Sa’dis were able to impose their monopoly in the political field, but they could by no means do the same in the religious domain. Their attempt to stifle the sufi and marabutic activity under Muhammad Al Shaykh Al-Mahdi (d. 1548) was but a sign of this monopolizing tendency which was doomed to failure. The fragmented nature of Moroccan society and the inability of the ruling dynasty to ensure an effective control over the peripheral regions, necessarily led to the manifestation of local aspirations for leadership, if not in the political field already invested by the Sa’dis, at least in the religious one. Having relied on religious principles and symbols to conquer political power the Sa’di sultans felt a kind of vulnerability vis-à-vis the murabits who could always lend their support to someone else or to a pretender from within their ranks, particularly if the ruling dynasty failed to meet its religious obligations regarding the securing of territorial integrity.

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Leaving the spiritual aspect of sufism aside, we can say that marabutism and institutionalized sufism offered grounds for the emergence of local aspirations once the way to the supreme political authority had been closed. The murabits and zawiya shaykhs were equally motivated by the dynastic drive which raised the Sa’di and ‘Alawid families to a position of leadership in society but they had to content themselves with a lesser form of sultanate and play the role of local notables within the boundaries defined by the ruling dynasty. In fact, this is why ‘Alawid sultans always saw these religious figures as their subordinates or their deputies whose task was to assist the ruler in ensuring the ra‘iyya’s obedience and use their moral authority to maintain peace locally. The enormous material privileges bestowed on the zawiyas by the Makhzan were aimed at keeping them within this role as defined by the central authority. In this sense marabutism served as an outlet for those frustrated dynastic aspirations which had no chance of making it to the top. The sultan’s obsession was to keep these murabits under close control and make sure that their ambitions remain confined to the religious and local domains. In fact, sultans saw in the zawiya shaykh nothing more than a murabit or an agurram whose scope of action remained confined to the local level.56 Their sufi or Sharifian aspects were simply ignored in favour of the marabutic one which has more to do with the social function of the saint at the level of his tribe or region. What is significant in the Moroccan religious experience of the past five centuries is that the institutionalization of sufism went hand in hand with another development, that of genealogy building. Just as dynasties relied on Sharifian genealogy to enhance their legitimacy so did the murabits and the zawiyas whenever that became possible. In the absence of a Sharifian genealogy many murabits appropriated one such as the Banu Amghar and the Semlaliyin or developed a marabutic non-Sharifian holy lineage such as the Ahansal of the Atlas mountains. In this respect the proliferation of filial murabits in Moroccan Islam was seen by Jacques Berque, about half a century ago, as a revenge of the Berber igurramin against the dominant Sharifian ideology.57 Being ‘the sons of no one [significant] they found an outlet in marbutism and sainthood which was the monopoly of no one . . . In this field, says Berque, they proved indeed to be great producers of ancestors’.58 The other related development was the pre-eminence of the Sharifian pattern within the realm of sainthood. Murabits and sufis were not only motivated by placing their enterprise on the genealogical track but sought to enhance their legitimacy even further by endowing it with a Sharifian genealogy whenever this seemed possible. Often this task was left to hagiographers who took it upon themselves to establish the relation between the murabit or the sufi shaykh and the Prophet. Sharifdom of the most prestigious kind was the one which led to the Prophet through Fatima’s son Al-Hasan, as was the case of the Wazzanis, but other zawiyas settled for the less distinguished Sharifdom such as the Nasiris who claimed relatedness to the Prophet’s son-in-law, ‘Ali Ibn Abi Talib through his son Ja’far.59 But hagiographers were not alone in this task of sharifization. The vox populi also had its say in the midst of an all-embracing Sharifian culture. It would

Saints and sultans 17 be enough to see how popular tradition made a murabit out of a prestigious ‘alim such as al-Yusi who, furthermore, was turned into a Sharif according to the account by Geertz.60 It is as if in the popular mind holiness cannot be other than Sharifian. Would this tendency to equate sanctity with Sharifdom reflect a historical process by which local sainthood represented a revenge on Arab genealogist culture as Berque argued, with an ambition to acquire the credentials of a more universal and more prestigious realm of sanctity? In other words, it would be a way of breaking the tribal boundary to reach out to a wider universal religiosity. This would allow the local zawiya to build a supra-tribal identity and prepare the ground for expansion beyond tribal limits. But if it was natural for dynasties to rely on the hereditary pattern to perpetuate their position it was not so obvious for saints and mystics. In principle, sainthood is a personal gift and a privilege God bestows upon those persons who by means of their piety and exemplary behaviour get closer to Him. It is by no means hereditary. However, once the murabit or the sufi shaykh embarks on the process of institutionalization, the dynastic pattern sets in and the logic governing the sufi or marabutic endeavour is not very much different from that of a ruling dynasty. In fact, turning the sufi enterprise into a zawiya was the best way to ensure the continuity of the sufi tariqa and also to guarantee a distinguished socio-economic status. Considering the transmission of shaykhdom within a particular zawiya we notice that the process was not different from that which usually takes place within a princely family. The strategy of discarding rivals among the shaykh’s brothers was not different either. Clearly, the dynastic drive proved to be much stronger, because it was the only way to fructify sainthood and turn it into a durable investment. Pure charisma which is characteristic of ‘a person of imputed holiness’ is short-lived according to Max Weber.61 Usually it vanishes after the death of the founding saint despite attempts by successors to keep it alive through artificial means. ‘Hereditary charisma’ becomes the salient feature of the saintly enterprise, and in our case there is a traditionalization process by which the legacy of the ancestors becomes ‘the bread’ of the successors. One aspect of this traditionalization was the adoption by institutionalized sufism along the dynastic pattern. The founding shaykh of the Fasi zawiya, Abu Al-Mahasin Al-Fasi (d. 1698), wrote to the shaykh of the Sharqawi zawiya to remind him that ‘it is part of the divine order in this world that sons reap what the fathers sowed’.62 Despite his piety and exemplary behaviour, the founding shaykh always made sure that the succession of the zawiya remain within his progeny. In other words, the charismatic pattern gave way to the genealogical or dynastic one. We will mention for illustration two of the most exemplary sunni zawiyas, the Ma’niya in Fes and the Nasiriya in Tamegrout. In the first case Qasim Lakhsassi, the inheritor of the founding shaykh’s baraka, was discarded in favour of the shaykh’s son Ahmad Ibn ‘Abd Allah, while in the case of the Nasiriya Al-Husayn Al-Sharahbili (d. 1729/1730), the presumptive successor to Ahmad Al-Khalifa (d. 1717), was equally thrust aside in favour of the Nasiri lineage.63 This dynastic trend also concerned the zawiya branches, since they were founded or run by the shaykh’s sons, grandsons or nephews.64

18 Mohamed El Mansour In Islam Observed Clifford, Geertz tried to build a case for a fusion between ‘the miraculous and the genealogical’ patterns of sanctity, while it would be much more accurate to argue for an evolution from one to the other, from the miraculous to the genealogical. This is because with the genealogical, which becomes manifest mainly after the founding saint and his immediate successors, there is very little, or hardly any miraculous sanctity left.65 The ideal, of course, would be to blend and keep the two together, but in reality this was difficult to maintain after what Max Weber called ‘the process of originating’ or the process of institution building.66 Zawiya founders who were concerned about perpetuating their activity made a deliberate choice by which genealogy was brought to the fore, while the miraculous aspect was relegated to a secondary position. At some stage of the zawiya’s itinerary this aspect vanished completely. The assumption was that, as with political dynastic power, genealogy is the only durable asset while personal charisma is an ephemeral gift of God. In other words it was the dynastic logic which prevailed in the end.

Dynastic Sufism and the erosion of sanctity Shifting from the miraculous to the genealogical ensures continuity for the saintly enterprise but the sufi content is seriously impaired. What we notice in the evolution of institutional sufism is a weakening of the first aspect as the second one is confirmed. In other words, as the successors to the shaykh become more dependent on genealogy the sufi aspect necessarily suffers and will eventually fade away. This tendency is enhanced by the zawiya’s expansion and acquisition of wealth which turn the shaykh into a manager devoting more of his time and energy to the supervision of the daily material concerns, rather than attending to the spiritual needs of his disciples. The change becomes noticeable after two or three generations, and the zawiya shaykhs have then to maintain an artificial appearance of sanctity through the exploitation of the inherited legacy, the mobilization of the ancestors’ baraka and the manipulation of ritual. Routinization as applied to sufi and the marabutic manifestations consists of a number of features. One of them, as already mentioned above, has to do with the adoption by the saintly enterprise of the dynastic and genealogical patterns. The main concern of the zawiya, or the marabutic lodge, is to ensure succession within the saintly lineage and to preserve, and expand whenever it becomes possible, the inherited socio-economic status and privileges. The second one relates to the personality of the shaykh or murabit whose charisma is seriously impaired as he no longer assumes the role of spiritual guide and turns into a manager of the zawiya’s material assets. The third feature is the zawiya’s increasing involvement in worldly affairs, particularly through the acquisition of wealth and the expansion of its influence on distant places. The fourth and final aspect is the increasing dependence on the Makhzan who acts more and more as protector and provider of privileges. The metamorphosis of the saintly enterprise is particularly obvious in the nature of its leadership. If we consider the two major zawiyas which developed

Saints and sultans 19 a nationwide, and even a trans-national, presence, the Nasiriya and the Wazzaniya, we notice similar developments at the leadership level in both institutions. The founding saint is a man of piety and religiosity whose concern is totally devoted to spiritual contemplation and the guidance of adepts. His charisma is manifest in his baraka and karamat, or miracles. Both Mawlay ‘Abd Allah Al-Sharif and the first Nasiri shaykh, Muhammad Ibn Nasir, were attached to a strict form of sunni Islam and engaged in preaching the good (ma’ruf ) and putting down the reprehensible (munkar). The observance of the sunna made Muhammad Ibn Nasir, for instance, totally opposed to chanting or resorting to musical instruments during the dhikr sessions. The main occupation of the two shaykhs was to educate the disciples and guide them, either in the zawiya itself or through a sustained correspondence with followers in distant places. Therefore, they hardly had any time left to take an interest in worldly pursuits. The hagiographer of the Wazzani zawiya, Hamdun AlTahiri, mentioned that Mawlay ‘Abd Allah would never be part of a meeting in which worldly concerns were discussed.67 The behaviour of the Nasiri shaykh was likewise characterized by contempt for wealth and the refusal of gifts and donations from suspected illegal sources such as the temporal rulers.68 It was also part of their asceticism to keep a distance from these rulers. Muhammad Ibn Nasir, for instance, gained the reputation of having never mentioned the name of the sultan in his prayers at the zawiya.69 The tradition of mentioning the sultan’s name in the Friday prayer, he said, was a bid’a which has no ground in the sunna.70 His biographers also underlined the fact that he was never seen at the door of sultans, a highly valued attitude among ‘alims and men of piety. It takes only one generation or two after the first shaykh to witness the signs of routinization and decay of charisma. It is difficult to assess objectively how much charisma the successor inherits from the founding shaykh for we are relying essentially on hagiographic writings whose authors are favourably biased towards the saintly institution of which they want to present an exemplary image of piety and moral rectitude. For these authors, the successor who lived in the time of the founding shaykh and was exposed to his teachings and the radiation of his baraka necessarily captured some of that, otherwise it would reflect negatively on the founder himself and on his moral standing. Therefore, we should assume that hagiographers in this particular case might exaggerate the picture and ascribe to the successor more baraka and karamat than he really enjoyed. Nevertheless, these reservations being made, one can admit that having benefited from the companionship and the education of the founder and having bathed in the sanctityladen atmosphere of the pristine inceptive times the immediate successors could have inherited a great deal of charisma and spiritual authority. We can also assume that during the second or third shaykhdoms the zawiya had not still developed into a full-fledged institution with important socio-economic assets that would distance its leaders from the sufi ideals of the founder. The second Nasiri shaykh, Ahmad Al-Khalifa, appears through the zawiya’s hagiographical works as a man of piety and learning and enjoying a lot of charisma. In his work Tal’at Al-Mushtari, the nineteenth-century historian Ahmad Ibn Khalid Al-Nasiri devoted most of the second volume to the biography of

20 Mohamed El Mansour Al-Khalifa (more than 108 pages) while he consecrated only seven pages to the seven shaykhs who led the zawiya between 1717 and 1886! Ahmad Al-Khalifa was so prolific in miracles that one of his followers collected them in a separate volume.71 Probably one of his outstanding karamat is the one which resulted from his meeting with sultan Mawlay Isma’il in Meknes. His baraka also allowed him to extend the zawiya’s protection to the trading caravans crossing the Sahara to Sudan, and for this purpose he mobilized his saintly energy to punish the highway robbers who threatened the security of traders.72 Al-Khalifa also shared in his father’s virtuous behaviour according to which he abstained from entertaining links with Makhzan circles ‘except when it became necessary to discard some harm threatening the community’.73 Finally, Al-Khalifa went on pilgrimage to Mecca four times and succeeded in making out of this pillar of Islam an important religious asset for the zawiya as this one developed its own rakb (pilgrimage caravan) competing with the official one originating in Fes. All these aspects enhanced Al-Khalifa’s image as a charismatic shaykh who built upon his father’s mission of implementing the sunna and providing guidance for the disciples.74 However, looking at things from a historical perspective, Ahmad Al-Khalifa, despite his religiosity, was significantly instrumental in the institution building process by which the Nasiri zawiya expanded its economic assets and ramified its national network, a development which made it necessary for the saintly institution to work out an accommodationist strategy vis-à-vis the Makhzan. In his time the zawiya spread its influence north of the Atlas mountains as it acquired disciples in many places, particularly in the cities where many ‘alims appreciated its sunni sufism. During his time the zawiya succeeded in accumulating significant material assets, even if this development had not yet overshadowed the religious aspects and, therefore, is never mentioned by hagiographers. Henceforth, the zawiya shaykhs will be mainly concerned with the management of the inherited legacy leaving aside the spiritual concerns which motivated their forerunners. Considering the relation between the zawiya’s expansion nationwide, which was accompanied by an important accumulation of wealth and its spiritual radiation Georges Drague wrote: ‘To this expansion on the general [read “national”] level corresponded by a curious coincidence a weakening of [its] local prestige’.75 Generalizing on the basis of this remark Abdallah Laroui noticed that ‘their [zawiyas’] prestige diminishes as we get farther from the founder as if piety and authority were inversely related to their wealth’.76 In the case of the Wazzani zawiya the disintegration of charisma starts with the third successor, Mawlay Al-Tayyib (d. 1767). His brother and predecessor Mawlay Al-Tuhami (d. 1715) was a saintly figure renowned for his religiosity and prolific karamat. We have already mentioned his encounter with sultan Isma’il in Meknes where, like the Nasiri Ahmad Al-Khalifa, he unfolded his titles of sainthood and demonstrated God’s solicitude for him through his impressive miracle. In fact, Mawlay Al-Tuhami, just like the Nasiri Ahmad Al-Khalifa, represented the last charismatic leader who was able to preserve the zawiya’s halo of sanctity and at the same time complete the institution building process by which the saintly enterprise developed into a socio-economic power. Mawlay Al-Tayyib who came

Saints and sultans 21 after him was a shaykh with no significant karamat and was more of a manager than a spiritual guide.77 To his contemporaries who asked him to display his miraculous ability he replied: ‘All Mawlay Al-Tuhami (his predecessor) asked me to do is to sit here (at the zawiya’s door) and receive visitors’, a mission which in practical terms consisted in the running of the zawiya’s everyday business. Likewise for the Nasiri zawiya, the successor of Al-Khalifa, Musa, was a man with no charisma and no miracles at all. The only significant information given about him by the author of Tal’at Al-Mushtari is that he acquired additional orchards and went on a tour to the Sus to inspect the zawiya properties there and put some order in their management.78 About the zawiya shaykhs who came afterwards Ahmad Ibn Khalid Al-Nasiri does not have much to say in terms of spirituality or sufi guidance. For the seven shaykhs who came after Al-Khalifa, and who presided over the destinies of the zawiya from 1717 to 1886, the author devotes seven pages only, an average of one page per shaykh, compared to more than a hundred pages for the second Nasiri shaykh, Ahmad Al-Khalifa. As karamat becomes non-existent and as biographical information becomes scarce, the author finds it difficult to fill in even those seven pages and becomes, therefore, mainly concerned with the genealogical ramifications of the Nasiri family tree. Genealogy literally replaces charisma as the subject matter of the author. The routinization of sufism in the case of the zawiyas is a complex development in which the disintegration of charismatic leadership cannot be brought down to a single factor. There is, of course, the personal aspect and the inability of the founder’s successors to maintain the required moral authority. But alongside this progressive depreciation of the charisma capital we have the unavoidable consequences of the institutionalization process by which the zawiya grows wealthier, develops a more mundane vocation and becomes part of a sociopolitical network within which maintaining a privileged status becomes far more important than observing the pristine principles of the pious founder. As the zawiya expands and acquires more assets the shaykh no longer plays his role of spiritual guide. Henceforth, the sufi activity which takes place within the zawiya becomes more of a ritual aimed at maintaining an impression of continuity and conferring upon the sufi enterprise a sense of legitimacy. What is important in this routinization process is the change which affects the nature of authority within the zawiya itself. Authority is no longer based on the personal charismatic virtues of the shaykh but on traditional criteria of parental relationship or the zawiya’s economic potential capable of drawing around it a host of dependents. In fact, one of the logical consequences of this evolution is the emergence of new forms of relationship between the shaykh and the disciples or followers. As Brian S. Turner wrote, ‘the relationship which emerges between leader and follower is not so much a discipleship relation but a patron – client pattern in which a leader supplies booty in return for adherence.’79 In our case, of course, what the followers expect from the zawiya is protection and a wide range of services – from religious education to mediation in the settlement of local conflicts. However, despite everything many followers would still turn to the zawiya for the satisfaction of their spiritual needs, especially in the case of Sharifian

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zawiyas which are more sought after for their inherited baraka rather than for their sufi guidance. Actually, in the case of the Wazzanis baraka dispensing becomes the main ‘commodity’ the Sharifs provide for their clients (khuddam, pl. of khadim or servant).80 With the increasing desecration of the zawiya the shaykh’s authority is greatly affected. The respect tribes used to have for the saintly institution fades away as the zawiya properties become the object of tribal attacks by the neighbouring Ait ‘Atta for the Nasiris and the Bani Mastara for the Wazzanis. In fact, his authority is challenged even from within the zawiya itself. In addition to the ‘dynastic’ struggles which plague the zawiya, we notice by the end of the nineteenth century signs of rebellion on the part of its traditional dependents. Cases of slaves running away become so numerous that Makhzan intervention is sought to bring matters into order.81 A number of branches also show signs of uneasiness and sometimes secede from the mother zawiya. Local muqaddams whose main duty becomes the collection of the zawiya’s income withhold funds compelling the shaykh to seek government action against recalcitrant branches and their managers. Nevertheless, the profound changes witnessed by the zawiyas after the second or third generations do not result in the total dissolving of the religious character of these institutions in which religion is, after all, their raison d’etre. Perhaps the most important reason why these zawiyas continue to function as religious institutions is their impossibility to fully integrate the political field. Were this possible, as it was for the Dila’i zawiya in the seventeenth century, some saintly institutions such as the Wazzaniya could have evolved into political institutions. The perpetuation of their religious character was, in a sense, imposed by the rulers who wanted to confine them within the religious realm for reasons mentioned earlier, among which was the determination of the Makhzan to turn them into useful levers for its local administrative policy. But the zawiyas needed to maintain a religious veneer and a religious legitimacy without which they would simply lose their essence and cease to exist. To survive and maintain their privileged social status the shaykhs had to play the game to perpetuate a semblance of sanctity. Pure charisma was gone but some of it, or at least an illusion of it, could be kept alive through artificial means, particularly through the ritualization of the sufi practice as manifested in the annual pilgrimage to the shrine of the zawiya’s founder, regular religious celebrations such as the Prophet’s birthday (mawlid), etc. In other words ‘spectacle sufism’ became the core of the zawiya’s practice and the basis of its worn authority. The function of ritual here is not different from what it represents for the state. ‘The ritual of the court’, wrote C. Geertz, ‘. . . . represented not just the trappings of rule but the substance of it’.82 The same could be said of zawiya at its stage of charisma disintegration.

The Makhzanization process The steady desecration of the sufi institutions and the erosion of their leaders’ charisma coincided, in the modern history of Morocco, with a growing tendency on the part of the state (Makhzan) to strengthen the central institutions at the

Saints and sultans 23 expense of religious and local loci of power. Indeed, this tendency for greater centralization has been a major characteristic of the modern Moroccan state in its pursuit to monopolize the main tools of power and neutralize potential competitors. It is perceptible in the policy of the early ‘Alawid sultans such as Mawlay Isma’il who set the foundations of the new Sharifian dynasty, but significantly enough this tendency never abated even with sultans who passed into history books as weak rulers.83 The tendency has probably to be seen in the long-term evolution in which states in many parts of the world experienced a similar drive towards greater bureaucratic efficiency and greater centralization. In this respect centralization becomes a feature of the modern state and the Moroccan Makhzan cannot be said to have been left outside this ‘modernizing’ trend, at least in relation to this particular aspect. Curiously enough, the increasing weakness of the Moroccan state during the nineteenth century as a result of the European imperialist encroachments did not temper this tendency. The Moroccan state might have been weaker by the end of the nineteenth century, but it was certainly more centralized with a growing determination on the part of sultans to reduce particularisms and expand the Makhzan’s authority at the expense of the traditional mediating structures. Considering the relation between the ‘Alawid state and the various religious groups we notice a continuous effort on the part of sultans to curtail the power of all those who draw their influence from religion in order to make of them more docile agents in the Makhzan’s political and administrative strategy. At one time Mawlay Isma’il contented himself with placing the major zawiyas under strict supervision. The covenant he concluded with both Ahmad Al-Khalifa and Mawlay Al-Tuhami, representing, respectively, the Nasiri and Wazzani zawiyas, showed how much the sultan wanted to read into the minds of both saints and make sure they remained within the bounds of the spiritual and religious realm. The understanding reached between the sultan and each one of the two shaykhs also cleared the way for a fruitful cooperation between the two sides by which the zawiyas would play their role of preaching obedience to the imam in exchange for the Makhzan’s commitment to provide assistance, both material and moral, to facilitate their expansion. At this stage all we can talk about is a partition of tasks at a time when the ‘Alawids needed the support of the religious groups to enhance their legitimacy and consolidate their rule. However, the state’s dealing with the zawiyas and the murabits was just one aspect of a general policy regarding the religious domain. Other religious groups were concerned, and the Makhzan’s centralizing strategy cannot be perceived fully without a cursory survey of the other components of the religious landscape.

The Sharifs As a founding Sharifian sultan Mawlay Isma’il was also concerned about another religious group, that of the Sharifs. Having made use of sharifdom as a base for their politico-religious legitimacy the ‘Alawids could not lose sight of this crucial element of legitimation. Here again Mawlay Isma’il showed his determination to

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extend the Makhzan’s control to the holy lineages and gain over the major Sharifian families to his side in return for a variety of privileges he bestowed on them. Control meant subjecting Sharifian genealogies to a strict scrutiny to identify the main Sharifian families and discern authentic Sharifs from false ones. Thus, Mawlay Isma’il ordered the establishment of a general register of all Sharifian families (diwan) which became a reference for later sultans. This measure allowed the sultan not only to curb the inflation of sharifism, something which had a direct impact on state revenues since the Sharifs were exempted from a variety of impositions, but it also allowed him to act as a regulator of sharifdom. In fact, by granting a zahir of sharifdom or by withdrawing it he could affirm his religious status as the supreme religious authority in his quality of imam and first Sharif. The establishment of the diwan also allowed him to intervene directly in the affairs of the Sharifian families by appointing naqibs (supervisors of Sharifian affairs) whose task was to lead genealogical investigations and submit the result of their work to the sultan for approval. Although these naqibs were in principle independent Sharifian dignitaries, they became with time increasingly associated with the state policy of regulating sharifdom. During the early times of the ‘Alawid dynasty the naqib was still chosen by his fellow Sharifs and confirmed by the sultan through a zahir of nomination. Later on, as we will see, the appointment of naqibs became the sultan’s prerogative, not very different from that pertaining to the appointment of Makhzan officials. In principle naqibs received a salary from the bayt al-mal (state treasury), but we have no indication as to the implementation of this provision in the Moroccan case.84 However, ‘Alawid sultans made it a tradition to gratify these naqibs with generous donations on various religious occasions. This was one way of subduing the Sharifian elite and placing it at the service of the state. The second half of the eighteenth century represented a crucial period during which the Makhzan succeeded in bringing the Sharifs under its control by incorporating them into the state apparatus. Sultan Sidi Muhammad Ibn ‘Abd Allah (ruled from 1757–1790) succeeded to a large extent in breaking up Sharifian ‘asabiyya by a systematic fragmentation of the Sharifs into competing factions. His grandfather had already nominated two naqibs for the Idrisid Sharifs, one for Fes and another one for Jabal Al-‘Alam. Sidi Muhammad appointed twelve naqibs just for the Idrisid Sharifs of Fes!85 Furthermore, this sultan selected a limited number of prestigious Sharifian families (ahl al ‘asabiyya) upon whom he conferred substantial material privileges. This amounted to discriminating against many ‘lesser Sharifs’ or ‘ammat al-ashraf (common Sharifs) who were deprived of state allowances. An acute rivalry divided the Sharifs as a result of this policy, playing off the various components of the Sharifian community. As a realpolitik ruler Sidi Muhammad often changed his policy vis-à-vis the Sharifs depending on the immediate needs of the Makhzan. Thus in 1787 he abrogated the measures he took about twenty years earlier and generalized the state allowance to all Sharifs without distinction between prestigious and non-prestigious Sharifs.86 His policy consisted, therefore, of a deliberate reconfiguration of the Sharifian landscape to serve Makhzanian interests, using the state’s largeness to

Saints and sultans 25 gain over new clients among the holy lineages. His ultimate aim according to a leading naqib, Sulayman Al-Hawwat (d. 1816), was to turn the Sharifs into ‘a state nobility’87 with a ceremonial role on the theatre stage.

The ‘alims Although the ‘alims lacked ‘asabiyya as underlined by Ibn Khaldun they still had a lot of influence in society, and even if they were not the real decision-makers, their word had a tremendous symbolic value. The religious scholars lacked the power to implement their views but their norm setting function made society as a whole turn towards them for guidance. They did not make sultans, for instance, but their ‘after the fact’ blessing in the form of a bay’a was of utmost importance in the legitimating process. Therefore, once a sultan was proclaimed he made sure that the ‘inheritors of the Prophet’ were on his side or at least that they were kept away from the political field. Here again the sultan’s intervention to win over the ‘alims took many forms and ranged from regulatory measures concerning the exercise of their responsibilities to the granting of favours. Among the ‘Alawid sultans, it was probably Sidi Muhammad Ibn ‘Abd Allah (d. 1790) who brought the ‘alims into ‘a closer dependence on the Makhzan. Using as a plea the need to establish clear rules by which state gratuities would be fairly distributed among the religious scholars he drew up lists of ‘alims according to three categories. The first category was reserved for senior ‘alims, the second one for intermediate scholars, while the third one was devoted to those fresh graduates known as ‘talaba’ (students).88 What made the classification measure significant was the fact that promotion from one category to a higher one had to be approved by the sultan himself by means of a decree upon propositions by the senior ‘alims. This allowed the sultan considerable leverage power especially when promotion was accompanied with moral and material privileges few ‘alims could disregard. Among these privileges there was the regular distribution of royal donations and gifts on various religious occasions, as well the possibility of getting appointed to a number of religious posts such as mosque imam, Friday preacher (khatib), awqaf supervisor (nazir), etc. ‘Alawid sultans also intervened in shari’a matters to underline their position on imams and successors to the Prophet. Strangely enough it was Sultan Sidi Muhammad, to whom historians attribute a more indulgent and decentralizing policy by which he gave up many Makhzanian prerogatives in favour of tribal and religious notabilities,89 who took the lead in bending the religious groups to the Makhzan’s will and subjugating the scholarly elite in particular by a forceful intervention in matters related to dogma and shari’a interpretation. Thus he attempted to lead a reformist movement aimed at breaking up the monopoly of the Ash’ari dogma and promoting a unitarian sunnism which gives equal consideration to the four sunni madhhabs (schools of jurisprudence). To reach this goal he proposed to overcome the inter-madhhab differences by going directly to the scriptures and the pristine tradition of the Prophet and the early salaf (pious ancestors). Although his ideas were met with stiff resistance on the part of the

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‘alims, he was still able to demonstrate his religious initiative and leadership even within a domain traditionally reserved for religious scholars. Furthermore, he was the first ‘Alawid sultan to claim enough scholarly authority to issue legal opinions (fatwas), thus investing grounds which the ‘alims believed to be their exclusive domain. Finally, Sidi Muhammad inaugurated a tradition by which the ‘Alawid sultans would issue a formalized sermon at the turn of every Hijra century, the aim of which was to rejuvenate the faith (tajdid al-din) and bring back the community to a more orthodox form of Islam, particularly by extirpating the erroneous practices (bida’, pl. of bid’a, a reprehensible practice). Actually, this initiative served not only to minimize the role of the ‘alims but also to remind possible pretenders to mahdism among the saints that the mujaddid of the faith was no other than the imam himself. Another aspect of the steady marginalization of the ‘alims by sultans, particularly during the nineteenth century, was the process by which the Makhzan invested a number of religious positions traditionally filled by scholars and turned them over to laymen. This applied to positions such as the supervision of awqaf, but more to the hisba (supervision of market dealings and public morality) which shifted from a purely religious responsibility to an administrative one with practically no religious content. In principle, the muhtasib should be an ‘alim who is versed enough in the religious sciences to be able to implement the rulings of the shari’a, and exercise ijtihad, or shari’a interpretation when necessary.90 During the early times of the ‘Alawid dynasty and up to the beginning of the nineteenth century the muhtasib was still a person with a great deal of power and independence visà-vis the Makhzan and other religious officials. We have seen above how under Mawlay Isma’il the muhtasib of Fes was able to stand against the all powerful Al-Rusi in his attempt to impose non-religious taxes in the form of maks, and succeeded through the mediation of Ahmad Ibn ‘Abd Allah Ma’n in abolishing them. At the beginning of the nineteenth century Fes still had a vigorous muhtasib, Abu Al Qasim Al-Dyuri, whose sense of duty made him issue an order to the chief qadi, Ahmad Ibn Suda, to administer justice in a public place instead of his house or his family’s zawiya.91 Sultan Sulayman did not appreciate his toughness and to please his shaykh Ahmad Ibn Suda he removed Al-Dyuri from his post in Fes and appointed him instead qadi in the town of Taza. But people remembered him for his strict observance of the shari’a and the anonymous author of Al-Ibtisam saw in him the last muhtasib worthy of the name.92 By the end of the century the hisba had been totally makhzanized. The muhtasib was nothing more than a government official at the service of the sultan. Because of the petty managerial duties he was entrusted with he no longer needed to be a ‘alim. Merchants were increasingly called upon to fill this post because what sultans needed was someone with a sense of business and close ties with the economic agents to meet the Makhzan’s intendancy requirements. Thus during the latter part of the nineteenth century the muhtasib was not different from a Makhzan’s amin (treasurer) in inspecting state buildings and procuring commodities needed by the court and the army.93 In fact, during the latter part of the nineteenth century the duties of muhtasibs in some cities included such petty and downgrading tasks as the cleaning of streets and the training of palace women slaves in the art of cookery!94 Thus, the hisba

Saints and sultans 27 profession had undergone radical changes, and the most important aspect of it, that of ‘ordering the good and curbing the reprehensible’ (al-amr bi al-ma’ruf wa al-nahy ‘an al-munkar), had totally evaporated because neither did the muhtasib have the necessary religious knowledge to implement the shari’a nor were sultans ready to share this important religious prerogative with the religious scholars.

Back to saints The aim from this brief review of the condition of two important religious groups, the Sharifs and the ‘alims, in the light of an increasing centralization policy on the part of the Makhzan, was to place the saintly groups within a broader picture characterized by a steady confiscation by sultans of the main symbols of religious legitimacy. This determination on the part of sultans to divest the religious groups of their authority is probably clearer in the case of sufi institutions which, because of their socio-religious standing and their corporate nature, represented more serious competitors to the ruling dynasty. A few examples will be enough to demonstrate this fact. One way to weaken the zawiyas under the ‘Alawids was the increasing intervention by sultans in their internal affairs, particularly in the succession contests when two or more members of the zawiya were competing for leadership. This was particularly true of the two major zawiyas, the Nasiriya and the Wazzaniya. If we take the case of the Nasiris, we find that during the second half of the eighteenth century sultan Sidi Muhammad was able to initiate a new tradition in the relations between the Makhzan and the zawiya consisting in delivering a zahir of nomination to the new zawiya shaykh. By a mastermind stratagem the sultan succeeded in imposing the Makhzan’s tutelage over one of the most important zawiyas in the country. The move consisted in addressing a letter to the notables of the Dar’a valley in which he questioned the legality of the Nasiri heritage since the zawiya was initially founded by a non-Nasiri shaykh, ‘Abd Allah Ibn Al-Husayn Al-Qabbab. The sultan’s insinuation was that the Nasiris were nothing more than usurpers – hardly concealed threat to dispossess them of the zawiya’s assets and hand them over to the founder’s descendants.95 The result of this well-calculated move was the capitulation of the Nasiris and their acceptance to have the shaykh nominated by the sultan. Henceforth, every newly appointed Nasiri shaykh received a zahir of appointment and became virtually the sultan’s deputy at the head of the zawiya.96 This was a significant development in the process of the zawiya’s desecration on one hand and Makhzanization on the other. In fact the two developments were closely linked since one opened the way for the other. It would be interesting though to reflect on the significance of this evolution for a saintly institution such as a zawiya. First of all, the fact of being consecrated by the sultan by means of an ordinary zahir not different from one delivered to a qa’id (governor) is in itself nonsensical and humiliating for someone who claims to draw his power from God Himself! Second, the examination of the nomination zahir leaves no doubt that the zawiya shaykh had replaced God’s wilaya (delegation of authority) with that of the sultan. In other words the authority God bestows on his friends was substituted by

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an authority conferred by the sultan. The difference exists in the fact that God’s delegated authority is spiritual and extends to all creatures while that of the sultan is mundane in nature and limited to the management of the zawiya’s affairs.97 Finally, one should underline the change in the shaykh’s manifestation of authority. While with divine wilaya his power manifested itself in miracles (karamat), now with the Makhzan’s delegated authority he relied mainly on the sultan’s zahir to prevail upon his detractors. Another example of the zawiya’s degeneration and increasing subservience to the state was the change in Makhzanian terminology reserved for zawiya leaders. By the end of the nineteenth century the head of the zawiya was referred to as ‘naqib’ and no longer as ‘shaykh’ in the sultan’s correspondence. The difference in meaning is clear. The term ‘shaykh’ has a sufi content and refers to the religious responsibilities of the zawiya leader consisting in the spiritual education and guidance of disciples. It is true that this religious content had considerably suffered as a result of the routinization process. Nevertheless, by opting for ‘naqib’ instead of ‘shaykh’ the Makhzan was not just stating a fact but underlining the real function it reserved for zawiya leaders within the socio-political order. The lexicographic meaning of ‘naqib’ is ‘the first one among one’s kinsmen’, that is, the person chosen to represent the interests of the group.98 Therefore, for the sultan the zawiya shaykh was simply stripped off his religious mantle and downgraded to the status of corporation chief whose main duties consisted in running the affairs of the group and serving as an intermediary between this group and the Makhzan, just like other corporate groups in society. The usage of ‘naqib’ also implied that the idea of appointment as Sharifian naqibs were always confirmed or nominated by royal decree. Instead of charisma (hayba) the head of the zawiya had now in his hand a royal decree which made him worthy of ‘consideration and respect’ (al-tawqir wa al-ihtiram) but with the will of the sultan alone! The Makhzanization process reached its culmination by the end of the nineteenth century when sultans intervened openly in the succession conflicts within the zawiyas to favour one candidate against another. Thus in the case of the Nasiriya sultan, Mawlay Al-Hasan stood by Muhammad Al-Hanafi against his uncle Ahmad Ibn Abi Bakr in 1886 and provided him with the necessary military assistance to reconquer Tamegrout, the seat of the mother zawiya. At the same time the Makhzan succeeded in splitting the zawiya into competing components by granting Ahmad Ibn Abi Bakr the zawiya branches located in the Sus valley while his nephew, Al-Hanafi, kept the rest. Al-Hanafi became simply a Makhzan agent enjoying the full support of the sultan without which he could not even stay in office. The zawiya shaykh increasingly abandoned his role of sufi guide to become a Makhzan agent fulfilling tasks as menial and degrading as reporting on local affairs and announcing the sultan’s victories over rebellious tribes.99 Makhzan support became necessary to keep the branches of the zawiya under the shaykh’s control and to ensure the flow of income from these branches to the mother zawiya in Tamegrout.100 Clearly, the nature of Nasiri sainthood had radically changed since the time of the founder, Muhammad Ibn Nasir, when he proudly refused to be seen at the door of kings!

Saints and sultans 29

Notes 1 One example in this respect could be Clifford Geertz’s interpretation of al-Yusi’s account in which this prominent seventeenth century ‘alim comes out as a venerated holy man, which he was not, at least in his lifetime, and a Sharif, which he never claimed to be. See Clifford Geertz, Islam Observed (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1969), 33–35. What is important in this example is not so much the inaccuracy of facts from a historical point of view as the conclusions that could be drawn on their basis about the nature of sainthood and Sharifdom, their assumed overlapping and their social and cultural meaning. 2 See, for example Vincent Cornell, Realm of the Saint, Power and Authority in Moroccan Sufism (Austin: Texas University Press, 1998). 3 Muhammad Al-Mahdi Al-Fasi, Mumti’ Al-Asma’ (Casablanca: Al-Najah Al-Jadida, 1994), 101. 4 Ahmad Al-Wallali, Mabahith Al-Anwar fi Akhbar Ba’d Al-Akhbar (Rabat: Faculty of Letters and Human Sciences, 1999), 218. 5 A. Al-Wallali, Mabahith Al-Anwar, 218. See also Ahmad Ibn Khalid Al-Nasiri, Tal’at Al-Mushtari fi Al-Nasab Al-Ja’fari (Fes: Lithograph press, no date), I, 290. 6 M. Al-Fasi, Mumti’, 19. 7 Ibid., 19. 8 ‘Abd Al-Salam Al-Qadiri (d. 1698), Al-Maqsad Al-Ahmad fi Al-Ta’rif bi Sayyidina Ibn ‘Abd Allah Ahmad (Fes: Lithograph press, no date), 149. 9 Ibid., 150. 10 Ahmad Ibn Hamdun Al-Tahiri (d. 1777), Tuhfat Al-Ikhwan bi Ba’d Manaqib Shurafa’ Wazzan (Fes: Lithograph press, 1906), 39. 11 Ahmad Ibn Al-Haj, Al-Durr Al- Muntakhab, Ms. Z 11961 (Rabat: Royal Library), 135–136. 12 A. Al-Qadiri, Al-Maqsad, 216–217. 13 Al-Qadiri, Nashr Al-Mathani (Rabat: Al-Jam’iyya Al-Maghribiya li Al-Ta’lif, 1977–1986) 3, 315–316. 14 Raymond Jamous, Honneur et Baraka (Paris: Maison des Sciences de l’Homme, 1981), 229. 15 Muhammad Ibn ‘Askar, Dawhat Al-Nashir (Rabat: Dar Al-Maghrib, 1977), 116. 16 C. Geertz, Islam Observed, 33–34. 17 ‘Abd Al-Rahman Ibn Khaldun, The Muqaddimah, translated by F. Rozenthal (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989), 127. 18 Ibn Khaldun, The Muqaddimah, p. 127. 19 Ibid., 128. 20 A. Al-Qadiri, Al-Maqsad, 150. 21 Ibid. 22 Ahmad Al-Tawfiq, Al-Mujtama’ Al-Maghribi fi Al-Qarn Al-Tasi’ ‘Ashar, second edition (Rabat: Faculty of Letters and Human Sciences, 1983), 439. 23 A. Ibn Khaldun, The Muqaddimah, 177. 24 See numerous examples from the post-Isma’li period in Al-Qadiri, Nashr Al-Mathani, vols 3 and 4, when Sharifian solidarity crystallized on more than one occasion as a result of factional strife within the city of Fes. On the issue of Sharifism and its resurgence under the Marinids see Muhammad Al-Qabli, ‘Musahama fi Tarikh Al-Tamhid li Zuhur Dawlat Al-Sa’diyyin’, Majallat Kulliyat Al-Adab (Rabat), 3–4 (1978): 7–53. 25 M. Al-Qabli, ‘Musahama’, 29. 26 See copy of this zahir in ‘Abd Al-Salam Al-Bakkari, Al-Ashraf Al-‘Imraniyun bi Al-Maghrib (Kénitra: Boukili Impression, 1996), unpaginated annexes. 27 On the proclamation of Muhammad Ibn ‘Abd Al-Karim Al-Khattabi as sultan see the text of his bay’a in Richard Pennell, A Country with a Government and a Flag (Wisbech, Cambridgeshire: Menas Press, 1986), 246–251.

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28 The oral tradition collected by R. Jamous refers to a sultan from the Almohad dynasty by the name of ‘Ya’qub’, popularly known as ‘the black sultan’ (R. Jamous, Honneur, 231–232). However, this sultan could well be the Marinid sultan Abu Al-Hasan Ibn ‘Uthman, also memorized in the oral tradition as ‘Al-Sultan Al-Akhal’, or the black sultan (Ahmad Ibn Khalid Al-Nasiri, Kitab Al-Istiqsa, III, 118). For our argument it does not change anything since both Almohads and Marinids were not Sharifs. 29 Ahmad Ibn Al Haj, Al-Durr Al-Muntakhab, Ms. 1920 (Rabat: Royal Library), vol. 10, 36. 30 A. Al-Tawfiq, Al-Mujtama’, 426. 31 Muhammad ‘Amrani, Al-Sharaf wa Al-Mujtama’ wa Al-Sulta Al-Siyasiya (Rabat: Doctoral thesis at the Faculty of Letters and Human Sciences, 2001), 394. 32 Robert Montagne, Les Berbères et le Makhzen dans le sud du Maroc (Paris: Alcan, 1930), 222–223. 33 In May 1819 the Umalu Berbers inflicted a military defeat upon Mawlay Sulayman and his army, but once the sultan fell in their hands they honoured him and to gain his baraka they tore his tent to pieces which they distributed among themselves as amulets. See Mohamed El Mansour, Morocco in the Reign of Mawlay Sulayman (Wisbech, Cambridgeshire: Menas Press, 1990), 189. 34 See for instance Ahmad Al-Tawfiq, Al-Mujtama’, 427. 35 Quoted by M. Al-‘Amrani, Al-Sharaf, 427. 36 Among the saints who suffered persecution under the Sa’dis we find Mas’ud Al-Sharrat, ‘Abd Al-Jalil Ibn Al-Haj, known as Jallul, Abu ‘Amr Al-Qustali and others. See Abdallatif Al-Shadhili, Al-Tasawwuf wa Al-Mujtama’ (Casablanca: Jami’at Al-Hassan Al-Thani, 1989), 278. 37 A. Al-Nasiri, Tal’at, II, 59, 107. 38 Muhammad Al-Tuhami Al-Hammumi, Al-Maqsad Al-Sami fi Al-Ta’rif bi Al-Shaykh Abi Al’Abbas Ahmad Ibn Al-Hasan Al-Hammumi wa Shaykhih Al-Mawla Al-Tuhami, Ms. K 1309 (Rabat: Bibliothèque Générale), 24. 39 ‘Abd Allah Al-Wazzani, Al-Rawd Al-Munif fi Al-Ta’rif bi Awlad Mawlay ‘Abd Allah Al-Sharif, vol. I, Microfilm No. 98 (Rabat: Bibliotheque Generale), 46. 40 George Spillmann, Esquisse d’histoire religieuse du Maroc (Paris: Peyronnet et Co., 1951), 230. 41 See zahirs delivered by Mawlay ‘Abd Al-Rahman (ruled from 1822–1859) and Mawlay Al-Hasan (ruled from 1873–1894) in favour of the Baqqali-s in ‘Abd Al-Salam Al-Bakkari, Al-Ishara wa Al-Bishara fi Tarikh wa A’lam Bani Mastara (Casablanca: Dar Al Nashr Al Maghribiya, 1984), 285, 295. 42 Ahmad Ibn Al-Haj, Al-Durr Al-Muntakhab, Ms. 12184, vol. 6 (Rabat: Royal Library), 127. 43 Ibid. 44 Ibid. 45 Ibid., 264. 46 Ibid. 47 M. Al-Hammumi, Al-Maqsad, 24. See also Mawlay Sulayman’s letter to the shaykh of the Wazzani zawiya, Sidi ‘Ali Ibn Ahmad (d. 1811) in Muhammad Al-Du’ayyif, Tarikh Al-Dawla Al-Sa’ida (Rabat: Dar Al-Ma’thurat, 1986), 269, in which the sultan refers to ‘the worldly prestige’ sought by the zawiya as being incompatible with its religious mission. 48 In a letter by Mawlay Sulayman to a Wazzani Sharif the zawiya is seen as a source of livelihood just as any economic venture. ‘The successors of Mawlay ‘Abd Allah Al-Sharif’, wrote the sultan, ‘live upon the moral heritage of their ancestor just as the Sharqawiyi’-s live on the [symbolic] legacy of Sidi M’hammad Al-Sharqi’. See the sultan’s letter in Al-Wazzani, Al-Rawd Al-Munif, Ms. K 2304, vol. 2 (Rabat: Bibliothèque Générale), 49. 49 Hassan II, Le Défi (Paris: Albin Michel, 1976), 164.

Saints and sultans 31 50 51 52 53 54 55 56

57 58 59

60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74

75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84

A. Al-Nasiri, Tal’at, I, 165. Ibid. A. Al-Shadhili, Al-Tasawwuf, 278. Ahmad Ibn Al-Haj, Al-Durr Al-Muntakhab, Ms. 1920 (Rabat: Royal Library), 46–47, 93–95. Al-Nasiri, Tal’at, II, 54–57. Mawlay Isma’il reminded the Wazzani shaykh, Mawlay Al-Tuhami, that his duty was to provide guidance for a better knowledge of religion. See M. Al-‘Amrani, Al-Sharaf, 394. For instance, this is the role sultan Mawlay Al-Hasan reminded the Wazzani shaykh of when this one placed himself under French consular protection in 1883. In this respect the sultan underlined Mawlay ‘Al-Salam Al-Wazzani that his ancestors had always been at the service of the Makhzanan. See A. Laroui, Les origines du nationalisme marocain (Paris: F. Maspéro, 1977), 146. J. Berque, ‘Problèmes initiaux de la sociologie juridique’, Studia Islamica (1953), 137. Ibid. This is at least what the historian Ahmad Ibn Khalid Al-Nasiri attempted in his hagiographical work, Tal’at Al-Mushtari fi Al-Nasab Al-Ja’fari. See Ahmad ‘Ammalik, Al-Zawiya Al-Nasiriya: Dawruha Al-Ijtima’i wa Al-Siyasi, 1642–1907, doctoral thesis (Rabat: Faculty of Letters and Human Sciences, 2001), vol. I, 77. C. Geertz, Islam Observed, 33–34. Brian S. Turner, Weber and Islam (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1974), 23. M. Al Fasi, Mumti’ Al-Asma’, 151. Al-Wallali, Mabahith, 293. See also Al Mukhtar Al-Susi, Al-Ma’sul (Casablanca: no publisher, 1961–1963), vol. 18, 243–244. A. ‘Ammalik, Al-Zawiya, I, 130. C. Geertz, Islam Observed, 46. B. Turner, Weber and Islam, 24. H. Al-Tahiri, Tuhfat, 47. A. Al-Nasiri, Tal’at, I, 134. Ibid., 165. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid., 104. Ibid., 107. See the eulogy on him by the historian and biographer Muhammad Al-Saghir Al-Ifrani (d. after 1742) who described him as ‘the imam of his time’ and a committed ‘alim who feared no one when it came to the defense of God’s law. Al-Ifrani, Safwat Man Intashar min Akhbar Sulaha Al-Qarn Al-Hadi ‘Ashar (Fes: Lithograph press, no date), 221. G. Spillmann, Esquisse, 211. A. Laroui, Les origines, 145. Mohamed El Mansour, ‘Sharifian Sufism: the Religious and Social Practice of the Wazzani Zawiya’ in E.G.H. Joffé and R. Pennell eds, Tribe and State: Essays in Honour of David Montgomery Hart (Wisbech, Cambridgeshire: Mena Press, 1991), 79–80. See his short biography in Al-Nasiri, Tal’at, II, 125–128. B. Turner, Weber and Islam, 25. M. El Mansour, ‘Sharifian Sufism’, 75. A. ‘Ammalik, Al-Zawiya, II, 503. C. Geertz, Islam Observed, 38. This was the case of sultan Mawlay Sulayman who led a strict centralizing administrative policy. See M. El Mansour, Morocco, 22–23. ‘Abd Al-Rahman Ibn Zaydan, Al-‘Izz wa Al-Sawla fi Ma’alim Nuzum Al-Dawla (Rabat: Royal Press, 1961–1962), I, 101.

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85 Fatima Harrak, ‘Sharifism and the Sharifs in the Reign of Sidi Muhammad Ibn ‘Abd Allah’, Hesperis-Tamuda, XXX (1992), 28. 86 Ibid., 29. 87 Sulayman Al-Hawwat (d. 1816), Al-Sirr Al-Zahir (Fes: Lithograph press, no date), 5. 88 Ahmad Ibn Al-Haj, Al-Durr Al-Muntakhab, vol. 10, 31. See list of ‘alims categories under sultan Mawlay Sulayman in Ibn Zaydan, Al-‘Izz wa Al-Sawla, II, 163–188. 89 A. Laroui, L’Histoire du Maghreb (Casablanca: Centre Culturel Arabe, 1995), 258. 90 ‘Ali Al-Mawardi, Al-Ahkam Al-Sultaniya (Beirut: Dar Al-Kutub Al-‘Ilmiya, 1978), 241. 91 Anonymous, Al-Ibtisam ‘an Dawlat Ibn Hisham, Ms. Z 1204 (Rabat: Royal Library), 12. 92 Ibid. 93 Fatima Al-‘Isawi, Jawanib min ‘Alaqat Al-Makhzan bi Al-Hiraf, 1822–1894, DES thesis (Rabat: Faculty of Letters and Human Sciences, 1989), II, 275–276. 94 ‘Abd Al-Rahman Al-Fasi, Khuttat Al-Hisba (Casablanca: Dar Al-Thaqafa, 1984), 125. 95 See quotation from the sultan’s letter to the notables of the Dar’a valley in A. Al-Khamlichi, ‘Jawanib min Tarikh Far’ Al-Zawiya Al-Nasiriya bi Al-Ribat’ in Memorial Germain Ayache, ed. Moroccan Association for Historical Research (Rabat: Faculty of Letters and Human Sciences, 1994), 145–146. 96 Starting with sultan Sidi Muhammad Ibn ‘Abd Allah the Nasiri shaykh was addressed as ‘our deputy in the zawiya’. See A. ‘Ammalik, Al-Zawiya, II, 498. 97 See for instance letter from Mawlay ‘Abd Al-Rahman to the leader of the Nasiri zawiya in Ahmad Al-Buzidi, Al-Tarikh Al-Ijtima’i li Dar’a, DES thesis (Rabat: Faculty of Letters and Human Sciences, 1988), vol. I, 248. 98 A. Ibn Zaydan, Al-’Izz wa Al-Sawla, I, 73. 99 A. ‘Ammalik, Al-Zawiya, I, 147; II, 707. 100 Ibid., I, 140.

2

Saints and Sufis in post-Communist Albania Nathalie Clayer

The territories which today are part of the Albanian State had been included in the Ottoman Empire between the end of the fourteenth and the beginning of the sixteenth century. They were situated on the western fringe of this huge entity, and they were more or less put under the real authority of the sultan. Especially where there were high mountains, they could have a kind of autonomy under the leadership of local leaders. For various and complex reasons, Islamisation was an important phenomenon among the Albanian population from the sixteenth century onwards until the end of the Ottoman era (beginning of the twentieth century).1 The Sufi networks found also a fertile land and spread considerably in it at different periods. In this chapter, I will try to show how the turuq continued to be an important factor in the political and social life of Albania’s twentieth century; this was until the communist take-over, and in some areas until the abolition of religion in 1967, when all kind of religious cult was banned in the country. Then, I shall try to analyse the double phenomenon of search for sainthood and creation of sainthood in the religious revival which has been taking place since the end of the communist regime, at the beginning of the 1990s. I shall focus on the role of Sufi networks in this process, in particular on the role of the syncretistic and heterodox Bektashi brotherhood, which acquired a special place in Albania.

Turuq and Sufism in the Albanian society During the Ottoman domination, several Sufi networks spread all over the Albanian territories: the Halvetis, the Bektashis, the Kadiris, the Rifais and others.2 These networks were not synchronically and diachronically homogeneous. According to the periods and the segments of the population, these various turuq adapted themselves, playing different religious, social, political, economic and cultural roles, as I have showed elsewhere for the Kadiriyye. A first form of the Kadiriyye was developed in urban areas not later than the seventeenth century, which was linked with the fütüvvet and the guilds. Another urban form of this tariqa spread, from the beginning of the eighteenth century onwards, in central Albania, and played an economic and cultural role. A third form of the Kadiriyye was established approximately at the same period in the mountainous areas of the

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region of Dibra/Debar (eastern Albania), where it contributed to the religious, social and political structuring of some groups of villages which escaped direct Ottoman authority.3 In the same way, when Albania became independent in 1913, the Halvetiyye structured part of the mountainous population of northeast and south Albania. There, this network competed not only with the Bektashiyye, which spread above all in the southern regions but also in the mountains of central Albania (Kruja, Martanesh, Bulqizë, Elbasan). Between the two world wars, the small Albanian State organised itself with a lot of difficulties. The social changes were limited: no real agrarian reform had been undertaken, industrialisation and urbanisation remained relatively limited. Politically, after a tense period of fight for power, between 1924 and 1925, Ahmed Zogu achieved a stabilisation, by making, among other things, compromises with local leaders (beys, chieftains or shaykhs). As far as religion is concerned, despite a Muslim majority (around 70 per cent of the total population, the rest being Christians – Orthodox and Catholics), Islam did not acquire the status of state religion. In fact, Albania had no official religion, and Sunni Islam tended to be weakened and depreciated among the intellectual elite. Nevertheless, Sufi Islam saw during this period a relatively important blossoming. Indeed, archival documents testify to the spread of the various turuq networks in Albania in between the years 1920 and 1930, and to the reaction of the local Muslim clergy, claiming that the shaykhs and dervishes were acting against the principles of Islam and against the Muslim community’s unity. The network of the Rifaiyye extended considerably, from northern to southern Albania, under the proselyte action of Shaykh Ahmed Shkodra (d. 1927). Around 1925–1926, Shaykh Ahmed himself was active in the town of Vlorë.4 In 1931, one of his disciples, Jonus Metani, opened a tekke of the order in Shkodra.5 Shaykhs of the Halvetiyye also did their best to promote their path. In 1938, Sheh Sulo Petrela was proselytising in some villages of the Tirana’s region.6 In 1939, the halveti shaykh of Bilishti (in southeastern Albania) took the initiative of founding three new tekkes (in Pojani, in Leskoviku and in the main urban centre of the region, Korça).7 Even during the country’s occupation by Italy, in 1942, two halveti shaykhs were mentioned in the southwest city of Vlorë as making propaganda: Sheh Zejnel from Kosovo (which was at that time included in the ‘Great Albania’) and Dervish Qazim from Kavaja (in central Albania).8 The Bektashiyye, which became de facto a religious community in the 1920s, also strengthened its network.9 Last, another tariqa which spread in Albania during the first half of the twentieth century was the Tidjaniyye. But it has to be considered separately, inasmuch as this brotherhood in Albania adapted itself to the reformist stream of Islam: It had no proper tekkes, rejected the hereditary succession of shaykhhood, and stressed a direct link with the Prophet Muhammad. Its followers were mainly ulamas, students of the madrasa and merchants of the three main urban settlements: Tirana, Durrës and Shkodra. An intellectual Sufi trend was also present in the heart of the Albanian Islamic institutions which even formed in the 1930s an organisation grouping four brotherhoods, as we shall see below in the following paragraphs.10

Saints and Sufis in post-Communist Albania 35 During this period, it seems that one of the main roles – outside the religious aspect – of the dervishes and shaykhs in the Albanian society was that of a healer. The phenomenon was so important that in 1933 the head of the Muslim community sent a circular to all the ‘sub-muftis’ (nënmyfti) of the country asking them to report on all dervishes and shaykhs ‘making propaganda’ among the poor people and receiving gifts – money or livestock – from them.11 To meet the demand of the Muslim community, a year later, the highest political authorities of the state requested all the sub-prefects to inform the Ministry of the Interior about the deeds of dervishes and shaykhs, who ‘were making propaganda among the people, saying that their holy writings can cure every illness and discover every secret, and that in return for the efforts they pretend to do they take from the poor various gifts and continue to rob the ignorant and poor people in a deceitful manner’.12 Some months after the annexation of the country by Italy, in 1939, an intellectual Muslim wrote to the young reformist editors of the Muslim community’s journal that they should look at the real state of Islam in the countryside, where the role of hodjas and dervishes was, above all, to give amulets (nuska) to the people. The latter were such eager buyers that if the amulets of the hodjas and the dervishes had not succeeded in getting someone out of jail or in curing a tubercular or a paralytic they went to the Church of Saint Spiridon in Corfou.13 Various testimonies show that the cult of saints was also very strong. For example, in 1936, on the Tomor mountain, Abaz Ali was revered every year, between the 15th and the 20th of August, especially by the people of the area. Not far from the Tomor region, in the village of Drizë (Gramsh), a mekam had been opened for women, and the latter flocked to it like cattle.14 In 1942, in Delvina, the pupils of the school swore on Beqir ef., the Saint who was buried in a türbe, on the outskirts of this small town. The women visited the tomb and praised its blessings.15 In the social organisation of some rural and mountainous areas also the turuq continued playing an important role. Spiritual leaders, such as Sheh Ali Bogdani in the Luma region or Bektashi babas in Martanesh, continued settling disputes and stopping vendettas.16 On the political scene, the turuq did not play a major role, as for example what the Bektashiyye did for the development of Albanian nationalism at the end of the Ottoman period.17 Like other religious communities in the country, they had to organise themselves on a national level so that they could be controlled by the state. The Bektashis formed a quasi-independent community. The Halvetis created a kind of league. And in 1936, the Albanian Muslim authorities decided to form an association, called Drita Hyjnore (‘The Divine Light’), which gathered the Rifais, the Sadis, the Kadiris and the Tidjanis in order to reorganise and to direct the activities of these turuq.18 With the communist take over, the role and power of spiritual leaders were reduced. Already between 1945 and 1967, the turuq networks were considerably confined. From 1967 until the end of the communist period, owing to the complete ban on religion, the transmission of tradition went on only in some family circles, especially – but not only – in rural areas. Despite this ban and the transformation of the society (a rather limited urbanisation and a socialist

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modernisation), it seems that in some areas the cult of saints was kept alive indirectly. For example, picnics were organised near former holy places, such as that of Sari Saltik above Kruja (even if the tombs had been destroyed). A woman is said to have been there regularly, to light candles, despite the army’s presence.19

In search for sainthood At the end of the year 1990, when the political reforms and the democratisation process were only at the beginning, the Albanian president and Enver Hoxha’s successor, Ramiz Alia, restored the liberty of the cult. The first church and the first mosque were reopened in November of that year, in Shkodra, the northern Albanian metropolis and the stronghold of both Catholicism and Sunni Islam. From this time onwards, a ‘revival’ of religion – be it Muslim or Christian – occurred in Albania with a triple dynamics: first from below (from the people), second from above (from religious and/or political authorities), and finally impetus from abroad (foreign missionaries, religious networks and communities). This ‘revival’ and the evolution of the religious scene result in fact from a combination of these different dynamics, the local actors using the help of external actors and adapting to their needs the offer of the foreigners and the authorities trying to use or to control the impetus from below.20 Especially as far as Islam is concerned, it is clear that the local dynamics are stronger: the former ‘map’ of the Albanian Islam reappeared very quickly, with its contrasts. Furthermore, between the local dynamics from above and the local dynamics from below, the latter seems to have been the strongest at the beginning. Maybe also because the impetus came first from the province, and not from the elites of the capital moulded in the atheist spirit of the communist era. In the dynamic from below, it is striking to see that the search for sainthood developed faster than the structuring of Sufi and non-Sufi Islam. Everywhere in the country (but especially in the countryside), a very quick rebuilding of türbes occurred. For example, the mausoleum of a local baba, next to the tekke of Melan, not far from the Greek border, was rebuilt between January and April 1991, whereas the türbes in Tirana – the capital – were rebuilt only two years later. The young men working illegally in Greece began to bring gifts to türbes and tekkes.21 During the opening ceremony, laments for Bektashi babas were sung by young women from Libohova and Lazarat, two small localities which are strongholds of Bektashism in the area of Gjirokastra. The songs, which prove the transmission of tradition in private during the communist period, were recorded on tapes, and thereafter disseminated among Bektashi circles. In the same manner, in Kruja, a Bektashi stronghold in northern Albania, nearly all the türbes were rebuilt by the local population in 1991, especially the famous sanctuary of Sari Saltik, on the top of the mountain above the town.22 Before the opening of the main Bektashi centre in the Albanian capital, Baba Selim, who had been baba in the tekke of Martanesh before the abolition of religion, went to Zerqan, a rural zone where the türbe of a certain Baba Hysen from Martanesh had existed. There, he wore the traditional Bektashi costume, gathered a group of disciples, and performed the first ritual.23

Saints and Sufis in post-Communist Albania 37 When I visited the country for the first time in 1993, in almost every place I went looking for traces of a tekke’s former presence, a türbe had been rebuilt or a tomb (kubur) had been reimprovised. There were all around candles and gifts. In Tirana, in the türbe of Dervishe Hatixhe, frequented mainly by women with children, there were also photographs of refugjat – those Albanians who had fled to Italy or Greece. Visitors were lighting candles, kissing the headdress at the top of the tombs, and leaving gifts and money in a box. A few days later, when I visited the baba in the tekke that lies in the plain, near Fushë-Krujë, he was making amulets for a man and copying formulas and magic squares from a kind of majmua (notebook with mixed contents). When on a trip in northeastern Albania, I went to the village of Kolesjan (Luma), where two new local religious leaders whose ancestors were shaykhs were competing for the making of amulets (nuska). In the same area, the vice-director of the madrasa of Kukës, a young man and turuq opponent, explained to me that people went to tekkes because shaykhs resolved problems, while one went to a mosque only to pray. On another occasion, when travelling from Fushë-Krujë to Kruja in a mini-bus, I remember that among the dozen of persons in the vehicle was a young woman crying out from time to time. When the mini-bus was approaching the famous türbe containing the footprint of the saint Sari Saltik she began to calm down. The car stopped and she got down there with a man to ask the saint’s aid. Thus, a strong impetus came from below to recreate holy places and to restore the cult of saints, in order to ask for help and remedy. This phenomenon was accompanied by the (re)emergence from the society of holy men or women, seen as intermediaries between God and the people: former shaykhs, babas and dervishes, descendants or disciples of former shaykhs who possess the baraka of their ancestors, and new saints, whose first function – similar to that of dead saints – seems to be that of ‘healers’, or more generally of intercessors between God and the people. Compared with this dynamics, the formation of Sufi networks was much slower, despite the fact that these networks tried to control this search for sainthood. The huge economical, political and social changes, the limited number of spiritual leaders, the time necessary to establish networks, and the competition with other religious groups (for or against the practice of healing and interceding) are probably the main explanations for that. The turuq, which can also be used by political and social actors, have to adapt themselves to the society, to its various segments, and to their demand. This process of adaptation, between tradition and innovation, can be seen, for example, in the elaboration of saints’ images.

Saints and national heroes When the Sufi networks develop, as for example the more important of them, the Bektashi network, they try to structure and to control this strong search for sainthood and mediation between God and the people. But at the same time, they try to impose from above (sometimes using also dynamics from abroad) new trends and new practices around new figures and new saints. Here, I shall show how the weight of these two movements varies, by analysing on one hand a kind of

38 Nathalie Clayer classical menakıbnâme, published in 1997 by a Bektashi dervish from a rural area of northern Albania. On the other hand, I shall analyse the literature produced by the leaders of the Bektashi community, who are elaborating, for more urban and intellectual circles, a new corpus, influenced by the Shiite literature and in which the figure of the Albanian Bektashi poet of the second half of the nineteenth century, Naim Frashëri, tends to be sanctified. Dervish Hysni Shehu is a young man born in 1977 – ten years after the abolition of religion – in the village of Kostenje (eastern Albania). According to him, one of his ancestors was a shaykh (sheh in Albanian). In 1998, he published his first book of poetry, entitled Fllad nga kopeshti i Ehli Bejtit (The breeze from the garden of the Ehl-i Beyt). A year later, another book of his came out under the title Shenjtorë të Ehli-bejtit (The saints of the Ehl-i beyt). In the introduction, he qualifies his work as spiritual, historical, ethnographic, etc. He addresses the book mainly to ‘the Albanians and the Albanian nation’ which is ‘autochtonous’ and which he considers as a ‘fundamental part of the existence of Europe’. For him, the Albanian nation is saintly (like the other nations), and ‘its sainthood shines with the light of all the saints that [this nation] has given or welcomed, especially the saints of the Ehl-i beyt, such as Abaz Ali, Sari Saltik and Balim Sultan. Their sainthood given by God [sic] always gave to the Albanian nation equilibrium, vitality, humanism and sanctity’. He adds that the Bektashi tariqa had always had a special mission in the transmission of this sainthood.24 In a kind of second introduction, Dervish Hysni explains first how traditionally the relationship was between the shaykh and the disciples within the tekke and when the shaykh came to the villages to visit his followers. Then, the author proceeds as if it was a traditional menakıbnâme, relating the life and miracles (keramet) of various saints. The first chapter, as the introduction and some other passages, assumes a national, non-traditional, dimension. Indeed, it is dedicated to what he calls ‘the three pillars of Bektashism in Albania’, the three main saints revered in the country (Abaz Ali, Sari Saltik and Balim Sultan). The two other chapters are devoted to the saints of Kruja, the town where the author serves as a dervish, and to the saints of his native area. Despite the national colour which appeared from time to time, the model of sainthood which emerges from the book is a rather traditional one: the saints show supernatural powers and knowledge, they have also initiation powers, they perform blessings (healing, protection against attacks), and they punish, in particular those who do not respect them. They operate in a rural environment, where cattle is omnipresent, which shows that this kind of sainthood is mainly related to the life of the rural society. However, the miracles are linked to the transformations which occurred during the communist regime or with the recent democratization. In fact, a particular aspect appearing through the book is the power exerted by the saints after their death to protect their türbe against the attacks of the Communists in 1967 – at least for some time – or their ability to indicate the place where they were buried, so that people could now rebuild their türbe. The literature produced by the group leading the Bektashiyye in the Albanian capital is quite different. As the years go by, a new corpus is being elaborated, on

Saints and Sufis in post-Communist Albania 39 one hand, according to a desire to adapt Bektashism to the present situation, that is, to try to attract a younger and more urban public, to have an audience among intellectuals and to fit in the inner political situation. On the other hand, the new doctrinal elaboration results from external influences, coming from groups and networks with which the Bektashi authorities have now bonds, in this case the Haji Bektash Research Institute of the Ankara University, or Shiite oriented groups, such as the Saadi Shirazi foundation created in Tirana by Iranians or the World Ehli Beyt Assembly and its ramifications in Turkey, in the Balkans and in Europe.25 The result is that a priority is given to organize scientific, historical and cultural sessions or to add a scientific part to traditional ceremonies, during which a ‘human, precise and scientific argumentation’ is developed.26 An effort is also made to present the ‘scientific progressive Bektashi thought’ through the media and publications. In other respects, in the newly elaborated corpus, the proportion of pieces from the Shiite literature is not negligible. In the journal of the Community (Urtësia, The Wisdom) for example, texts of various Iranian thinkers are edited. Some of them are translated from the journal of the World Ahlul Bayt Assembly, entitled Risalat-u-Thaqalayn.27 The Shiite inspired iconography, especially concerning the Qerbela and the Family of the Prophet, is even more widespread. One can find it in every tekkes and türbes. Besides this Shiite influence, the new Bektashi corpus has an inner dynamics, related to the need for a social and politico-religious positioning and for a local legitimization. Since the return of the Socialists to power (in 1997), there is a clear trend to make of Bektashism a version of Islam ‘far from fundamentalism and political manipulations’, a ‘progressive thought’, ‘a symbol of spiritual service with nobility of soul towards people, for the spiritual quietness, for peace among people, for fraternity and kindness’,28 a ‘bridge between Islam and Christianity’ – the two main religions which divide the Albanians – a national product but at the same time a world-wide phenomenon which has its centre in Albania.29 The process of legitimization is made through the sanctification of some figures. On a personal level, the new leaders, according to a somewhat classical process, draw their legitimacy from the figure of Ahmed Myftar Dede, who had been the head of the Bektashiyye during the Communist regime, between 1948 and 1957. The new head of the Order, Dede Reshat Bardhi, had been his servitor, and he is considered to be the one who inherited all his amanet and recommendation. His main rival, Baba Selim, had been made baba by him and wrote a book about him.30 But on a more general level and in a more original way, the figure which is now sanctified in order to crystallize the new intellectual, national and scientific trend of Bektashism is that of the poet Naim Frashëri, who died in 1901. He was a Bektashi layman working as an official in the Ottoman administration, who, at the end of the nineteenth century, wrote, among other things, a booklet on Bektashism and an epic on Qerbela. In these texts he introduced nationalist themes in order to develop nationalist feelings among the Albanian Bektashi people. Recently, Naim Frashëri was elevated to the rank of ‘honorary baba’ (Baba nderi) of the Kryegjyshata, the main Bektashi centre in Albania, situated in Tirana’s suburb. In March 1999, his bust was inaugurated in the courtyard of this tekke, during the feast of Sultan Nevruz.

40 Nathalie Clayer In the growing literature celebrating the figure and his work, he appears even as the founder of an ‘Albanian Bektashism’: ‘Naim Frashëri understood what benefit our nationality could draw from Bektashism . . . He deserves to be considered as one of the founder of the Albanian Bektashism.’31 Some formula, such as ‘the message of the Naimian light for the blossoming, the dignity and the identity of the Albanian nation,’32 even makes him a kind of saint or prophet. Furthermore, in the spring of 2001, a book dedicated to Naim Frashëri and Bektashism appeared under the title: ‘The Third Eye’ (Syri i tretë). Written by an intellectual, Moikom Zeqo, it seemed to have an important impact in Albania, even on the non-Bektashi public. In September of the same year, the book was reviewed by a daily newspaper, where the author’s thesis was summed up as follows: ‘Naim Frashëri, as an apostle of Bektashism, searched what is called the Third Way; it means a faith which could unite the two great faiths of the Albanians, and could accept Christianity and Islam, so that, as an synchronised ideology, it strengthens Albanianism.’33 Thus, the new central figure is as much the symbol of a religious group (the Bektashis), as the symbol of an ideology, a special Albanianism, which try to put the personality of the Albanian people forward, combining Eastern and Western influences, without rejecting one or the other. ‘The Third Eye is Naim Frashëri himself, between the eye of the times gone by and the times to come. The Third Eye is Bektashism between the eye of Christianity and the eye of Islam. The Third Eye is Albania between the eye of the East and the eye of the West’, writes Moikom Zeqo.34

Conclusion What makes the case of Albania interesting is that all forms of religion, and the turuq in particular, have been forbidden there for a quarter of a century, and we can observe a process of restarting. Nevertheless, it starts not from scratch again, since there is a memory of the past. After a generation, it is the dynamics from below, corresponding to a search for sainthood which has been quicker than the development of Sufi networks. Nevertheless, in a second phase, the latter tend to channel this search, controlling the holy places and ‘providing’ spiritual leaders, whose task is above all that of healer and counsellor. In a third phase, a doctrine is reshaped in order to provide, not a personal aid any more, but a collective aid: a cohesion, a moral, an ideology, a vision of the past and of the future. Most commonly, the collective dimension is now that of the nation. The figures of saints – dead or alive – which emerge or re-emerge in the society are shaped according to these two different levels. The first, more traditional, corresponds to more classical figures, while the second is now particularly embodied in Albania in the quasi-sanctified figure of the poet Naim Frashëri. But besides the traditional figure of the baba (or shaykh) and that of a nationalist poet, other types of saints can emerge, who are no more linked to traditional Sufi networks and who express the transformation of the society. Here, we can give the example of a woman, named Eleonora, who is supposed to have been in contact since 1987 with the spirit of a Bektashi baba from the eighteenth–nineteenth century.

Saints and Sufis in post-Communist Albania 41 At the beginning of the 1990s, she was acting as a kind of Bektashi mediator,35 healing a lot of people coming to her. However, since she could not (and maybe also because she did not want to) integrate the Bektashi network, she has progressively formed a particular group with a special doctrine and a special ritual, inspired by energy, meditation and cosmos theories, which resembles more a Western sect than a Muslim mystical brotherhood. The community is named ‘Misioni Shenjtëror Eleonorë’ (Holy Mision Eleonora). Eleonora is said to have cured a lot of sick and handicapped persons. She pretends to have minimised the number of killings during the troubles which broke out in Albania in 1990, 1997 and 1998.36 She gave to her mission, at the same time, a popular and an elitist character. She is elaborating an ‘integral culture, synthesising science, spirituality, philosophy and art.’37 One of the messages of the saint with which Eleonora’s spirit comes into contact is that, with this mission, Albania will be integrated to Europe in 13 years and 6 months, while without it, it would have taken 78 years and 2 months.38 This means that for Eleonora, as for the Bektashi saints – dead or alive – the aid brought to people must be personal, as well as collective, popular, as well as intellectual, religious, as well as nationalist. The difference is that Eleonora tries to combine in herself alone all these dualities.

Notes 1 The question of the Islamization is highly controversial, because its interpretation is linked to identity questions. And there is no complete study on the phenomenon. One can find some data in Halil Inalcik ‘Arnawutluk’, Encyclopédie de l’islam, 2ème éd., s.v., and in Nathalie Clayer, ‘Quelques réflexions sur le phénomène de conversion à l’islam à travers le cas des catholiques albanais observé par une mission jésuite à la fin de l’époque ottomane’, Mésogeios, 2 (1998): 16–39 (where one will find other references). 2 See, for example, Alexandre Popovic, Les derviches balkaniques hier et aujourd’hui (Istanbul: Isis, 1994); Nathalie Clayer, L’Albanie, pays des derviches. Les ordres mystiques musulmans en Albanie à l’époque post-ottomane (1912–1967) (BerlinWiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1990); Nathalie Clayer Mystiques, Etat et Société. Les Halvetis dans l’aire balkanique de la fin du Xve siècle à nos jours (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1994); Robert Elsie, ‘Islam and the Dervish Sects of Albania. An introduction to their History, Development and Current Situation’, The Islamic Quarterly, XLII/4 (Fourth Quarter 1998): 266–289. 3 Nathalie Clayer, ‘La Kadiriye en Albanie’, Journal of the History of Sufism (Th. Zarcone, E. Ivın, A. Buehler, eds), 1–2 (Istanbul: Simurg, 2000), 213–244. 4 Arkivi Qendror I Shtetit (AQSh), Tirana, F. 882, v. 1926, d. 91. 5 AQSh, F. 882, v. 1931, d. 104. 6 AQSh, F. 882, v. 1938, d. 104. 7 AQSh, F. 882, v. 1939, d. 125. 8 AQSh, F. 882, v. 1942, d. 113. 9 Clayer, L’Albanie, pays des derviches. 10 See Nathalie Clayer and Alexandre Popovic, ‘Les courants anti-confrériques dans le Sud-Est européen à l’époque post-ottomane (1918–1990). Les cas de la Yougoslavie et de l’Albanie’, in Frederick de Jong and Bernd Radtke, Islamic Mysticism Contested. Thirteen Cenuries of controversies and Polemics (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 639–664 (660). 11 AQSh, F. 882, v. 1933, d. 97, fl. 1. 12 AQSh, F. 466, v. 1934, d. 222, fl. 1.

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13 AQSh, F. 882, v. 1939, d. 119, fl. 17. 14 AQSh, F. 882, v. 1936, d. 5, fl. 20–21. On Tomor, see Nathalie Clayer, ‘Les hauts lieux du bektachisme albanais’, in Mohammad Ali Amir-Moezzi (ed.), Lieux de l’islam. Cultes et cultures de l’Afrique à Java (Paris: Editions Autrement, 1996), 168–183. 15 AQSh, F. 882, v. 1942, d. 4, fl. 13. 16 See Dervish Hysni Shehu, Shenjtorë të Ehli-Bejtit (Tirana: Flesh, 1999), 42 and 44; Isa Halilaj, Në rrugën e diturisë (Tirana: Iliria, 1998), 109. See also Baba Rexhebi. Ky shenjt in Syria Xhelaj (ed.) (Tirana: Lumo Skendo, 2001), 139–140, for another example of reconciliation done in the 1930s by Dervish Rexhebi, a bektashi dervish, in the village of Lazarat (South Albania). 17 See Nathalie Clayer, ‘Bektachisme et nationalisme albanais’, in A. Popovic and G. Veinstein (eds), Bektachiyya. Etudes sur l’ordre mystique des Bektachis et les groupes relevant de Hadji Bektach (Istanbul: Isis, 1995), 277–308. 18 Clayer, L’Albanie, pays des derviches, 201–202. 19 Clayer, ‘Les hauts lieux’, 182. Dervish Hysni Shehu also writes that the believers from Kruja continued to go there and light candles during the Communist period (Shehu, Shenjtorë, 27). 20 On this phenomenon, see Nathalie Clayer, ‘Islam, state and society in post-Communist Albania’, in Hugh Poulton and Suha Taji-Farouki (eds), Muslim Identity and The Balkan State (London: Hurst and Co, 1997), 115–138; and Nathalie Clayer, ‘God in the ‘land of the Mercedes’. The religious communities in Albania since 1990’, in Nathalie Clayer, Religion et nation chez les Albanais XIXe-XXe siècles (Istanbul: Isis, 2003), 332–364. 21 Frances Trix, ‘The resurfacing of Islam in Albania’, East European Quarterly, XXVIII/4 (January 1995): 533–549 (especially 542–543). 22 See Clayer, ‘Les hauts lieux’. 23 Shehu, Shenjtorë, 85. 24 Ibid., 3–4. 25 All these groups were represented at the ‘7th International Bektashi Congress’, held in Tirana on the 23–24 September 2000. 26 In 1999 for example, two ceremonies called ‘Dritë Bektashiane’ (Bektashi Light) were organised in Kruja and Elbasan, which maybe were elaborated on the model of the ‘Ehl-i beyt ıvıæı’ of the Ehl-i Beyt Vakfı from Turkey. See Urtësia, n. 18 (March 1999) and n. 20 (July 1999). 27 See for example Urtësia, n. 4 (March 1996). Among the Shiite authors published, there are notably Ali Sheriati, Zeinolabedin Rahnema, Ali Akbar Zijai and Sheh Mohamed Ali Tekhiri. 28 Nuri Çuni, Tomor, o mal i bekuar (Tirana, Komuniteti Bektashian, 1999), 18. 29 During the Congress mentioned in footnote 25, the representative of the World Ahlul Bayt Assembly stressed that there were 350 millions of disciples of the Ehl-i Beyt in the World. See Kongresi 7 Botëror bektashian. 23–24 shtator 2000 (Tirana: Komuniteti Bektashian, 2001), 47. 30 Baba Selim Rexhep Kaliçani, Dede Ahmeti i gjallë mes nesh (Fushë Krujë, 2000). 31 Nuri Çuni, Tomor, 50. 32 Kujtim Ahmataj, Kongresi 7 Botëror Bektashian, 28. 33 ‘Bektashizmi e Naim Frashëri në Syrin e Tretë’, Gazeta Shqiptare (6 September 2001), 12–13. 34 Moikom Zeqo, Syri i Tretë. Naim Frashëri dhe Bektashizmi (Tirana, 2001), 262. 35 She was dressed in a special costume, being reminiscent of that of Bektashi babas, with a kind of taj, a teslim tash (twelve corner stone, symbolizing the twelve imams), the green and white colours, etc. See Misioni Shenjtëror Eleonorë. Zonja e shpirtit në veprimtarinë Misionare (Tirana: Vakëfi i shenjtë Eleonorë, without date), 28–29. 36 Ibid., 14. 37 Ibid. 38 Ibid., 15.

3

Bridging the gap between pre-Soviet and post-Soviet Sufism in Ferghana valley (Uzbekistan) The Naqshbandi order between tradition and innovation Thierry Zarcone

Sufism has both elite and popular manifestations. The former is generally urban and represented by educated shaykhs belonging to well known and historical Sufi lineages/brotherhoods (tariqa) in contemporary Central Asia. These shaykhs are generally teachers in clandestine madrasas. Popular Sufism, established in rural areas, is widespread and usually controlled by uneducated shaykhs and other religious figures. Popular Sufism can be labelled ‘Ishanism’ when it is under the supervision of uneducated but charismatic hereditary shaykhs/ishan responsible for the tomb (mazar) of a saint and for the ceremonies performed there. Ishanism, situated between elite and popular Sufism, is closest to elite Sufism because it is a development of Sufi lineages (note that representatives of elite Sufism are also called ishan).1 Although predominant outside the cities, Ishanism is present in the urban society now because of large-scale immigration by rural immigrants. Elite and popular Sufism utilize different methods to gain new adherents: in elite Sufism a person joins voluntarily while in Ishanism discipleship (murid) is usually inherited, since the father and the grandfather of the disciple were themselves the disciples of the father and of the great grandfather of the ishan. A complementary explanation is necessary here regarding élite Sufism and Ishanism, because they are frequently confused and misunderstood by scholars working on this subject nowadays. Historians make the separation between élite Sufism and Ishanism, because elite Sufism has a written and oral history that allows shaykhs to trace their spiritual lineages. This is not the case for Ishanism which was a part of elite Sufism centuries before but then lost the memory of its past and of Sufi teaching and practices (dhikr, suhba, etc.). Surprisingly, only Sufi terminology (words such as ishan, pir, murid, qol berish – to give the hands – etc.) and the ‘pir-murid’ (patron-client) subjection link have survived in Ishanism. In elite Sufism, memory is embodied by the chart of the spiritual genealogy (silsila), a document that has incomparable value both for the Sufis and for the historian. With a silsila one can write history. The silsila symbolizes the legitimacy of the lineage and sets up the present shaykh as the last and venerated link in the spiritual chain of masters. In Ishanism the silsila is generally absent and the legitimacy of

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the ishan is supported only by collective memory, that is, by its local disciples (murid) who have accepted the authority of the family for centuries.2 The aim of this chapter is to provide an overview of elite Sufism – precisely Naqshbandiyya-Khafiyya and Jahriyya – in Ferghana valley (Uzbekistan). The questions we want to ask are the following: what is the present situation of the Naqshbandi lineages which have gone across the Soviet period up to our day bridging the gap between the Russian period and post-Soviet era and permitting the transmission of Sufi teaching and practices? Here the Soviet publications on ‘Sufism’ are of little use for us because Soviet researchers, ethnologists and orientalists and even intelligence services had never investigated elite Sufism but only popular Sufism and Ishanism, the later being usually confused with elite Sufism.3 Actually the Soviets were not able to do it, because elite Sufism was more secret than any other Sufi trend and not easily detectable unlike popular Sufism and particularly tombs cult and saint veneration. For instance, this point is evidenced by the fact that there is no information on Central Asian elite Sufism in the book by Bennigsen and Lemercier-Quelquejay which is based essentially on Soviet propaganda literature.4 It is only in the last years of the Perestroïka and after 1991 with the end of the USSR, which means the end of religious persecution, that elite Sufism became more visible.5 I propose here to present the major characteristics of the more representative branches of the contemporary Central Asian Naqshbandiyya and then to analyse its encounter with two imported Naqshbandiyya brotherhoods from Turkey (the ⁄skenderpava and Menzilköyü tariqas) which have entered Central Asia in the years following the disintegration of USSR.6 A place will be given also to the Nurcu Fethullahcı organization whose crypto-Sufism, as it will be explained, calls some religious and Uzbek intellectuals to revisit Uzbek Sufism and Muslim mysticism.

Present state of the Naqshbandiyya in Ferghana valley High Sufism is represented by groups who are very aware that they belong to an ancient lineage – Naqshbandiyya-Khafiyya or Naqshbandiyya-Jahriyya (sometimes Qadiri) – and who can prove it through manuscript documents, genealogies (shajara, silsila) or oral tradition. This is, in my view, the most salient characteristic of elite Sufism. Uzbek and Tajik Naqshbandi tariqas are now influential over a whole district (Ferghana, for example) and also on an international scale (over all Central Asia and even in some districts of Russia); so their networks are far from being only local, contrary to the ishan’s. On the another hand but insignificant for our purpose, there are numerous would-be isolate ‘Naqshbandi shaykhs’ in Central Asia without any link with Ishanism. Also these shaykhs have ‘lost’ the memory of their lineage as the adab and arkan of Sufism, but in most of the cases it is because they have never been initiated in a Sufi brotherhood and are only self-proclaimed shaykhs. Obviously, these ‘shaykhs’ have no relations at all with the representatives of elite Sufism. According to the major living Sufi Shaykhs, Naqshbandi lineages in Central Asia have revived thanks to the efforts made by some leading shaykhs from

Bridging the gap 45 Tajikistan among whom the most renowned were Abdulvahid (d. 1970), living in the city of Turkestan but originally from Uratepe, Muhammad Sharif (d. 1994)7 and Ishon Abdurrahmanjan. These shaykhs are today the most revered by elite Sufism and depicted as the last Sufi leaders and those who had preserved and brought Sufism through the Soviet period up to the present. All belong to the NaqshbandiyyaMujaddidiyya-Husayniyya [hereafter Naqshbandiyya-Husayniyya], a lineage in which the main role in the silsila is ascribed first to Ahmad Sirhindi (XVIIe) – the author of the famous Maktubat – as it is in the Naqshbandiyya-Mujaddidiyya, and then to Muhammad Husayn (Bukhara d. 1833–1834) to whom every contemporary Naqshbandi shaykhs traces his spiritual line.8 Nowadays the most significant group of the Naqshbandiyya-Husayniyya is under the guidance of Shaykh Ibrahimjan of Kokand whose major representative (khalifa) is Shaykh Qurban Ali Ahmad of Tashkent.9 The latter, a young and very charismatic shaykh (44-years old), is responsible for the spread of the tariqa out of Ferghana after 1994 in Kazakhistan and in Russia. Ibrahimjan’s group is fully respectful of the teachings of Ahmad Sirhindi, performing the silent dhikr only and disregarding the vocal one. Ibrahimjan and Qurban Ali Ahmad have a high degree of Islamic and Sufi knowledge, and during their suhba (Sufi meeting) they refer to several Sufi classical texts they can be read in Arabic and in Persian (The Maktubat in its Arabic translation, the Mathnavi, the Rashahat ‘Ayn al-Hayat, etc.).10 Moreover and very essentially – and this is, in my view, the second important characteristic of contemporary elite Sufism – these shaykhs run clandestine madrasas they consider to be as important, and sometimes more important than khanaqahs (Sufi lodge); actually, in their opinion, the khanaqah is integrated in the madrasa. This is an old Central Asian tradition which perpetuates and reminds us of the time when the Sufis from Tataristan and Central Asia used to converge on Bukhara in order to attend courses in madrasas led by famous Naqshbandi shaykhs such as the Shaykh Niyaz Qulu Turkmani (d. 1820).11 Another dimension of elite Sufism is the rejection of saint veneration. Neither Ibrahimjan nor Qurban Ali Ahmad are shrine keepers or in charge of a mazar. Sufi saints and masters of the Naqshbandiyya are respected only as spiritual guides and imitators of the Prophet and they are not the goal of any pilgrimage. Concerning the Sufi literature used by Qurban Ali Ahmad I notice that the shaykh shows great interest in a manual written by a Naqshbandi shaykh from Xinjiang, Ayyub Qari (d. 1952),12 whom disciples he met in 1994 during a short stay in Urumchi. Ayyub Qari was initiated in the first decades of the twentieth century by an Uzbek Naqshbandi shaykh who escaped Ferghana at the time of the failure of the Basmachi rebellion. This book regenerates Naqshbandi practices, dhikr particularly, and looks, in the opinion of Qurban Ali Ahmad, very suitable and useful for the spiritual training of his disciples. Above all, Qurban Ali Ahmad shares with the late author of this book a perfect faithfulness to Ahmad Sirhindi’s Maktubat. In the future, if the book is circulated among the shaykh disciples as it is in Xinjiang, it will have an important impact on the Central Asian Naqshbandiyya. Also, it reveals that although the Uzbek shaykhs get doctrinal books on Naqshbandiyya spiritual practices, there is a lack of Sufi manuals and a certain impoverishment in this field. Moreover

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I guess that Qurban Ali Ahmad is respectful of this book, because it is attached to a living Naqshbandi tradition, originating from Ferghana valley, he experiences with the Uygur disciples of the writer while in Xinjiang. Furthermore, mention should be made of the fact that Qurban Ali and Ibrahimjan were first trained in Central Asian madrasas kept under state control with a very poor program (courses) and no courses on Sufism. Ibrahimjan studied at Mir Arab (Bukhara) in the 1950 and then became a disciple of a Naqshbandi shaykh, Abdullah Qari (d. 1976). Qurban Ali studied also at Mir Arab where he was soon disappointed and then became a disciple of Ibrahimjan. The most important change in the life of the tariqa since the collapse of the USSR is its spread out of Uzbekistan because of Qurban Ali who brought the tariqa to southern and southwest Kazakhstan (Chimkent, Jambul, Aktjubinsk), and to the Tatar province of Russia (Orsk), making many disciples. In 1996, I attended a Mavlud celebrations in the vicinity of Tashkent organized by Qurban ‘Ali in which Kazakhs from Aktjubinsk participated. The tariqa claims also some (few) Russian converts (not of Tatar extraction) I met personally between 1994 and 1997. Qurban Ali also benefited from modern media support and appeared on Kazakh television in 1996 lecturing on Islam and Sufism, although he is totally ignored by the Uzbek media. The second best example of Uzbek elite Sufism is a Naqshbandi-jahri group in Andijon managed by the shaykh Adil Khan (b. 1920). This shaykh is influential all over Ferghana and in some areas of Tajikistan. One of the Shaykh’s silsilas in manuscript shows us that his lineage has gone through the Soviet period up to the present. The most notable links in the genealogy are: before 1917, Ahmad Sirhindi and Khvaja Mavlana Husayn; during the USSR, Khvaja Mavlana Mir Muhammad Ibrahim, Khvaja Muhammad Vali Khan, Khvaja Muhyi al-Din, then the above mentioned famous Tajik shaykh Muhammad Sharif and finally Adil Khan. This document is the lone one I have seen about an unbroken Sufi lineage which demonstrates that the elite Sufi tradition has never stopped in Soviet Central Asia.13 Adil Khan was initiated by Muhammad Sharif in 1990, but a second silsila tells us that since 1970 he was the disciple of another well-known Farghani shaykh, Sayyid Supikhan Ishan (d. 1973), whom he presents as a descendant of the celebrated Kashgharian khvaja Buzurg Khan who fought the Chinese at the end of the nineteenth century.14 According to the Sufi tradition, every dervishe is authorized to put himself under the guidance of a new shaykh only after the death of his present shaykh; so after the death of Sayyid Supikhan Ishan in 1973, Adil Khan became a disciple of Abdallah Qari (d. 1976) and then of Muhammad Sharif. Since the death of the latter in 1994, Adil Khan, who was 76-years old in 1998, did not seek a new spiritual master for he was one of the last Sufi leading authorities in the Ferghana valley.15 In his tariqa, oral dhikr is preferred to the silent one and the dervishes perform ecstatic dances and sing Sufi poems coming from the Farghani Sufi poetic repertoire. Adil Khan does not use classical Sufi texts like the above mentioned shaykhs of the NaqshbandiyyaKhafiyya; nevertheless, like them, he gives a great place to madrasas – in 1998, he was managing an official one in Andijon. This point is another confirmation

Bridging the gap 47 of the importance of Islamic traditions and traditional sciences in the teaching of the Uzbek Naqshbandiyya-Husayniyya and in elite Sufism in general, contrary to Ishanism.16 These shaykhs of the Naqshbandiyya-Husayniyya have maintained in secret their suhba and dhikr meetings during the Soviet period as well as their clandestine madrasas and Quran courses. However both Abddullah Qari and Ibrahimjan were under police surveillance and the former was jailed for one and a half years in Tashkent. Adil Khan’s father, an ishan, was jailed also and then killed in 1938 and Adil Khan himself, suspected of organizing Qur’an lectures in his house which functioned as a khanaqah for decades, was jailed several times. Nevertheless there was no interruption in the transmission of the Sufi teaching. Both the khafi and jahri dhikr are now performed according to tradition, as I witnessed it. The dance (raqs u sama‘/jamlanish) is practised by the Naqshbandiyya-Jahriyya in a very codified form different from the uncoordinated movements of the dances organized by would-be ishans and Sufis. The dhikr-khafi meetings directed by Qurban Ali or Ibrahimjan I attended resemble the meetings of the same tariqa at the beginning of this century, as it is evidenced in an old photograph.17 Saint or tomb veneration might be used as a barometer to help us in evaluating the position of any Sufi group between popular and elite Sufism. Saint veneration is not essential and rather not recommended in the Naqshbandiyya-Khafiyya of Ibrahimjan’s group; for instance there is no cult but only respect regarding the grave of Abdullah Qari in Tashkent, the last and most influential master in the silsila,18 as is the case for the grave of his own shaykh and the last but one in the silsila, ‘Abd al-Vahid, whose tomb in Turkistan (Kushata) is very simple.19 Also the Baha al-Din’ shrine in Bukhara is not particularly the focus of any pilgrimage by Ibrahimjan’s followers as also the shrines of the other late great masters of the Naqshbandiyya. Conversely, Adil Khan is a little more respectful of saint shrines; he travelled extensively through Central Asia and visited numerous Sufi shrines. He told me that he gave priority to pilgrimage on the graves of the shaykhs whose names are in the silsila given to him by Abdullah Qari, his second master.20 Nevertheless, it is obvious that saint veneration in contemporary Central Asia is not very widespread as it was before the coming of the Soviets, apparently because saint shrines became the major target of attacks by the Marxists; as a result several shaykhs would have decided to avoid any contact with these places in order not to be detected by their enemies.21 Nowadays saint veneration is predominant in popular Islam, in particular in the areas where Islam is weak and elite Sufism absent, like in Kazakhstan: ‘it is not Sufism, but tombs of Sufis that Kazaks value’.22

Imported Naqshbandiyya Since 1991, following the disintegration of USSR and the opening of Central Asia to the rest of the Muslim world, some foreign Sufi movements have entered Central Asia where they had more or less success. These exchanges between foreign Sufism and Central Asia are of two kinds depending on whether they are under the close surveillance of the political and intelligence services or not.23

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The most representative and organized of these foreign Sufi movements are from Turkey, such as the powerful ⁄skenderpava community (cemaat)/tariqa (Istanbul) linked to the Naqshbandiyya-Khalidiyya order and managed by Esat Covan until his recent death in 2000 and now by his son.24 The first contact of the ⁄skenderpava tariqa with the Uzbeks religious began in 1991 following the first diplomatic journey to Turkey of the Uzbek president Islom Karimov. The president was accompanied by Mukhtar Khan, the mulla in charge of the Baha al-Din Mosque in Bukhara, therefore appointed mufti of Uzbekistan – who had had declared to the Turkish press that he belongs to the Naqshbandiyya, a declaration we understand as a political strategy.25 In the Uzbek press, Mukhtar Khan reveals that Turgut Özal, president of Turkey, confessed to him that he was also a member of this Sufi lineage.26 Furthermore, the Turkish president, whose sympathy for the Naqshbandiyya and links with the ⁄skenderpava tariqa nobody ignores, was offered, as a gift, by I. Karimov an historical encounter between Turkish and Uzbek Naqshbandis. When Turgut Özal carried out his first diplomatic journey to Uzbekistan he was received by Mukhtar Khan and visited in his company the shrine of Baha al-Din Naqshband in Bukhara. On this occasion, some Central Asian shaykhs were initiated by Esat Covan who came to Bukhara with some Turkish disciples, introducing the ⁄skenderpava tariqa in Central Asia. Nevertheless, it is obvious that Sufism in general and particularly Naqshbandiyya was instrumental for the Uzbek state which is first of all interested in expanding its diplomatic and economic relations with Turkey. Moreover, Mufti Mukhtar Khan was seen by the real Central Asians Naqshbandi shaykhs as a ‘false Sufi and a Communist mulla’ and as a puppet in the hands of the politicians.27 For that reason, the ⁄skenderpava tariqa was prevented from having exchanges with the local Naqshbandiyya and particularly with Ibrahimjan’s branch. Only intellectuals and official religious became disciples of Esat Covan and have then presented its philosophy in books and articles but there is no tariqa organization modelled upon the ⁄skenderpava group in Uzbekistan. Esat Covan’s followers have adopted only the philosophy of the tariqa, not its framework. In 1992, a Pakistani Naqshbandi shaykh named Zulfiqar Ahmad NaqshbandiMujaddidi travelled to Uzbekistan and visited several local branches of the Uzbek Spiritual Board. I was told that the shaykh made some disciples, but the Sufis of the Ibrahimjan’s tariqa and Ibrahimjan himself, although informed by the media about Zulfiqar’s journey in Ferghana and elsewhere, didn’t meet him. Zulfiqar’s travel was supervised by the state and appears above all as a cultural event, like for instance the 1994 commemoration of Baha al-Din Naqshband. Then, it is not surprising that there is an article about his journey and a picture of him in the first Uzbek cultural twice-weekly Özbekiston Adabiyoti va Sanoti.28 Here also, one can see a symbolic link only between Uzbek Muslims and this Pakistani Naqshbandi branch. In sum, the influence of the ⁄skenderpava tariqa and of this Pakistani shaykh on the Uzbek religious is insignificant. It is, I venture, exactly what Uzbek policy has planned since the spreading of any foreign Naqshandiyyas in the country was not on the agenda. The coming of these Turkish and Pakistani shaykhs in

Bridging the gap 49 Uzbekistan are essentially symbols among others of the renewal of the cultural and spiritual exchanges between Uzbekistan and its neighbouring countries. Actually Sufism cannot be disregarded by Uzbek policy since it is not only a religious value shared with these countries but also an important component in the quest for the identity of their own country.29 However the Uzbek Naqshbandis shaykhs are persona non grata and they never attended any commemorations of Sufism or historical Sufi literati. The tariqas are still viewed by the régime as uncontrolled and powerful religious organizations as they were previously by the Soviets. On the other hand, Uzbek Naqshbandis are absolutely not involved in politics but nobody ignores, particularly the Uzbek state, the fact that some Naqshbandi shaykhs were activists in the Islamist party in Tajikistan.30 The son of a famous Sufi and the head of the Tajik Kaziat between 1989 and 1992, Hoji Akbar Turajon-zoda, told a journalist in 1995 that the ‘ishans’ constitute a powerful wing in the Islamic opposition; his own father, Turajon, participated in the rallies against the Communists in 1991. Even, due to their influence, ishans were offered financial assistance by the Tajik State.31 Moreover, the Tajik Spiritual Board (named Kaziat and then Muftiyat after 1993) was, since the disintegration of the USSR, headed by Sufis: Hoji Akbar Turajon-zoda and then Hoji Fatkhullokhon Sharif-zoda. It was not the case in Uzbekistan with the exception of the would-be Naqshbandi Mukhtar Khan who managed the Uzbekistan Muftiyat between 1993 and 1997. However, the policy of instrumentalization of Sufism by the Uzbek State is continuing, particularly after 1997 when a strong Islamic movement appeared in the Ferghana valley. ‘Fighting fundamentalism with Sufism’ is the new strategy adopted by the state which has decided to promote Naqshbandi ideas intensively while still remaining against the revivalism of any tariqa. Najmiddin Komilov, a senior Uzbek official, who has published books and articles on Sufism,32 seem to be pivotal in this policy. He explained publicly how Sufism can counter Wahhabism and recently wrote the preface to the edition of a Naqshbandi book published by the International Centre for Islamic Researches of Uzbekistan (Özbekiston Respublikasi Khalqaro Islom Tadqiqot Markazi), an academic institution set up few years ago by the government. This book is a translation of a treatise by a famous Kurdish Naqshbandi, Muhammed Nurullah Seyda ElCezeri, published in Turkey in 1991 (4th edition).33 Also, one can notice the translation into Uzbek of several books of the late Turkish Naqshbandi Shaykh Esat Covan by his local disciples.34 In view of all this, we are inclined to think that the political instrumentalization of Sufism could directly serve the propagation of Sufi ideas but prevent a wider presentation of Sufism, in particular the promotion of the tariqa system and the ideas of Sirhindi’s Maktubat. The encounter of the Naqshbandiyya-Husayniyya and the Ottoman Naqshbandiyya-Khalidiyya Particularly noteworthy is the role played by some other Sufi groups which have entered Uzbekistan without the mediation of the state. The most representative is

50 Thierry Zarcone another major branch of the Turkish Naqshbandiyya-Khalidiyya, well known under the name of Menzilköyü Community/tariqa. Headed by the Shaykh Revid Efendi (Revid Erol) up to his death in 1993 (now run by his sons), this tariqa is based in central Anatolia but influential all over Turkey and in the Turkish diaspora in Europe.35 Introduced in Uzbekistan after 1992, through Uzbek students who have studied in Turkey,36 the tariqa is now present in Ferghana, in Tashkent, and in Bukhara. It is the first successful and free establishment in Central Asia of a foreign Sufi order (the Naqshbandiyya-Khalidiyya was previously introduced in Tataristan at the beginning of the twentieth century by the Tatar shaykh Zayn Allah).37 The elder son of the late Shaykh Revid Erol and one of the present Turkish leaders of the Menzilköyü tariqa, Abdulbaqi, visited Uzbekistan in 1994 and made contacts with the traditional Uzbek Naqshbandiyya through Qurban Ali, but today the two tariqa are in competition and criticize each other.38 The Menzilköyü tariqa is well organized in Uzbekistan; it has Uzbek and Turkish representatives (named vakil) and little books and booklets printed in Turkey are distributed among the disciples. Also the new members are offered, as in Turkey, a diploma (icazetname). These books display the eight rules (adab) of the tariqa and are not different from the manuals used by the members of the group in Turkey. They usually contain selected writings of Shaykh Fathullah Verkanisi (d. 1922), the most influential master of this lineage.39 This shaykh is not alien to the Uzbek religious since the journal of the Spiritual Board, Islom Nuri, published a little text by him in 1993.40 Also his text on the eight rules, quoted from a wellknown Naqshbandi hagiography in Turkish, was translated in 1994.41 Besides, the Khalidiyya silsila is honoured by the Uzbek members of the Menzilköyü tariqa who oppose consequently the Husayniyya silsila (to which belong Ibrahimjan, Qurban Ali and Adil Khan), the silsila traditionally widespread until now in Uzbekistan. Even photographs of the last shaykhs of the Menzilköyü tariqa are circulated among its Uzbek members.42 The first remark is that the Naqshbandiyya-Husayniyya has lost a part of its supremacy in Uzbekistan. The representative of the Menzilköyü tariqa in Ferghana, a young man aged 46, told me that although he knows Ibrahimjan, Qurban Ali and Adil Khan very well he does not attend their dhikr ceremonies. He declares surprisingly that Qurban Ali’s tariqa has no success! Above all, he rejects vehemently the Naqshbandiyya-Jahriyya of Adil Khan because of its practice of oral dhikr which is categorically prohibited by the Ottoman Khalidiyya; only the silent dhikr is authorized. He refers to the ‘eight rules’ (sekiz adab) of Shaykh Fathullah Verkanisi, a rule which is accepted as a mystical and day-to-day modus vivendi in the Menzilköyü tariqa and now scrupulously observed by its Uzbek followers.43 His critique of Qurban Ali’s tariqa is not easily understandable; he tried to explain to me that the silent dhikr that Qurban Ali teaches is purely ‘personal’, that is practised alone, while the dhikr of the Menzilköyü tariqa, according to Shaykh Fathullah’s ‘eight rules’, is performed by the disciples all together. However, I personally attended a dhikr meeting of the Naqshbandiyya-Khafiyya directed by Qurban Ali, and I saw that all the dervishes were performing silent

Bridging the gap 51 dhikr all together in a circle. I think that the opposition of the Menzilköyü tariqa to the Naqshbandiyya-Khafiyya is not based on a doctrinal divergence because both tariqa are strictly attached to silent dhikr and carry forward the teaching of Ahmad Sirhindi. In my opinion, the opposition lies in the ‘modern’ dimension the Menzilköyü tariqa has inherited from Atatürk’s Turkey which was attractive to young Uzbek Muslims studying in Turkey. For them, Central Asian Naqshbandiyya would appear too much linked to an archaic and traditional rural society inappropriate for the modern world; this rural society offers no future for young University graduates. Conversely, the Menzilköyü tariqa is integrated into a modern society, benefiting from new technologies and offering to its young Central Asian members a strong religious, social and economic network. The mixing of tradition and modernity observable in the Menzilköyü tariqa has made the difference. However it is too early, at the time of writing, to say if this foreign tariqa will expand successfully throughout the country and all over Central Asia. In October 1997, its representative in Ferghana claimed to have 600 disciples, a number I find suspicious. The case of the Fethullahcı’s crypto-Sufism Eyes catching also is the case of the Fethullahcı branch of the famous and powerful Turkish Nurcu organization, socially and politically influential in Turkey and in the Turkish diaspora, which controls a great number of schools all over Central Asia.44 In spite of their opposition to the tariqa system, to the shaykh hierarchy, and to the major Sufi practices (dhikr, dance, etc.), the Fethullahcı are respectful of Sufism, viewed as a doctrinal corpus, and have respect particularly for some great Sufi masters: Imam-i Ghazali, Abd al-Qadir al-Jilani and Ahmad Sirhindi.45 Hundreds of young Central Asians are trained in their schools and initiated to the Nurcu ideas in inner circles in the greatest secrecy. The Fethullahcı were also influential since 1994 among Uzbek intellectuals who found attractive its association of modernity and Islam. A translation of a chapter of one of the major books (Lem’alar – Flashes of Light) of Said Nursi, founder of the movement, was published in 1993 in the influential Uzbek literary journal Uzbekiston Adabiyati va Sanati.46 The major writing of Said Nursi – Risale-i nur – was translated into Turkish languages and published in several Central Asian states.47 Later, Uzbekistan sharply opposed the Fethullahcı, closed their newspaper ZamanUzbekistan and expelled most of them in 1994, and then closed their schools in 1999 at the time it launched a general campaign against Islam radicalism. However, the introduction of the Fethullahcı ideas has permitted a new evaluation of Sufism by Uzbek intellectuals. Particularly, Fethullahcı’s doctrine is greatly appreciated by neo-jadid intellectuals who are not strict opponents of Sufism but are very critical of the tariqa system and Ishanism as they are on the popular and superstitious dimensions of Muslim mysticism.48 Nurcuism should have been without doubt sympathetic for a while to some members in government circles. Although weakened in Uzbekistan, the Islamic view of the Fethullahcı has indirectly appealed and is always appealing to a re-reading of mystic and religious

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traditions. The opposition of the Fethullahcı to the tariqa system does not mean that Sufism is discredited as evidenced by one of the most recent writings of Fethullah Gülen, the founder of the organization, in which he clarifies the place occupied by Islam mysticism in his own interpretation of Islam.49 Yet, the Fethullahcıs are sharply opposed by traditionalist Sufism, as I was told by Qurban Ali in 1995, because of their criticism of the tariqa system and of the shaykh hierarchy. Qurban Ali criticizes also the Nurcu modernism and remarks that the movement attracts mostly young Uzbeks. In conclusion, I would like to bring out three main points. First: we may now establish the fact that the tariqa tradition in Uzbekistan has reached the present period without any gap as it is demonstrated, for example in the case of the Andijon-based Adil Khan’s group. Nevertheless, this tradition is at the present time very weak and it is also rarely the case that the group’s oral history is corroborated by genealogical documents (ijaza, shajara).50 Second: the introduction of new Sufi groups from Turkey has brought notable change in the history of Sufism in Central Asia, particularly in the mind of some Central Asians wondering about the destiny of Sufism and of its ability to adapt to the modern world; obviously, some of my Uzbek informants were sympathetic to the imported Turkish Sufi lineages or to the Fethullahcı crypto-Sufism, particularly because these groups fit in well with its westernised and modern environment in Turkey. Mention should be made also of the fact that a new branch of the Naqshbandiyya – the Khalidiyya – prominent at present in Turkey, Syrian, Caucasus and among the Kurds of Turkey and Iraq has established itself in Central Asia. Third: books on Sufism are also filling the gap between the preSoviet period and the present although in a different way. Several Sufi books were published after the collapse of USSR and are still published nowadays within the framework of the Uzbek quest for identity; this has led to the rehabilitation of some great figures of local Sufism such as Ahmad Yasavi or Baha al-Din Naqshband. Furthermore Sufi publications benefit also recently from the new policy of ‘Fighting fundamentalism with Sufism’. Nevertheless, Sufi literature is twofold; the first category to which belong books, booklets and articles containing Sufism’s primary sources translated from Persian or transliterated from Chagatay into Cyrillic.51 Literature of the second category is influenced by official and governmental interpretation of what Sufism is and how it is supposed to serve the social and philosophical ideology of the new Republic.52 On the other hand, the elaboration of a politically correct Sufi discourse by the government is paralleled by the refusal of any recognition of the traditional Uzbek tariqas and tacitly of their major book, the Maktubat of Ahmad Sirhindi, rarely mentioned in the official Sufi literature, certainly because of the Maktubat’s strict adherence to the shar‘ia and the Islamic law. Here, one can notice the limit of the official Sufi rehabilitation through books which led to an artificial Sufi revival, that is without the tariqa system, without shaykh hierarchy and charisma, and under the close scrutiny of the state. The gap now is between the traditional Sufi lineages, both local and foreign, which continue an old tradition, and the governmental Sufi artefact.

Bridging the gap 53

Notes 1 For a discussion of this term in nineteenth century by reformist and Sufi shaykhs, see Th. Zarcone, ‘Un aspect de la polémique autour du soufisme dans le monde tatar au début du XXe siècle. Mysticisme et confrérisme chez Musa Jarallah Bigi’, in S. A. Dudoignon, D. Is’haqov and R. Möhämmätshin (eds), L’Islam de Russie. Conscience communautaire et autonomie politiques chez les Tatars de la Volga et de l’Oural depuis le XVIIIe siècle (Paris: Editions Maisonneuve et Larose, 1997), 227–247. 2 For the general scope of Sufism, both elite and popular, in Central Asia in the twentieth century, see Zarcone, ‘Sufi Lineages and Saint Veneration in Russian, Soviet and PostSoviet Tataristan and Central Asia in the 20th Century’, The Turks (Ankara: Yeni Türkiye, 2002), 93–100. 3 In the following book for instance: A. Safarov, Boqimondahoi parastishi èshanho va rohhoi bartaraf kardani onho dar Tojikiston (Dushanbe: Aqademiyai Fanhoi RSS Tojikiston Shu’bai Filosofiya, 1965). 4 But it is not the case for Caucasus where elite Sufism was successfully investigated by the Soviets; see A. Bennigsen and Ch. Lemercier-Quelquejay, Mystics and Commissars: Sufism in the Soviet Union (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1985). 5 Surprisingly, an American scholar who carried out field work in Uzbekistan in 1996 wrote that the Naqshbandiyya order has disappeared from Central Asia; Vernon James Schubel, ‘Post-Soviet Hagiography and the Reconstruction of the Naqshband in Contemporary Uzbekistan’, in E. Özdalga (ed.), Naqshbandis in Western and Central Asia. Change and Continuity (Istanbul: Swedish Research Institute in Istanbul, Curzon Press, 1999), 73–87. 6 I started field work on Sufism in contemporary Central Asia in 1994 researching both elite and popular Sufism. The information given here on elite Sufism was gathered in the course of ten years during which I was, and sometimes have lived, in the company of the major shaykhs of Uzbekistan. 7 In 1993, his son Hoji Fatkhullokhon Sharif-zoda was appointed Mufti of Tajikistan. An enemy of the Islamists, he was murdered in 1996. 8 On Naqshbandiyya in contemporary Uzbekistan, see B. Babajanov, ‘Le Renouveau des communautés soufies en Ouzbékistan’, Cahiers d’Asie Centrale 5–6 (1998): 285–312; and Zarcone, ‘Sufi Lineages and Saint Veneration in Russian, Soviet and Post-Soviet Tataristan and Central Asia in the 20th Century’, 96–98. 9 Silsila of the Ibrahimjan’s Naqshbandiyya (since Muhammad Sayyid – one of Ahmad Sirhindi’s son): Muh. Sayyid (son of Imami Rabbani); Muhammad Muso Khon (Samarcande); Khvaja Siddiq (or Ishoni Karshi); Khvaja Husayn (Bukhara); Khvaja Abdussattor (Bukhara); Khvaja Muhammad Solih (or Ishoni Kokandi – from Kokand but his grave is in Bukhara); Khvaja Muhammad Emin (Uratepe, Tadjikistan); Abd alVahhid (d. 1970); Qari Abdullah (d. 1976); personal communication of Ibrahimjan (Kokandi – 1997). 10 Teaching of Sufism was prohibited by law in the Uzbek madrasas but Qurban Ali, bypassing the interdiction, taught the Maktubat of Sirhindi in its Arabic version in the classes of Arabic literature in an official madrasa in Tashkent in 1994 and was then expelled from it on the order of the Spiritual Board (personal communication from Qurban Ali, Tashkent – 1994). There is a brief biography of him in an issue of Islom Nuri, the journal of the Spiritual Board, in 1994. 11 See Anke von Kükelgen, ‘Die Entfaltung der Naqmbandiya Mugaddidiya im Mittleren Transoxianen vom 18. bis zum Beginn des 19. Jahrunderts: ein Stück Detektivarbeit’, in A. von Kükelgen, M. Kemper, A. J. Frank (eds), Muslim Culture in Russia and Central Asia from the 18th to the 20th Centuries, vol. 2: Inter-regional and Inter-ethnic Relations Klaus (Berlin: Schwarz Verlag, 1998); and Zarcone, ‘Les Confréries soufies en Sibérie aux XIXe et au début du XXe siècle’, Cahiers du Monde russe 41: 2–3 (April–September 2000): 279–296; Zarcone, ‘La Qadiriyya en Asie centrale et au Turkestan oriental’, Journal of the History of Sufism 1–2 (2000): 295–338.

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12 Kitab Manba’ al-Asrar Risalisi dur (Yarkand – China: 1356/1941), in Chagatay Turkish. On this shaykh and his branch in Xinjiang, see Zarcone, ‘The Sufi Networks in Southern Xinjiang during the Republican Regime (1911–1949). An Overview’, in S. Dudoignon, and H. Komatsu (eds), Islam and Politics in Russia and Central Asia (Early 17th–Late 20th Centuries) (London: Kegan Paul, 2001), 119–132; and Zarcone, ‘Sufi Lineages and Saint Veneration in 20th Century Eastern Turkestan and Xinjiang’, 534–541. 13 Adil Khan, private archives (Andijon). 14 On him, see Kim Ho-Dong, The Muslim Rebellion and the Kashgar Emirate in Chinese Central Asia 1864–1877 (Ann Arbor, MI: University Microfilms, 1986), 101–119. 15 Personal communication from Adil Khan (Andijon – 1996–1997). 16 Personal communication from the shaykhs Kurban Ali, Ibrahimjan and Adil Khan between 1994 and 2001, Uzbekistan. 17 This photograph (Uzbekistan Movie and Photograph Archives, Tashkent) is published in Zarcone, Boukhara l’interdite. 1830–1888: l’Occident moderne à la conquête d’une légende (Paris: Autrement, 1997), 45. There is a lot of misunderstanding and erroneous statements about Central Asian Sufi lineages in the book and articles by the French political scientist Olivier Roy who confuses elite Sufism and Ishanism and asserts that only popular Sufism exists in Central Asia. Roy writes, for instance, that the Sufi brotherhoods are not linked to a ‘centre’ but only to local bases attached to a shrine (ziyarat); that is the case actually for some ishans but not for lineages such as Ibrahimjan’s group. Roy argues also falsely that new members don’t become Sufi by choice but through family connection and, more, that, at the present time, there is no initiation ceremony but only a dhikr meeting. Roy writes finally that the revival of Sufism has appeared through a ‘popular and maraboutic’ form rather than a institutionalized and spiritual one. All these affirmations reveal Roy’s ignorance of the field, and he reproduces only the thesis of anti-religious Soviet propaganda inspired by Bennigsen’s book on Sufism in the USSR; Roy, Groupes de solidarité au Moyen-orient et en Asie centrale (Paris: CERI, 1996); ‘[Le soufisme en] Asie centrale’, in A. Popovic and G. Veinstein (eds), Les Voies d’Allah (Paris: Fayard, 1997), 296–299; La Nouvelle Asie centrale (Paris: Seuil, 1997), 221, 224–228. 18 I was brought to this very simple grave, situated in a little cemetery close to the Biktimir bazar in Tashkent, by a disciple of Shaykh Ibrahimjan in 1997. 19 Personal communication from the Shaykh Ibrahimjan. 20 This lineage is identical with that of Ibrahimjan. 21 On Soviet policy towards the shrines/mazar, see Bennigsen and Lemercier-Quelquejay, Mystics and Commissars. 22 Bruce Privratsky, Muslim Turkistan. Kazak Religion and Collective Memory (Richmon, Surrey: Curzon, 2001), 57. 23 On the policy of Turkey towards Islam in Central Asia, see Zarcone, ‘L’Islam d’Asie centrale et le monde musulman: restructuration et interférences’, Le Cercle de Samarcande. Hérodote, 84 (1997): 57–76. 24 On the Sufi orders in Turkey, see Zarcone ‘Sufismo e confraternite in Turchia nel secolo XX’, in M. Stepanyants (ed.), Sufismo e confraternite nell’Islam contemporaneo (Torino: Centro E. Angelli, 2003, 123–159). 25 See the Turkish newspaper Cumhuriyet (18/12/91). Mukhtorjon Abdullah (b. 1928 – Kokand) studied in Mir Arab Madrasa (Bukhara), in the Baraqkhon Madrasa (Tashkent – 1957–1958) and then in Damascus – Syria (1961–1963). Between 1963–1984, he was chief professor (bash mudarris) at Mir Arab Madrasa in Bukhara and head of this madrasa from 1988 to 1991. In 1993, he was appointed imam-khotib of Baha al-Din Naqshband Mosque and elected, in April 1993, Mufti of Uzbekistan. He is the mufti who was in charge of the organization of the commemoration of the 675th anniversary of the death of Baha al-Din Naqshband [for more details on his life, see his biography in Islom Nuri 28 (1993): 94].

Bridging the gap 55 26 Özbekiston Adabiyoti va Sanoti, 29 May 1992: ‘Turkija Prezidenti: men ham Hazrati Naqshibendining yolidaman, ota-bobolarim ham mana shu yolda, shu sulukda ötgan, dedilar’. 27 Personal communication from a Bukharan disciple of Esat Covan and from some other shaykhs of Ferghana (Bukhara – 1994–1995). The coming of Esat Covan to Bukhara when he visited several Naqshbandi shrines and gave lectures in madrasas is mentioned in Sadriddin Salim Bukhoriy, Dilda yar (Tashkent: Gafur Gulom, 1993), 71. 28 Issue of 12 June 1992. 29 See Zarcone, ‘Le Mausolée de Baha’ al-Din Naqshband à Bukhara (Uzbekistan)’, Journal of Turkish Studies 19 (1995): 231–244; and ‘Ahmad Yasawi, ‘Héros des nouvelles républiques centrasiatiques’, Revue d’Etudes du Monde Musulman et de la Méditerranée 89–90 (2000): 297–323. 30 See Zarcone, ‘Le Soufisme politique d’Istanbul à Kachgar’, Les Cahiers de l’Orient 50 (1998): 53–71. 31 Parviz Mullojonov, ‘The Role of the Islamic ‘Clergy’ in Tajikistan since the Collapse of the Soviet Union’, Islam and Politics in Russia and Central Asia (London: Kegan Paul, 2001) 225–226. 32 For instance, Tasavvuf yaki Komil Inson Akhloqi (Toshkent: Özbekiston Respublikasi Prezidenti huzuridagi Davlat ve Jamiyat Qurilishi Akademiyasi, Yazuvchi, 1996). 33 Muhammad Nurulloh Saydo al-Jazariy, Tasavvuf Sirlari (Toshkent: Özbekiston Respublikasi Khalqaro Islom Tadqiqot Markazi, Movarounnahr, 2000); the original in Turkish (translated from the Arabic) is Tasavvufun Sırları (4th edition, Istanbul: Zaman Y., 1991). At the end of the book (Uzbek version, 91–98; Turkish version, 156–166), there is a chapter which firmly criticize the Nurcu movement (see Th. Zarcone, ‘The Transformation of the Sufi Orders (Tarikat) in the Turkish Republic and the Question of Crypto-Sufism’, in Jayne L. Warner (ed.), Cultural Horizons. A Festschrift in Honor of Talat S. Halman (Syracuse and Istanbul: Syracuse University and Yapı Kredi Yayınları, 2001), 207. 34 One of these books in Turkish is Tasavvufa Giriv ve ⁄slam’da Nefis Terbiyesi (Konya: Furkan Nevriyat, 1991). 35 On this tariqa and Revid Erol, see Hamid Algar, ‘Der Naksibendi-Orden in der Republikanischen Türkei’, in J. Blaschke and M. V. Bruinessen, (eds), Jahrbuch zur Geschichte und Gesellschaft des Vorderen und Mittleren Orients 1984, thema: Islam uns Politik in der Türkei (Berlin: Express Edition, 1985); Ruven Çakır, Ayet ve Slogan. Türkiye’deki ⁄slami Oluvumlar (Istanbul: Metis Y., 1990), 65–72; M. Vefik Korkusuz, Sadat-ı Nakvibend (Menzil Köyü and Kahta, Adıyaman: Menzil Y., 1995), 165–174; A. Selahaddin Kinacı, Veyh Seyyid Muhammed Ravid Erol (K.S.A.)’nin Hayatı (Menzil Köyü and Kahta, Adıyaman: Menzil Y., 1996); S. Abdurrakib Erol, Yüce Nakvibendi Tarikatı (Menzil Köyü and Kahta, Adıyaman: Menzil Y., n.d.); Zarcone, ‘Notes sur quelques shaykh soufis kurdes contemporains et leurs disciples à Istanbul,’ Les Annales de l’autre Islam 5 (1998): 109–123. 36 The Uzbek student who had introduced the order in Ferghana in 1992 met Revid Erol in Bursa. 37 On this shaykh, see Hamid Algar, ‘Shaykh Zaynullah Rasulev, the Last Great Naqshbandi Shaykh of the Volga-Urals Region’, in Jo-Ann Gross (ed.), Muslims in Central Asia. Expressions of Identity and Change (Duke University/Durham and London: 1992), 112–133. 38 Personal communication from the introducer of the Menzilköyü tariqa in Ferghana (Andijon – 1997). 39 For example, I obtained the following books from one of the representatives of the tariqa in Ferghana: Yüce Nakvibendi Tarikatı (Menzil Köyü and Kahta, Adıyaman: Menzil Y., n.d.) and Veyh Fethullah, Tasavvuf, Edep ve Ahlak Rehberi (translated from the Arabic by Ahmet Vahin, Turkey: no publisher).

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40 Published with a presentation of the Naqshbandiyya; Islom Nuri 22 (1993): 88. 41 Translation by Ulughbek Abdulvahob, in Zurfarjon Jurayev (ed.), Ghoyiblar. Khaylidan Ëngan Chiroqlar (Toshkent: Uzbekiston, 1994), 317–334; original Turkish text: Salih Uçan, Nakvibendi Veyhlerinin Mukaddes Sözleri (Istanbul: 1983, rééd. Istanbul, Huzur Y., n.d.). 42 Personal communication from the man who introduces the Menzilköyü tariqa in Ferghana (Andijon – 1997). 43 These eight rules are presented and commented on Veyh Fethullah, Tasavvuf, edep ve ahlak rehberi, 6–13. 44 A brief biography of Fethullah Gülen, the founder of this branch, was published earlier in Islom Nuri 30 (1993): 96. Informations about the Fethullahcı movement in Uzbekistan were obtained by the author from the representative of the newspaper Zaman-Uzbekiston in Tashkent in 1994, a few months before the newspaper was prohibited in the country. See also Hakan Yavuz, ‘Orta Asya’daki Kimlik Oluvumu: Yeni Kolonisatör Dervivler Nurcular’, Türkiye Günlüæü 33 (March–April 1995): 160–164; Zarcone, ‘L’Islam d’Asie centrale et le monde musulman: restructuration et interférences’, 57–76; Zarcone, ‘Le Soufisme politique d’Istanbul à Kachgar’; Yavuz, ‘Towards an Islamic Liberalism ? The Nurcu Movement and Fethullah Gülen’, Middle East Journal 53, 4 (Automne 1999): 596–599. 45 See Zarcone; ‘The Transformation of the Sufi Orders (Tarikat) in the Turkish Republic and the Question of Crypto-Sufism’, 198–209; Algar, ‘Sufism and Tarikat in the Life and Work of Bediüzzaman Said Nursi’, Journal of the History of Sufim 3 (2002): 199–221. Mention should be made of a book written by a member of the Menzilköy tariqa which focuses on the Sufi aspects in the Risale-i Nur of Bediüzzaman Nursi; Vefik Korkusuz, Risale-i Nur’da Tasavvuf (Kahta, Adıyaman: Menzil Yayinevi, 1995). 46 Özbekiston Adabiyoti va Sanoti, 3222 (2 April 1993): 5. 47 For example in Uzbekistan: Bädiuzzaman Said Nürsi, Risala-i Nur Kulliyatiden. Kichik Sözler (Tachkent: Movarraunakhr Nashrijati, 1996, both in Cyrillic and Arabic letters). 48 Personal communication of Meliboyev, chief redactor of Özbekiston Adabiyoti va Sanoti (Tashkent – 1994). 49 Fethullah Gülen, Key Concepts in the Practice of Sufism (Virginia: Fountain, 2000). 50 The genealogical charts found in Kazakhstan Sufi families, usually Yasavi, are out of the scope of this study because these families don’t work as tariqa groups but according to the ishan system. 51 For example, Ubaydullo Ahror, Risolai Volidija (Toshkent: Yazuvchi Nashriyati, 1991); Sufi Olloyar, Sabotul Ojizin (Toshkent: Cholpan, 1991); Khoja Abdulkholiq Ghijduvonij, Vasijatnoma (Toshkent: Ghafur Ghulom, 1993); Khojaghi Ahmadi Kosoni, Risolai Zubdat us-solikin ve tanbijat us-salotin (Samarqand: Sughdiyan, 1994). 52 Sadriddin Salim Bukhorij, Dilda Yar (Toshkent: Ghafur Ghulom, 1993); Hoja Ahmad Jassavij Ulugh Bobomiz (Toshkent: Alisher Navoij, 1993). See Zarcone, ‘Ahmad Yasawi. Héros des nouvelles républiques centrasiatiques’.

4

The Burhami order and Islamic resurgence in modern Egypt Masatoshi Kisaichi

Introduction One can scarcely argue over the fact that Sufi orders played a major role, politically, socially, and culturally, in most Muslim societies until the nineteenth century and that from the late nineteenth to the early twentieth century their roles were greatly reduced. This was owing to the strong influence of Western colonization and modernization, particularly in the nations of the Middle East and North Africa. Does it mean then that these Sufi orders continued to remain in a state of decline even after the late-twentieth century? In most Arab countries the so-called Islamic resurgence movements rose to prominence from the 1970s, and among them the Muslim Brotherhood is the most well known. What was the state of the Sufi orders during these seasons of political turmoil? For a historian with an interest in saint cults and Sufi orders in the Arab regions, the roles played by the Sufi orders in modern Muslim societies, particularly as a driving force in bringing about a social and political transformation, are of enormous interest. Most scholars of the Middle East have evinced a fascination for Islamic movements, and some have studied the present state of Sufi orders. Yet most of these studies are religious and anthropological, analyzing the ritualistic or philosophical dimensions of Sufism.1 Bearing in mind the problems encountered in earlier studies on Sufism, this chapter intends to deal with the relationship that existed between the Sufi cults and the society of Egypt during the 1970s, at the time of experiencing a rise in Islamic political movements. In other words, the study intends to discuss the possible role played by Sufi orders in the Islamic resurgence.2 The relationship of the Sufi orders to society is defined by their relationship to the state. During the outbreak of the Nasser revolution in 1952, the state began to use these Sufi orders in order to legitimize its authority. Such a cooperative form of relationship remains unchanged even today. When political Islam which was represented by organizations such as the Muslim Brotherhood was in opposition to the state, the Sufi orders assumed a subordinate position in order to spread Islamic values within the society. In the name of the president of all the Sufi orders in Egypt they declared support for the Nasser regime by saying, “the blessed revolution has finally arrived,” to which Nasser himself responded with the words, “the best example in time of war is faith and perseverance. Sufism under socialism is the most pious form of socialism” [‘Ummar 1997: 99]. This type of cooperative

58 Masatoshi Kisaichi relationship between the two remained unchanged, and during the Suez war (the second Middle East war) the Sufi orders called upon the public to participate in a jihad, while in the confrontation that followed between the Nasser administration and al-Ikhwan al-Muslimin (Muslim Brotherhood), they stood by the state and declared support for “the war against terrorism for security and peace.” After the defeat of the Arab nations in the third Middle East war of June 1967 the Sufi orders reasserted their backing for Nasser, and organized a grand parade in December of the same year in order to express their support for the state. The state continued to use these Sufi orders under the Sadat regime, and senior government officers often participated in the mawrids (birthday celebrations of saints) of these Sufi orders. In May 1979, the High Council of the Sufi Orders began publishing a magazine entitled Sufism and Islam (al-Tasawwuf al-Islami), in which President Sadat supplied the words of blessing. On the assassination of President Sadat on October 6, 1981, by a “Jihad Group,” the magazine brought out an article entitled, Who is responsible for this deviant act? It criticized the fact that Islam had turned violent and reasserted the need for taking cooperative action with reference to the state authorities. Why have we not led our youth to faith? Why have we not been cautious of the dangers of destructive ideology, which can lead them into performing deviant acts in the name of religion? Why were we not aware of the groups of “illegitimate children” manipulating our youth, who know neither religion nor tradition? The only way to bring about peace and safety in our nation is to invest all our strength into achieving faith, and no one is more capable of realizing this than the ‘faithful house’ (denotes the Sadat family). [Fu’ad 1981: 4] Relations between the state and the Sufi orders remained basically unchanged during the subsequent regime of President Mubarak. As long as the state approached the Sufi orders, the orders cooperated with the administration. As explained earlier, the state has been on accommodating terms with the Sufi orders ever since the days of Nasser, and the Sufi orders too have been able to carry out their activities in an air of relative freedom, when compared to the reign of kings.

Overview of the Sufi orders in modern Egypt In Egypt, the state began to acquire control of the Sufi orders earlier than in the case of other Arab countries, that is, since the days of Muhammad ‘Ali in 1812–1813. The government at the time of the Muhammad ‘Ali dynasty introduced the post of president of all Sufi orders (Shaykh Mashaykh al-Turuq al-Sufiya). Members of the Bakri family were appointed to the post, which they monopolized until 1946. In 1816, the shaykh of the Bakri family was also endowed with the title of Naqib al-Ashraf (chief of the family descended from the Prophet Muhammad), to which title the members of the family mostly succeeded [‘Ummar 1997: 71]. When the Arabi revolt erupted in 1882, many Sufi orders were freed from the control of the Bakri family. In order to establish a more rigid system of control the statutes of Sufi orders (La’iha al-Turuq al-Sufiya) were laid down, and the High

Islamic resurgence in modern Egypt 59 Council of Sufi Orders (al-Majlis al-Sufi al-A‘la) was established in 1895. The High Council comprised five persons including the president of all Sufi orders, and four shaykhs (heads of the order). The statute was revised in 1903, and the Bakri family was officially appointed to the post of president of all Sufi orders. The structure of the organization formed at that time has been succeeded to until today without any major transformation, even during the time of the Nasser administration. The organizational structure of the Sufi orders in Egypt today more or less follows the charter (qanun) No. 118, enacted in 1976. According to the article, the Table 4.1 Names of Sufi orders currently recognized in Egypt Shadhiliya 1 al-Hamidiya al-Shadhiliya 2 al-Muhammadiya al-Shadhiliya 3 al-Hashimiya al-Madaniya al-Shadhiliya 4 al-Salamiya al-Shadhiliya 5 al-Jawhariya al-Shadhiliya 6 al-‘Arusiya al-Shadhiliya 7 al-Fasiya al-Shadhiliya 8 al-Hagafiya al-Shadhiliya 9 al-Qawuqjiya al-Shadhiliya 10 al-Jazuliya al-Husayniya al-Shadhiliya 11 al-‘Afifiya al-Shadhiliya 12 al-Faydiya al-Shadhiliya 13 al-Hindushiya al-Shadhiliya 14 al-Wafa’i ya al-Shadhiliya 15 al-Khawatiriya al-Shadhiliya 16 al-Qasimiya al- Shadhiliya 17 al-Sammaniya al-Shadhiliya 18 al-‘Azmiya al-Shadhiliya 19 al-Khatibiya al-Shadhiliya Khalwatiya 1 al-Sammaniya al-Khalwatiya 2 al-Junaydiya al-Khalwatiya 3 al-Murawaniya al-Khalwatiya 4 al-Dayfiya al-Khalwatiya 5 al-Ghanimiya al-Khalwatiya 6 al-Qasabiya al-Khalwatiya 7 al-Khalwatiya al-Muhammadiya 8 al-Sawiya al-Khalwatiya 9 al-Maghziya al-Khalwatiya 10 al-‘Ulwaniya al-Khalwatiya 11 al-‘Imraniya al-Khalwatiya Ahmadiya 1 al-Idrlsiya al-Ahmadiya 2 al-Inbabiya al-Ahmadiya 3 al-Ja’fariya al-‘Ahmadiya al-Muhmmadiya 4 al-Tasqiyani ya al-Ahmadiya 5 al-Ahmadiya 6 al-Shinniwiya al-Ahmadiya 7 al-Munayfa al-Ahmadiya

8 al-Sutuhiya al-Ahmadiya 9 al-Kannasiya al-Ahmadiya 10 al-Sa’idiya al-shirnubiya al-‘Ahmadiya 11 al-Jawhariya al-Ahmadiya 12 al-Zahidiya al-Ahmadiya 13 al-Farghaliya al-Ahmadiya 14 al-Maraziqa al-Ahmadiya 15 al-Sha’biya al-‘Ahmadiya 16 al-Halabiya al-Ahmadiya 17 al-Khitamiya al-Ahmadiya 18 al-Salamiya al-Ahmadiya 19 al-Bayyumiya al-Ahmadiya 20 Al Jarir al-Ahmadiya Burhamiya 1 al-Mujahidiya al-Burhamiya 2 al-Burhamiya al-Qina’iya 3 al-Burhamiya 4 al-Burhamiya al-Shahawiya 5 al-Sa‘idiya al-Shirnubiya al-Burhamiya Others 1 al-Rifa‘iya 2 al-Hadiya 3 al-Naqshbandiya 4 al-Tijaniya 5 al-Sa‘diya 6 al-Khaliliya 7 al-Khadiriya 8 al-‘Annaniya 9 al-Azaziya 10 al-Habibiya 11 al-Mirghaniya al-Khatmiya 12 al-Rahmiya al-Qina’iya 13 al-Qadriya al-Faridiya 14 al-Qadriya al-Qasimiya 15 al-Harawiya al-Hanafiya 16 al-‘Afifiya al-Hashimiya 17 al-Shaybaniya al-Taghlibiya 18 al-Battawiya

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High Council of the Sufi Orders is composed of sixteen members, namely ten Mashaykh al-Turuq al-Sufiya elected from the seventy-three officially recognized Sufi orders, the deputy of the shaykh of Azhar, the deputy minister of the Waqfs, the deputy minister of Interior, the deputy minister of Culture, and the deputy minister of Local Development. The number of Sufi orders has fluctuated over the years. Seventy-three orders are officially recognized in Egypt at present (Table 4.1), while the total number of the orders in 1958 and 1964 were 60 and 64, respectively. The election of the ten shaykhs from all Sufi orders in Egypt was held at Majlis al-sha‘b (the people’s parliament) in Cairo. Eighteen shaykhs ran for the election of 1999, and the top ten candidates were chosen.

The historical development of the Burhami order Ibrahim al-Dusuqi, the founder of the Burhamiya order was born from around the late Ayyubid to the early Markus dynasty in Markus, a village situated in the Nile deltaic region, and spent most of his life in a Dusuq village (presently a city) near his native village. There are historical sources with regard to his date of birth3, and among them three are thought to be plausible, although none seems to be exact. On his tomb it is mentioned that he was born in the year H653 (1255–1256) and died in H696 (1296–1297), a fact based on the writings of asan Shammuh. The silsila (succession map of the shaykhs), handed over by the order to the devotees, states that Ibrahim lived for forty-three years and died in H676 (1277–1278), from which we know that he was born in H633 (1235–1236). This coincides with the thesis put forward by al-Sharani (1493–1565). Meanwhile the historical record of Maqrizi, which happens to be the oldest source, notes that al-Dusuqi was born in H644 (1246–1247) and died in H686 (1287–1288). Dusuqi died in the village of Dusuq, where he was cremated and his tomb (written qabr or maqam in the document) was built. His tomb seems to have become a popular pilgrimage site soon after his death. Maqrizi, a historian of the Mamluk dynasty wrote that nudhur (offerings with a prayers) were conducted there and that it had been a popular mazar (place of worship) where one could receive baraka (a blessing) [Maqrizi 1939: 739]. In a different record of Ibn Iyas (d.1524), one finds a sentence stating that the Sultan Qait Bey visited the tomb of Dusuqi in the month of Jumada al-‘Ála in H844 (July–August, 1479) [Ibn Iyas 1984: 156]. The title of shaykh was succeeded to by Musa, the brother of Ibrahim, (born in H658/1259–1260 and died in either H725, H729, H739/1324–1325 or 1338–1339), followed by his son Shams al-Din, and the order continued to develop under his descendants. Although Musa died in Alexandria, his body was sent to Dusuqi, and it was cremated beside the tomb of Ibrahim. These historical sources reveal that the tomb of Dusuqi became a site of pilgrimage soon after his death. In his book of biographies, Sha‘rani devotes more lines to Ibrahim than to other Sufi saints. Meanwhile, the book also reveals how the popularity of this saint prevailed, and developed into a Sufi order [Sha‘rani 1988 (1): 165–183, Trimingham 1971: 46].

Islamic resurgence in modern Egypt 61 A historian named Jabarti (1753–1825), noted Rifa‘i, Qadiri, Ahmadi, and Burhami as being four major Sufi orders in Egypt.4 This remark indicates that the Burhami order had already become one of the most popular Sufi orders in Egypt by the eighteenth to nineteenth century. This assumption may be further supported by sentences found in an account of E.M. Lane (1801–1876), written around 1833 to 1835, “One week after each of these, is celebrated the moolid of the seyyid Ibráheem Ed-Dasooüee, at the town of Dasooü, . . . .The seyyid Ibraheem was a very famous saint; next in the rank to the seyyid Ed-Dasooüee” [Lane: 247]. (“The mawlid festival of Ibrahim Dusuqi is as famous as that of Ahmad al-Badawi in Tanta, and it is celebrated three times a year according to the Coptic calendar. The former is one week after the latter” [Lane 1989: 242–243].) ‘Ali Mubarak (d.1893) also wrote the following in his journal, “during the late nineteenth century Hedib Isma’il the ruler of Egypt took up the renovation of the tomb of Dusuqi, and Ibrahim Pasha donated a new kiswa (a silk cloth covering a tomb) in the year H1293/1876” [‘Ali Mubarak H1304: 7]. Dusuq is now an agricultural town situated 160 km northeast of Cairo in the deltaic region of the Kafr al-shaykh prefecture, and the mosque of Ibrahim Dusuqi lies at the heart of the town. Except for Friday afternoons when devotees congregate for prayer the hall of the mosque is usually vacant, and we find people lying around and reading the Koran. Yet the atmosphere abruptly changes when one enters the back room of the mosque, where the tomb of Dusuqi is kept. The author visited the mosque five times between August 1998 and May 1999, and saw a large number of devotees touching the tomb and offering prayers (du‘a). Here, male and female devotees are not segregated as in the Husain Mosque of Cairo, although there are separate entrances for men and women. There are slightly more male devotees than female, and many young people are also seen. The atmosphere is vibrant and clearly different from that of other mosques. Next to the room is the tomb of Musa, the brother of Ibrahim. A handprint of the Prophet Muhammad (Basma Kiffa Rasul Allah) is found hanging on the wall at the entrance of the room, and the devotees try to reach out their hands in order to receive baraka or blessings.

The contemporary Burhami order5 A biographical explanation of the concept of shaykh Those who succeeded to the title of shaykh from the end of the nineteenth century have been as follows. ‘Ali Muhammad ‘Ashur (b.ca 1890–), Muhammad Muhammad Ashur (in office from 1948 to 1966/3/20), ‘Ali Muhammad ‘Ashur (in office from 1966/3/20 to 1975/11/11), Muhammad ‘Ali Muhammad ‘Ashur (in office from 1975/11/11 to present). The current shaykh, Muhammad ‘Ali Muhammad ‘Ashur, was born in Cairo on October 24, 1957 and was educated in a municipal primary school, lower secondary school, and secondary school. What is unique about the present shaykh is that he went to ‘Ayn Shams University to finish his degree in commerce, while his grandfather, father, and brothers had all gone to Azhar University. Renowned as one of the best academic institutions for

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Islamic studies, Azhar University has attracted students from all corners of the globe to study Islamic theology, Law, the Koran, or Arabic. His younger brother Ashraf studied Arabic at Azhar University and was appointed to the post of wakil (vice shaykh) in the order, while serving as a teacher in a secondary school. His elder sister Zaynab was also a graduate of Azhar University, where she had studied veterinary science. Of the family members Muhammad alone chose to study commerce at ‘Ayn Shams University. As will be mentioned later in the chapter, he also works as a sales manager in a trading firm and uses a computer for the registration of members of his order. To study commerce at ‘Ayn Shams University was his own decision. Even with these limited bits of information, one perceives an innovative attitude in this young shaykh with regard to the work of his order and a flexibility in meeting the demands of contemporary society. The increase of members On February 14, 1992, I received an opportunity to personally meet for the first time Mr Shinnawi, the president of all the Sufi orders. I met him in his office located opposite the Azhar Mosque in Cairo, a little beyond the Husain Mosque. According to Mr Shinnawi, the total number of members of all Sufi orders in Egypt was estimated to be over 11 million. Estimating the population of Egypt to be 65 million, one would suppose that around 15–16 percent of the population belonged to Sufi orders. Shaykh Muhammad of the Burhami order declared that his order had a million members. I personally however find both these figures to be overly exaggerated, judging from the data I collected during my fieldwork. Every Sufi order was required to submit an annual report (istibyan) to the “All Sufi Council,” which included the current number of members and the activities of each order. According to the report submitted by the Burhami order in May 1999, the total number of members was 173,700 including 85,000 murids (novices) (Table 4.2). This figure is probably not far removed from the actual number. I calculated from the four daftar books of the order that the total number of official members registered between 1976 and May 1999 amounted to 18,230 (Table 4.3). The shaykh remarked that a considerable number of members were probably missing from this figure, since those who had not completed their training

Table 4.2 Annual report or istibyan (questionnaire) submitted to High Commission of Sufi orders on May 23, 1999 Al-Muridun Khulafa’ Khalifa al-Khulafa’ Nuwwab Total Note Number: in person.

85,000 75,000 6,500 7,200 173,700

Table 4.3 Number of new entrants in the Burhami order Year of registration

Khulafa’

Khalifa al-khulafa’

Nuwwab

1960 1 1967 2 1970 1 1971 3 1972 16 1973 6 1974 22 1975 88 1976 665 1977 747 1978 881 1979 667 1980 541 1981 649 11 13 (old daftar 225 ⫹ new dafter 424) 1982 901 20 38 (old daftar 35 ⫹ new daftar 866) 1983 892 41 46 (old daftar 2 ⫹ new daftar 890) 1984 1,178 40 55 1985 1,262 28 28 1986 1,300 36 52 1987 1,169 53 90 1988 860 49 81 1989 800 64 105 1990 635 57 75 1991 485 21 49 1992 440 31 51 1993 420 77 70 1994 440 1995 360 1996 440 1997 520 1998 500 1999 58 (those registered before May 14) Total 16,949 528 753 Notes ● Above figures are based on the entries in daftar books from January 1, 1976 to May 14, 1999. ● The starting date of the first volume of the daftar is January 1, 1976. ● Since the old volumes were only sorted out after the accession of the present shaykh, substantial number of members who have become khulafa’ and received karne are probably not registered in the daftar book. Daftar books from 1976 to 1981 are irregular and some volumes are missing. ● New daftar system was introduced from March 18, 1981, which is designed to register data of all members into a single volume. ● Since only official members of the order (those above the rank of khulafa’) are registered in the daftar book, number of murid is not included in the above figure. old daftar: 1/1/1976–17/3/1981 new daftar: (vol. 1) 18/3/1981–30/12/1987; (vol. 2) 1/1/1988–31/12/1993; (vol. 3) 1/1/1994–present

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were considered as murids and were consequently not registered in the daftar books. One may thereby estimate the total number of the Burhami order members including murids to be somewhere between 50,000 and 100,000. Considering that all women and boys below sixteen years were not registered either as murids or official members, this figure can exert a substantial influence within Egyptian society.6 The daftar system (registration book of the members) was first introduced into Egypt via the Internal Rules of Sufi orders (la’iha al-dakhiliya lil-Turuq al-Sufiya), established in 1905. The introduction of this system has enabled Sufi orders to bring their members under control, although the system did not function well in the beginning. It was the present Shaykh Muhammad who systematized the use of daftar books to keep the members of his order under his control. On occupying the post of shaykh, he began to reorganize the daftar system. In 1981 he attempted to register all members in a single book, which was divided in accordance with each prefecture. Going over the four daftar books which have been in use since the present Shaykh Muhammad assumed office (three of these books are currently in use), I calculated the number of new entrants each year (Table 4.3). One notices that between 600 and a 1,000 new members have been registered annually. According to Shaykh Muhammad, however, no more than four to five hundred members were registered in the daftar books during the combined period of his grandfather and his father. If this were true, it proves that the order had undergone a process of modernization since the accession of the current shaykh in 1975. With regard to the issue of the modernization of the organization, I shall now discuss about the Karne (karniya) system. Karne (membership card of the tariqa) is considered a matter of vital importance for the Sufi orders. First, it helps to strengthen the sense of belonging of the members to the order, and second, it serves as an important financial source. Karne is given to official members of the order who are above the rank of khalifa. Different membership cards are given to the murids (novices), which are referred to as bitaqa. More than formal systems, many scholars stress the importance of informal associations independent of the state, in order to understand the Muslim societies of the Middle East [Eickelman 1996: ix–xix]. In the case of Egypt too it is possible that the possession of membership cards of major Sufi orders which are supplied by shaykhs having both religious and social authority may strengthen the mutual relationship among the members and guarantee to a certain extent their sense of social security.7 The second point regarding the importance of the karne, namely the question of it being a financial source for the order is related to the fact that the High Council of the Sufi orders does not permit the collection of ishtirakat or membership fees. In response to my question about the collection of membership fees, the shaykh firmly denied having received fees in any form at all from the members, since it was strictly prohibited by the council. If, however, that statement were to be true, then how does the order meet its financial requirements? The karne card is supposed to be renewed every year, and from my observation most members gave some amount of cash to the shaykh when receiving a new karne. The shaykh said that it was al-Majhud al-Dhati,

Islamic resurgence in modern Egypt 65 meaning literally an offering that one made through one’s own free will, and not through any obligation. When a devotee hands over money to the shaykh he kisses his palm, while the shaykh swiftly puts the money in the drawer of his desk. This is done in a prudent manner so as not to be observed by others. The money offered by the devotee is usually between five to twenty Egyptian pounds (about two to eight hundred yen). Karne is valid only for a year, and so it has to be renewed yearly. While not all renewed their membership annually, it may not be wrong to assume that the money handed over by the devotee to the shaykh at the time of receiving the karne card served as a virtual ishtirakat. Murids are not required to renew their bitaqa membership, and so they retained the same card while remaining murids. The karne system was introduced into the order during the 1950s by the greatgrandfather of the present shaykh. The color of the card is different for each shaykh. The color for the current shaykh is blue, while for the former it was red. The number of members registered in the four daftar books increased drastically since the present shaykh succeeded to the post. Shaykh Muhammad himself described the rapid increase of members in his order by drawing an upward line in the graph, wherein the number of members which was 30,000 in 1960s increased to 100,000 in the 1970s, to 250,000 in the 1980s, 500,000 in the 1990s, and to a million in 1999. As I suggested earlier the current number of members in the Burhami order is 100,000 at the maximum, and the number one million seems to be an overstatement. It is nevertheless true though that there has been a rapid increase of members in the order since the accession of the present shaykh in 1975. Behind the efforts of the Burhami order to systemize its organizational structure by the introduction of the daftar system and the issue of karne lay the strife within the order which had been gaining power in Sudan during that time. The Burhami order was founded by Abu-al-Awahib, a grandchild of Shadhili (d.1258). It was then introduced into Egypt by a Sudanese, Muhammad Uthman, and Jamal al-Sanhuri became its representative in Egypt in 1953. Under his leadership the order experienced a remarkable growth in the 1970s. When Uthman demanded the official recognition of his order by the High Council of Sufi orders, his request was turned down owing to his Sudanese citizenship. Instead, it was decided that Uthman and his order should come under the control of the shaykh of an Egyptian order in order to work in Egypt, and in this case, the Burhami order. Thus Muhammad Uthman became a representative (na’ib) of the Burhami order in Sudan from 1947, but he was nevertheless working virtually independently of the order’s headquarters in Cairo. When visiting Egypt in 1974 by train he was greeted by enthusiastic crowds, that assembled at every station he passed. Contrary to public sentiments, however, the media in Egypt started a harsh criticism campaign against Uthman from 1976, owing to his unorthodox reading of the Koran and his collection of membership fees, an act strictly prohibited. The confrontation, however, came to an end when Uthman died in 1983, upon which it was agreed in 1986 that the Burhani order would exist as a subgroup (bayt) of the Burhami order. The real cause of the confrontation though was the power struggle between the Burhami and Burhani order.8

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Financial sources of the order Information regarding the financial source of the Sufi orders remains obscure, owing to the sensitive nature of the issue. When the author inquired of the shaykh several times concerning this matter, no concrete data were provided. The headquarters of the Burhami order was located in Darrasa, a downtown district in Cairo, and its office room too appeared austere. The shaykh resides at the house of Hajja Fatima, his wife’s mother, whenever he pays a visit to Dusuq. Can we judge from these facts that the order was financially poor? I cannot for the time being provide a definite answer to this question, though it would be unrealistic to believe an order of this size to be managed with a small amount of revenue. The shaykh owns a house in Cairo, he drives his private car to the office, and spends his summer holidays in Alexandria, like most of the wealthier class of Egypt. He has made an annual haj to Mecca since 1979 when he was 22 years old, and this too must have cost him no small sum of money. Meanwhile, however, one should also bear in mind the general Sufi dislike for outward flamboyance. Although we cannot truthfully judge the financial state of an organization on the basis of limited information concerning its members, even so the lifestyle of the present shaykh seems indicative of it to a certain extent. One may presume the Burhami order to have three major sources of finance. One is the majhud dhati, an offering made by the devotees on their own freewill. This is a voluntary donation given to religious institutions and which are offered without a special invocation (du‘a) to God. Money given by the devotees to the shaykh at the time of receiving the karne card may be included in this category. The second is the nudhur, an offering made on the occasion of marriage, childbirth, on being cured of an illness, on starting a job, or on one’s departure on a long trip.9 The third is the official government subsidy given to the order on occasions such as mawlids. Money offered by devotees at the time of receiving the karne has now become a virtual ishtirakat and serves as the biggest financial source of the order. In the premodern period, waqf (religious endowment) was an important financial source for the Sufi orders; however, with its prohibition by the government in the 1960s, the orders in Egypt do not possess any form of waqf. The link between the Sufi orders and business enterprises is also a matter of considerable interest. In Heliopolis district, located not far from Cairo airport, there is a trading firm which is reported to bear some affiliation to the Burhami order. Its office is situated on the first floor of a building that appears to be relatively new. According to information provided by the shaykh to the author in 1999, the company not only deals with domestic markets but has wide trade links abroad, with Middle East countries such as Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, UAE, and Jordan, and also Mali, Nigeria, and Ethiopia in Africa. The firm deals with a variety of products including clothes, vegetables, fruits, and electric appliances (sold mainly to African countries). Moreover the finance manager informed the author in the interview conducted in August 2001 that the company was founded in 1996 and had a capital of 10 million Egyptian pounds (equivalent to 300 million yen in accordance with the currency rate of August 2001). It is possible that I mistook the figures 100,000 or 1,000,000 for 10 million, or perhaps the manager gave me an incorrect figure, because a capital of 10 million pounds is excessively

Islamic resurgence in modern Egypt 67 substantial. He also explained that the firm presently dealt with only a limited number of products such as meat, fish and vegetables and that it no longer conducted business in foreign markets. The manager further stated that the company owned 400 feddan of land (probably agricultural land) in the east of Alexandria. This discrepancy in the information given to me by the shaykh and the manager may be indicative of a possible change in administration within the company. What is even more intriguing is the fact that the manager firmly denied the possibility of there existing any link between the order and the firm.10 All the same, however, it is difficult for me to believe that the two are not connected, because not only are the president and most of the 400 workers members of the order, but the present shaykh too serves as a sales manager for the firm. To assume, therefore, that the order provides financial support for the company either directly or indirectly would be natural. Administrative structure of the order As I stated earlier, the administrative structure of Sufi orders in Egypt was established in 1812/1813 and reestablished around 1892–1895, and the structure has remained basically unchanged to this day (Figure 4.1). Shaykh Mashaykh

Shaykh Mashaykh al-Turuq al-Sufiya · ·

Naqib al-Ashraf

order • advice • decision • proposal

↑ ↓ Mashaykh al-Turuq al-Sufiya · · order • advice • decision • proposal

↑ ↓

al-Markaz

Khulafa’ al-Mashaykh and Nuwwab al-Mashaykh order • advice • decision • proposal

↑ ↓ Al-Muridun/Qa‘ida

al-Qura

al-Turuq al-Sufiya · ·

Figure 4.1 Organizational structure of all Sufi orders in Egypt from 1812/1813 to 1892/1895 (1903). Notes ●

●

●

●

●

In 1812/1813, the Bakri family was granted full authority to take control of all Sufi orders in Egypt, and was appointed to the position of Naqib al-Ashraf (which the family monopolized until 1946) In 1892, al-Shaykh Muhammad al-Bakri was appointed Mashaykh al-Turuq al-Sufiya, the president of all Sufi orders. Shaykh Mashaykh al-Turuq al-Sufiya takes charge of all Sufi orders in Egypt. In 1895, the Bakri family set up al-Majlis al-Sufi and made members of the family to take the post of the president. al-Majlis al-Sufi was placed under the supervision of the mayor of Cairo (muhafiz). On June 2, 1903, it was approved by a decree that members of the Bakri family could take the post of Mashaykh al-Turuq al-Sufiya. In 1903, in order to exclude the state’s intervention into the process of the selection of al-Majlis al-Sufi, the Bakri family attempted to conduct the selection at their private home instead of Maqarr Muhafaza al-Qahira or the government office in Cairo, which led to conflict with the state. Nevertheless, the following majlis were held at the government office.

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al-Turuq al-Sufiya (the president of All the Sufi orders in Egypt) and the High council of the Sufi order under the direction of the president, supervise the activities of all the Sufi orders in the country. Each order is organized in a hierarchical fashion with the shaykh occupying the topmost position, and the headquarters (based in Cairo, in the case of the Burhami order), prefectures (muhafaza), districts (markaz), and village (qarya) are such that directions and orders from the shaykh are communicated to every member. Each prefecture consists of an organizational structure. The branch in the Cairo prefecture consists of a shaykh, a vice shaykh (wakil), a chief of finance (amin al-Sunduq), and ten representatives (‘udw), while branches in other prefectures consist of an acting shaykh (ra’is), a subordinate (na’ib al-ra’is), the chief of finance, and assistant members (6 to 10 persons depending on the order). A meeting (majlis) is held each month, where matters relating to finance and activities of the order are discussed. The membership of individual devotees is also characterized by the principle of hierarchy (Figure 4.2). After functioning as a murid (novice) he will be raised to the rank of khalifa, guaranteed an official membership in the order, and registered in the daftar book. A limited number of them will then rise to the higher rank, namely khalifa ar-khulafa and na’ib (positions mostly succeeded to by blood relations). When one enters the order, he is guaranteed a membership with the supervision of a father (‘amm). The relationship between the devotee and ‘amm is understood as being somewhat of a father-son relationship. Young boys below sixteen years of age or nonmembers who take an interest in the activities of the order and voluntarily participate in them are called muhibbs. It is also worth mentioning that the Burhami order is spreading its activities abroad. At present it has members in Europe (Austria, Germany, France, Britain, Canada), South Asia (Pakistan and India), Black Africa (Mali, Nigeria), and the Middle East (Morocco, Libya, Syria, Kuwait, Jordan, Sudan). The bulk of these members, however, are in Vienna, where exists a mosque reported to have close links with the order. The fundamental teaching of the Burhami order emphasizes the importance of secular life along with the spiritual practices and encourages all its members, even the shaykh, to engage in secular work. Thus, a shaykh is permitted to smoke cigarettes, and ordinary members too are allowed to smoke in front of the shaykh. Occupations of the members Few studies have attempted to analyze the content of the daftar books. In each daftar book the date of registration, name of the member, his occupation, address, social identification number, place of issue of the ID, and the name of the ‘amm are written. In the case of khalifa al-khulafa and na’ib, the jurisdiction name is written instead of the ‘amm. Among the 800 members registered from March 1981 to February 15, 1983, there were 720 khalifa, 40 khalifa al-khulafa, and 40 na’ib. So to which occupational groups and class do the members of the Burhami order belong? What was apparent from my analysis is that this particular order is

Shaykh Mashaykh al-Turuq al-Sufiya · · order • advice • decision • proposal ↑ ↓

Al-Majlis al-Sufi al-A‘la consists of Shaykh Mashaykh al-Turuq al-Sufiya and four · · representatives (selected by Shaykh Mashaykh from Jam‘iya ‘Umumiya which consists of eight representatives of Mashaykh al-Turuq al-Sufiya) · ·

three-year term order • advice • decision • proposal

order • advice • decision • proposal ↑ ↓

Mashaykh al-Turuq al- Sufiya (shaykh of each order) · · order • advice • decision • proposal ↑ ↓

Nuwwab al-Shaykh order • advice • decision • proposal

wakil of Shaykh Mashaykh al-Turuq · al-Sufiya placed in major cities

·

↑ ↓

Khalifa al-Khulafa‘ and al- Khulafa ‘ order • advice • decision • proposal ↑ ↓

al-Muridun/Qa‘ ida al-Tariqa al-Sufiya · ·

Figure 4.2 Organizational structure of Sufi orders in Egypt from 1892/1895 to 1952/1975 to present. Notes ●

Sufi orders and their relationship with the state Shaykh Mashaykh al-Turuq al-Sufiya is selected from ten shaykhs, the selected members of Al-Majlis al-Sufi al-A‘la, and appointed by the president after his approval.

●

Recognition and dissolution of orders With the proposal of Al-Majlis al-Sufi al-A‘la lil-Turuq al-Sufiya and the consent and approval of WaΩir al-Daakhiliya, decisions with regard to the recognition and dissolution of orders are made by Wazir al-Awqaf al-Shu’un al-Azhar. The decided matters are made public through government newsletters.

●

Overview of the election in 1999 Place of the election: al-Majlis al-Sha‘bi li-Muhafaza al-Qahira Result: Of the shaykhs from seventy-three orders, eighteen shaykhs run for the election and top ten candidates were chosen by al-Jam‘iya al-‘Umumiya, which is comprised of shaykhs of different orders. The present Shaykh Mashaykh al-Turuq al-Sufiya is Hasan al-Shinnawi. A graduate of Azhar University, he is a member of Tariqa al-Shinnawiya. The former shaykh was al-Mujahid al-Islami al-Sayyid Ahmad al-Hadi.

●

Maqarr Idara al-Burhamiya (Darrasa in Cairo)

shaykh

order • advice • decision • proposal

↑ ↓ Maqarr Idara al-Burhamiya in each Muhafaza ·

na’ib (muhafaza · · level)

order • advice • decision • proposal

↑ ↓ markaz

na’ib (markaz level)

order • advice • decision • proposal

↑ ↓ qarya

na’ib (village level)

Administration of Sufi orders at the level of Muhafaza · · Majlis Umana’ al-Tariqa al-Burhamiya · (Headquarter in Cairo) (Branch other than Cairo) shaykh··········································ra’is wakil ············································ na’ib al-ra’is (deputy of wakil) amin al-Sunduq·························· amin al-Sunduq · · ‘Udw ‘udw ············································ · · (cf. number of Udw · · · in Cairo is ten, and six to ten in muhafaza)

Figure 4.3 Administrative structure of the Burhami order. Notes A wakil in Cairo’s headquarter is Ashraf, younger brother of the present shaykh (Born on December 11, 1960 and graduated from Azhar University). At present, he is Mudir al-Ma‘had or a principal of a high school. Majlis or meeting is held each month. Matters relating to revenue, musa‘adat, religious activities, parades, and offerings are discussed there. (muhibb): Members below sixteen years old, or the non-members who take part in the activities of the order · ↓

murid: A novice (he receives a bitaqa). Restricted to men above sixteen years old · ↓ khalifa: Those who have practiced awrad al-Tariqa for one year or more as a murid. After completing the · practice with the guidance of amm, he receives karne and is registered in the daftar. ↓ khalifa al-khulafa’: ↓ na’ib ↓ (wakil) ↓ (shaykh)

Figure 4.4 Levels of membership in the Burhami order. Source: ‘Ummar ‘Ali Hasan, al-Sufiya wa al-Siyasa Fi Misr, Cairo, 1997, Markaz al-Mahrusa

Islamic resurgence in modern Egypt 71 Table 4.4a Occupations of the members in the Burhami order 1 ‘Amil (factory worker, non-clerical government worker including rail-worker, blue-collar worker) 2 Muwazzaf (civil servant, company employee, supervisor in agricultural farm, register at supermarket; number of residents in villages and small towns are 50 (42%)) 3 Farmers, fishermen, gardeners (fallah: landed farmer 143, muzari: tenant farmer 82, ‘Amil zira‘i: agricultural laborers 13, fishermen 1, gardener 1) 4 Craftsmen, artisans, repairmen (repairs of cars and electronic appliances, barber, tailor, carpenter, plasterer, civil engineers, repair of gas, manufacture of brick/bedding/water pot, painter, paving work, drainage work, steeplejack) 5 Drivers, clerks, non-skilled workers (guardsman in factories and companies, janitor in schools, government offices and mosques, garbage cleaner) 6 Traders, retailers, grocers, makers of foodstuff (waiter of coffee house, butcher, labor broker, bakery, kushari maker, tamiya maker, cook, money exchange) 7 Peddlers and vendors of vegetables, fruits and sweets 8 Non-job seekers, unemployed (dairy laborer, temporary worker 2, unemployed/retired 8, military service = virtually unemployed 3) 9 Students 10 Policemen, peace officers (ghafir), servicemen, firefighters 11 Religious professions (khatib, muqri, waiz, imam) scribes of official documents including marriage and divorce (ma’dhun shar‘i) 12 Professions in education and culture (teacher·painter 13, chairman of village assembly, journalist) 13 Sub-section chiefs in factory and hospital 14 Building owners 15 Special profession (hanuti = washer of human remains) 16 Others/unknown Total

141 118 235 80

48 56 15 27 15 19 14 17 4 1 1 9 800

supported by the lower classes, namely farmers, factory workers, artisans, guardsmen, drivers, and retail vendors (Table 4.4a,b). With reference to Table 4.4a,b those who fall in the category of 1, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7 are clearly of the lower classes, and those in category 8 may also be included. Members under category 2 (muwazzaf ) are white-collar workers, namely public servants and salaried employees. Besides, considering the residential status of the 120 people in category 2, fifty (42 percent) live in villages and towns. From this one can predict that the majority are neither upper class nor of a high social rank, and more than 75 percent of the members belong to the lower classes. On the other hand, those who belong to the wealthier and intellectual class are limited. This trend is reinforced by the fact that in the case of big metropolises such as Cairo and Alexandria there are relatively fewer members in comparison to the size of their population.

72 Masatoshi Kisaichi Table 4.4b Occupational distribution of members in seven prefectures

‘Amil Muwazzaf Farmers, fishermen, gardeners Craftsmen, carpenters, drivers janitors, non-skilled workers Merchants, retailers grocers, stall keepers, peddlers Unemployed irregular laborers, students Police, ghafir, servicemen firefighters Religious occupations, scribes Educational and cultural professions, government workers factory managers Others/unknown

QL (127)

BS (90)

GB (75)

DH (65)

GZ (64)

MF (63)

CA (60)

22 21 51 16

13 16 30 11

16 17 20 11

12 7 24 4

20 11 12 11

6 13 27 6

11 13 0 21

5

5

3

12

5

4

12

2

2

2

3

1

1

5

3

1

1

1

2

4

2

3

2

1

2

2

0

0

3

10

1

0

0

0

1

1

0

0

0

0

0

0

Notes QL: Qalyubiya; BS: Beni Suef; GB: Gharbiya; DH; Daqhaliya; GZ: Giza MF: Munufiya; CA: Cairo

Table 4.5 Number of members in cities and villages Cities above markaz (Cairo, Mansura, Ismailiya, Aswan, Damanhur, Tukh, etc.) Small cities and villages Unknown

275 518 7

In the same list we find several security officers (ghafir) along with policemen and servicemen, who are responsible for maintaining peace and order in villages and towns. As for joining the order, regardless of whether it be through the dictates of the state or the personal choice of the individual, the fact that the order has devotees pursuing such occupations indicates the possibility of surveillance of the activities of the order by the state at the regional level. It is through these members that Islamic values and morals permeate the ranks of the police and army. Residential distribution of the members Five hundred and eighteen members (65 percent of the total), live in rural towns and villages (Table 4.5). The top four prefectures in the list are all agricultural districts, namely Qalyubiya, Beni Sweif, Gharbiya, and Daqhaliya. Major industrial cities including Cairo and Alexandria have relatively few members

Islamic resurgence in modern Egypt 73 Table 4.6 Regional distribution of the members Marsa Matruh (MT) Alexandria (AL) Beheira (BH) Kafr El Sheikh (KS) Daqhaliya (DH) Dumyat (DM) Port Said (PS) Gharbiya (GB) Sharqiya (SQ) Ismailiya (IS) Suez (SZ) Munufiya (MF) Qalyubiya (QL) Cairo (CA) Giza (GZ) Faiyum (FY) Beni Suef (BS) Minya (MN) Asyut (AS) Sohag (SG) Qena (QN) Aswan (AW) Wadi Jadid (WJ) Bahr Ahmar (BA) North Sinai (NS) South Sinai (SS) Total

0 10 30 21 65 19 0 75 15 29 0 63 127 60 64 4 90 15 50 36 15 7 0 0 5 0 800

in comparison to the size of their population (Table 4.6). It is clear from this that the Burhami order has a strong support base in the rural regions. On analyzing further the district-wise distribution of members in urban areas, the close links maintained by the order with the urban lower class becomes even more apparent. Out of the 60 members living in Cairo, 12 live in the Matariya district, 8 in Ma‘adi, 7 in Khalifa, 6 in Helwan, 6 in Shobra, 4 in Masr Qadima, 4 in Sayyida Zaynab, 4 in Gamaliya, 2 in Waily, and 7 in other districts. These are either in the periphery of the city, in the rural areas, or in the residential areas of the urban lower class. None of the members lives in the Zamalek district and the Qasr al-Nil district, which are both residential areas for the urban upper class. Out of the 64 residents living in the Giza prefecture, 18 live in the Inbaba district, 16 in Giza, 9 in Badrshin, 8 in Saff, 5 in Aguza, 5 in Ayyart, and 3 in other districts. In addition, all 16 residents in the Giza district live in the urban area of the district, judging from their addresses and types of occupations. In the Saff district, 6 residents live in the rural areas while 2 live in the urban areas. The occupations of 5 members living in Aguza district, known as a residential area of the urban upper class, are muwazzaf (2), ‘amil (2), and driver (1). In the Giza prefecture, members are found to live in areas for the urban lower class, the peripheral

74

Masatoshi Kisaichi Table 4.7 Marital status at the time of registration (among official members above khalifa) Not married Married Not mentioned

119 638 43

districts, and rural areas. It is often said that workers such as drivers, guards, janitors, and vendors of foodstuffs often form occupational networks through blood relations and territorial bonds. Since these are also common occupations among the members of the Burhami order, it may be correct to assume that the majority of the order’s members in urban areas maintain their relationship with communities in villages. Age and marital status of the members Considering the marital status of members at the time of entry to the order, we notice that 80 percent or 638 people are married (Table 4.7). It is obvious from this figure that most members are over 30 years of age, since the average matrimonial age for men in Egypt is above 30 years. Although the majority of members and supporters of Islamic political groups are young workers and students, the members of the Burhami order are comparatively older and are mostly married.

Conclusion It is evident from my analysis that the Burhami order reformed its organizational structure in the 1970s and consequently increased its membership. In order to acquire a solid overall understanding of the phenomena of Islamic resurgence in this period, it would be inadequate on our part to focus our attention solely on the Islamic political movements. We would need to scrutinize also the influence and role of the Sufi orders. Does this imply that the Islamic movements led by the two parties are identical? Or do they differ in some aspects? If so, how do they differ? Islamic political movements, namely the Jihad Group and the Islamic Group emerged during the 1970s, and, among them, the Muslim Brotherhood has without doubt been the most influential. The number of members in the Muslim Brotherhood during the 1970s is not clear, since there have been no official records on the matter. It would probably be true to say that the organization lost many members during the Nasser administration. Traditionally the Muslim Brotherhood was supported by various cooperative organizations and guilds of urban public servants, white-collar workers, intellectuals and school teachers, artisans, traders, lawyers, accountants, and doctors. From the 1960s, the proportion of highly educated young intellectuals or elites began to grow among its members [Kepel 1975: 72–73]. While some of these young members went on to embark upon a more radical path, it was also this

Islamic resurgence in modern Egypt 75 group of young elites who formed the core of the organization when it was reestablished in the 1970s. With regard to class, however, those young members belong to the urban middle class [Mitchell 1969: 330]. In other words, the Muslim brotherhood failed to appeal to the rural laborers and industrial workers or the proletariat. The Muslim Brotherhood had been an apolitical organization, appealing for the reform of Islamic ethics and morals. During the 1940s it started to reveal a marked inclination towards politics and even began to resort to violent means in order to achieve its goals. After suffering due to the severe repression under the Nasser regime in the 1950s, the mainstream section of the organization turned once again into emphasizing the reform of Islamic ethics and the merits of nonviolence. Now the organization seeks to achieve political reform through participation in parliamentary politics. Contrary to the Muslim Brotherhood, however, the Burhami order received support from the older and less educated members of the population, namely rural peasants, the proletariat, casual laborers, artisans, guards, janitors, and retailers. These hail from small cities and rural areas, and belong to the lower classes. Supporters of the Muslim Brotherhood and the Burhami order are clearly divided, in accordance with various social lines such as class. The Burhami order not excluded, most Sufi orders emphasize the importance of Islamic values and teach their members the need for reforming Islamic morality and ethics. The order maintains a certain aloofness from politics, at least on the outside, but all the same remain accommodating with respect to the present government. Except for the difference in their attitude towards politics, the Burhami order and the Muslim Brotherhood share the principal goal of spreading Islamic ideals and values in society, through nonviolence and the moral reform of each individual. In my opinion the Muslim Brotherhood and the Burhami order had some principles in common at least during the 1970s, when the phenomenon of Islamic resurgence was gaining prominence. This argument is further strengthened by the fact that when the Muslim Brotherhood confronted the ruthless repression of the Nasser administration, many of its members tried to seek refuge in the Sufi orders.11 In the meantime, however, the two groups have had some characteristics in common in terms of their activities as well. Thus when we understand social reform in Islamic societies as a process whereby the Islamic value system permeates the wider society, the relationship between these two seemingly opposing Islamic movements appear interdependent or complementary, rather than oppositional. At any rate I personally find this to be true, judging from my analysis of the Burhami order.

Notes 1 Although limited in number, several studies discuss the relationship between Sufi orders and politics. Here I shall name two of them Sirriyeh 1999 and De Jong 1983 183–212. The former discusses the relative absence of studies on the Sufi orders compared to the Islamic political movements, while the latter is a precise study on how the government of Egypt has controlled and supervised the Sufi orders. For the

76

2

3

4 5

6

7

8 9

10

Masatoshi Kisaichi organization of Sufi orders and their relationship to the state in Egypt during the nineteenth century, see De Jong 1978. In this chapter, the word Islamic resurgence denotes the phenomenon whereby habits encouraged by Islamic law, namely the offering of prayers, dress code, food habits, helping the poor, mutual help, and so on are practiced in the everyday life of the Muslims. (It is described as an Islamic movement when practiced at the organization level.) When the phenomenon (or movement) is politically motivated, it may be termed an Islamic political movement. According to this classification, the Muslim Brotherhood would be included in the category of Islamic political movements. Hasan Shammuh, Masarra al-‘Ayanayn bi Sharh Hizb Abi al-‘Aynayn, MS.No.1095, Dar al-Kutub (Cairo). For the date of his birth, see p.5, and for date of his death, see p.10, al-Sha‘rani, al-Tabaqat al-Kubra, (Beirut, 1988), vol.1, p.181. al-Maqrizi (d.845/1442), Kitab al-Suluk (Cairo, 1939), vol.1(part 3), p.739. For a detailed historical analysis on the date of his birth and death, see Ahmad Izz al-Din, Hayat shaykh al-Islam Abi al-‘Aynayn al-Qutb al-Sayyid Ibrahim al-Dusuqi (Cairo, 1969), 277–280. al-Jabarti (d.1825), Tarikh Aja’ib al-Athar fi Tarajim wa al-akhbar, (Beirut, n.d) vol.2, p.185, vol.3, p.308, p.385. al-Jabarti uses Iawa’if (vol.2, p.185) or Iara’iq (vol.3, p.385) to express the meaning of Sufi orders. Details regarding the current state of the Burhami order are based on information collected during the series of interviews conducted with the shaykh and members of the order (the interviews were conducted every Friday afternoon at the office of the order from February 14, 1999 to June 4). According to the shaykh, women cannot be official members of the order but are permitted to participate in such activities as dhikr and the reading sessions of the Koran. On these occasions, women are gathered in a separate room from the men, and listen to the preaching and speeches of the male members through a microphone. They can write down their questions if any on a paper and submit them to the helpers. Such types of motivated female devotees are increasing. Although the author has no concrete data on this matter, the following information given by the shaykh seems to support this argument. The order does not own any hospital, but it has doctors as members who treat other members as their patients. If members submit receipts of their medical treatment to the order, they can receive a portion of the fee. The order also lends financial support to those members who are unemployed or ill, or may introduce lawyers and accountants who are members of the order. Also, I was impressed by the fact that the members looked cheerful and content when they received their karne cards from the shaykh. See [Hoffman 1995: ch.10] on this issue. The Burhami order still retains considerable influence in Sudan. In Cairo, the activity of the order is tacitly permitted at the individual level, and the order runs a coffee house next to the Husain Mosque. A box is provided in all Sufi shrines for the collection of offerings (Sunduq al-nudhur). At the shrine in Dusuq city, I observed many devotees making offerings at the tomb everyday. From my observation of the Husain shrine in Cairo on August 5th/ and 8th/, 2001 (from 11:00 to 11:30), offerings were made every minute. Half of them offered about 50 krush (equivalent to 15 Japanese yen) and the other half about one Egyptian pound (30 yen). Although visitors to the shrine in Dusuq are much less than those seen at the Husain Mosque, even so one may take it for granted that the offerings made at the shrine in Dusuq are considerable. When I persistently questioned the manager on the relationship between the order and the firm, he continued to deny any such relationship and asked me instead whether I was interested in the firm or in the order. When I replied that my main concern was the Burhami order, he told me with an expression of displeasure to go and ask the people of the order, since the firm had no connection with them whatsoever. His edgy manner

Islamic resurgence in modern Egypt 77 was a clear indication that the firm did not welcome inquiries by outsiders on matters related to its finance. 11 Sufi orders where members of the Muslim Brotherhood are said to have found refuge are Hisafi tariqa and Naqshubanditariqa [De Jong Fred 1983:199–200].

References ‘Ali Mubarak (d. 1893), H. 1305 al-Khi…a… al-Tawfiwqiya al-Jadida li-Mifr al-Qahira wa Muduniha wa Biladiha al-Qadima wa al-shahira, vol.xi, Buluq. De Jong, Fred 1978, Turuq and Truq-linked Institutions in Century Egypt: A Historical Study in Organizational Dimensions of Islamic Mysticism, Leiden: E.J. Brill. De Jong, Fred 1983, “Aspects of the Political Involvement of Sufi Orders in Twentieth Century Egypt (1907–1970) – An Exploratory Stock-Taking,” in Gabriel R. Warburg and Uri M. Kupferschmidst (ed.), Islam, Nationalism and Radicalism in Egypt and the Sudan, New York: Praeger Publishers: 183–212. Eickelman, Dale F. 1996, “Foreword,” in A.R. Norton, (ed.), Civil Society in the Middle East, vol.2, Leiden: E.J. Brill. Elizabeth Sirriyeh, 1999, Sufi and Anti-Sufis, Richmond, VA: Curzon. Fu’ad al-sayyid, 1981, “al-Mas’uliya man”, al-Iasawwuf al-Islami, 31: 4. Gabriel R. Warburg and Uri M. Kupferschmidst (ed.), Islam, Nationalism and Radicalism in Egypt and the Sudan, New York: Praeger Publishers: 183–212. Fasan Shammuh, Masarra al-‘Aynayn bi-sharf Fizb Abi al-‘Aynayn, MS.No.1095, Cairo: Dar al-Kutb. Hoffman, Valerie J., 1995, Sufism, Mystics and Saints in Modern Egypt, ch.10, Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina. Ibn Iyas (d. 1524), 1984, Bada’i’ al-Zuhur f i Waqa’i’ al-Duhur, vol.3, Cairo: al-Hay’a almisriyya al-’amma lil-kitab. al-Jabarti (d. 1825), n.d., Tarikh ‘Aja’ib al-Athar fi Tarajim wa al-akhbar, Beirut: Dar al-Faris. Kepel, Gilles, 1985, Muslim Extremism in Egypt, Berkley, CA: University of California. Lane, E.W., 1989, An Account of the Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians, new edition, London: East-West Publications. al-Maqrizi (d. 845/1442), 1939, Kitab al-Suluk, vol.1 (part 3), Cairo: Matba‘a Dar al-Kutub. Mitchell, Richard P., 1969, The Society of the Muslim Brothers, London: Oxford University Press. al-Sha’rani, 1988, al-Iabaqat al-Kubra, vol.1, Beirut: Maktaba Muhammad ‘Ali Sabih. Trimingham, J. Spencer, 1971, The Sufi Orders in Islam, Oxford University Press. ‘Ummar ‘Ali Hasan, 1997, al-Sufiya wa al-Siyasa fi Misr, Cairo: Markaz al-Mafrusa.

5

The uprising of the “fearsome ruler of Lanao” Banditry and the internalization of violence in a southern Philippine Muslim society during the 1930s Midori Kawashima

Introduction This chapter takes a look at the famous Muslim bandit Dimakaling, who was active in the province of Lanao on the island of Mindanao, the southern Philippines, during the early 1930s, in an attempt to examine (1) the role of violence in a society on the periphery of a colonial regime, (2) the formation of an ideology to justify such violence, and (3) the incorporation of violence into a rural social structure. Dimakaling remains a legend among the local Muslim people of Lanao, who belong to the ethno-linguistic group called the Maranao.1 His story has been passed down from generation to generation. Several Filipino scholars from the southern Philippines mention Dimakaling’s activities in their research, placing it within the context of anticolonial resistance on the part of Philippine Muslims.2 The work of Samuel Tan, in particular, views the Dimakaling phenomenon as a popular response to the socioeconomic contradictions posed by colonialism within Mindanao agrarian society. The research to date, however, tends to mention Dimakaling only in passing. His actual activities and public image, his relation to local leaders and peasants and the existence of any ideology behind his uprising have neither been thoroughly documented nor analyzed. This chapter examines these aspects by discussing the structure of violence that was formed and internalized on the periphery of the colonial state and how an ideology was created to legitimize such a structure. It is an attempt to shed some light on the relationships that existed between the Muslim masses and the local ruling class and colonial administrators and non-Muslim residents, while delving into religious concepts at the mass level. These are what I believe to be the issues central to a better understanding of the complex nature of the conflict in the southern Philippines that has continued to the present day.3 As to the major sources utilized in this chapter, there are first the monthly and annual reports submitted by J. Heffington, the American governor of Lanao Province, on the state of the province. The reports submitted by Joseph Hayden, the American Vice-Governor-General of the Philippine Islands, will also be used.

The uprising of the “fearsome ruler of Lanao” 79 These reports, which dealt with Dimakaling’s band and its activities as both criminal acts and a serious threat to public safety, are useful in understanding clearly the perceptions of the American colonial administrators. In addition, there is the local newspaper, the Lanao Progress, published twice monthly by Frank Laubauch, an American Protestant missionary who devoted himself to the literacy promotion movement in Lanao and other parts of the world. The Lanao Progress was a tri-lingual paper, published in English, Maranao, a local language used by the local Muslim residents, and Cebuano, a language used by Christian Filipino settlers,4 which also served as the lingua franca of the region. Articles printed in newspapers and magazines published in Manila will also be used. These local and national media offer many clues to find out how the local residents of Lanao and Filipino society as a whole viewed Dimakaling’s band.5 I was also able to interview several Maranao people who came into direct contact with Dimakaling, or their children, contemporaries who saw and heard about his activities at the time, and others who heard his stories from older people.6 There exist several, conflicting versions in these accounts, especially regarding the origin and content of and motivation behind his escapades, and circumstances surrounding his death. All the accounts given by Maranaos, however, stand in stark contrast to his image as a “public enemy” portrayed in the colonial documentation and news reports. The Maranao accounts uncover another view, a more emotional one of both admiration and fear on the part of local Muslim residents.7 In spite of these research efforts, there still remain many unclear and ambiguous aspects of the subject. This chapter is an attempt to examine the Dimakaling uprising and consider its significance based on the source materials cited earlier. I will also touch upon the various issues that need to be clarified through future research efforts. The following discussion will begin with an explanation of the background and a general overview of how Dimakaling’s uprising evolved, then turn to how the US colonial government viewed the incident. Next, the connection of the Muslim ruling class and the masses with the uprising will be considered, followed by an examination of the image of Dimakaling and the uprising’s ideological aspects, as depicted in the legend that has grown around him. Finally, the significance and limitations of the uprising will be discussed.

Background While the population of the modern Philippines has always been overwhelmingly Christian, mainly Roman Catholic, there were during the period in question about 678,000 Muslims, or around 4 percent of the population, living in the southern Philippines, mainly in the western and central part of the island of Mindanao and on the Sulu Archipelago, with some on the island of Palawan.8 It was in 1903 that the US colonial government established Moro Province in the southern Muslim regions and set up a military regime there.9 In the years that

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followed, armed uprisings occurred throughout the regions, but they were quelled by America’s superior military capabilities. The Americans were also successful in their measures to appease some Muslim leaders. As a result, large-scale anticolonial armed resistance on the part of Muslims had all but been eliminated by 1913, when Moro Province was removed in favor of the establishment of the seven special provinces of Sulu, Zamboanga, Cotabato, Lanao, Davao, Bukidnon, and Agusan, each placed under the governorship of mainly American appointees. From that time up through the 1930s, there occurred sporadic incidents wherein dissatisfied village chiefs and religious leaders displayed defiance toward the colonial government by arming themselves and holing up with their followers in fortresses they built, called kota.10 Such incidents occurred more frequently in remote areas than in and around the provincial capitals. There were Muslims who also launched raids on schools and local Christian communities from time to time. The US colonial administration labeled them as “outlaws” and took military action against those who refused to surrender or resisted arrest. Some “outlaws” aroused serious concern on the part of the American administrators because they appeared to be receiving significant support from the local Muslim residents. The most popular “outlaw” band in Lanao during the early 1930s was a group led by Dimakaling. Dimakaling led raids on Christian school teachers and settlers, as well as informants to the local constabulary.11 He came to be called “the Fearsome Ruler of Lanao” among local Muslim residents. At first, the colonial administration looked upon Dimakaling’s band as merely another bunch of isolated “outlaws” feasting off local society. However, it eventually realized that Dimakaling had won a certain amount of support and sympathy among local Muslim residents and was expanding his activities. This resulted in more serious attempts on the government’s part to rid Lanao of this potential threat to its colonial regime.

How the uprising evolved This section presents an overview of the colonial government’s view of how the activities of Dimakaling’s band developed. Dimakaling’s defiance of authority is said to have its origin in the murder of two Christian residents, which took place in Momongan Municipal District in June 1925.12 After being accused of this murder, Dimakaling fled into the hills. From 1929 to 1931, he was said to be leading a small band of around eleven followers active around the northern shore of Lake Lanao in such municipal districts as Wato, Saguiaran, Marantao, and Pantao-Ragat. Dimakaling was armed with a revolver and a carbine rifle, while his followers carried bladed weapons and hand made guns called palintuds.13 However, it was not until 1933 that the colonial government started to perceive Dimakaling and his armed followers as a serious threat to law and order. It was also a time that some parts of Lanao Province became the scene of sporadic incidents involving armed groups attacking the homes and farms of Christian settlers,

The uprising of the “fearsome ruler of Lanao” 81 teachers and administrators, killing or injuring them and looting their animals and cash boxes.14 Although there were incidents in which the attackers could not be identified, it was widely rumored that they were the work of Dimakaling’s band. Then one of the most shocking incidents for the colonial government occurred. During May 1934 in Lumbatan Municipal District on the southern shore of Lake Lanao, a group of between ten and twenty armed Muslims attacked in broad daylight the Lumbatan Agricultural School and the home of Clayton Douglas, the American principal of the school. Douglas and his family were not home at the time and were thus unharmed, but two of his Christian servants were killed, another wounded, and the bandits made off with Douglas’s shotgun, the 660 pesos earmarked for teachers’ salaries kept in a safe, and other valuables. Four special patrols of the Constabulary were dispatched from the nearby stations, but due to the delay in reporting the incident and defective telephone lines, the band managed to escape across the lake by boat. The Constabulary filed a complaint for the crime against Dimakaling’s band and initiated a campaign to hunt them down. As a result, some of Dimakaling’s followers surrendered, or were arrested or, killed by the Constabulary, but Dimakaling managed to escape.15 The Lumbatan Agricultural School was one of five such academies built by the colonial government on Mindanao and existed as a symbol of the attempt to “civilize” the Muslim population and modernize its life. This is why the attack on the school was regarded as a serious threat to colonial authority and was dealt with as such by the local government. Then two months later, in Tacub, a village in Iligan Municipality in northern Lanao, a Christian farmer and a laborer were killed by a group of armed men. It was presumed that Dimakaling’s band was responsible for the incident, and the Constabulary filed a charge against them to that effect.16 In fact, it is unclear whether or not this incident was of Dimakaling’s doing; but even if it was not, it did not matter very much to the colonial government, because it had come to the conclusion that the Dimakaling band was an inspiration to other “outlaws” in Lanao, inciting them to more violence against Christian residents. There was also an indication that Dimakaling’s band was in touch with other “outlaws” in the province, who offered refuge to them in their hiding places, thus making their apprehension extremely difficult.17 After the Lumbatan School incident, the US colonial government was forced to recognize that Dimakaling was gaining support and sympathy among the Muslim population. For example, Governor Heffington cites in his monthly report “the absence of reliable information due to the indifference of local headman” as the main obstacle to the capture of Dimakaling. He further states that some of the local people “look upon him as champion and saver of the Moro people.”18 The Lanao Progress also recognized that Dimakaling was being looked upon as a hero, reporting a similar lack of cooperation on the part of some people and arguing that Dimakaling was, in fact, the area’s “number one public enemy.”19 It was for these reasons that the provincial government designated Dimakaling as the area’s most wanted “outlaw” and launched a positive campaign to bring him to his knees.

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Despite all these efforts on the part of the colonial government, Dimakaling’s band continued their activities under the protection of the local Muslim population. After the Provincial Constabulary’s command announced that rewards would be offered to anyone who could provide information about the whereabouts of Dimakaling’s band, those who allegedly came forward with such information were subsequently violently attacked.20 During August 1935 in Bayang Municipal District, Dimakaling summoned two local Christian public school teachers and demanded money from them. Since the teachers could not come up with the sum demanded on the spot, they were forced to promise to pay half their salaries on pay day. Dimakaling was also appropriating money from village chiefs in Bayang.21 Provincial Governor Heffington submitted a report to Vice-Governor-General Hayden in Manila about the serious threat that Dimakaling’s band was posing to public order in the area.22 Hayden was alarmed enough to pay a visit to Lanao in September to investigate the situation in person and meet with Heffington, the provincial commander of the Constabulary and some Muslim village chiefs. As a result, Hayden was convinced that Dimakaling’s band was indeed being supported by local Muslim residents and that Dimakaling himself had become a local hero. He wrote to Governor-General Frank Murphy that the most important reason why Dimakaling’s band had not been apprehended was a lack of cooperation among Muslim residents in providing information about its whereabouts, commenting that “Dimakaling is regarded as a hero by a considerable number of Maranao datus [chiefs] and their followers.” He further stated, “Unless he and his followers were [sic] killed or captured in the near future, they might become the nucleus of a serious uprising against authority,” then requested that the Lanao Constabulary be reinforced.23 Although it is not known whether or not Hayden’s request for reinforcement was granted, the provincial Constabulary did strengthen its efforts in pursuing Dimakaling, increasing its patrols and information gathering activities. After that, a couple of encounters did occur between Dimakaling’s band and Constabulary patrols, but Dimakaling always managed to escape, despite losing some of his followers in the process. Then on November 19, four days after the establishment of the Commonwealth of the Philippines, the Constabulary was tipped off about Dimakaling’s whereabouts, and they surrounded his hideout in Kapai Municipal District, a mountainous area near the Bukidnon border, then shot and killed him.24 When his body was brought to Dansalan, the provincial capital, the local people thronged around it in order to catch a glimpse of the famous Dimakaling.25 After Dimakaling’s death, some of his followers continued to flee from the authorities, some joining dissatisfied village chiefs defying the government by shutting themselves up in kota. In response, Commonwealth President Manuel Quezon ordered that all kota be torn down and their “outlaws” punished severely. It was in this way that the majority of Dimakaling’s remaining followers either surrendered, were arrested or killed.

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The American perception of Dimakaling Let us now examine more closely the US colonial administration’s perception of “outlaws” in general, and Dimakaling in particular, based on the comments of J. Heffington, the American Governor of Lanao Province. Statements in his administrative reports show a preoccupation with the idea of “progress.” What the word meant to him was conditions in Lanao were getting nearer to those of American society. Heffington perceived Lanao society in three ways. To begin with, there were those residents who lived within the “bounds of order.” They were citizens who went to school, worked hard at their jobs, obeyed the law and paid their taxes: that is, American and Christian Filipino settlers and those Muslims who had been educated in public schools. Second, there was the contrasting “outlaw” element in Lanao, consisting of those who were bent on stealing the fruits earned by hard working citizens and who threatened their security. Finally, he also recognized a group of “persons who live on the border line between law and order, on the one hand, and the life of a freebooter, on the other.”26 Based on such perceptions, Governor Heffington requested that the provincial Constabulary be reinforced for the purpose of protecting those who lived within the bounds of order from the outlaw element. Concerning those who lived on the border line between law-abiding citizens and “outlaws,” Heffington felt that they could be incorporated into the bounds of law and order by civilizing them. He supported a policy of inviting more Filipino Christians from the central and northern regions to form model communities of law-abiding taxpayers, who would, according to his plan, solve security problems, while bolstering the province’s fiscal budget. He felt that Christian settlers obtaining land from Muslims would induce the latter to start new settlements on the frontiers. The Christian settlers would improve the newly acquired land, thus putting the Province’s vast unoccupied land to more profitable use.27 Heffington states, “As Christian communities can be formed and developed[,] modern conditions will continue to go forward and upward in the scale of progress.”28 The major obstacle to this plan was the precarious conditions facing Christian settlers who encroached upon the Muslim areas, where their life and property were threatened by “outlaws.”29 In this connection, for Heffington, “banditry” stood as a serious hindrance to “progress” in the Province and an obstacle to America’s mission to bring “Non-Christians Tribes” into line with Christian Filipinos and move them together in the march toward “progress.”30 Around 1934–1935, with the establishment of the Commonwealth close at hand, the American administrators were concerned with ensuring that the march to “progress” be continued undisturbed under Filipino leadership. It is for this reason that they showed such grave concern about the threat posed by Dimakaling, who was gaining support from the “borderliners” around the Lake Lanao region.

Dimakaling and the Muslim population The question arises as to who among the Muslim residents of Lanao were supporting Dimakaling and why they did so. This section discusses these issues

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by examining the attitudes of Muslim residents toward Dimakaling and analyzing the sociopolitical and economic conditions of local Muslim society. Attitudes of Muslim residents The American administrators were inclined to view Dimakaling’s admirers and supporters as the criminally inclined or misguided elements within the Muslim population and that they were so because of ignorance. The Maranao sources, however, indicate that such attitudes differed from the American point of view. The interview conducted with Madki Alonto, son of the influential Maranao politician, Sultan Alauya Alonto, is indicative of the general popularity Dimakaling was enjoying but also suggests that conflicting views did exist within the local Muslim society. He stated in the interview that one of his uncles who was working for the Constabulary was opposed to Dimakaling, while another uncle admired what Dimakaling was doing. Alonto himself, who was a secondyear high school student at the time, was also an admirer of Dimakaling, just like many other young Muslim boys in Dansalan. Islamic intellectuals (ulamas) were generally staunch supporters of Dimakaling. Sultan Alauya Alonto, however, was noncommittal on the issue, because, being a sultan,31 he could not go against Dimakaling as the people supported him.32 This view is generally shared by other Maranao people interviewed. One informant indicated that some rice mill owners in Dansalan, who were wealthy local Muslim merchants, were protecting Dimakaling and giving him rice.33 Based on such accounts given by Maranao informants, we can make the following assumptions. There was an atmosphere of adulation surrounding Dimakaling, mixed with a certain amount of fear or awe, which spread over the local Muslim society. Moreover, Muslim residents supported Dimakaling in several ways. Those who supported him most actively were his immediate relatives. His band included his brother, Pondag, and several of his cousins. People around Balindong, Wato, where Dimakaling originated from, generally protected him giving him both refuge and food. While fleeing from the Constabulary by moving around Lake Lanao, he formed ties with influential families in each place by marrying one of their daughters.34 Their relatives also helped him. Some wealthy merchants and village chiefs also gave him food and money. It is likely that ulamas provided him with moral support by praising his exploits. All these people, along with many ordinary Muslims with no particular personal affiliation, protected Dimakaling by not cooperating with the Constabulary in its efforts to apprehend him. Before turning to the question of why these people admired and/or supported Dimakaling, let us look at the class structure and political relationships characteristic of Lanao Muslim society and how they were changing around that time. The basic class structure of the area’s Muslim society under the US colonial regime can be roughly described as a two-class society, composed of rulers and their subordinates. The ruling class may further be divided into two classes, a powerful ruling class and a relatively weaker one. The former was made up of

The uprising of the “fearsome ruler of Lanao” 85 a small elite of appointees to colonial administrative posts on the congressional and provincial levels and some on the municipal level. They were a group of people who had access to resources controlled by the colonial state, which formed their power base. In contrast, the weaker ruling stratum did not enjoy such access. They were composed of village chiefs who were at the same time farmers or merchants. Also included in this stratum were leaders at the grassroots level and religious leaders in village communities. On the other hand, the Muslim masses who were ruled by these two strata consisted of families headed by small-scale cultivators, fishermen, petty merchants, craftsmen, wage laborers, etc. Furthermore, we observe the appearance of wealthy farmers and merchants with cash incomes from dealing in such commodities as rice, coconuts, and coffee beans. Also starting to emerge were Muslims who earned salaries as clerical workers and schoolteachers as the result of learning English and acquiring skills useful to such occupations. In addition, there were businesses such as coconut plantations and lumber mills being run by American military retirees and Christian colonists on the northern seacoast of Lanao, the plain adjacent to Zamboanga and the coastal area around Illana bay. Since these businesses were hiring both Christian settlers and Muslim natives, there was an increase in Muslims who used to be in subordinate status (sakop) to masters (dato) becoming independent. This resulted in growing dissatisfaction on the part of the latter, who had depended on the labor of the former for their economic livelihood. Such changes that occurred in Muslim society under American colonialism could not but have had a strong impact on the weaker ruling class of village chiefs, who were already in relative decline due to a lack of access to state resources. Consequently, this stratum of the ruling class began to feel more and more threatened by the dangers imposed upon them by the power of the colonial state and the outsiders connected to and dependent on it. They perceived these outsiders – American and Christian Filipino plantation owners, schoolteachers, etc. – as encroaching on both their economic interests and social authority and came to regard them as enemies. They must have felt the need for measures to prevent Christian settlers from further encroaching on land in the province or at least to keep them in check. Especially around 1934–1935, the impending establishment of the Commonwealth of the Philippines made village chiefs feel even more insecure by instilling fears that the existing order of local Muslim society would be destroyed by the complete takeover of the Philippine government by Filipinos, the majority of whom were Christians. Under such circumstances, they found it advantageous to have bandits roaming around Lanao, as long as those bandits inflicted no damage on them. Furthermore, some village chiefs seemed to have taken advantage of the situation and exploited non-Muslim residents living in remote areas by collecting protection money from them.35

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On the other hand, the Muslim masses, composed of peasants, small fishermen, traders, and so on, were also experiencing hard times. The Philippine as well as the local Mindanao economy had been severely hit by the World Depression. During the early 1930s, a number of workplaces were closed down and the number of civil servants was reduced, resulting in increasing unemployment. Agricultural prices dropped and cash grew scarcer. To make matters even worse, swarms of locusts caused great damage to rice and corn crops in parts of the Lanao and Cotabato provinces throughout the early 1930s.36 All these factors produced a strong feeling of anxiety and frustration among the masses. It was under such circumstances that the people’s admiration for Dimakaling developed. The motivation behind support for Dimakaling The targets that Dimakaling’s band chose for its attacks included American and Christian Filipino schoolteachers, their schools, plantation owners and other settlers, and local Muslim informants who had cooperated with the Philippine Constabulary. The fact that Dimakaling’s attacks on such people were enjoying support and sympathy among local Muslim society suggest four factors that might explain such attitudes of local Muslim society in the context of the sociopolitical and economic changes that were occurring in Lanao at the time. 1 Revenge toward military subjugation When they first took colonial control of Muslim-dominated areas of the southern Philippines, the Americans used military force against all forms of resistance. The major military clashes that occurred in Lanao were the Battle of Bayang in 1902 and the Battles of Taraka and Bacolod the following year, each of which produced over one hundred Muslims deaths.37 While the overwhelming military strength of the American forces all but eliminated large scale armed resistance, even during the 1920s, incidents involving over fifty casualties on the part of local Muslims, like the uprising of Sarowang, the kali (judge, adaptation of the Arabic term qadi) at Tugaya, were still occurring sporadically.38 Such incidents were bound to instill a sense of vengeance toward the American regime among local residents, over and above the families and friends of the dead. Moreover, such feelings were held in common by both members of the Muslim ruling class and the masses. 2 Dissatisfaction over the Philippine Constabulary’s abuse of its authority When the Philippine Constabulary was first formed, it was made up mainly of American commanders and Christian Filipino troops. Then in 1917, as one part of the preparations for future national independence, a policy aiming at the complete Filipinization of the administrative branch was followed by a similar movement in the military sector with the appearance of Filipino Constabulary commanders. Some Muslims had been recruited to the Constabulary forces, but the commanding positions continued to be monopolized by Americans and Christian Filipinos. It was in 1920 that the post of governor of Lanao and commander-in-chief of its Constabulary, formerly held by Americans, was occupied by Paulino Santos,

The uprising of the “fearsome ruler of Lanao” 87 a Filipino Christian retired field officer and former Justice of the Peace of Lanao. The Constabulary in Lanao had been assigned the task of maintaining law and order in the province and protecting “law abiding and taxpaying citizens,” mainly Christian settlers, from violence committed by “outlaws,” which the Americans assumed to be mostly composed of Muslims and other non-Christians. From the viewpoint of the Muslim community, the Constabulary was not taking a neutral stand, and was being heavily biased against them. The oppressive, arrogant attitude shown by some of the Constabulary’s Christian Filipino commanders and troops when dealing with Muslims and the human rights offenses they committed against Muslim criminal suspects and prisoners created feelings of outrage and dissatisfaction within the Muslim community. The heavy-handed tactics and prejudicial attitudes shown by Constabulary law enforcers must have sent a message to the whole Muslim community, regardless of class, that justice was not being meted out on an equal basis to the citizenry of Lanao. The following incident is illustrative of the mistrust and dissatisfaction that Muslim residents were harboring toward the Constabulary at the time Dimakaling was active. During the early part of 1934, a Muslim prisoner who had been accused of murder and robbery was arrested and subsequently died while in the custody of the Constabulary. Word spread among the Muslim community that the prisoner had been killed by Constabulary officers. A local Muslim school inspector, Miguel Alug, brought up the issue of this incident during Governor-General Murphy’s visit to the province, charging a certain Christian Filipino Constabulary officer with mistreatment of prisoners. This accusation was supported by Edward Kuder, an American Superintendent of Schools, who was later transferred to Sulu province because of antagonism with the local Constabulary.39 3 Resentment over obligatory education At the early stages of US colonial rule, many Muslim village chiefs regarded the introduction of the American public education system requiring the use of English as an attempt to convert them to Christianity and refused to cooperate. However, soon it became apparent to some that public education and the economic opportunities it offered in the form of the ability to use English and desirable curriculum vitae was the best road to economic success for their children, so they sent them to school. Gradual acceptance of the colonial public education system by the Muslims in Lanao started to erode the authority as well as the economic stability of such religious leaders as kalis and imams, as well as village chiefs. These local leaders had traditionally settled disputes within their communities according to Islamic and customary law and had earned their living from a portion of the settlements or some other form of gratuity. Those among them who were known to be well-versed in the Qur’an were also teaching it and other basic teachings of Islam to the local children and receiving gratuities in return. Since they commanded authority and earned a living by transmitting and interpreting Islam, they felt threatened by the spread of systems of secular knowledge and the establishment of public education, which represented kapir,40 or non-Muslim, knowledge. For example, when Leonard Wood visited Lanao in 1921 on a special

88 Midori Kawashima mission to ascertain the conditions in the Philippines (the Wood-Forbes Mission), some Muslim leaders in Dansalan, Lanao, expressed their concern that the Qur’an schools were losing their students to public schools because of the government’s policy of compulsory public education.41 During the early 1920s, in the promotion of its public school program, the colonial government decided to impose a fine of 50 pesos on anybody who failed to enroll his children in an elementary school. Such a coercive implementation style repelled the whole Muslim society, both leaders and the rank and file, and drove them to react in protest. In the southern Philippine Muslim regions, there occurred incidents of attacks on public schools and their teachers, and there were village chiefs who ensconced themselves in kota fortifications in protest over the obligatory education policy.42 The previously mentioned rebellion of Sarowang at Tugaya in 1923 was motivated strongly by antiobligatory education sentiment within the Muslim community. That same year, in the municipal district of Bugasan in Cotabato, near the Lanao border, the colonial government was shocked by an incident in which a village chief by the name of Santiago launched an attack on a public school, killing thirteen teachers and Constabulary troops. In 1925, the year marking the first incident of killing allegedly committed by Dimakaling, a movement to refuse school education was at its height in Lanao, especially in municipal districts situated on the western and southern shore of Lake Lanao, such as Wato, Tugaya, and Binidayan. During that year, ten public schools were burned, and in 1926 Muslims from Tugaya attacked and killed a schoolteacher in Lagangan, which is located in Zamboanga, a province adjacent to Lanao. The Constabulary attacked the villages where the suspects were hiding, after their residents refused to hand over the suspects. In several raids either allegedly or actually committed by Dimakaling’s band, schools, and teachers were chosen as targets. These incidents include the murder of a schoolteacher and his wife in Liangan, northern Lanao, in 1933, the attack on Lumbatan Agricultural School in 1934, and threats made to teachers in Bayang in 1935. These cases show elements common to the attacks on schools during the 1920s. All these seem to indicate that antipublic school sentiment continued to exist, which could be readily turned into sympathy with and support for the attackers. 4 Enmity toward police informers Dimakaling’s band not only directed its attacks against Americans and Christian Filipino settlers, but also against Muslims who agreed to cooperate with the Constabulary. During September 1934, one Muslim member of the Wato Municipal District Council was attacked and wounded, and during April 1935, a Muslim village chief of Saguiaran Municipal District was murdered, while in Wato, another Muslim from Pagayawan, Ganassi Municipal District was found dead.43 All of these victims had been suspected of giving information to the Constabulary concerning Dimakaling’s band. A note addressed to a village chief of Pagayawan was found on the corpses found in Wato, and read, “Here is one of your dogs. I killed him because of the sweet money.” The sweet money (“pirak na mamis” in

The uprising of the “fearsome ruler of Lanao” 89 Maranao) can be interpreted as reward money paid by the Constabulary for information leading to Dimakaling’s arrest.44 Two months later, the beheaded body of a Muslim village chief of Nunang, Pantao-Ragat Municipal District was found. Two of the above-mentioned victims held the title of sultan, which indicates a great amount of authority in the Maranao society. The murder of a sultan constitutes a serious challenge to the principles of social rule among the Maranao. The ruling class of Maranao society was tolerant toward Dimakaling’s band concerning its attacks on Christian settlers and public school teachers; however, when their own members became targets of the band’s activities, Dimakaling began to be considered a threat to the local social order. Turning to the Muslim masses, who were suffering from economic distress caused by falling agricultural prices and increasing unemployment, it seemed likely that they hoped for the emergence of a hero who appealed to the popular sentiment for justice and thus created an image of Dimakaling as the defender of Islam in Lanao. It may be argued that within the enmity shown toward the Constabulary informers there was also some enmity for the portion of the Muslim ruling class that was in collusion with colonial state power. If so, the more Dimakaling’s popularity increased among the Muslim masses, the more a danger he became to the Muslim ruling class. The foregoing discussion now brings us to the most important question here: that is, what significance Dimakaling had in the eyes of his fellow Muslims. In other words, how did local Muslims perceive Dimakaling and what kind of image did they form of him?

The oral tradition surrounding Dimakaling One important and useful way of discovering a concrete image of Dimakaling held by the Maranao is to examine the oral tradition which developed around him. Focusing on that oral tradition, this section will examine some of the features of interviews conducted by the author related to Dimakaling and his activities, then discuss the importance of further research on Maranao folksongs, called darangen, as valuable source materials. Justification for Dimakaling’s violence As mentioned earlier in this chapter, the first murder incident attributed to Dimakaling occurred in Momongan in 1925, where two Christian Filipinos were killed and a gun stolen. The Constabulary considered the motivation behind the murder to have been obtaining the gun. However, there is a different version of what happened expressed by some Maranaos. According to this latter version, Dimakaling killed one of the Christian Filipinos in order to punish him. The story goes like this. There was a Christian Filipino who agreed to sell a shotgun to Dimakaling. After Dimakaling had paid

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him in advance, the man ran off without giving him the gun. Dimakaling sent word to the man through an intermediary to hand over the gun, otherwise he said he would kill him. Despite the warning, the Christian Filipino still refused to hand over the gun, so Dimakaling went looking for him. Upon finding him, Dimakaling proceeded to kill him and take possession of the gun he had already paid for.45 A similar account is found in Tales of Mindanao Island written by a Davaoborn Japanese journalist, Nakahara Zentoku.46 Since Nakahara’s source was most likely a long-time Japanese resident of Malabang during the 1930s, it is reasonable to assume that the story was circulating around Lanao at the time. Although the truth of this account cannot be verified due to a lack of documentation; whether it is fact or fiction is actually irrelevant to the present discussion. What is important here are the following two points. First, what Dimakaling meant to many Maranaos was (1) the spirit to fight the injustices being done to them by non-Muslims who had acquired the upper hand and took advantage of that position whenever dealing with local Muslims and (2) the power to sustain such a struggle continuously. Second, the popularity of Dimakaling as the possessor of such spirit and power indicates the legitimization of violence as a form of resistance to exploitation and injustices being inflicted by the powerful. This leads us to the next question of how the Maranao people explained Dimakaling’s source of such power. Dimakaling’s supernatural powers It had been said that Dimakaling possessed powers and abilities above those of ordinary human beings: for example, he had seven different faces, he could make himself invisible, he could foretell the arrival of the Constabulary forces, and he was immortal. He had acquired such powers by mastering the Maranao art of bodily protection, called kebel, and he carried a powerful amulet called an adhimat.47 Kebel masters are able to avoid injury, even if run through with a sharp sword, and can fend off blows like steel plating. Dimakaling is said to have mastered kebel while he was living as a hermit in the mountains, fleeing from the Constabulary. Dimakaling was admired for his kebel art, and several Maranaos had learned it from him. These students also offered protection to him, and Dimakaling would occasionally visit them at their homes. The following story told to me by Mohamd Mahdi, a resident of Bubong, describes how Dimakaling was protected by his students. Mahdi’s father was one of Dimakaling’s kebel students; and one time while Dimakaling was visiting his home, the Constabulary forces were tipped off and came there to arrest Dimakaling. However, Dimakaling was able to foretell the arrival of the Constabulary, and asked Mahdi’s father to deny his presence, and disguised himself as a peasant. When the officers arrived, Mahdi’s father told them that Dimakaling was not there. Being not so familiar with what Dimakaling looked like, the officers failed to recognize the peasant for who he really was and left without incident.48

The uprising of the “fearsome ruler of Lanao” 91 One account describes his adhimat as a set of mystical jewels that were bestowed on him by an old sage in a dream. The story goes like this. One night Dimakaling was sleeping under a Banyan tree (thought to house spirits) in Pagayawan village, when an old man wearing a green turban appeared to him in a dream and told him, “I will protect you.” The next morning, Dimakaling dug under the tree where the old man had told him to and found two “living jewels.”49 From that time on, the adhimat prevented him from being detected by the Constabulary, even if he walked right in front of them. Since the adhimat would cease to work if its holder killed for any reason other than self-defense, Dimakaling adhered to that rule after acquiring it.50 Dimakaling was known among the Muslim population as “Panondiongan Simban sa Ranao” or “Panondiongan sa Ranao.”51 Panondiongan is a traditional title given to leaders of Maranao society but is different from sultan, dato a kabogatan, or radiamuda in that it conjures up feelings of both adoration and awe toward such qualities as strength, courage, and potential danger, and thus stirs the heart deeply. Simban is a term that means king or ruler, with a divine nuance, while sa Ranao means in (of ) Lanao. Therefore, the whole phrase probably translates into English as something like “The Fearsome Ruler of Lanao” or “The Awesome King of Lanao.” The fact of such a title being attributed to Dimakaling indicates a tendency on the part of local Muslims to adore and fear him as a superhuman. Sabir: the idea of martyrdom in Maranao society In Maranao society, the idea of dying in battle fighting kapir was called “sabir.” The term “sabir” is an abbreviated form of “perang sabir,” an adaptation of the Malay-Arabic compound, “perang sabilullah,” which means “battle fought in accordance with God’s will.” Those who realized sabir were thought to ascend directly into Paradise without passing through the Last Judgement. Therefore, sabir can be regarded as martyrdom sanctioned by Islam and adopted by Maranao society. Examples of Maranao heroes who realized sabir in their struggle against foreign invasion include the headman of Marahui (present day Marawi City), Amai Pakpak, who fought the Spanish at the end of the nineteenth century, and those who died in the Battle of Bayan against the Americans in 1902. Regarding Sarowang, who was killed in a 1923 clash with the Constabulary resisting colonial obligatory education policies, there is the folk saying, “When Sarowang died, a soldier saw a vision of a horse with a green mane ascend into Paradise with Sarowang on its back.”52 The same is said about Dimakaling. One account relates Dimakaling’s last moment on the earth as follows. When Dimakaling came out of the house in which he was hiding, the soldiers fired at him. When they stopped firing, they did not see his body, but rather saw a green horse with Dimakaling on its back ascending over the house.53 It is also worth noting that the Maranao version of the Lanao Progress wrote in its report of his death, “Miasabir si Dimakaling.”54 This may be interpreted as

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an indication that Dimakaling’s death was regarded as sabir and talked about as such among the local Muslim residents at the time. Darangen It is known that there was a Maranao folksong, a darangen, that was composed about Dimakaling. The darangen is a musical form of Maranao oral literature sung at both formal ceremonies and for entertainment. In its best known classic form, it sings about such topics as the loves and adventures of gods and heroes, but performers would also ad lib with lyrics about the exploits of contemporary figures.55 It was six years after Dimakaling’s death, in 1941, that the Lanao Press, the publisher of the Lanao Progress released a booklet containing a darangen highlighting the exploits of Dimakaling. Unfortunately, we have not been able to find any extant copies of the booklet, making it impossible to verify the original content of the darangen.56 However, according to the interview with Madki Alonto, who had read the lyrics as a boy, the song praised Damakaling as a hero who fought for the sake of the Maranao people and Islam.57 We do know the title of the darangen from an advertisement appearing in the Lanao Progress.58 It reads “So Kinitindugun o Panondiongan Simban ko Ahulosona-adil a Waldiamakorop.” Kinitindugun, a derivative of its root, “tindug” means “to defend, to protect,” while Panondiongan Simban, as explained previously, is the title applied by the local people to Dimakaling. The rest of the title from ahulosona-adil on is a Maranao adaptation of an Arabic expression, ahulosona, or people (Arab. ahl) who conforms to the norms set down by the Prophet (sunna); adil, justice, fairness; diama (Arab. jamaa), a group of people; korop (Arab. huruf ), literally meaning correct pronunciation in accordance with the Qur’an but used here to mean “correct, without error.” Therefore, when put together the title translates into something like “The Struggle by Panondiongan Simban to Protect Those who Follow Sunna of Justice and the Group of Righteous People,” indicating a song aiming to legitimize Dimakaling’s actions from the standpoint of Islam. In order to come to a clearer understanding of the true significance of Dimakaling’s uprising in the eyes of the Maranao people, it would be necessary to appreciate the darangen about him in its complete form. It is also likely that there existed different versions of the song, apart from the one published by Lanao Press. Collecting, appreciating, and comparing various versions of that darangen would tell us many things about Dimakaling’s popular image, a task that has just started.59 At the present stage, however, it seems reasonable to conclude that (1) an ideology justifying Dimakaling’s actions as an effort to defend the Maranao people did exist, (2) such an ideology seems to embrace a hope among the Muslim masses for someone with supernatural powers and military prowess to come and protect their community from the enemy, and (3) it emphasizes the supernatural aspects of a kebel master and recipient of an adhimat.

The uprising of the “fearsome ruler of Lanao” 93 These findings indicate that elements of popular Islam characteristic of Maranao society constitute a very important factor in understanding the formation of Dimakaling’s image and the ideology justifying his uprising. Since little research has been done to date regarding the popularly accepted Islamic ideas characterizing southern Philippine Muslim regions, including Lanao, there remains much room for further investigation. Furthermore, examples of persons with supernatural powers and military prowess leading mass movements guided by religious principles can also be widely found in the non-Muslim societies of Mindanao and its environs, such as lowland Christian and mountain dwelling non-Christian communities,60 which necessitates comparative analysis of their similarities and differences with Muslim communities. In addition, the fact that Dimakaling’s actions were referred to in Islamic terms as “the defense of those faithful to sunna” in the title of the darangen suggests the pivotal role local ulamas played in cultivating the image of Dimakaling, which emphasizes Islam and represents possibly a more official interpretation compared to the popularly accepted one. Further inquiry into the formation of the image and ideology concerning Dimakaling would bring to light the dynamism of the Islamic movement that was taking place in Lanao at the time.

Conclusion: evaluating the Dimakaling’s uprising Despite a definite dearth of source materials on the personality, activities, and public image of Dimakaling and his followers, it would be safe to conclude from what is available that their uprising received sympathy and support from the Muslim residents of Lanao on a fairly wide scale. The support seemed to come from several different social forces and levels, each with its own unique interests and expectations. To begin with, there were the region’s village chiefs making up the weaker stratum of the ruling class, who felt the need for some form of violence to keep Christian settlers and the colonial regime in check, while at the same time depending on the support of their subordinates. For them, treating a hero among the populace like Dimakaling as their enemy would have made them suspect among the Muslim masses they desired to control. Therefore, they tried to woo him to their side by offering him necessities, protection, and in some cases ties of marriage. Second, there were the local religious leaders who occupied positions of privilege in the existing local social order as experts in Islamic law and teachers of the Qur’an. These religious leaders had become angered at the US colonial government and its agent of violence, the Philippine Constabulary, which had imposed the kapir rule over the area by means of military force. They desired to defend the existing Maranao social order together with its Islamic institutions. They were therefore of the general opinion that it was necessary to resist this threat by every possible means, including violence. At the same time, by the 1930s, they had already learned from previous experiences that direct, all-out armed resistance against kapir rule would be easily quelled by the overwhelming military

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superiority of the United States. It was such factors that led religious leaders to support Dimakaling and his followers. Finally, there were the masses, who could no longer rely on their village chiefs, who had suffered political and economic decline and had become unable to protect their subordinates from the Philippine Constabulary’s abuse of authority and other forms of colonial oppression. These people thus sought in Dimakaling a leader that represented the spirit and power to defend them from the colonial threat to their livelihood. It was under such conditions that Dimakaling’s image was formed as a figure possessing the elements of courage and superhuman powers that the Maranao people traditionally sought after in their heroes and as a force of justice that would protect Muslims against kapir rule by means of armed resistance. However, the ideology that arose around Dimakaling soon became a doubleedged sword for the Muslim rural leadership. Praising Dimakaling as a strong, fair ruler who would militarily protect Muslims from the kapir government and police force meant questioning the legitimacy of Muslim leaders who had chosen to cooperate with kapir. Therefore, Dimakaling’s uprising contained the seeds of an anti-establishment movement within Muslim society itself. It was for this reason that some Muslim leaders joined hands with the colonial authorities to crush the uprising. In this respect, Dimakaling’s uprising represented an expression of the dissatisfaction and anger felt by the Muslim masses and their resistance against the existing order. Despite the presence of such elements, Dimakaling’s uprising did not develop into a dynamic movement to radically change the unjust and oppressive social structure that lay at the root of dissatisfaction and anger among the Muslim masses. Although those same masses admired Dimakaling as a hero, their support for him and his followers was of a passive nature, amounting to no more than providing them with some necessities, protection from the authorities and moral encouragement, rather than actively joining them in their struggle. On the other hand, there is no evidence that Dimakaling himself attempted to mobilize the masses or organize them into a movement with clear and definite goals. The ideology of his movement revolves around courage and superhuman powers, the elements traditionally emphasized in Maranao heroes, and his role as a defender of Islam. Here we also observe no positive efforts to put Dimakaling’s image into a wider context that could have appealed to and mobilized nonMuslim residents in the province. Another aspect of Dimakaling’s uprising was its role in worsening relations between the Muslim and Christian communities of Lanao. No matter what kind of positive image Dimakaling projected, he and his followers launched their attacks mainly on private Christian Filipino settlers and teachers in the region, who were in fact members of the weaker stratum of colonial society. These attacks did nothing but instill feelings of distrust, fear, and vengeance among Christian settlers toward their Muslim neighbors, as shown by the vigilante groups formed in the remote northern Christian communities of Lanao.61

The uprising of the “fearsome ruler of Lanao” 95 Dimakaling’s uprising was first set aside, then dismissed by those Muslim leaders who desired to maintain the existing order. And within such a recurring process, a certain amount of violence had become incorporated into the rural structure at its periphery, as an essential part of it, which it continues to reproduce even today. The southern Philippines continues to be characterized by recurring clashes caused by anger and hatred existing between the weakest elements of the Muslim and Christian communities. It is my opinion that the internalization of violence and the ideology that supports it is the product of the colonial period and that it has had a lasting impact on local society. Dimakaling’s uprising is one example of how a popular movement capable of amassing dissatisfaction among the people and developing into a more dynamic movement that calls for social change became entangled with conservative social forces and developed into the kind of movement that turns popular anger and dissatisfaction toward people of different religious persuasion and/or ethnicity.

Acknowledgments This is a revised version of my paper in Japanese, Nanbu Firipin-Musurimu Shakai No Sanzoku To Minshu: “Osorubeki Ranao No O” No Hanran, in Isuramu Chiiki No Minshu Undo To Minshuka (Popular Movements and Democratization in the Islamic Regions), eds, Kisaichi Masatoshi and Kurita Yoshiko (Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 2004). I would also like to express my deepest gratitude to Alim Usman Imam Sheik Al Aman, to the staff of the Mindanao State University Mamitua Saber Research Center, especially researcher Labi Riwarung, to all my interviewees and everyone else, including the staffs of the archives and libraries I utilized, who helped me in my field research in the Philippines and the United States Without their generous cooperation the data presented here could not have been collected.

Notes 1 Filipino Muslims can be linguistically divided into more than thirteen different groups. The subject of this chapter is the Maranao, one of the four largest Muslim groups residing in what was called Lanao Province during the 1930s, which was later divided into northern and southern provinces in 1959. The terms “Maranao,” “Muslim residents of Lanao,” and “local Muslim residents” will be used synonymously in this chapter. The other major Muslim ethno-linguistic groups are the Maguidanao residing in neighboring Cotabato Province, the Tausug in Sulu, and the Yakan of Basilan. The Spanish, who ruled the central and northern Philippines from the sixteenth to the nineteenth century, used the term “Moro” to distinguish those inhabitants of the southern Philippines who were under the influence of Islam and resisted the Spanish occupation from those of central and northern islands who had accepted Spanish colonial authority and Catholicism. The following US colonial government also adopted that usage. 2 Samuel Tan, The Filipino Muslim Armed Struggle, 1900–1972 (Manila: Filipinas Foundation, 1977), 42; Samuel Tan, The Critical Decade, 1921–1930 (Quezon City: College of Social Science and Philosophy, University of the Philippines,

96

3

4 5

6

Midori Kawashima 1993), 46; Abdullah T. Madale, The Maranaws: Dwellers of the Lake (Manila: Book Store, 1997), 103. A lot of research has been accumulated to date in fields of social and popular history on the role played by “outlaws” and bandits in class relations and their image created by the common people as expressed in their oral tradition. The following books on the subject have given me helpful insights in writing this chapter. Eric Hobsbawm, Primitive Rebels: Studies in Archaic Forms of Social Movement in the 19th and 20th Centuries (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1959); Eric Hobsbawm, Bandits, new edition (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2000); Shingo Minamizuka, Gizoku Densetsu (Legend of Social Bandits) (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1996). The majority of the Christian settlers originated from the Visayan islands, which includes Cebu island. There was also a movie entitled “Dimakaling” released by Cebu Star Pictures in 1950, starring Tancred Juesan and shown at the Dalisay Theatre in Manila between September 16 and 20 (The Manila Times, Sep. 5, 1950: 6), but we have not been able to ascertain if there is an extant copy of the film. The interviews I conducted and used in writing this chapter include the following. Those marked with * were conducted jointly with Labi Riwarung of Mindanao State University Mamitua Saber Research Center and myself. Interviewee

Date

Place

Madki Alonto* Jamel Linogaranao Dimakaling* Mamarinta Lao Abdulkarim Sarowang Mohamad Mahdi* Sheik Abdulgani Batua Macaraya Usman Imam Sheik al Aman Alibsar M. Lucman Robert Laubach

Mar. 11,14, 2002 Mar. 19, 2002 Mar. 10, 2002 Mar. 21, 2002 Mar. 19, 2002 Nov. 26, 2003 Dec. 7, 2003 Mar. 2002 Mar. 2002 Sep.10, 2003

Marawi City Bubong, Lanao del Sur Marawi City Marawi City Bubong, Lanao del Sur Marawi City Iligan City Marawi City Marawi City Syracuse, NY

7 Another material concerning Dimakaling is a book written by Nakahara Zentoku, a journalist and native of the Japanese community in Davao, entitled Mindanao-To Monogatari (Tales of Mindanao Island). The work, which is probably a mixture of fact and fiction, portrays Dimakaling as an anti-Western (potentially pro-Japanese) hero and is interesting as a depiction of Dimakaling and the “Moro” people in the eyes of the local Japanese of Davao immediately prior to Japan’s military occupation of the Islands. 8 These figures are based on the 1939 census conducted in the Philippines. 9 The following titles represent some of the most important research done to date on the US colonial policy toward Muslims and the latter’s response to the US occupation. Peter Gowing, Mandate in Moroland: The American Government of Muslim Filipinos, 1899–1920 (Quezon City: New Day Publishers, 1983); Ralph Thomas, Muslim but Filipino: The Integration of Philippine Muslims, 1917–1946 (PhD Dissertation, University of Pennsylvania, 1971); Samuel Tan, The Filipino Muslim Armed Struggle, 1900–1972; Mamitua Saber, Lanao under American Rule, Mindanao Journal, 8/1–4 (1981–1982): 193–201; Patricio Abinales, Making Mindanao: Cotabato and Davao in the Formation of the Philippine Nation-State (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila Unversity Press, 2000); Fujiwara Kiichi, Ideorigi Toshiteno Esunishiti: Beikoku Tochika Niokeru “Moro Mondai” No Tenkai (Ethnicity as an Ideology: “The Moro Problem” under US Occupation), Kokka Gakkai Zasshi (The Journal of the Assocation of Political and Social Sciences) (1984): 97/7, 8: 46–47.

The uprising of the “fearsome ruler of Lanao” 97 10 An entrenchment constructed by fortifying a settlement with rock, dirt, lumber, bamboo, etc. There were also cases of moats being constructed around them. 11 Some Maranao accounts state that there were two Dimakalings, one from Pagayawan of Balingdong village in Wato Municipal District, the other from some place in Saguiaran Municipal District. The 1931 report of the Chief of the Bureau of NonChristian Tribes (BNCT) also indicates the existence of two different outlaws both named Dimakaling, who were active at the same time, one whose real name was Dimakaling, while the other having another name, Dikalingan and known as Dimakaling (BNCT 1931: 1–2, in the Records of the Bureau of the Insular Affairs (BIA), National Archives at College Park, MD, USA). It is likely that the former Dimakaling corresponds to Dimakaling of Balingdong, Wato, who was active for a longer period and more famous than the other, while the latter corresponds to Dimakaling of Saguiaran, who was active for a shorter period. The Dimakaling I am dealing with in this chapter is the former one. 12 Report of the Chief of the Philippine Constabulary (PC), 1932: 11, in BIA records. The 1925 PC report states that two Christian Filipinos were killed by two Moros on June 1, 1925 and that the motive of the assault was to obtain a gun. However, regarding Dimakaling’s involvement in this murder, there exist different versions expressed by some Maranaos, which will be discussed later in this chapter. 13 PC 1929: 14–15; BNCT 1931: 2; BNCT 1932: 1; PC 1932: 11. Palintuds were fashioned out of water pipes and other locally available materials. 14 These incidents include (1) the attack on the home of a Christian Filipino in Rogongon, Mandulog, northern Lanao in May 1933, in which three people were killed, (2) the raid on Picong Plantation in Malabang Municipality on the western coast in July 1933, in which over 1,000 pesos were stolen, (3) the murder of two Christan Filipino teachers and the daughter of their maid in Liangan, Kolambugan Municipal District, northern Lanao in December 1933 (Monthly Report of the Provincial Governor of Lanao (MRPGL), May 1934:13, in Hayden Papers, Folder 28–6 (Bentley Historical Library of the University of Michigan, USA); Annual Report of the Provincial Governor of Lanao (ARPGL), 1934: 24, in Hayden Papers, Folder 28–6; Joseph Hayden, Letter to Frank Murphy, Governor-General of the Philippines, Aug. 30, 1935, in Hayden Papers, Folder 28–6). 15 Edward Kuder, Division Superintendent’s Inspection Report, Month of May, 1934, dated June 1, 1934, in Hayden Papers, Folder 28–6; MRPGL, May 1934: 5. 16 Ibid., July 1934: 4–5, 13. 17 Ibid., May 1934: 5, 13; Ibid., Sep. 1934; Ibid., Oct. 1934: 3–4. 18 Ibid., Dec. 1934: 4, 12. 19 The English version of the article called him “Number 1 Public Enemy”[sic], while the Maranao version used the phrase “pirmiro a kontra.” The Maranao called those among themselves friendly to the colonial government as “amigo” and those who defied it as “kontra” (Lanao Progress, Aug. 15, 1934). 20 MRPGL Aug.1935: 3, 7; Joseph R. Hayden, Memorandum for Frank Murphy, Governor-General of the Philippines, Oct. 2, 1935, in Hayden Papers, Folder 28–6. 21 Letter of Mamaradlo and Muto, Bayang Teachers to Passmore, Division Superintendent of Schools, Dansalan, Lanao, Aug. 26, 1935, in Hayden Papers, Folder 28–6. 22 Letter of J. Heffington to Joseph Hayden, Vice-Governor-General of the Philippines, July 12, 1934, in Hayden Papers, Folder 28–12. 23 Hayden to Murphy, Oct. 2, 1935. 24 ARPGL, 1935: 10, 48; Lanao Progress, Nov. 15, 1935: 3; Ibid., Dec. 1, 1935: 2. 25 Interview with Madki Alonto, who was a high school student at the time. Alonto recalls that he was in the front row of the crowd overlooking Dimakaling’s corpse. As the excited people behind him pushed, Alonto fell down and embraced the corpse. 26 MRPGL June 1934:13.

98 27 28 29 30 31

32 33 34 35

36 37

38 39 40 41 42

43 44 45 46

47 48 49 50 51

Midori Kawashima ARPGL 1932: 3, 26; Ibid., 1933: 3, 10, 11. ARPGL 1934: 56. ARPGL 1932: 26. Although not an administrator but a missionary, Laubach had a similar outlook toward the Lanao society, as indicated by the very title of the local newspaper he published, Lanao Progress. Maranao society is divided into four “dynasties” called pongampong, which are further divided into a number of suk, which are made up of inged, then the smallest unit, agama. Each of the social units belonging to all the four levels has leaders who hold hereditary titles, sultan being the highest in rank, followed by kabogatan, radiamuda, etc. Those who have such titles belong to the most prestigious and influential families. Interview with Madki Alonto. Interview with Mohamad Mahdi. One account states that he had a total of about ten wives around the lake, one each in a place where he had stayed (interview with Jamel Linogaranao Dimakaling). This is indicated in the statement of Col. Guy Fort, Commander for northern Mindanao of the Philippine Constabulary at the conference with village chiefs of Bayang in Dansalan, at which Hayden and Col. Fort were present (Joseph Hayden, Memorandum regarding the Conference held in Dansalan with the village chiefs of Bayang, dated Sept. 19, 1935, in Hayden Papers, Folder 28–1). ARPGL 1932: 35; MRPGL 1934: 35. Federico Magdalena, “The Battle of Bayang, 1902,” in Federico Magdalena (ed.), The Battle of Bayang and Other Essays on Moroland ( Marawi City: Mamitua Saber Research Center, Mindanao State University, 2002); Diary of Leonard Wood, 1902, in Wood Papers, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress, USA; Chicago Tribune, Apr. 11, 1903, in the Papers of John Pershing, Box 370, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress, USA. Samuel Tan, The Critical Decade, 1921–1930 (Quezon City: College of Social Science and Philosophy, University of the Philippines, 1993), 45–46. Heffington to Hayden, July 12, 1934; J. Heffington, Letter to Teofisto Guingona, Director of the Bureau of Non-Christian Tribes, Aug. 3, 1934, in Hayden Papers, 28–12. An adaptation of the Arabic word “kafir.” Diary of Wood, Sep. 2, 1924. The description of protests against obligatory education in this section is based on the following sources: Samuel Tan, The Critical Decade, 45; Abdullah Madale, The Maranaws, 143–144; PC 1923: 9–11; PC 1925: 7; BNCT 1925: 3; Wood Diary: Aug. 20, 1926; Interview with Abulkarim Sarowang, Sarowang’s son. PC 1934: 35; Lanao Progress, Sep. 15, 1934; Lanao Progress, May 1, 1935. “Pirak na mamis” was translated as “the money of the government” in the English version of the report in the Lanao Progess (May 1, 1935: 3). Interview with Jamel Linogaranao Dimakaling. According to Nakahara’s book, Dimakaling had been working as a laborer under a Christian foreman on road construction projects in Lanao Province several years prior to his first murder. It was then that Dimakaling made an arrangement with the foreman for the sale of a gun. Although Dimakaling paid the money, the foreman refused to hand over the gun or return the money. Holding a grudge, Dimakaling later took the law into his own hands, killed the man and took his gun. An adaptation of the Arabic word “ajimat.” Interview with Mohamad Mahdi. “Living jewels” are special stones that are believed to reproduce and multiply. Interview with Jamel Linogaranao Dimakaling. Mamaradlo and Muto to Passmore; Interviews with Madki Alonto and Mamarinta Lao. The title was also mentioned in the article that appeared in the Philippine Free Press (Nov. 30, 1935) report of Dimakaling’s death and was translated into English as “dictator.”

The uprising of the “fearsome ruler of Lanao” 99 52 Interview with Abdulkarim Sarowang and several other Maranaos. 53 Interview with Jamel Lenogaranao Dimakaling. 54 Lanao Progress, Dec. 1, 1935, “miasabir” is a verb form of its root “sabir” in its perfect tense. The author of the Maranao version of the article is unknown, but it is likely that he was a young Maranao who understood English. It is also possible that Frank Laubach, who was fluent in Maranao, wrote it himself (interviews with Robert Laubach, the son of Frank Laubach, and Batua Macaraya who worked under Frank Laubach at the Lanao Press in the 1930s). 55 Concerning darangan, see the following titles: Usopay Hamdag Cadar, Context and Style in the Vocal Music of the Muranao in Mindanao, Philippines (Iligan City: Center for Research and Development, 1980); Mamitua Saber, “Foreword,” Darangan, vol.1 (Marawi City: University Research Center, Mindanao State University, 1986); Ma. Delia Coronel, “Introduction,” in Darangan, vol. 1. 56 Jose Maceda, an expert in Maguindanao music, mentions the Dimakaling saga as an example of a modern darangen (Jose Maceda, The Music of the Maguindanao in the Philippines, Ph.D. dissertation, University of California, Los Angeles, 1963: 159). This indicates that it spread in the Maguindanao region, which lies adjacent to the Maranao region and whose language is similar to Maranao. Nagasura Madale, an expert in Maranao culture and society, relates that only a fragment of the Dimakaling darangan was extant as of the 1970s (Nagasura Madale, “A Preliminary Classification of Muslim Literature in the Philippines,” Mindanao Journal, 2/3–4: 47–48). 57 Interview with Madki Alonto. 58 Lanao Progress, Apr. 15, 1941: 4. 59 In 2002, a project to collect the oral tradition related to Dimakaling was begun by the Mindanao State University Mamitua Saber Research Center. Center researcher, Labi Riwarung, has been conducting interviews with contemporary darangen performers and Maranao elders in search of source materials. While I was finalizing this chapter, I heard from Labi Riwarung that she had just collected and transcribed a darangen on Dimakaling and was working on its English translation. We look forward to the publication of her work. 60 These include the Colorum uprising, which took place in Surigao Province, north-eastern Mindanao, in the 1930s, and the Alangkat movement, which occurred in the 1920s among an ethno-linguistic group called the Manobo, who dwell in the mountainous area of Bukidonon and Agusan Provinces. 61 MRPGL July 1935: 15.

6

Democratisation in Indonesia and Malaysia Syed Farid Alatas

This chapter is a historical study of the emergence of the dominant forces that shaped the types of regimes found in Malaysia and Indonesia. Both emerged as democratic post-colonial states. However, in Indonesia the democratic process was suspended altogether and, after about a decade of independence, an authoritarian state emerged there. Malaysia, on the other hand, retained in relative terms a functioning democratic system. After the onset of the financial crisis in 1997, some have suggested that there is a convergence in regime types between the two, that is, the ousting of Anwar Ibrahim reflects a general tendency towards greater authoritarianism while the ousting of Suharto is a manifestation of democratisation. The contrast between Indonesia and Malaysia, then, provides us with an opportunity to study the conditions under which democracies emerge and can be sustained in post-colonial states.

Introduction This chapter on democratic and authoritarian post-colonial states is based on a historical study of the emergence of the dominant forces that shaped the types of regimes found in Malaysia and Indonesia.1 Both emerged as democratic postcolonial states. However, in Indonesia the democratic process was suspended altogether and, after about a decade of independence, an authoritarian state emerged there. Meanwhile, Malaysia retained, comparatively speaking, a functioning democratic system. Since the Asian financial crisis that began in 1997, a number of changes have been taking place in Indonesia and Malaysia that suggest to some that there is some convergence in regime types between the two. The suggestion is that the ousting of Anwar Ibrahim reflects a general tendency towards greater authoritarianism, while the ousting of Suharto is a manifestation of democratisation. The contrast between Indonesia and Malaysia, then, is an opportunity to study the conditions under which democracies emerge and can be sustained in post-colonial states.2 The cases of Indonesia and Malaysia exemplify two paths that lead to authoritarian and democratic states, respectively. These cases offer two very different origins of post-colonial states upon which a number of theoretical issues can be brought to bear.

Democratisation in Indonesia and Malaysia 101 This chapter is concerned with three broad questions. First of all, it looks at how the interplay of three factors, that is, elite cohesion, internal state strength, and armed resistance, leads to two different outcomes, that is, authoritarian and democratic post-colonial states. Second, it looks at whether there is a convergence in regime types between the two states in light of the events of the past three years. Third, given the role of the factors mentioned in the preceding lines and the historical and structural constraints thereby established, I make some critical remarks on the role of civil society in the process of democratisation. Three conditions under which democracy can survive in post-colonial states, based on the experience of Malaysia and Indonesia, are (1) the absence of armed resistance against the state, (2) the presence of an internally strong state and (3) a high degree of elite cohesion. Given that both Malaysia and Indonesia emerged as democratic post-colonial states, the reasons for the persistent struggle of democracy in one and its failure in the other have mainly to do with a relatively stronger state and a higher degree of elite cohesion in Malaysia as compared to Indonesia. In addition to regional instability and communist insurgency, the greatest opposition and obstacle to parliamentary democracy came from the elite itself in Indonesia. Democracy was introduced to Indonesia and Malaysia by the Europeans. In such circumstances, democracy can survive only if certain conditions are fulfilled. All three conditions were fulfilled in Malaysia and Indonesia immediately following formal independence. However, in Indonesia a decade after independence, the internally weak state took its toll on democracy. The democratic phase of the Indonesian state failed to solve pressing economic problems and state elites were divided as to the course that should be taken. This culminated in the rise to power of antidemocratic forces. In Malaysia, the political elite was never divided to the extent that the democratic nature of the state was undermined for the long term. Democracy in post-colonial states was introduced from outside. What needs explanation is how and why democracy persisted in some post-colonial states and gave way to authoritarianism in others. This study is an effort in this direction. This chapter proceeds as follows. The first section makes a case for the comparative study of state formation in Indonesia and Malaysia. I then move on to a discussion on peasants and mass movements and examine the degree to which Malay and Indonesian peasants were actors in the anti-colonial movements and in the post-colonial state. Indonesia differs from Malaysia with respect to the far greater incidences of armed rebellions and separatist movements. The next two sections highlight the differences in the internal strength of the state in the context of the emergence of the two post-colonial states and the question of why democracy persisted in Malaysia but gave way to authoritarianism in Indonesia. The stress here is on the differences in elite cohesion in the context of the role of the state in the mobilisation of private domestic as well as state capital. I then bring the discussion up to the present to consider whether political events that had been unfolding in the context of the Asian economic crisis are putting Indonesia and Malaysia in the direction of new regime types, that is, democracy

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and authoritarianism, respectively. The concluding section makes some remarks on civil society. Thus, the chapter attempts to explain the conditions under which stable democratic and authoritarian regimes were established in the two states, whether there is a convergence in regime types between the two states, and if these conditions still remain.

Democracy and authoritarianism in Indonesia and Malaysia The fact that the Malaysian state has managed to maintain a relatively democratic regime, while an authoritarian regime came to power in Indonesia, has never been the focus of historical and comparative analysis despite certain cultural, social and historical affinities between these two countries. The Malaysian and Indonesian post-colonial states as they exist today are examples of democratic3 and authoritarian4 states respectively. Objections are likely to be raised to the characterisation of the Malaysian state as democratic. Some have referred to the state in Malaysia as being authoritarian or neither democratic nor authoritarian. As a result, some questions may be raised concerning the comparability of the two cases of Indonesia and Malaysia. The justification for comparison in the present study arises from the fact that while democratically elected government existed in the early post-colonial period in both countries, the transition to an institutionalised, consolidated democratic regime did not take place in Indonesia. This, of course, raises the question as to whether such a transition took place in Malaysia to warrant our attempt at comparison. A meaningful comparative analysis can be made only if, amidst the overall similarities between the two cases, crucial differences can be identified that may explain differences in the outcome of regime types. But, such a method is valid only if it is acceptable to say the outcomes are different, that is, there are differences in the phenomenon to be explained to begin with. If one takes the view that both Indonesia and Malaysia are authoritarian states, the historical comparative method resorted to would be very different from the one attempted in this study. Therefore, it is necessary to justify the designation of Malaysia as a democratic state. While it can be conceded that the Malaysian state does not live up to the standards of Western liberal democracies, nor aspires to, it is a system in which democratic procedures and institutions distinguish it qualitatively from the regime in Indonesia. Here Aron’s discussion on the nature of democracies is insightful. All regimes whether democratic or authoritarian are oligarchic in nature. The essence of politics is such that decisions are taken for and not by the community. Popular sovereignty should not be taken to mean that the people are directly involved in decision-making.5 If every regime masks an oligarchy, how are democracies distinguished from authoritarian regimes? Important distinctions lie in the manner in which power is wielded, the rules according to which the dominant minority governs, the extent to which the ruling minority is open, and the means by which it is selected. The political system is more democratic to the

Democratisation in Indonesia and Malaysia 103 extent that the ruling minorities of the regime are open for entry by way of democratic procedures. Along these lines of argument it is fair to say that Malaysia, in comparison to liberal democracies, is corrupted by too much oligarchy, which is not to say that it is an authoritarian state. Instead, relatively free elections give power to representatives of privileged minorities. While it may be true that democratic procedures would only be adhered to as long as the ruling elite maintains its positions of power and continues to advance its ideal and material interests, the conditions under which this is so must be explained. This is to be done in comparison with the Indonesian case. In Malaysia, since independence in 1957 general elections have been held regularly, the first in August 1959. Subsequently, elections were held in 1964, 1969, 1974, 1978, 1982, 1986, 1990, 1995, and 1999. The post-independence period of Malaysia has seen three consecutive changes of heads of government and nine general elections.6 Throughout this period civilian authority in the state has been the rule. Still, the democratic nature of the state must be understood with certain qualifications. Nevertheless, what exists in Malaysia is more than the mere form of democracy. It differs qualitatively from authoritarian states, Indonesia included. Opposition as well as government parties exist at the national as well as regional levels. Apart from an almost two-year period of ‘suspended democracy’ following racial riots after the 1969 elections, parliamentary democracy has functioned continuously. Whatever the causes of the suspension of democracy were, they did not operate sufficiently long enough nor were they severe enough to result in the appearance of a non-democratic state. Turning to Indonesia, sovereignty was transferred from the Dutch to the Indonesians in 1949. The general view is that there was a period of parliamentary democracy lasting from 1949 till 1957. However, following Goh, if we exclude those periods of nominated parliaments and cabinets, the liberal democracy period consisted of just thirteen months of elected government (March 1956–April 1957).7 From 1949 to 1957, there was a constant change of cabinets and government coalitions.8 By 1952, under the Wilopo cabinet, severe criticisms from the enemies of Wilopo and the use by politicians of military officers to undermine the Minister of Defence led to a petition from military leaders with the permission of the cabinet asking for the dissolution of parliament and new elections. This was refused by Sukarno and led to open mutiny in three of seven army divisions against army headquarters. Wilopo finally resigned in July of 1953 after a vote of no confidence.9 In September of 1955, Indonesia’s first parliamentary elections were held. However, in 1956, the Ali cabinet faced a military conspiracy in west Java as well as a series of revolts in Sumatra, Kalimantan and Sulawesi. In the face of regional revolts and hostile government coalition partners the Ali cabinet resigned in March 1957. The Ali cabinet was the first and last Indonesian cabinet (until recently) to be set up on the basis of free elections. The year 1957 saw the beginning of the era of Guided Democracy in which the president and the army played active and prominent roles. Under this system Masyumi (Majlis Syura Muslimin Indonesia)

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and the PSI (Indonesian Socialist Party) were outlawed due to their support for democracy. Furthermore, the monopoly of political parties in political representation was broken. Half the seats in parliament were allocated to functional groups (golongan karya), which were based on occupation and special status. The military held seats in legislative assemblies as one of the functional groups. Sukarno was elected president-for-life.10 As the Indonesian economy collapsed in the early 1960s, a series of events, including armed rebellions, culminated in the rise to power of General Suharto, who set up an anti-Communist cabinet and placed Sukarno under house arrest. Under Suharto’s New Order (Orde Baru), which commenced in 1967, functional groups and parties were merged under one government party, Golkar. Only two opposition parties were allowed – the Development Unity Party (PPP) formed from the merger of four Muslim parties, and the Indonesian Democratic Party (PDI) formed from the merger of three secular parties and two Christian parties.11 The 1971 elections were the first to be held since 1955, after which there were six more in 1977, 1982, 1987, 1992, 1997, and 1999.12 During the Suharto period, genuine political contestation was checked by the government’s management and control of the electoral system. Suharto himself had said that the country did not need opposition party politics as Indonesian politics was based upon consultation and consensus, both of which were provided for in the Constitution and the Pancasila.13 Laws pertaining to the electoral process and political parties favoured Golkar. For example, criticising government policies during the election campaigns was prohibited.14 In addition to this, from the early 1980s the Indonesian government required all parties and social organisations, including those in the opposition, to adopt the Indonesian state doctrine, Pancasila, as the ‘sole principle’(asas tunggal).15 Most important of all is the People’s Consultative Assembly (MPR – Majlis Perwakilan Rakyat), the highest constitutional body in the country. According to Indonesian law the 1,000 seats16 in the MPR are awarded partly by government appointment and partly according to the results of the last general election. Nevertheless, all members had to be approved by the government regardless of whether they were elected or not.17 Golkar had always, until this year, been able to obtain more than 60 per cent of the vote in the past five general elections.18 In addition to this its allies in the armed forces and government-appointed regional representatives must be taken into account.19 As mentioned earlier, the MPR was and is still responsible for the selection of the president and vice president for a five-year term. It should be obvious that for most of post-colonial history, the Malaysian state has a number of features which set it apart from Third World authoritarian regimes, which tend to be totalitarian, military-dominated, one-party systems or bureaucratic authoritarian. The regularity of general elections, universal suffrage and the legal existence of opposition parties co-exist with a powerful state which derives legitimacy from the functioning of democratic institutions but which continues to play a dominant role in structuring politics and social life.20 The quasi-, semi- or statist democratic nature of the Malaysian state should not allow one to

Democratisation in Indonesia and Malaysia 105 labour under the impression that democracy is merely a facade. Furthermore, it is not being argued here that the Malaysian state is a liberal democracy but rather that it has been for the most part more democratic than Indonesia.

Peasants against the state Europe has seen revolutions with broad peasant and labour participation. In France, the fall of the Bastille in the summer of 1789 must be understood against the background of labourers roaming the cities looking for arms and grain and demanding both bread and liberty.21 During the collapse of the Romanov autocracy in Russia in March 1917, it was the crucial link between workers and the army that neutralised upper-class resistance.22 These revolts, rebellions and outbursts among the lower classes were directed against a specific class, the landlords. Although there had always been in these countries local and sporadic revolts against the landed classes, what was new in the French, Russian and Chinese revolutions was that peasants had ‘achieved a successful, wide-spread, direct assault on the property or claims of landlords’.23 This included even the seizure of seigniorial property. In France, feudal records and grain stores of local seigniors were seized.24 In Russia, the peasantry acquired possession of land formerly belonging to landlords. In those revolutions in which peasant participation was spontaneous and autonomous, the peasantry was responsible for pushing the revolution beyond levels required by liberal and bourgeois interests. In France various feudal practices and institutions such as seigniorial dues, the venality of offices, tax immunities, hunting rights and court pensions were all surrendered. But, as Skocpol notes, ‘the liberal nobles and Third Estate representatives assembled at Versailles would never have initiated this session of sweeping reforms had not a spreading agrarian revolt against the seigniorial system forced their reluctant hand’.25 In other words, as participants in bringing about revolution the peasants had succeeded in pushing for such radical reforms. In revolutions in which peasant participation was a result of direct mobilisation by revolutionary organisations as in China, peasants provided support, military as well as non-military, because they were made to feel that the Chinese Communist Party was fighting for their interests. Peasant support was vital, and it amounted to the Communist Party ‘treating peasant lives, property, and customs with scrupulous respect’.26 Not only were peasants important in the revolutionary initiative but were also featured prominently in the outcome, playing active roles in new-regime building. Communist leaders were recruited from among the deprived classes after the revolution27 and emphasis was placed on developing small rural and mediumscale industries for the benefit of peasant consumers.28 The peasantry was not left unprotected by the state or at the mercy of market forces. In both patterns of revolutions (spontaneous peasant rebellions or directly mobilised peasants) there was widespread participation of the peasantry that proved vital in bringing down the old regime. So powerful were these forces that they either had to be repressed during the aftermath of the revolution or brought

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into the process of state formation. This contrasts with the case of Malaysia where the participation of the peasantry and labour was not focused against particular dominant classes or the colonial state during the periods of struggle for independence. In Indonesia, on the other hand, the significant force in the war of independence came from the various parties and organisations whose leadership came from professionals and bureaucrats, mainly Dutch-educated Indonesians placed in the colonial civil service, and which were able to mobilise mass followings. These movements against the colonial and later post-colonial state took the form of armed rebellions and regional separatism. While it is being argued here that authoritarianism in Indonesia was partly a response to threatening armed revolts and separatist movements, there had also been mobilisation of the masses to support authoritarianism. Consider the failure of the Madiun rebellion of 1948. The Central Labour Organisation of All Indonesia (SOBSI) and members of various socialist parties had not supported the idea of a revolution against the government and, therefore, were not behind the unsuccessful PKI-planned Madiun coup29 even though SOBSI and the socialist parties were Communist-oriented themselves. They did not support the PKI-planned Madiun coup because many socialists were loyal to Sukarno, whereas the PKI was attacking leaders such as Sukarno who had become symbols of Indonesian independence from the Dutch.30 Nevertheless, this did not lead to a ban on the PKI, as Sukarno chose to include the communists in his system of Guided Democracy. The communists would be especially useful in counteracting the power of the orthodox Muslims and the military.31 To strengthen their position as a political partner, the PKI sought to mobilise the peasant population which, among other things, meant the undertaking of activities that directly related to the alleviation of everyday problems. For example, the PKI revived the traditional village custom of mutual aid in the repair and construction of roads, bridges, irrigation works and houses, fought for lower interest rates on loans, and pushed for more favourable terms for sharecroppers and for raising agricultural production.32 As a result, the PKI was able to obtain 16 per cent of the votes in the general election of 1955, only seven years after the communist revolt of 1948, and was one of the four largest parties in the country.33 Further inroads were made in the provincial elections of 1957 and ten years after the Madiun affair the PKI had more than a million peasant members.34 In other words, when mobilisation of the masses did take place, it was in support of Sukarno and not against the state, and in the context of an already phased out parliamentary democracy. In Malaysia, there was no war of independence and the lower classes were neither participants nor sources of pressure in the negotiations between the British and the Malayan elite for self-rule. The only militant element in Malayan labour was associated with the Communist Party of Malaya (CPM). The emerging Malaysian government, however, had refused to accept the legal existence of the CPM in an independent Malaysia. Meanwhile, during the period of the emergency imposed by the British from 1948 for a period of twelve years, the CPM

Democratisation in Indonesia and Malaysia 107 had failed through guerrilla and terrorist activities to gain the support of the masses. It was condemned to outlaw status in independent Malaysia as well and never made any inroads in the labour movement. In Malaya, credit for the success of the government counter-insurgency policy against the CPM must go to the British, as the greater part of the emergency period lasting from 1948 to 1960 was during the period of colonial rule. In fact, in 1956, a year before independence, Tunku Abdul Rahman, the nation’s first prime minister declared that the government would only build up a small army so as not to sap the resources of the country.35 This indicates that the emerging government of independent Malaya did not see the CPM as a great threat to the security of the country. There were no plans to build up the armed forces and the police on a scale necessary to fight communist insurgency. After the British left, there was no great expansion of the armed forces and police. It does seem that the government of post-colonial Malaya ‘did not bestir itself unduly over the military threat posed by the CPM’.36 The left was heavily suppressed, but most of this suppression took place during the British period. By the time of formal independence, there was not much left of an anti-government movement to suppress. In Indonesia the situation was very different. Indonesia was plagued by widespread armed revolts and separatist movements from colonial times which have lasted till today. Most of these revolts took place after 1945, and the various separatist movements survive till today: the PKI-planned Madiun rebellion in 1948, the Darul Islam movement in west Java that proclaimed the Islamic State of Indonesia (Negara Islam Indonesia) in 1949 and survived as a regional rebellion from 1948 to 1962, the south Moluccan Republic (Republik Maluku Selatan) movement in 1950, the establishment of a counter-government in Sumatra, the PRRI (Pemerintah Revolusioner Republik Indonesia – Revolutionary Government of the Republic of Indonesia) in 1958, the Free Papua Organisation movement in Irian Jaya since 1962, the PKI coup attempt in 1965 that led to the downfall of Sukarno, Fretilin (Frente Revolucionaria de Timor Leste Independente – Revolutionary Front of Independent East Timur) and the Free Aceh Movement (Gerakan Aceh Merdeka) since 1976.37 Many of these rebellions involved military units that broke away from the army. For example, the 1965 coup attempt involved four units from different services and their intelligence forces. The problem of armed revolts in Indonesia added to the various forces of opposition against the government after independence. Democracy was implanted in Indonesia and Malaysia from outside. One of the conditions under which it can survive is an absence of mass resistance to the democratic programme and state. While neither the Malaysian nor the Indonesian post-colonial states were up against mass movements, Indonesia did face a series of armed rebellions that contributed to the downfall of Indonesian democracy. The stability of the democratic Indonesia state was threatened and led to the reactive establishment of an authoritarian regime. The Indonesian and Malaysian democratic post-colonial states differ in that the former was brought down, in part, by armed revolts and the latter was not.

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Internal state strength: the struggle for independence Given that democracy was valued, placed on the nationalist agenda and fought for, what were the material conditions that conditioned its emergence as an institutional reality? The guiding principle here is that the forces that seek a democratic state will attain their goals if, first, there is no armed resistance to their programme. In the case of Indonesia and Malaysia, the preceding section established that mass resistance was not an important factor in the struggle for independence in both countries but that armed resistance was widespread in Indonesia. Second, the state was internally strong. Third, a high degree of elite cohesion was present, founded in part on similar class and ideological backgrounds. In this section, the focus is on the internal strength of the state, defined in terms of strong class support. This operated in Malay and Indonesia in different ways. The internal strength of the state can be defined in terms of the resources it can mobilise in situations when its power is challenged,38 as well as in terms of the support it receives from the dominant classes, whether industrial or merchant capital, or the landed classes. A democratic regime that is internally strong can withstand opposition without having to respond by suspending the democratic process altogether. Barrington Moore referred to the strong bourgeois impulse as a requirement for democracy. What is important is the general principle behind this, that is, strong class backing for the democratic state. In Malaya, the economically dominant class, predominantly Chinese capital, was allied with the emerging Malay ruling elite supported by the British in the establishment of a constitutional democracy. In Indonesia, the economically dominant Chinese had not been able to wield political power in order to exert themselves as a ruling class until after independence in the late 1950s and early 1960s. This is because Indonesia, unlike Malaysia, had a strong indigenous merchant class that allied with the emerging ruling political elite against the Dutch. Taking the Malay–Indonesian Archipelago as an entity, historically Java was a centre of indigenous trade in spices and textiles, with other regions, Malaya included, being peripheral. Thus, in Malaya, the Chinese did not encounter resistance in establishing themselves as the eventual Malaysian domestic capitalist class while in Indonesia indigenous merchant capital had been organised against Chinese capital since the establishment of the Sarekat Islam. The first crisis that the Malay nationalist movement experienced came from the idea of the Malayan Union. Before the conclusion of the Second World War, the British had devised a scheme that would unite the Federated Malay States, the Unfederated Malay States, Penang and Malacca as a single crown colony with the aim of eventually granting independence. This was referred to as the Malayan Union. What alarmed Malay nationalist leaders about the scheme were the provisions it made for the political and cultural equality of non-Malays with Malays. In a country where the Malays were barely a majority in their own land and were economically backward, this spelled disaster. Malays from various backgrounds came together on 11 May 1946 under the Mentri Besar (chief minister) of Johor, Datuk Onn bin Ja’far, to establish the United Malays National Organization (UMNO).

Democratisation in Indonesia and Malaysia 109 In the light of these developments, Britain could not proceed with the Malayan Union scheme. Not only did it face the possibility of open rebellion from amongst the Malays but even the Chinese and the Indians gave little support to the scheme because it could not guarantee rights along communal lines. A democratic union without such guarantees was not acceptable. The Malayan Union scheme was scrapped. What emerged in its place was the Federation of Malaya proposal, the details of which were worked out together by the Malay elite, the rulers (the various sultans) and the British. In the proposed federation, the states involved would be the same as in the Malayan Union scheme. The new conditions, however, were that Malay cultural domination would be established, and Malays would wield political power.39 The working committee reported that it followed five principles: (1) the need for a strong central government, (2) the need to maintain the individuality of each Malay state, (3) the need for new arrangements leading to selfgovernment, (4) common citizenship for those who regarded Malaya as their home and were loyal to her and (5) recognition of the special position of Malays and their rights, which must be safeguarded.40 The need for recognition of the special position of the Malays was stressed because ‘the Malays live in a country in which they, owing to the influx of foreign immigrants, are numerically inferior. It is important to emphasise that the Malays have no alternative homeland, while the remainder of the population, with few exceptions, retain in varying degrees a connection with their country of origin, and, in very many cases regard that country and not Malaya as the primary object of their loyalty and affection.’41 In 1949, the Malayan Chinese Association (MCA) was established. It was an association, the class nature of which was capitalist. The UMNO–MCA alliance during the 1952–1953 municipal election as a preparation for independence began the ruling elite-capital alliance that has characterised Malaysian political economy to this day. The Alliance, as it was known, won 94 out of a total of 119 seats over a two-year period.42 In the first national election for legislative council seats, held in 1955, the Alliance won 51 out of the 52 seats and thus became the government that led the country to independence.43 The alliance formula worked as follows, for elections: the MCA provided funds while the UMNO allocated some seats for the MCA to contest. This is the essence of the MCA–UMNO alliance to this day and is the basis of Malaysian democracy in the sense that the Malay ruling elite has the support of the economically dominant Chinese capital in the running of a democratic state. This is true, notwithstanding other forms of support that capital extends to the Malay-dominated state via the stock exchange, taxation, etc. On 31 August 1957 the Federation of Malaya was proclaimed an independent state and a member of the British Commonwealth. In Indonesia, independence was not obtained so easily. The newly proclaimed Republic in 1945 had a temporary constitution, a central National Committee of 135 members, a cabinet, and a functioning military. Administration was established throughout most of Indonesia.44 After the Allies landed, Sukarno, Hatta and Sjahrir tried to negotiate with the Dutch but were not able to prevent large numbers of Dutch soldiers from entering the country. In 1946 the Dutch

110 Syed Farid Alatas succeeded in establishing control over several cities in Java and Sumatra and over much of the other islands. Most of Java and Sumatra was under the government of the Republic. Political parties were established and a parliamentary cabinet was set up under Sjahrir.45 The new government was almost immediately beset by internal problems. In July 1946 there was a failed attempt to stage a coup d’etat by the communist, Tan Malaka.46 In November 1946, the Sjahrir government and the Dutch signed the Linggadjati Agreement according to which the Dutch recognised Indonesian authority in Java and Sumatra and the ultimate granting of independence to the country within the context of a Netherlands–Indonesian Union. Meanwhile, with 150,000 Dutch troops in Indonesia, the fighting continued. Accusing the Republic of not living up to the Linggadjati Agreement, the Dutch succeeded, through military action, in capturing strategic territory including estate, mining and food-production areas in Sumatra and Java. In 1948 the Renville Agreement was signed, but it only ‘reflected the weaker military position of the Republic’.47 By then the Dutch controlled more than half of Java, most of Sumatra, Kalimantan and East Indonesia. When the prime ministership of the Republic was taken over by the leader of the Socialist Party, Amir Sjarifuddin, the PKI grew in power. Amir’s cabinet fell in 1948 and was replaced by one led by Hatta and composed mainly of nationalist PNI and Muslim Masjumi members. What crystallised was a conflict between this cabinet and the pro-communist coalition, Front Demokrasi Rakyat (People’s Democratic Front), led by Amir Sjarifuddin. The main point of contention was the manner of dealing with the Dutch.48 At the same time in 1948, Musso, a communist leader from the 1920s, returned from exile in Russia and organised the FDR into an expanded PKI that launched a failed rebellion against the government. This was known as the Madiun coup. The rebellion was suppressed, and Musso was killed in the battle. Amir and other leftist leaders were executed. Within months of the Madiun affair, the Dutch launched another attack against the republic and captured its capital, Jogjakarta. Sukarno and Hatta were among those top leaders who were exiled on the island of Bangka. The Dutch had gained control over the main urban areas of Java and Sumatra and hoped to establish a federal Indonesia on their own terms.49 However, world opinion was not on their side. More important, the United States took a pro-Indonesian stance, and on 28 January 1949 the United Nations Security Council passed a US-sponsored resolution that ordered the Dutch to (1) return Indonesian Republican leaders to Jogjakarta, and (2) assist them in the arranging of elections for the transfer of sovereignty to the United States of Indonesia by July 1950.50 The combination of armed Indonesian resistance, changing attitudes of Dutch business groups and increasing US pressure on the Dutch (including the threat of suspending Marshall Plan Aid) led to a change of policy on the part of the Dutch.51 A cease-fire between the Republic and the Netherlands was called on 1 August 1949. With the military phase of the revolution over, negotiations at the Round Table Conference at the Hague between the Republic, the BFO (Bijenkomst voor Federaal Overleg – Federal Consultative Assembley) and the Netherlands commenced.52 Plans were made for unconditional and irrevocable transfer of

Democratisation in Indonesia and Malaysia 111 complete sovereignty to the Indonesians.53 Of the various concessions that the Indonesians made at the Round Table Conference, the heaviest were in the economic field. First of all, the Republic of the United States of Indonesia (RUSI) was to assume the debt of the former Netherlands Indies, which amounted to 4,300 million guilders. To the Indonesians, this represented payment for four years of Dutch military campaigns against them.54 Furthermore, the Indonesians would be required to provide guarantees to Dutch capital in Indonesia that all the rights, concessions and licenses granted to them by the Netherlands Indies governments could not be expropriated except in accordance with the law.55 Sovereignty was formally transferred on 27 December 1949. In both Malaya and Indonesia in the period following independence, the context of a functioning democracy was that of emerging indigenous elites who were educated in the Western tradition,56 who were already participating in democratic institutions prior to independence, and who did not have to contend with overwhelming mass mobilisation. Nevertheless, parliamentary democracy could not survive in Indonesia due to the prevalence of armed and separatist movements, the absence of an internally strong state and the lack of elite cohesion, problems not seriously encountered in Malaysia.

Ethnicity and the internal strength of the state As far as Indonesia and Malaysia are concerned, the question of internal state strength, and the support that the state receives from the dominant classes in particular, cannot be viewed in isolation from the ethnic factor, simply because of the predominance of domestic Chinese capital. Therefore, our understanding of the internal strength of the state must take into account both class and ethnic aspects of dominant class support for the state. For example, Chinese capital finds itself in a particular set of relations with the state due to being Chinese as well as owners/controllers of the means of production. As has been said earlier, the Malaysian state was internally strong in comparison to the Indonesian state, and this is accounted for by the dominant class support forthcoming in the former but absent in the latter. Dominant class support for the state in Malaysia is obvious from the information given in the next paragraph. The class aspect of this support can be seen in the patronage relationships between the state and the private sector and in the phenomenon of bureaucrat capitalists. In the early years after independence and prior to the launching of the NEP, the Chinese fraction of capital was dominant, as Malay capital was significantly undeveloped.57 But the NEP brought a new set of rules, regulations and constraints on Chinese capital, which allowed for the emergence of politically connected Malay private capital by way of ‘Ali-Baba’ arrangements, appointments to company directorships and the procurement of government contracts, not to mention the increasing role of foreign capital since the 1970s.58 In addition, Malay bureaucrat capitalists, that is, those who hold or once held bureaucratic posts and use such posts for initial capital accumulation,59 had made their

112 Syed Farid Alatas indelible mark on the economic landscape. Nevertheless, in spite of the change in the ethnic composition of capital, and whatever the direction and magnitude of such change in state–capital business relationships since independence, the point is that the state has continuously had a solid financial basis and access to funds. This has provided for some degree of democratic stability. This includes the provision of funds to UMNO politicians from Chinese capitalists, which was as true of the 1950s as it is of today.60 There is also an ethnic aspect to the role played by capital in maintaining the internal strength of the state. As far as Chinese capital was concerned, this was especially important in the early years of post-colonial state formation, as discussed earlier. This alliance, in the form of the Barisan Nasional (BN) today, is still important in spite of the relative loss of clout of Chinese capital. Although there had been a decline in support from the Chinese community of the MCA since 1959 and the implementation of the NEP resulted in the MCA losing ground to Chinese-based opposition parties during the past three decades,61 as well as in the constriction of Chinese capital,62 the ability of the MCA to bring in votes due to its link with capital is still significant because of the role it plays in ‘reinforcing Chinese ethnic identity and giving it concrete expression’ in economic activity.63 In spite of a history of Malay-Chinese antagonism, including the riots of May 1969, Malay sentiments towards the Chinese were not such that Chinese capital could not aspire to ruling class status. The situation in Indonesia has been quite a stark contrast to that of Malaysia. On several counts, the Indonesian state can be said to have been internally weak. The weakness of the state in terms of the presence of secessionist movements and regional revolts has already been noted. As has been said earlier, internal state strength implies that the state has the resources of the dominant class available to it, whether this is in the form of tax revenues, election funds, parliamentary support and so on. These were not forthcoming to the state, as indigenous capital was not a dominant class,64 Chinese capital had no political clout, and there was intense rivalry between the two during the period of liberal democracy. Although indigenous capital was too weak to constitute a basis of state strength, its very presence made it politically unfeasible for the young Indonesian state to consider an alliance or a more accommodative stance vis-à-vis Chinese capital. Historically, the Javanese priyayi did not make the shift from rights of appropriation over land, labour and crop to private property, and a land-owning bourgeoisie did not develop.65 While both Chinese and Javanese santri merchants66 were active in trade up to the seventeenth century, the Javanese suffered from the establishment of the VOC and the subsequent control of international trade by the Dutch. Javanese dominance in rural trade also diminished when the Dutch removed travel and residence restrictions on the Chinese between 1910 and 1926, resulting in conflict between indigenous and Chinese capital.67 Sumatra faired better than Java as far as the rise of indigenous traders is concerned. Minangkabau traders developed a prospering trade in gambier, coffee and textiles in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century. Sumatrans were involved in

Democratisation in Indonesia and Malaysia 113 small-holder export production of rice and rubber in the early part of this century and a handful were able to expand beyond small-scale trade and move into import and export, and even manufacturing in the 1950s, while at the same time spreading to Java.68 Nevertheless, the lack of a basis for large-scale capital accumulation such as tax farming, pawn shops and wholesaling69 and easy money through the Ali-Baba economy prevented indigenous capital from developing sophisticated business organisations with extensive ethnic networks that could lead to large-scale capital accumulation. Chinese capital could not aspire to ruling class status because the Chinese were not accepted by the masses as having a legitimate public political role, thereby limiting the possibilities for collusion with the newly emerging post-colonial state due to the general state of hostility towards the Chinese.70 This is especially so in view of the ‘sins’ that Indonesian Chinese are said to have committed, according to the majority of asli Indonesians, including:71 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

domicile exclusively in Chinese area; preference for recruiting Chinese workers; wage discrimination in favour of Chinese workers; discrimination between Chinese and asli Indonesians in business relations; lack of social solidarity with asli Indonesians; weak sense of national identity; lack of assimilation to Indonesian culture; view of Indonesian citizenship purely in legal terms; superiority complex vis-à-vis asli Indonesians.

To be sure, such attitudes towards the Chinese were in part a result of Dutch use of the Chinese as middlemen in the exploitation of Indonesia’s natural resources. The Chinese had become prominent in Indonesian trade during colonial times partly because colonial policy had placed restrictions on their entry into other occupations and the purchase of land.72 This had the effect of establishing Chinese economic dominance in certain fields as well as isolating them socially from asli Indonesians.73 The sentiments of the Indonesians with respect to the Chinese were reflected in government policies during the liberal democracy period, which sought to Indonesianise the economy through a series of discriminatory measures designed to transfer wealth and control over the means of production from alien and Chinese hands into native Indonesian ones.74 Furthermore, capital’s position vis-à-vis the state in Indonesia was further weakened by the position taken by the army contra the bourgeoisie. The military was an enthusiastic supporter of Guided Democracy and, therefore, the decline of parliamentary democracy. To the extent that parties such as Masjumi represented the interests of Muslim merchants, this was a blow to indigenous capital. The close identification of Masjumi with the PRRI rebellion, which the army suppressed, only strengthened the view that separation of the army from politicians is ‘a holy dream which may be realised by the next generation, who have not participated in the revolution to free Indonesia from Dutch colonialism’.75

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The state and army’s strong apprehension of the incompetence of indigenous capital was quite clear in the take-over of Dutch firms by the army in 1957–1958. Under other circumstances, such firms could have come under the control of indigenous capital.76

Elite cohesion The question of why and how Malaysia’s style of democracy emerged and stabilised and why Indonesia experienced a breakdown in parliamentary democracy can be further addressed by recourse to an elite perspective on democratic stability. Such a perspective is not at odds with class analysis but highlights the role of elites as actors in their own right. During Indonesia’s period of liberal democracy, competing elites shared power and resources while acting as patrons to communal clienteles in the four major parties, the PNI, PKI, Masyumi and NU. The elite factionalism that unfolded in a struggle for power among these elite patrons was seen in the cleavages between both the administrative elite and the solidarity makers as well as the santri and abangan elites.77 The inability of the political elite to resolve their disputes and deal with the pressing economic issues of their time, amidst problems of armed and regional revolts and an internally weak state, was deemed sufficient justification for the army to involve itself in political decision-making. The ability of the army to weaken the military resistance of the separatist movements had sufficiently impressed Sukarno, and so he was willing to give the army formal representation in the emerging Guided Democracy regime.78 The Indonesian problem of elite cohesion was in stark contrast to the situation in Malaysia, both before and after the riots of May 1969 and the temporary suspension of parliamentary democracy. From 1957 to 1969, the UMNO, MCA and MIC had consensus on vital questions concerning the special position of the Malays, the status of Malay as the official language and citizenship for non-Malays.79 The alliance between Malay and Chinese elites broke down temporarily when the Central Working Committee of the MCA said that the party would not join the new alliance cabinet as Chinese voters ‘rejected the MCA to represent them in the Government, if the result of the general elections reflect their wishes’.80 Nevertheless, when the new cabinet was formed on 20 May 1969, the MCA continued to be part of it, providing three ‘Ministers with Special Functions’.81 Although there was still talk of withdrawing from the cabinet when the situation returned to normal, the Chinese Chambers of Commerce were able to persuade the MCA to reconsider the question of participation in the cabinet.82 The potential for protracted elite factionalism between the MCA and UMNO was manifest in the views of some UMNO politicians who were against continued alliance with the MCA. But what finally took place was a power struggle within UMNO itself. When Tun Tan Siew Sin announced that the MCA would not be in the cabinet, he was openly supported by UMNO ‘ultra’ politicians such as Dr Mahathir Mohamad, Syed Ja`afar Albar and Syed Nasir Ismail, who wished

Democratisation in Indonesia and Malaysia 115 the UMNO to go it alone in the cabinet.83 The elite factionalism was within the Malay leadership and not between Malays and Chinese. Tunku Abdul Rahman told the Malay weekly, Utusan Zaman, that Malay extremists within the UMNO wanted to topple him.84 The MCA was eventually quite amenable to participating in the cabinet, but the reason for suspension of democracy for up to twenty-one months was the power struggle between Tunku Abdul Rahman and those within the UMNO who had opposed him.85 Nevertheless, the problem of leadership within the UMNO was resolved when Tun Razak replaced the Tunku as prime minister in September 1970. What is interesting is that whatever elite factionalism surfaced during this period was intra-Malay rather than inter-ethnic. The ‘ultra’ Malay UMNO elite did not move to expel the MCA from the cabinet but simply supported the MCA’s earlier decision not to be in the cabinet. The real conflict was within UMNO, with the MCA issue being used to discredit rival elites. It should also be noted that the relative elite cohesion in Malaysia during the formative period of the post-colonial state was in the context of an internally strong state and a non-politicised military, unlike the case of Indonesia. The fundamental difference between Indonesia and Malaysia is that in the former no one class or party was capable of wielding power and preserving a system that benefited capital. Circumstances were right for the military to step in to maintain the proper conditions for capital accumulation. In Indonesia, because of the opposition from various quarters, this resulted in authoritarian rule. In Malaysia, on the other hand, the state was, so to speak, politically homogenous even though ethnically divided. The ethnic divisions were, and are, politically united in the interests of state and private capital. No serious threat to the status quo after 1969 could have ended parliamentary democracy.

The Asian economic crisis of 1997–1999 and democratisation Many social scientists and other observers in the media suggest that Indonesia is democratising while Malaysia is becoming increasingly authoritarian. The indicators of this, among other things, are the ousting of Suharto, a reflection of the popular will, and the ousting of Anwar, a reflection of Mahathir’s dictatorship. The evidence given by those in favour of this viewpoint is the following: In the case of Malaysia, authoritarian tendencies are shown by (1) the sacking of Anwar, (2) the use of the ISA (Internal Security Act) to detain him and others, (3) the gagging of his wife, (4) the ban on rallies, or rather the illegality of rallies, (5) the use of police force against peaceful demonstrators, (6) the allegedly fabricated evidence and trumped up charges against Anwar and (7) a ‘kangaroo court’ to try him. In the case of Indonesia, democratic tendencies are seen in (1) the popular uprising against Suharto, (2) a show of justice through the trial of the policemen responsible for the killings of some university students during the student protests, that is, the Trisakti University incident of 12 May, 1998, (3) the investigation into Suharto’s allegedly ill-gotten wealth, (4) political reforms involving the new

116 Syed Farid Alatas electoral system, (5) a bill to curb the then President Habibie’s powers,86 (6) limitation of the president’s tenure in office to two terms, (7) the revamping of Golkar, (8) the re-tendering of Suharto-linked contracts, (9) the purging of sixty MPR members, including several close business associates of Suharto87 and seven of his relatives, including four children,88 and (10) parliamentary and presidential elections in Indonesia held in 1999. My counter-argument would be the following: With regard to Malaysia, it should be clear that the nature of the regime has hardly changed during the past fifteen to twenty years. (1) Anwar’s sacking, however, unjust or wrong one might take it to be, was done democratically, that is, in consultation with the UMNO party elite; (2) the use of the ISA, the gagging of Anwar’s wife, the ban on rallies, are all nothing new; they happen from time to time and are the resurfacing of the same authoritarian elements that have always been around; (3) the use of police force or brutality against Anwar or against demonstrators, however objectionable, is not an indicator of increasing authoritarianism as these events occur in liberal democracies as well; (4) press coverage of Anwar’s speeches and press releases, as well as those of the opposition, were given good coverage; (5) Anwar’s former personal secretary was released from detention, despite a request by the police that he be detained longer as the police wanted to conduct additional DNA tests, alleging that a previous test was tampered with; (6) Anwar could complain to the judge that he was brutalised while under detention; (7) rallies and meetings of the opposition continue; (8) various individuals and groups speak openly on Anwar’s behalf; (9) the televising of Munawar Anees’ wife’s outburst against the government, angry at a Star report on 5 November 1998 that alleged she thanked the authorities for looking after her husband well, when the authorities had actually humiliated her family; (10) on the nature of the evidence against Anwar and the ‘kangaroo court’, it is clear that (a) the trial was open, (b) there was adequate space for examination and cross-examination by the defence, (c) the report of the outgoing Special Branch chief, Mohd Said Awang, was made available to the defence and was not classified under the OSA, even though it was damaging to the prosecution’s case, (d) there was fair coverage of the trial in the press and (e) the written judgement was published and made available for analysis and scrutiny by lawyers, scholars and activists. Therefore, democracy, although in a precarious condition, is still as alive as it had been, and not on the decline. On the other hand, it is premature to argue that Indonesia is on the path to democracy. It may well revert to authoritarianism with a vengeance, as has been the case with many other countries. The indications that this might be the case for Indonesia are as follows: (1) the army had begun to clamp down on protesting students by issuing statements forbidding demonstrations, and in June 1998 there was talk of the government passing a new law to ban political rallies and demonstrations that were disruptive,89 a far cry from May when the army was very lenient; (2) many observers insist that the army has been creating excuses to regain authoritarian control by orchestrating chaos in the form of (a) looting, (b) rapes, (c) ninja murders and (d) inter-religious violence; (3) although electoral

Democratisation in Indonesia and Malaysia 117 reforms have taken place, it is not clear to what extent the new system is a continuation of the old. The present members of the Peoples’ Consultative Assembly (MPR), which selects the president, were mostly appointed under Suharto, and it is this group which met to prepare for the general elections of May 1999 and the presidential elections that followed; (4) there is also the question of whether the military will regain its prominent role, which is basically anti-democratic, in the light of increasing inter-religious and inter-ethnic violence, separatist movements and a declining economy. This then raises the question of whether the three conditions making for democracy are still present in Malaysia and still absent in Indonesia.

Armed resistance against the state Both Indonesia and Malaysia are still far from being bogged down by armed resistance. It is difficult even to speak of mass movements as having arisen in these countries since 1997. What we see in Malaysia is not a mass movement but an insurrectionary movement among a limited number of supporters. Therefore, it is not a threat to the state. When the consciousness of this group extends to the working class, peasantry, intelligentsia, etc., and there is more joint action, then we can speak of a mass movement. Indonesia has a student movement that is limited in scope, and Suharto was brought down not so much by a mass movement as by the coalition between Golkar, the military, with the support of the opposition (students, Muhammadiyah, Nahdatul Ulama). Despite the sweeping changes, economic as well as political, that Indonesia has undergone during the past few years, what we have been witnessing is far from a revolution. In fact, the changes that have come about thus far, while important in themselves and significant for the political economy of Indonesia, have been far from radical. The ousting of Suharto and the reforms currently underway did not come about as a result of long-term ideological preparation, or the recruitment, training, organisation and mass mobilisation of various social groups. Nor do these changes appear to have set in motion processes that would culminate in a new economic order, or a political regime with a class basis different from that of Suharto’s New Order. Only time will tell the extent to which political and economic change in Indonesia would constitute a radical break from the past. Nevertheless, it is quite reasonable to suggest that the various groups and coalitions that have thus far participated in Indonesian political changes during the past three years have not proceeded to phases of political activism that could result in the entire dismantling of the economic and social basis of the Suharto regime. To appreciate this line of reasoning, it would be necessary to outline the roles of the different groups and coalitions in the toppling of Suharto, as well as their roles thereafter. The present account attempts to do this by focusing on the different stages and modes of mobilisation of various social groups in Indonesian society. Such a focus would reveal the non-revolutionary nature of the mobilised forces, as well as the possible directions that the Indonesian political economy

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may take in the next year or so. The stages are not mutually exclusive and should be seen more in terms of succeeding waves of group mobilisation that co-exist even if they had unequal staying power. Stage 1: Violent Mobilisation of Ethnic Sentiments (1997). This was directed against the Indonesian Chinese as well as Christian minorities, but was triggered by the East Asian currency crisis. Stage 2: Non-violent Mobilisation (April–June 1998). This marked a different phase in the coup and also represents the more humane and mature aspects of Indonesian political activism, as compared to the stage before. The main force consisted of students, under the tutelage of largely religious intellectuals. Stage 3: Urban Riots (May–July 1998). These took place alongside the non-violent activism of the students and involved both looting and the targeting of ethnic Chinese shops and homes. In July reports of rape of Chinese women were coming in. It was during this period that Suharto stepped down. Stage 3 was probably a more crucial factor in Suharto’s ousting than stage 2. Stage 4: Worker Demonstrations (June–July 1998). This stage was abortive, with workers not making concerted, sustained efforts. Stage 5: Political Reforms (May 1998–November 1999). The series of political reforms initiated by Habibie rapidly led to the dissipation of power of the forces that made up the previous stages, and to the election of a new parliament and President Abdurrahman Wahid. I have said that mass or armed resistance to the state could result in an authoritarian backlash. I believe that in the absence of such a mass resistance, the state has to create or orchestrate violence/instability to create a pretext for taking control and suspending democracy. This is a plausible explanation for the rapes of May 1998 and the ninja murders. Therefore, while the objective conditions for democracy, that is, lack of armed/mass resistance against the state, are present, democracy may not be something the military and other forces want. Furthermore, armed resistance in the form of separatist movements still threatens the integrity of Indonesia as a nation and may continue to provide justification of a prominent role for the military.

The internal strength of the state The Malaysian state is still internally strong in the way that I have defined it. On the other hand, the Indonesian state is sufficiently weakened by the exodus of Chinese capital and its financial support to the political elite via cronyism. It is possible that Chinese capital will continue to play the role of supporting the president and his entourage as it did in the past, as President Abdurrahman Wahid and his successor, Megawati Sukarnoputri, do seem not out to break the dominance of the Indonesian Chinese as Habibie was.90 But, Indonesian Chinese capital has fled. According to the estimate of Christianto Wibisono of the Indonesian Public Forum for Democratic Solidarity, Indonesian funds in

Democratisation in Indonesia and Malaysia 119 Singapore amount to US$100 billion (S$170 billion). Total non-bank deposits held in Asian Currency Unit (ACU) accounts by Indonesian entities and individuals in Singapore amounted to about US$70 billion.91 To add insult to injury, Habibie had said that pribumi entrepreneurs could fill in the gap in distribution chains left by fleeing Indonesian Chinese92 and the Indonesians would not die if the ethnic Chinese did not return.93 To what extent they will return and play a dominant role in Indonesian politics still remains a question.

Elite cohesion At this point it would be difficult to speak of a factional split within the Malaysian political elite, even within UMNO itself. In Indonesia, factionalism appears to be everywhere among the elite. This is true of the military. There are also problems between parliament and the president. Factors such as (1) no dismantling of kleptocracy, (2) light punishment of elite transgressors, for example, Prabowo and Suharto and (3) the prominence of Golkar in the administration of Gus Dur, serve to exacerbate divisions. The problem also lies in the military’s too prominent role in politics. Even if the civilian elite remained cohesive to the extent that they could bring about effective reforms, the military could still justify its prominent role in politics by pointing to instability (which it has been accused of orchestrating) and an internally weak state. Furthermore, the nature of the military is antithetical to democracy.

Conclusion: civil society and democratisation – ideology and utopia A distinctive feature of democracies is citizenship. While all types of political systems have rulers and the ruled, it is only democracies that have citizens. The concept of citizenship dates back to classical Greece but acquired its modern meaning after the French and American revolutions. A citizen is one who has civil, political and social rights. Therefore, a society has citizens only to the extent that it is democratic. A central feature of a democracy is the prominence of civil society, the intermediate sphere of society between the private realm of the family and the political relations of the state. Civil society consists of a variety of NGOs engaged in various activities as interest and pressure groups seeking to influence public policy, plus of course the free-floating intellectuals that Karl Mannheim spoke of. If we understand the role of intellectuals in terms of agitation for change and conscientisation of the masses, the question, as far as Indonesia and Malaysia are concerned, becomes whether the intellectuals and other civil society actors here can play such a role effectively. Whatever the structural constraints and objective conditions might be, there is always potential for the opening up of democratic space, as the past three years have shown. So, as I see it, a central issue is the role that intellectuals can play in this process of expanding democratic space.

120 Syed Farid Alatas Here, I find it useful to approach the question in terms of Mannheim’s concept of utopia. In a paper entitled ‘Religion and Utopian Thinking Among the Muslims of Southeast Asia’ Shaharuddin Maaruf applies this concept to the study of the social and political thought of Muslims in the region. Utopian thinking refers to that which ‘is incapable of correctly diagnosing an existing condition of society’ because those doing the thinking are not at all concerned with what really exists; rather in their thinking they already seek to change the situation that exists. Their thought is never a diagnosis of the situation; it can only be used as a direction for action.94 Individuals or groups guided by utopian thinking are so keen on the transformation or destruction of the existing situation that they only see those aspects of that situation that tend to negate it. Utopias are, therefore, different from ideologies that focus on those elements of a given condition that tend to preserve it. Utopian thinking ‘lends a millenarian, populist, eschatological and orthodox character to the religious life of many Muslims in Southeast Asia . . .’ and ‘underlies the demands for the establishment of the Islamic states and the implementation of Islamic laws’.95 Shaharuddin lists the following as traits of utopian thinking as they applies to Muslims in Southeast Asia: (1) rejection and denial of the existing order, (2) the posing of a radical alternative to the existing order, (3) distortion of certain aspects of current realities which challenge their ideas, (4) the role of ideas in mobilisation rather than for the purpose of diagnosis and (5) its populist rather than intellectual nature.96 An example of utopian thought that Shaharuddin gives is the totality of the claim that Islam is a complete way of life, which thereby denies the necessity of debate with rival ideas such as capitalism, socialism, democracy and humanism, and ensures ‘the integrity of their own system of thought’.97 This being the case, what can we say of the role of Muslim revivalist and orthodox ulama. If we accept the idea that their thinking is dominated by utopias of one variety or another, what will be their impact on civil society? We can think of at least the following: 1 2

3

4

The lack of a common agenda for political and social transformation among the Muslim intelligentsia The lack of cohesion in civil society, in that there is little engagement or cooperation with the so-called secular elements of civil society owing to their lack of Islamicity The lack of engagement with modern knowledge and ideas, especially those pertaining to capitalism as an economic system, democracy, liberalism and others Little diagnosis of the existing situation

What this spells is an underdeveloped Muslim social thought in theory and practice, and an intellectually impoverished Muslim civil society, and therefore the inability to engage in those activities that contribute to the opening up of democratic space. This translates into little change as far as the regimes of Malaysia and Indonesia today are concerned.

Democratisation in Indonesia and Malaysia 121 Finally, I would like to make a point about Islam in relation to the idea of civil society. Many suggest that the Islamic notion of mujtama‘ madani (Malay/Indo. masyarakat madani) corresponds to the idea of civil society as it is understood in the social sciences. This is not the case. Those calling for a more vibrant civil society seek greater political space and participation. Those calling for the establishment of mujtama‘ madani have in mind something quite different. Syed Muhammad al-Naquib Al-Attas has pointed out that the concept of masyarakat madani does not refer to civil society but rather to a religion-based society founded upon the ethical and moral system of Islam. The terms madani, madinah (city) and din (usually translated as religion) are all derived from the same root, d-y-n.98 According to al-Attas, the fact that the name of Yathrib was changed to al-Madinah means that it was there that the real din was established.99 The term madinah refers to a religious community. In Islam, civilised life is life in a masyarakat madani, and it is the madinah where a madani-type existence is established, informed by the ethical system and moral order of Islam.100 Rather than use ‘civil society’ and masyarakat madani interchangeably, we should have a correct understanding of their different meanings and realise that the struggle for the democracy of Islam is in fact a struggle for both civil society and masyarakat madani, that is, for democratic space as well as an Islamic moral order. To acknowledge that democracy is a term and institution that originated in the West is not to say there is no notion of democracy in Islam or that democracy cannot be Islamized, as Syed Hussein Alatas pointed out in an early work, The Democracy of Islam. According to Alatas, two fundamental features of the democracy of Islam are concern with the unity of the human race and the freedom of belief. Mutual benefit and understanding are to be derived from differences among people. Because these differences are natural, it follows that people should be free in expressing their different ways of life.101 We may conclude, therefore, that the public realm of freedom and action sought is part of the notion of masyarakat madani.

Notes 1 The part of this chapter covering the pre-financial crisis period is derived from my Democracy and Authoritarianism: The Rise of the Post-Colonial State in Indonesia and Malaysia (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1997). 2 The significance of this study lies in the fact that there has been hardly any comparative work done on the state in Malaysia and Indonesia. A recent exception is Ariel Heryanto & Sumit K. Mandal (eds), Challenging Authoritarianism in Southeast Asia: Comparing Indonesia and Malaysia (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003). Furthermore, the few works on the state in the two countries tend to focus on issues not directly related to the question of the origins of the post-colonial state. 3 The democratic state is defined as one in which (1) the posts of the executive are elective, (2) political parties are prominent, and their members can be elected to representative bodies such as parliament, (3) there is genuine competition among opposing political parties for votes, (4) elections are honestly conducted, (5) it is civilians who are prominent in the political process and (6) there is a separation of powers such that the executive of the state is itself subject to the law. In a democratic state,

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5 6

7 8

9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33

Syed Farid Alatas it should be possible for the majority of the people to change their government through the electoral system should they so desire. The authoritarian state is first defined negatively, as one in which the traits of democracy are absent or, if they are present, are shams. In the modern world there are several types of authoritarian states, including fascist, totalitarian and military states and dictatorships. The kind of authoritarian state that concerns us here is what various scholars have referred to as the bureaucratic polity, bureaucratic-authoritarian and bureaucratic-capitalist state, which is dominated by both civilian and military bureaucrats and in which democratic procedures are purely formal or non-existent. Raymond Aron, Democracy and Totalitarianism (London: Weidenfeld & Nicholson, 1968), 83. On the first eight see NSTP, Elections in Malaysia: Facts and Figures (Kuala Lumpur: NSTP Research and Informations Services, 1994); Ahmad Fawzi Mohd Basri, ‘Pilihan Raya Umum 1995: Mandat Baru Menjelang 2000’, Dewan Masyarakat, May 1995. Goh Cheng Teik, ‘Why Indonesia’a Attempt at Democracy in the Mid-1950s Failed’, Modern Asian Studies, 6/2 (1972): 225–244, 225–226. Ulf Sundhaussen, ‘Indonesia: Past and Present Encounters with Democracy’, in Larry Diamond, Juan J. Linz and Seymour Martin Lipset (eds), Volume 3, Democracy in Developing Countries: Asian Countries, 423–474, 431 (Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner Publishers; London: Adamantine Press, Ltd., 1989). Ibid., 431–432. Ibid., 435–436. For a review of the party system see Daniel Dhakidae, ‘Partai Politik dan Sistem Kepartaian di Indonesia’, Prisma 10/12 (1981): 3–23. C. van Dijk, ‘The Indonesian General Elections 1971–92’, Indonesia Circle 58 (1992): 48–66. ‘There is no need for an opposition, says Suharto’, Straits Times, 9 September 1995. R. William Liddle, ‘Indonesia in 1987: The New Order at the Height of its Power’, Asian Survey, 28/2 (1988): 180–191, 181. Ibid., 184. This applies to the Suharto period. The MPR has since been reduced to 700 seats. Ibid. Tan Chee Leng, ‘Indonesia in 1992: Anticipating Another Suharto Term’, Southeast Asian Affairs, 1993, 147–160, 148. R. William Liddle, ‘Indonesia in 1987’, Asian Survey 28/2 (1988): 180–191, 181. James Jesudason, ‘Statist Democracy and the Limits to Civil Society in Malaysia’, Journal of Commonwealth and Comparative Politics, 33/3 (1995): 335–356. Theda Skocpol, States and Social Revolution: A Comparative Analysis of France, Russia and China (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), 66–67. Ibid., 98. Ibid., 114. Ibid., 122. Ibid., 118. Ibid., 253. Ibid., 264. Ibid., 269. G. Kahin, Nationalism and Revolution in Indonesia (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1952), 300–301. Ibid., 301. B. Gunawan, ‘Political Mobilization in Indonesia: Nationalists against Communists’, Modern Asian Studies, 7/4 (1973): 707–715, 709–710. Ibid., 712. Ibid.

Democratisation in Indonesia and Malaysia 123 34 Ibid. 35 Chandran Jeshurun, ‘Government Responses to Armed Insurgency in Malaysia, 1957–1982,’ in Chandran Jeshurun (ed.), Government and Rebellions in Southeast Asia (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 1985), 134–165, 136. 36 Ibid., 137. 37 Justus M. van der Kroef, ‘Separatist Movements in Indonesia’, Southeast Asian Spectrum, 4/4 (1976): 9–19; Abdurrahman Wahid and Dorodjatun Kuntjoro-Jakti, ‘Government Responses to Armed Communist and Separatist Movements in Indonesia: Islamic and Military Perspectives’, in Jeshurun (ed.), Governments and Rebellions, 166–179; S. Soebadi, ‘Kartosuwiryo and the Darul Islam Rebellion in Indonesia’, Journal of Southeast Asian Studies, 14/1 (1983): 109–133; R. J. May, ‘Ethnic Separatism in Southeast Asia’, Pacific Viewpoint, 31/2 (1990): 28–59, 28–43; Bilveer Singh, East Timor, Indonesia and the World: Myths and Realities (Singapore: Singapore Institute of International Affairs, 199w5). 38 Christopher Chase-Dunn, Global Formation: Structures of the World-Economy (New York: Basil Blackwell, 1989), 113. 39 Karl von Vorys, Democracy Without Consensus: Communalism and Political Stability in Malaysia (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1975), 73. 40 Federation of Malaya, Report of the Working Committee Appointed by a Conference of His Excellency, the Governor of the Malayan Union, Their Highnesses The Rulers of the Malay States and the Representatives of the United Malays National Organization (Kuala Lumpur: Malayan Union Government Press, 1947). 41 Ibid., 23. 42 Charles Schumaker, ‘The Formative Years of Malaysian Politics: The MCA and the Alliance’, unpublished manuscript cited in von Vorys, Democracy Without Consensus, 109. 43 By this time the Malayan Indian Congress had joined the Alliance. 44 For more details on the Indonesian struggle for independence see Kahin, Nationalism and Revolution; Anthony Reid, The Indonesian National Revolution, 1945–1950 (Hawthorn, Victoria: Longman, 1974); C. Smit, De Indonesische Quaestie (Leiden: Brill, 1952); Alastair M. Taylor, Indonesian Independence and the United Nations (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1960). 45 H. Feith, The Decline of Constitutional Democracy in Indonesia (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1962), 9. 46 Kahin, Nationalism and Revolution, 148–178. 47 H. Feith, The Decline of Constitutional Democracy in Indonesia (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1962), 10. 48 Ibid., 10–11. 49 Ibid., 11. 50 Ibid., 12. 51 Ibid., 12–13. 52 The BFO was the organisation of federal states set up by the Dutch in the regions of Indonesia that they controlled during the revolution. 53 Ibid., 13–14. 54 Ibid., 15. 55 Ibid. 56 For a discussion on the intellectual dependence of Indonesian nationalists on West, see Leslie Palmier, ‘Indonesia’s Rejection of Tradition’, Asian Affairs, 20/2 (1989): 195–204. 57 James V. Jesudason, Ethnicity and the Economy: The State, Chinese Business, and Multinationals in Malaysia (Singapore: Oxford University Press, 1989), 36–38. 58 Jomo Kwame Sundaram, A Question of Class: Capital, the State, and Uneven Development in Malaya (Singapore: Oxford University Press, 1986), 266, 269. 59 Yoshihara Kunio, The Rise of Ersatz Capitalism in Southeast Asia (Singapore: Oxford University Press, 1988), 72–74.

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60 Heng Pek Koon, ‘The Chinese Business Elite of Malaysia’, in Ruth McVey (ed.), Southeast Asian Capitalists (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University, 1992), 289. 61 See Heng, ‘The Chinese Business Elite’ for a review of the various election results since 1959. 62 Jesudason, Ethnicity and the Economy, ch. 5; Gomez, Political Business, pp. 39, 289–290. 63 Jesudason, Ethnicity and the Economy, 157. 64 Fachry Ali, ‘The State and Types of Social Formation in Indonesia’, Transnationalization of the State and Social Formation: The Indonesian Experience, Working Papers of the United Nations University Asian Perspective Project (Southeast Asia), Quezon City, 1984, 70–87, 74. 65 R. Robison, Indonesia: The Rise of Capital (Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 1986), 11–12. 66 Yahya Muhaimin, ‘Muslim Traders: The Stillborn Bourgeoisie’, Prisma, 49 (1990): 83–90. 67 Ibid., 21. 68 Ibid., 21–22. 69 Ibid., 26. 70 Robison, Indonesia: The Rise of Capital, 29; see Charles A. Coppel, Indonesian Chinese in Crisis (Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press, 1983). 71 Mely G. Tan, ‘The Ethnic Chinese in Indonesia: Issues and Implications’, in Leo Suryadinata (ed.), Southeast Asian Chinese: The Socio-Cultural Dimension, (Singapore: Times Academic Press, 1995), 13–27, 16–17. 72 W. S. Chen, ‘Masalah ‘Dominasi Ekonomi Indonesia oleh Golongan Tionghoa’, Review of Indonesian and Malaysian Affairs, 21/2 (1987): 82–93, 82. 73 Paul Rabe, ‘Dutch Colonial Economic Policy toward the Etrhnic Chinese in Indonesia’, Journal of Southeast Asia Business, 8/2 (1992): 41–57, 55–56. 74 See Leo Suryadinata, Pribumi Indonesians, the Chinese Minority and China, (Singapore: Heinemann Asia, 1986), ch. 6. 75 Statement of Imron Rosjadi, an NU parliamentarian. See Ichtisar Parlemen, 1957, 31, 293, cited in Ulf Sundhaussen, The Road to Power: Indonesian Military Politics 1945–1967 (Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press, 1982). 76 Sundhaussen, Road to Power, 125. 77 D. Brown, The State and Ethnic Politics in Southeast Asia (London: Routledge, 1994), 122–123. 78 J. Eliseo Rocamora, Nationalism in Search of Ideology: The Indonesian Nationalist PArty, 1946–1965 (Quezon City: Philippine Centre for Advanced Studies, University of the Philippines, 1975), 236. 79 Chandra Muzaffar, Freedom in Fetters: An Analysis of the State of Democracy in Malaysia (Penang: Aliran, 1986), 322. 80 Straits Times, 14 May 1969. 81 Goh Cheng Teik, The May Thirteenth Incident and Democracy in Malaysia (Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press, 1971), 28–29. 82 Straits Times, 31 May 1969. 83 Tunku Abdul Rahman Putra Al-Haj, May 13: Before and After (Kuala Lumpur: Utusan Melayu Press, 1969), 140; Goh, May Thirteenth, 30; Utusan Melayu, 6 and 7 June 1969. 84 Utusan Zaman, 20 July 1969. 85 See Syed Hussein Alatas, ‘The Politics of Coalition in Malaysia’, Current History, 63/376 (1972): 271–277. 86 Straits Times, 9 July 1998. 87 Straits Times, 1 July 1998. 88 Straits Times, 24 July 1998.

Democratisation in Indonesia and Malaysia 125 89 Straits Times, 19 June 1998. 90 Jusuf Wanandi, ‘Pressures build up in Indonesia’, The Straits Times, Monday, 9 November 1998. 91 Straits Times, 13 June 1998. 92 Straits Times, 8 July 1998. 93 Washington Post, 19 July 1998. 94 Karl Mannheim, Ideology and Utopia (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1976), 36. 95 Shaharuddin Maaruf, ‘Religion and Utopian Thinking Among the Muslims of Southeast Asia’, unpublished manuscript, 1999, 2. 96 Ibid., 2–3. 97 Ibid., 5. 98 For an exposition of this see Syed Muhammad al-Naquib Al-Attas, Islam: The Concept of Religion and the Foundation of Ethics and Morality (Kuala Lumpur: ABIM, 1976). In this work, al-Attas elaborates on the conceptual connections between din and related terms such as madinah, tamaddun (civilisation) and others. 99 Ibid., 3, n3. 100 Personal communication with Syed Muhammad al-Naquib Al-Attas, 20 May 2000. 101 Hussein Alatas [Syed Hussein Alatas], The Democracy of Islam: A Concise Exposition with Comparative Reference to Western Political Thought (Bandung and The Hague: W. Van Hoeve, 1956), 37.

7

Penetration of “moderate” Islamism in contemporary Indonesia Ken Miichi

Introduction Is Indonesia a “terrorist haven”? There have been many violent incidents in the Maluku islands and Poso in central Sulawesi between Muslim and Christian inhabitants in the past few years. The Laskar Jihad, a paramilitary organization, dispatched thousands of volunteer “holy warriors” to Maluku. Recent developments, especially the terrorist attacks in the United States on September 11, 2001, and the bombing in Bali on October 12, 2002, further created a dangerous and militant image of Indonesian Muslims in the world. However, if we look back to past studies on Islam in Indonesia, the image was completely opposite. Radical and militant Muslims have been considered puppets that were created by the intelligence agency, and moderate and “civil Islam” is seen as historical path in Indonesia.1 In addition, Islam in Indonesia had been considered as an external element, especially in Javanese culture. Clifford Geertz divided Javanese Muslims into Santri and Abangan and asserted that Islamic culture, dominating Santri’s worldview, was the external element of Javanese in his famous The Religion of Java.2 These studies are not wrong, but radical Muslims are not always created by an intelligence agency. They are not exceptional and external to contemporary Indonesian society and they do have historical roots. This chapter tries to bridge the gap between two contradictory images using an analytical concept of Islamism. I will show how Islamism, either the radical or moderate form, penetrates into contemporary Indonesian society. The emergence of violent Islamic movements can be analyzed in this context. Islamism is “radical” because it contains partial or complete rejection of modern values and institutions. It does contain violent parts, but violence is not an essential characteristic.3 In the beginning of this chapter, the author will reconstruct contemporary history of Islamic movements through the concept of Islamism, and then will argue for the characteristics of Islamic movements in Indonesia. Three different forms of Islamic movements and phenomena that reflect the spread of Islamism will be described in the latter part. These movements and phenomena reflect recent conditions in Indonesia, which faces urbanization, modernization, and globalization.

Penetration of Islamism in contemporary Indonesia 127

Defining Islamism Islamism is a political discourse similar to other political discourses such as socialism and liberalism.4 Islamism attempts to reestablish Islamic civilization and to center Islam within the political order. It consists of a counter ideology against secular modernism, emerging as the result of the failures of the development model, that is economic and social inequality, and spiritual and moral deprivation. Islamism has been on the rise since the end of the 1970s, especially after the Iranian Revolution, in various regions of the world. Although there had been several predecessor movements either in the Middle East or Southeast Asia, the Iranian Revolution provided the explicit model for replacing the modern nation-state. Islamism intends to spread and strengthen the Islamic community, in other words, it aims to propagate “pure” Islam and conduct Shari’a (Islamic law), and in the end to establish an Islamic political order. This is based on the assumption that Islam is a comprehensive system, which is not limited to religious matters but covers all aspects of human life. Even though Islamism is a political project, it is not limited to projects that aim directly at seizing state power. It may involve the capture of the state apparatus by a dedicated vanguard, but it may also include an ideological struggle as Gramsci states which is carried out by a more diffused strategy of “moral and intellectual reform.” Thus, the establishment of an Islamic state is not always an urgent goal for Islamists. Although Islamism itself is quite a contemporary phenomenon and is often considered like a new “import” from the Middle East and South Asia, there had been several reformist movements that are rather “indigenous” in Southeast Asia. For instance, reformism represented by Wahhabism and Salafism which interpret words of Qu’ran and Hadith directly (disregard of jurisprudential traditions) has slowly penetrated the Indonesian archipelago since the seventeenth century.5 Salafism, particularly represented by Muhammad Abduh and Rashid Rida, is called modernists because it accepts modern concepts such as human rights and democracy. This modernism employs rationality appropriate to present conditions in order to interpret Qu’ran and Hadith. It criticizes traditionalism that follows one of five major law schools (mazhab) blindly and sticks to traditions considered pre-Islamic or non-Islamic. Islamism has inherited some characteristics of modernism that aim to return to Qur’an and Hadith and to purify Islam. Islamism largely employs modern technology and institutions; however, attitudes toward modern values are varied as this chapter shows. In Indonesia, the dichotomy between traditionalist and modernist has dominated basic understanding of Islamic movements. The Muhammadiyah, a socioreligious organization, and the Masyumi, a political party, have represented modernists. The Muhammadiyah, established in 1914, contributed to the spread of Islamic modernism in Indonesia and founded hundreds of modern institutions such as schools and hospitals. On the other hand, the Nahdlatul Ulama (NU) has been considered as a representative of traditionalism. The NU, established in 1926, is based on pesantren (Islamic boarding schools) and attracts support from inhabitants in rural Java. In addition, there are several NU-like regional groups in outer islands that are considered as traditionalists.

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This dichotomy between the two camps has been gradually eroded. The NU and other traditionalists steadily accepted the modern educational system. Sometimes, they are more flexible in adopting modern ideas such as pluralism and secularistic state. On the other hand, some of contemporary Islamists do not stick to the dichotomy. For instance, they accept Sufism, which was not accepted by Wahhabists.

Historical roots of Islamism in Indonesia6 Indonesia proclaimed independence on August 17, 1945, two days after the Japanese surrender. Prior to independence, there were severe discussions on the form of the future independent state; however, there was a very slim chance to establish an Islamic state based on Shari’a. Leaders of Islamic organizations pushed for the Jakarta Charter, a draft of the Constitution that includes an important statement: “with the obligation for adherents of Islam to practice Islamic law.” Nationalist leaders including future president and vice-president Sukarno and Hatta did not agree with the Jakarta Charter.7 The first principle of the Pancasila (the five principles) that appeared in the 1945 Constitution was “Belief in the One and Only God,” which treats all “official” religions including Christianity (Protestantism and Catholic), Hinduism and Buddhism with equal status.8 This left discontent among Islamic forces. From 1949 to 1965, there were the Darul Islam movements in West Java, South Sulawesi and Aceh, which tried to establish Islamic state(s) in Indonesia, but were suppressed by the central government. The remainders and sympathizers of the Darul Islam movements consist of the most important core of recent militants. The Masyumi party did not get involved with the Darul Islam movement directly but intensified criticism against President Sukarno who had been getting dictatorial in the name of “guided democracy” and it got closer to the Indonesian Communist Party (Partai Komunist Indonesia or PKI). The Masyumi party would later be banned in 1960 because some of the members joined the Revolutionary Government of the Republic of Indonesia (PRRI), a revolt based in west Sumatra.9 As a result of the events on September 30, 1965, Islamic forces allied with the military to exterminate PKI.10 According to the Indonesian “official history,” the PKI committed a coup and killed several army generals. The fact is not very clear, but anyhow, hundreds of thousands of PKI members were killed, and in the end, army general Suharto controlled the situation and established what is known as the “New Order.”11 Although Islamic forces initially cooperated with the military, the honeymoon did not last long. After Suharto took over the presidency from Sukarno, he efficiently eliminated potential political enemies. The revival of the Masyumi party was not realized. The Partai Muslimin Indonesia, the Party of Indonesian Muslims, was formed instead, but most of the former leaders including Mohammad Natsir, a former prime minister of the Republic, were not allowed to join the new party. In addition, Partai Muslimin Indonesia was forced to combine into the Partai Persatuan dan Pembangunan (PPP), the “United Development Party” in 1973 with other Islamic parties including NU. PPP had suffered from internal conflicts because of continued government interference.

Penetration of Islamism in contemporary Indonesia 129 Suharto’s “New Order” established a regime which concentrated on development and stability. In this regime, Islam is supposed to be apolitical and exist only as a cultural and moral force in order not to disturb national stability. The majority of Islamic forces did not or could not stick to the idea of establishing an Islamic state. Nurcholish Madjid, the chairman of the Islamic Student Association (Himpunan Mahasiswa Indonesia or HMI) claimed “Islam Yes, Islamic Party No!” and called for “secularization” of nonreligious matters. Nurcholish Madjid had been called “Young Natsir” and considered as a successor of Muhammand Natsir. Even though Nurcholish’s accommodating position was severely criticized by Natsir, it was followed by HMI successors. A lot of HMI leaders entered the Golkar, the government party, later on.12 The government thoroughly enforced the state ideology Pancasila as the sole principle of all organizations by enacting laws from the beginning to the middle of the 1980s. Major organizations such as the Muhamadiyah and the NU obeyed the government’s policy. At the same time, the NU abandoned the PPP and redefined itself as a socioreligious organization. This caused a radical setback for the PPP in the election in 1987.13 The Suharto regime was efficiently able to reduce oppositional powers. There were some minor exceptions with some organizations rejecting Pancasila. The HMI was divided in two and those members who did not agree with accepting Pancasila formed the HMI-MPO and went underground.14 The Masyumi-affiliated student organization Pelajar Islam Indonesia (PII) also rejected Pancasila. Some radical remainders, mostly former Darul Islam movement members and successors, were driven to violence by the intelligence agency and committed criminal acts from the end of the 1970s to the middle of the 1980s. Hundreds of them were later arrested and most of these organizations died out. The political realm for Islamic organizations and groups of any kind were very limited, and they were forced to concentrate only on social and educational activities as well as religious missionary activities (dakwah) until 1998. Natir maintained a conservative faction of the modernist camp with a dakwah network of his Dewan Dakwah Islam Indonesia (DDII) or Indonesian Council for Islamic Predication established in 1967. The DDII harshly criticized Nurcholish Madjid even though they could not criticize the regime directly.15 Militant parts of Islamists in contemporary Indonesia are largely rooted in these radical remainders of the modernist faction. While the Suharto regime cruelly suppressed Islamic oppositions in the beginning, it tried to attract support from them in the 1990s. In 1990, with government initiative, the Association of Indonesian Muslim Intellectuals (ICMI) was formed and it invited many Islamic intellectuals and activists.16 As a result, some of the militants became government subordinates and secular opposition in the late 1990s was suppressed. President Suharto seemed to use Islamic militants’ logic to criticize human rights and liberal democracy. The DDII was reactivated and its much conservative faction, the Komite Indonesian untuk Solidaritas dengan Dunia Islam, or the Indonesian Committee for Solidarity with the Muslim World (KISDI), intensified its criticism against domestic liberals.17

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The government used Islamic militants in order to oppress secular and nationalistic opposition groups such as a Megawati faction of the Indonesian Democratic Party.

Dakwah Kampus: new features after the 1970s Contemporary Islamists in Indonesia are not only simply descendants of the modernists but are based on some new movements that became active during the Suharto regime. These are religious movements on campus or the Dakwah Kampus. As we discussed earlier, there are radical ideas and militant groups on campus, but majority of the Dakwah Kampus activists are relatively “moderate” and they accept modern ideas and systems such as gender equality, human rights and democracy. Furthermore, Islamism represented by the Dakwah Kampus influenced nonorganized popular religious practices that will be discussed later. Religious or nonreligious, student movements suffered from the oppressive attitude of the government. The political freedom on campus was getting restricted as Suharto tightened his grip. Because youth and student movements had always been a major vehicle for political change in Indonesia, the government sought to control them for the sake of stability. The government cracked down on students’ political activities soon after the Malari incident in 1973. But students who gave up political activities turned into social movements in the beginning of the 1970s. They established several secular NGOs such as the Lembaga Penelitian, Pendidikan dan Penerangan Ekonomi dan Sosial (LP3ES), or the Institute for Social and Economic Research, Education and Information, and the Lembaga Bantuan Hukum (LBH), or the Law Assistant Organization. The LP3ES was established by former Masyumi students and members of the Indonesian Socialist Party (Partai Sosialis Indonesia). There were Marxist and socialist influences among them.18 Religious student movements came after the second wave of government suppression. In the latter half of 1977, students started to criticize the regime as corrupt in order to prevent the reelection of President Suharto. The government reacted harshly and instructed all student bodies on campus to shut down on January 20, 1978. The military broke a student strike at the Bandung Institute of Technology (ITB). Some students were injured and their leaders were arrested. Since then, no significant student political movement had come out until 1998. However, the end of political movement on campus was not the end of history. The Dakwah Kampus that started in ITB in the beginning of the 1970s gradually spread to other campuses. This quiet and nonpolitical religious movement was an embryo of contemporary Islamism in Indonesia, which became very significant in politics by the end of the 1990s. The Dakwah Kampus at ITB had some new features. First, it was started from campus which considered as secular. ITB did not have a record of being a religious student movement and until the 1970s there was no mosque on campus. Actually, the establishment of the Salman Mosque in 1972 was initiated by religious teaching staff and students, and it was a starting point of the Dakwah Kampus movement

Penetration of Islamism in contemporary Indonesia 131 at ITB. Imaddudin Abdul Rahim, the most prominent leader of the Dakwah Kampus, was a HMI activist and the religious training there imitated PII, and was partly funded by DDII. Thus, there were some elements inherited from modernists described earlier. However, most of the participants of the movement do not belong to existing religious student organizations such as the HMI and the NU-affiliated Indonesian Islamic Student Movement (PMII). Furthermore, some of them do not have religious family backgrounds. Even though Dakwah Kampus has some features inherited from modernists, basically it is a new movement. Second, there was a systematic training of cadres. Intensive Islamic Studies, started at the Salman Mosque in 1979, was a three-year course. It consisted of thirteen subjects such as striving for understanding Islam, Qu’ran as direction of life, Islam and Sunna, Sunna and ijtihad, tawhid, privacy of Muslims, Islamic leadership, Islamic society, Muslim family, lifelong education, dakwah and essay.19 These subjects contain some keywords that indicate important characteristics of Islamism. We will discuss these characteristics later on; therefore, I just would like to emphasize here that these systematic trainings were quite novel. By mid1980s, similar movements flourished at major campuses such as the University of Indonesia, Gadja Mada University and Bogor Institute of Agriculture. They exchanged personnel and method of training and formed a loose network. There were similar trainings on each campus with different names. Third, there were influences from Middle East and South Asian Islamist movements among the Dakwah Kampus. Trainings of the Dakwah Kampus usually consisted of rather larger-scale systematic training, such as the Intensive Islamic Studies, and a smaller and much more exclusive one, later commonly called usro. Usro consisted of less than ten students and led by a leader or murrobi. Usro, meaning “family” in Arabic, is taken from Egyptian Muslim Brotherhood (Ikhwan Muslimin). Usro is a crucial cell of activities of the Muslim Brotherhood, with a strategy to Islamize human life from individual, family to society, before building an Islamic state. The Islamic state will be realized naturally by Islamizing society, thus it was not an immediate goal.20 As we will discuss later, the Muslim Brotherhood influenced Indonesian Islamic movements in many ways. Not only books of the Muslim Brotherhood but also that of similar Islamist leaders were translated and distributed to the Dakwah Kampus. It should be noted that religious movements in Indonesia and elsewhere in Southeast Asia were not “regional branches” of Middle Eastern-based Islamist movements. There were only a few movements such as the Jamaah Tabligh and the Hizbut Tahrir that were directly foreign-influenced and organized in Indonesia since the 1970s.21 Most of movements were rather indirect influences in terms of information, logic or money. Saudi Arabian organizations supported various kinds of activities such as education and publication. The DDII, for instance, had a close relationship with the Islamic World League (Rabitat al-‘Alam al-Islami). The DDII established an aid institute, KOMPAK, in the end of the 1990s in order to help Muslims who fought with Christians in Poso, central Sulawesi. The Wahhabism oriented paramilitary organization Jama’ah Ihya al-Sunnah also seems to be supported by a Saudi Arabian foundation. This organization later became the

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Communication Forum for Ahlus Sunnah wal Jamaah, an umbrella organization of Laskar Jihad that was involved in ethno-religious conflicts in the Maluku islands and sent thousands of warriors.22 These Islamist groups do not always have friendly relations among themselves. In addition, their views on Islamic state and de facto government are varied. Finally, Dakwah Kampus emphasizes worldly roles of Islam. Participants of the Dakwah Kampus study collectively not only religious education but also practical things such as business, and emphasize the importance of science and technology.23 Islamism employs rationality as modernism, but asserts that Islam covers every aspects of human life. It believes that Muslims should conduct Islamic law comprehensively (kaffa); therefore, worldly things such as social justice, economics and science should be carried out in the Islamic way.24 Tawhid is the most important concept in this context. Tawhid, the oneness of God, was understood as comprehensiveness or totality of Islam by Islamists such as Sayyid Qutb, Maududi and Ali Shari’ati. These teachings particular to Islamism are all taught at the Intensive Islamic Studies at ITB and similar programs at other campuses. Emphasis on worldly roles of Islam includes concerns about social problems. Social injustice was widely perceived as the result of rapid economic development under the Suharto regime. Corruption and collusion of political elites, Chinese tycoons, and foreign capital were particularly cited as sources of discontent. Idealistic students are convinced that Islam as a comprehensive system offers solutions to realize social justice (keadilan).25 These concerns with social matters include awareness of general trends of moral laxity as a result of modernization and urbanization. Again, Islam should be the sole solution. This position often leads to literal observance of Islamic law in daily life. The division between halal (lawful) and haram (unlawful) is emphasized. In practice, wearing of headscarf and eating halal food are encouraged especially among increasingly pious students and urban middle class. These characteristics of newly emerging Islamism can be observed in the following examples.

“Jamaah Islamiyah” and radical Islamism A group around Abu Bakar Ba’asyir is certainly being watched with keen attention recently. Abu Bakar Ba’asyir has been suspected as the “spiritual leader” of the Jamaah Islamiyah (JI), a Southeast Asia-based international terrorist group. Suspects of the Bali bombing on October 12, 2002 confessed that they are members of the JI, but Ba’asyir does not acknowledge its existence. He was arrested in October 2002 after the Bali bombing on charges of involvement in the Christmas bombing in 2000 and planning to assassinate Indonesian President Megawati Sukarnoputri. (These charges were not proved and thereafter he was accused of immigration violations and falsifying documents.) Ba’asyir and the late Abdullah Sungkar constructed a militant Islamic network and this network goes beyond national borders.26 This network is a mixture of Ba’asyir’s disciples, remaining factions of the Darul Islam movement, and radical parts of the Dakwah Kampus. Ba’asyir

Penetration of Islamism in contemporary Indonesia 133 himself was a product of modernist education and was an activist in the Al-Irsyad, an Arab-dominated modernist movement. Abdullah Sungkar was a Masyumi activist. Both of them are Arabs born in Indonesia. They built an Islamic school in Solo in the beginning of the 1970s. Ba’asyir and Sungkar gained a reputation for resisting Pancasila as the sole ideology and they formed usroh. Disciples of Ba’asyir and Sungkar committed some violent crimes in the 1980s and links with former members of the Darul Islam movements were revealed. These relations were proven after Suharto’s regime was brought down in 1998. Ba’asyir and his friends started to be active openly and formed the Indonesian Mujahidin Committee (Majelis Mujahidin Indonesia or MMI) in 2000. At the first congress of the MMI, these former Darul Islam activists appeared and installed Ba’asyir as the Ketua Ahlul Halli Wal Aqdi or the head of its religious council. According to Ba’asyir, human beings are obliged to protect tawhid. One should exercise ibadah in order to fight with enemies of tawhid. Ibadah means the complete obedience of Shari’a. The complete exercise of Shari’a is the most important obligation and one is not allowed to compromise with the enemies. The literal obedience of Shari’a is the most important religious duty.27 Philosophically, Ba’asyir shows strong Wahhabi influence. Ba’asyir and his friends contribute to the spread of Islamism that emphasizes a literal exegesis and political activism through publications, too. An unknown publisher in Ngruki village where an Islamic school of Ba’asyir is located publishes Wahhabi’s most important Kitab Tauhid and the Wihdah Press owned by Irfan S. Awwas publishes Establishment of Islamic Authority in ummah.28 The latter book, originally published in Pakistan, refers to major works of Ibn Taymiya and its introduction was written by Usama bin Ladin. The Dakwah Kampus and its international influences are very important to Ba’asyir’s network. Some radical students such as Irfan S. Awwas, now working as a head of executive committee of the MMI, became close to Ba’asyir in the 1980s. Irfan formed a radical student movement at the Sudirman mosque in Yogyakarta and published the periodical Ar-Risalah, openly criticizing government and showing sympathy to the Darul Islam movement.29 Ar-Risalah is widely read by the Dakwah Kampus activists. Irfan was arrested on subversion charges and served nine years in prison from 1984. He and other activists shared harsh experiences under the Suharto regime. In the middle of the 1980s, the Dakwah Kampus not only imitated Islamist movements in the Middle East and South Asia but also contacted them directly. Among foreign Islamist movements, the Hizbut Tahrir seeks to establish a khalifate representing the whole Islamic world.30 Contacts with these movements transformed the Indonesian Darul Islam movement toward international Islamism.31 In the past, the Darul Islam movement aimed to establish Islamic State(s) within Indonesia. It was more like “regional revolts” rather than “religious revolution,” and there was no intensive communication among regional revolts. Now, they organized regional militant networks. Ba’asyir and Sungkar moved to Malaysia in 1985 after they were charged with subversion, and they created a regional center of militants in Southeast Asia. They sent warriors to

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Afghanistan in order to fight a holy war against the Soviet Union. Actually, Afghanistan acted as a training camp rather than a battlefield for Southeast Asians. These trained warriors were sent to southern Philippines, Maluku and Poso in Indonesia.32 These facts themselves are not enough to prove that Ba’asyir was involved in the bombings in Bali and elsewhere that happened in Indonesia the past few years. According to some sources, those who bombed Bali did not agree with Ba’asyir’s soft and “flaccidity” position.33 In fact, Ba’asyir has worked legally since the fall of Suharto in 1998. With the establishment of the MMI in 2000, Ba’asyir and his colleagues support regional Shari’a enforcement movements that intend to realize their ideal through the existing democratic system. These movements have emerged in some regions such as South Sulawesi, Cianjur, Garut, Tasikmalaya, Sukabumi (West Java) and Pemakasan (East Java) since 1999. Even though the introduction of Shari’a in the national legal system is impossible, in the regions cited earlier, Shari’a emerged as an alternative institution partly replacing the existing modern system. So far, the enforcement of Shari’a is limited to a political symbol in order to clean up deviations of Islamic law such as prostitution and alcoholic drinks. These movements can be interpreted as expressions of general discontentment with existing corrupt government and social injustice. At the same time, they use opportunities that regional autonomy enlarged as a result of the fall of Suharto’s much-centralized regime. Exercise of Shari’a can be broadened to daily life such as dress code and compulsory attendance of worship among public offices. But they do not have enough ability or resources for effective enforcement. In addition, there is no agreement on the contents of Shari’a and major religious groups such as Nahdlatul Ulama and Muhammadiyah do not agree on Shari’a enforcement.

The Justice Party and middle-class Islamism Militant groups are very vocal but are a small minority. Here, I focus on much more “moderate” groups which comprise the majority of the Dakwah Kampus. They rarely engaged in political activities during the Suharto era. However, as discussed earlier, Islamism contains an idea that Islam can cover all aspects of life, including politics. Actually, they have discussed political matters in their closed circle but are strategically quiet on the surface. Therefore, it was natural that they established the Justice Party (Partai Keadilan or PK) soon after the Suharto regime ended and they decided to take their struggle within the formal political system. (The PK formed new party, the Partai Keadilan Sejahtera (PKS) or Justice and Welfare Party in April 2003 in order to participate 2004 election.) The Dakwah Kampus was institutionalized gradually as the Lembaga Dakwah Kampus (LDK, or Campus Dakwah Organization) since the middle of the 1980s on campuses all over Indonesia. Radical parts of the Dakwah Kampus who were involved with the earlier-mentioned Ba’asyir group and the newly emerged Hizbut Tahir maintained small and exclusive groups and did not participate in the

Penetration of Islamism in contemporary Indonesia 135 LDK. The “moderate” majority admitted modern institutions and values such as democracy and human rights. The LDK had maintained a loose network and when the political momentum came, they organized the Kesatuan Aksi Mahasiswa Muslim (KAMMI, or Muslim Student Action Unity). The KAMMI was founded in March 1998, in the middle of a rising student movement opposed to President Suharto, and thus contributed to bring down the president. Suharto stepped down in May 1998 and former vice president Habbie took over. Habbie had no choice but to start democratization on schedule. The 1999 election was the first relatively free and fair election since 1971. More than 200 parties registered and 48 of them were allowed to participate in the election. Out of the 48 parties, 21 were Islamic parties. Among the major seven parties that obtained more than 1 percent of the total vote, the PK was the only party that did not have bases before the 1970s. The strongest organizational support base of the PK was the KAMMI. But it is obvious that not only the KAMMI but also nonorganized students and some of the urban middle class supported the PK. The PK obtained 1,436 thousands votes in the election and gained seven seats in parliament. Although the PK obtained only 1.36 percent of the total vote, it was an unexpected good result for the new party. The PK particularly fared well in Jakarta, in which it obtained 5 percent of the total vote. The PK succeeded to create rational, urban and clean images among Islamically pious voters. (The PKS which replaced PK in 2004 gained 7.3 percent of the total vote and 45 seats in national parliament. In Jakarta, they obtained 23 percent and become the largest party in the local parliament.) These images are endorsed by profiles of the leaders of the party. The members of the Parliament (DPR) of the PK are relatively young and highly educated. Although the religious board (Dewan Shari’ah) of the party is dominated by ulama who have studied in the Middle East, some of DPR members and the executive board (Dewan Pimpinan) are products of secular education. As shown in Table 7.1, among the 8 DPR members, 6 graduated from secular educational institutions. Among 11 executive board members, 5 went to graduate school. Six of them graduated from secular universities, including two engineering majors. The others are: 2 graduates from Saudi universities; 2 graduates from the LIPIA (Islam and Arab Education Institute), Saudi government-sponsored institute in Jakarta; and 1 graduate from the Pakistan International Islamic University. If we take a look at the “Political Manifesto” of the PK, we can analyze how they created the earlier-mentioned rational, urban and clean image further. The PK aims to establish a society that “has the right and strong ideological base.” It maintains “high moral” with characteristics that are “politically, economically and culturally independent” from the state. In addition, this society should have a civilian government.34 They call such society Masyarakat Madani or civil society. Masyarakat Madani originally means “urban society” which idealizes the Medina society that Muhammad established when he moved from Mecca. Muhammad launched the Medina Charter with various groups and secured religious freedom. “Moderate” Islamists often use the term Masyarakat Madani as translation of civil society.35 Masyarakat Madani implies democracy and a plural society under

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Table 7.1 Educational and occupational background of members of the parliament from PK, 1999–2004 Name

Year of birth

Education

Former occupation

Irwan Prayitno

1963

Mashadi Mutammimul ‘Ula

1953 1956

Nur Mahmudi Ismail

1961

Consultant on human resource Journalist University lecturer Publishing company Civil servant

Rokib Abdul Kadir

1957

T.B. Soenmandjaja

1957

University of Indonesia Vocational school Diponegoro University, Jakarta Bogor Institute of Agriculture MA and PhD, Texas A&M University National Institute of Religion (IAIN), Lampung Al-Azhar University Ibnu Khaldun University, Bogor

S.D. Zirlyrosa Jamil

1965

University of Indonesia

Syamsul Balda

1964

Seberas Maret University, Solo

Entrepreneur Preacher Social worker Preacher Director of Islamic organization University lecturer

the rule of Islam that accepts modern values in Islamic way. This attitude toward modernism is different from radical Islamists. Usually, a political party is supposed to aim at establishing a government that it idealizes. However, PK defined itself as a “dakwah party” and aims at establishing an ideal Islamic society. The ideal Islamic state will be established naturally after realizing an Islamic society. This strategy is the same as the majority of Dakwah Kampus that adopted the Egyptian Muslim Brotherhood. With its society first policy, PK, unlike other major parties, avoided power struggle in order to obtain ministerial positions. In this way, PK has maintained a relatively clean and moderate image. PK does not agree with the revival of the Jakarta Charter, nor is it involved the movement that intends to enforce Shari’a.36 This does not mean that PK does not want to establish an Islamic state. If we return to the manifesto, it says: Allah who has supreme power wished human beings to play a role as representatives of the God or khalifa. It depends on how far human beings are responsible to function (as khalifa) consistently. The universal value of democracy is people’s interpretation of the responsibility (of khalifa).37 Modern institutions such as democracy can only be accepted with Islamic legitimation. For the time being, the PK concentrates on Islamizing society, but it seeks a khalifa as an ultimate goal. General supporters of the PK do not necessarily share this idea. It should be noted that at least, ideologues of the party formulated the Manifesto as such.

Penetration of Islamism in contemporary Indonesia 137

Aa Gym and penetration of Islamism in Indonesian society The spread of Islamism in Indonesia is not limited to small parts of religiouspolitical movements but influences popular religious practices and basic understandings on Islam. These influences of Islamism will be described through the phenomenal rise of young preacher Abdullah Gymnastiar. Abdullah Gymnastiar is usually called by his nickname Aa Gym, or “elder brother” Gym.38 He was born in Bandung, the capital city of west Java province, in 1962. His family was religious but he did not undergo special religious education. Aa Gym was “awakened” when he was a student. In 1987 when he was a college student, he formed a small organization called “Family for Entrepreneurs and Islamic Student” with his friends. Soon after his graduation, he started a religious school called the Pesantren Daarut Tauhid. He attracted hundreds of followers but his popularity was limited until the year 2000. Soon after his preaching began to be covered by national TV stations, Aa Gym’s popularity overtook that of other existing popular preachers. Aa Gym’s first religious teacher was his own elder brother who had severe physical handicaps and died at a young age. Despite his physical difficulties, the elder brother was very diligent in religion and studies. The brother said, “Some people realize their religious beliefs through fighting. I realize my religion through studying.” This certainly reflects Aa Gym’s teachings. Aa Gym emphasizes “the Islamism ethic and the spirit of capitalism,” and encourages working hard in daily life to be a good Muslim. Aa Gym’s talks were widely televised and were compiled and sold as a small book, cassette and VCD (video compact disc). There is a web site featuring his preaching and his voice can be heard on mobile phone at any time.39 He adapts with the latest technology and consumerism in urban Indonesia. His Islamic school, the Pesantren Daarut Tauhid, has a restaurant and “cottages” and was developed as a tourist attraction. Even though there are only seventy odd formal students living in his school, hundreds of students visit there for school trips every day and thousands of people come to listen to his preach on Fridays. His popularity increased with his introduction to the international media, too.40 What does his popularity indicate of the religious life of Indonesian people? Why is Aa Gym significant? First, he deals with psychological and mental problems that are faced by many urban people. He emphasizes the importance of mental management (Manajemen Qalbu). Aa Gym explains Manajemen Qalbu in a very simple way: “you should know yourself and who made you yourself in order to control yourself.” Before Aa Gym, psychological matters for modern urban living have rarely been dealt with by conventional Islamic preachers. Manajemen Qalbu, a combination of Arabic and English words, sounds sophisticated and MQ, initial letters of Manajemen Qalbu, became Aa Gym’s “icon.” His fashionable yet pious image is certainly welcomed by the urban new rich. There are “MQTV” and “MQFM” which deliver Aa Gym’s messages and there is even “MQ mineral water” using his brand name. But he is not affected by these.

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Aa Gym always chooses very easy words and provides simple but modest messages. He does not want to be considered a religious authority. He does not allow himself to be called ulama, ustaz or kiai.41 This attitude is strikingly different from that of other popular preachers and adds to Aa Gym’s popularity among ordinary people. Second, messages of Aa Gym are practical and rational. He encourages listeners to have entrepreneurship spirit. Entrepreneurship needs self-improvement and self-discipline. Then, he links personal morality to the national situation. Aa Gym knows well the lack of morality and discipline felt by many people in currently troubled Indonesia. His own success as an entrepreneur is very convincing. Third, Aa Gym implies the comprehensiveness of Islam. This is one of the characteristics of Islamism. Aa Gym says: Allah loves stronger inhabitants. Power of belief is not enough. It should be supported by powers of body, economy, academics, strategy and management. Establishing these powers are parts of efforts to love Allah. To establish powers of economy and system is outstanding ibadah (religious practice, devotion to Allah).42 Islam is not limited to religion, but also covers all aspects of life. Worldly things such as economic activities should be included as ibadah. This attitude is shared by Islamism in the contemporary world, which is becoming more and more complicated. In order to purify ibadah, one should be aware of the legality on Islamic law. The expansion of the Islamic bank and the attachment of halal seal on legal foods are typical results of Islamist attitude. Aa Gym himself does not use wind instruments but percussions because there is a sentence in the Hadith that prohibit using wind instruments.43 Despite these Islamist influence, Aa Gym is a pluralist and is tolerant of nonMuslims and Chinese. He asserts that moderation is one of the important Islamic values, and he does not want to be considered as a militant. Indonesia is not yet ready for practicing Shari’a, Aa Gym says. As such, he is much more popular than Abu Bakar Ba’syir and represents a wider layer of Indonesian society.

Conclusion: Islamism and modernity in Indonesian society We have seen several Islamic movements and phenomena in Indonesia. The Majority of Indonesian Muslims adopt modern values and systems. Even Abu Bakar Ba’asyir, considered very militant, utilizes existing modern institutions in order to change current conditions. At the same time, however, basic characteristics and ideas of Islamism penetrate everyday life of Indonesian people. Islamism emphasizes the totality of Islam, which encompasses all domains of life; therefore, it contains partial or total rejection of modern values and systems. The spread of Islamism certainly reflects contradiction and incompleteness of the modern system. General discontent on the current situation such as social

Penetration of Islamism in contemporary Indonesia 139 injustice and corruption promoted their magnification. These phenomena can be found elsewhere in the Islamic world. However, Islamism in Indonesia had its own historical roots and brewed for decades under Suharto’s New Order. Rapid economic development and urbanization also produced new kinds of religious activism. Some militants and Shari’a enforcement movements also emerged as a result of political liberalization and decentralization after the fall of Suharto. Moderates such as the PK and Aa Gym attract much more support from the general public. They are becoming the driving force behind eroding the old dichotomy between Islamic modernism and traditionalism, and spreading “moderate” Islamism, which adapts well to modern conditions.

Notes 1 Typical examples are: Robert Hefner, Civil Islam: Muslims and Democratization in Indonesia (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000); Douglas E. Ramage, Politics in Indonesia: Democracy, Islam and the Ideology of Tolerance (London and New York: Routledge, 1995). 2 Clifford Geertz, The Religion of Java (Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press, 1960). 3 Thus, I avoid using the term “fundamentalism” that often causes misunderstandings and emphasizes the militancy of Islamism. 4 Definition of Islamism here is largely indebted to the following literature: Bobby S. Sayyid, A Fundamental Fear: Eurocentrism and the Emergence of Islamism (London and New York: Zed Books Ltd, 1997), 17–18. 5 Azmardi Azra, The Transmission of Islamic Reformism to Indonesia: Networks of Middle Eastern and Malay-Indonesian Ulama in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth centuries, PhD dissertation (Columbia University, 1992). 6 There is an excellent article by van Bruinessen that concentrates on describing genealogies of Islamic radicalism in Indonesia. Martin van Bruinessen, “Genealogies of Islamic Radicalism in Post-Suharto Indonesia,” Southeast Asia Research, 10/2 (2002): 117–154. Therefore, I will briefly give an overview of genealogies that are necessary for further discussions. 7 Translation of the Jakarta Charter rests on following: B.J. Boland, The Struggle of Islam in Modern Indonesia (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1971), 26. 8 It assumed that every Indonesian believes in one of the five “official” religions, though positions of Javanese mysticism and Confucianism are very controversial. 9 For PRRI, see the following: Herbert Feith, The Decline of Constitutional Democracy in Indonesia (Ithaca, NY and London: Cornell University Press, 1964), 578–597; Barbara S. Harvey, Permesta: Half a Rebellion (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University, 1977). 10 There had been serious conflicts between the PKI and other groups because of PKI’s “unilateral action” campaign in order to carry out land reform laws of 1959–1960, especially in central and east Java, and Bali. 11 See the following for a very early observation on September 30: Benedict R. Anderson and Ruth T. McVey, A Preliminary Analysis of the October 1, 1965, Coup in Indonesia (Ithaca, NY: Modern Indonesia Project, Cornell University, 1971). 12 Even though many Islamic parties were formed after 1998 as a result of political liberalization, a majority of former HMI activists remained Golkar. Among 55 ex-HMI members of the Parliament, 23 belong to Golkar. From Akiko Morishita, “Indonesia’s Political Elite after the Fall of Soeharto: The 1999 Elections to the People’s Representative Counsil” (in Japanese), Southeast Asian Studies, 41–3, 2003.

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13 In the 1982 election, PPP obtained 27.8 percent of total vote. It decreased to 16.0 percent in 1987. 14 MPO is an abbreviation of Majelis Penyelamat Organisasi, which stands for “Committee for Relief of Organization.” There is only one literature on HMI-MPO: M. Rusli Karim, HMI-MPO dalam Kemelut Modernisasi Politik di Indonesia (Bandung: Mizan, 1997). See also the following biography of Eggi Sudjana, ex-chairman of HMIMPO, Achmad Fachruddin, Jihad sang Demonstran (Jakarta: Raja Grafindo Persada, 2000). 15 See the following on how conservative DDII criticized Nurcholish: R. William Liddle, “Media Dakwah Scripturalism: One Form of Islamic Thought and Action in New Order Indonesia,” Leadership and Culture in Indonesian Politics (Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 1996), 266–289. 16 There are several articles focused especially on the establishment of ICMI: Robert W. Hefner, “Islam, State, and Civil Society: ICMI and the Struggle for the Indonesian Middle Class,” Indonesia, 56 (1993): 1–19; R. William Liddle, “The Islamic Turn in Indonesia: A Political Explanation,” The Journal of Asian Studies, 55/3 (1996): 613–634. 17 Robert Hefner, Civil Islam, 109–110. 18 This leftist tradition is inherited by some of NU affiliated activists. They oppose the Islamists, the rightist group in Indonesian political context, and seek for a religiously plural nation. They work with nonreligious and leftist sociopolitical movements. They are critical of religious authority (person, text and history), especially the “one and only” and “pure and glorious” Islam, and try to revive their plural Islamic traditions using postmodern Islamic studies in Europe. I named them the “Islamic Left.” See following: Ken Miichi, “Emergence of ‘Islamic Left’?: The Involvement of Young Nahdlatul Ulama in Indonesian Intellectual Network,” in Dwi Purwoko (ed.), Nasionalis Islam vs. Nasionalis Sekuler (PT. Permata Artistika Kreasi, Depok, Indonesia, 2001), 117–132. 19 Nurhayati Djamas, “Gerakan Kaum Muda Islam Masjid Salman,” in Abdul Aziz, Imam Tholkhah and Soetarman (eds), Gerakan Islam Kontemporer di Indonesia (Jakarta: Pustaka Firdaus, 1989), 263–264. 20 For more detail on usro, see the following: Ali Said Damanik, Fenomena Partai Keadilan: Transformasi 20 Tahun Gerakan Tarbiyah di Indonesia (Bandung: Teraju, 2002). 21 The Jamaah Tabligh (missionary community) built a mosque named Jamik Kebon Jeruk in Jakarta in the 1970s and spread very quietly in Indonesia. The Jamaah Tabligh usually concentrates on basic religious teachings and rituals, and do not take steps into politics. The Hizbut Tahrir (liberation party) started its activities in Indonesia in the beginning of the 1980s after the visit of Abdurahman Al-Baghdadi, an Arab from Australia to Bogor, west Java. Some of the Dakwah Kampus activists in Bogor Institute of Technology and Ibn Khaldun University joined the Hizbut Tahrir. 22 The Laskar Jihad suddenly dispersed on October 2002, soon after the Bali bombing. On the Laskar Jihad, see the following: Noorhaidi Hasan, “Faith and Politics: The Rise of the Laskar Jihad in the Era of Transition in Indonesia,” Indonesia, 73 (2002): 145–169. 23 There were publications introducing Shari’a into economics among sympathizers of the Egypian Muslim Brotherhood such as Kahar Muzakkir. (Boland, Struggle of Islam, 162.) Therefore, it was not a very new idea, but it became significant in the 1970s. See the following in order to know how “Muslim Intelligent on Campus” emphasized importance of economics for Muslims: Jr Chanjago and Erwiza Erman, “Cendekiawan Muslim di Kampus,” Pandangan dan Sikap Hidup Ulama di Indonesia (Jakarta: Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan Indonesia, 1987), 399–414. 24 The following verse of the Qu’ran is often quoted as the proof of the completeness of Islam: “Believers, submit all of you to God and do not walk in Satan’s footsteps; he is your inveterate foe. If you lapse after the veritable signs that have been shown to you,

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25

26 27

28

29

30 31 32

33 34 35

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know that God is mighty and wise. (2–208)” Translation quoted from the following: N.J. Dawood, The Koran (London: Penguin Books, 1956), 31. Amien Rais most vocally represented this position. He was an activist of HMI and later became chairperson of the Muhamaddiyah. Amien became one of most prominent opposition leaders when the student movement against Suharto emerged in 1997–1999. Although his National Mandate Party (PAN) did not do well in the 1999 election, he became the chairperson of the National People’s Assembly (MPR). See the following for Amien’s idea on “Social Tauhid”: Fachry Ali and Bahtiar Effendy, Merambah Jalan Baru Islam: Rekonstruksi Pemikiran Islam Indonesia Masa Orde Baru (Bandung: Mizan, 1986), 254–258; Fauzan Saleh, Modern Trends in Islamic Theological Discourse in 20th Century Indonesia: A Critical Survey (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 175–195. See a series of reports published by International Crisis Group (http://www.crisisgroup. org/) for more detail. See the following paper read by Ba’asyir at Islamic Ummah Congress in south Sulawesi: Abu Bakar Ba’asyir, “Gerakan Dakwah, Politik dan Jihad dalam Penegakan Syari’at Islam di Sulawesi Selatan.” Presented at Kongres Ummat Islam Sulawesi Selatan, October 19–21, 2000. Syaikh Muhammad Bin Abdul Wahab, Ahmad Nawawi (trans.), Al-Qoulus Sadid: Penjabaran Sistematik Kitab Tauhid (Solo: Pustaka Arafah, 2001). Lembaga Study dan Penelitian Islam Pakistan, Membangun Kekuatan Islam di Tengah Perselisihan Ummat (Yogyakarta: Wihdah Press, 2001). According to interview with Irfan S. Awass (September 6, 2002), “Ar-Risalah” had a circulation of 10,000 every issue and is widely read by the Dakwah Kampus activists. Djalaluddin Rahmat, a leading figure of the Dakwah Kampus at ITB, recommended students to read “Ar-Risalah.” Jr Chanjago and Erwiza Erman, “Cendekiawan Muslim di Kampus,” Pandangan dan Sikap Hidup Ulama di Indonesia (Jakarta: Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan Indonesia, 1987), 401. The Hizbut Tahrir is banned in many countries in the Middle East and Europe but there is no restriction on its activities in Indonesia. Although the Hizbut Tahrir is philosophically very radical, so far they do not have a violent track record in Indonesia. Interview with M. Ismail Yusanto, December 26, 2002. The following paper explicitly claims for the establishing international khalifate. Abdul Qadir Baraja’ is one of six people who established an Islamic school with Ba’asyir in the 1970s: Abdul Qadir Baraja’, “Kebangkitan dan Keruntuhan Khilafatul Muslimin,” in Irfan Suryahardi Awwas (ed.), Risahal Kongres Mujahidin I dan Penegakan Shari’ah Islam (Yogyakarta: Wihdah Press, 2001), 9–19. International Crisis Group, Indonesia Backgrounder: How the Jemaah Islamiyah Terrorist Network Operates, Jakarta/Brussels, December 11, 2002. This opinion is supported by my interviews, too. Partai Keadilan, “Manifesto Politik Partai Keadilan,” in Sekilas Partai Keadilan, (Jakarta: Partai Keadilan, 1998), 9. Secular nationalists and some of NU activists that I call “Islamic left” translate civil society as Masyarakat Sipil in order to avoid Islamic nuance. I have compared the discourse on civil society in a following article: Ken Miichi, “Indoneshia ni okeru ‘Isram shiminshakai’ ron no nidai chouryu” (Two streams of “Islamic Civil Society” theories in Indonesia), Kokusai Kyoryoku Ronshu, 8/2 (2000): 159–179. The PK did not join forces that demanded the Jakarta Charter revival in the Constitution at the national congress (MPR) in 2002. Instead of the Jakarta Charter, the PK suggested that it is better to adopt “the Jakarta Charter ⫹ the Medina Charter” which treats all official religions equally. Partai Keadilan, “Manifesto Politik Partai Keadilan,” in Sekilas Partai Keadilan (Jakarta: Partai Keadilan, 1998). Profile of Aa Gym is based on the following literatures and interview with him on February 25, 2003, Hernowo and M. Deden Ridwan (eds), Aa Gym dan Fenomena

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Daarut Tauhiid (Bandung: Mizan, 2001); Forum Keadilan, 34, November 25, 2001, 52–55; Forum Keadilan, 37, December 30, 2001, 12–15. See the following Web sites: http://manajemenqolbu.com/ http://www.detik.com/ kolom/aagym/ See the following: Time (Asia edition), November 11, 2002, 18–21. Personal observation and interview with Aa Gym, March 25, 2003. Hernowo and M. Deden Ridwan (eds), Aa Gym dan Fenomena Daarut Tauhiid (Bandung: Mizan, 2001), 43. Interview with Aa Gym, March 25, 2003.

8

The development of secularism and non-sectarianism in the Middle East Yoshiko Kurita

Preface According to the prevailing orientalistic stereotype, the Middle East is conceived as a region which lacks the tradition of secularism. According to this view, the Middle East is automatically equated with the “Islamic world,” and Islam is conceived as a system that dominates both religious and political spheres. This kind of stereotype serves well, on the one hand, the purposes of the rising so-called neoimperialist tendency, which calls for the “liberation and democratization” of the “backward” Middle East by the hands of the “civilized nations” such as the United Sates of America. Interestingly enough, it corresponds, on the other hand, to the claims of the so-called Islamist tendency, since the Islamists, too, argue that secularism (“ ‘almani” in Arabic) is something imported from the West, which is incompatible with Islam, and thus agree with the “neo-imperialists” on this point.1 If we turn to the modern history of the Middle East, however, we find that, unlike the image shared by both the orientalists and the Islamists, the area has had the experience of secularism for the past one hundred years, at least. There have been attempts at the separation of state and religion. Again, the ideal of “nonsectarianism” (which is not identical with secularism, but is closely associated with it) was eagerly pursued, according to which the question of citizenship and the question of religious affiliation were to be strictly separated.2 It is important to note, moreover, that these secularist (or non-sectarianist) tendencies were not something imposed upon the people by foreign powers or despotic rulers but rather were the product of the popular movements against imperialism. The idea of democratic and “non-sectarian” (in Arabic, “la ta’ifi” which means literally “non-sectarian,” or “ ‘almani” which is equivalent to “secular”) Palestine, which was advocated in the course of the Palestine liberation movement in the late 1960s, might be a case in point. In the following pages, we will examine the development of secularism in the modern Middle East, especially the Arab world. In the course of the analysis, two points are to be kept in mind. First, here, secularism is grasped not merely as an abstract concept, or the accumulation of the arguments of individual “secularist” thinkers, but as one of the important social currents which have been at the

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bottom of various political movements in the Middle East.3 It will be made clear that secular or non-sectarian tendencies existed even in movements which have not been usually analyzed in the context of secularism. Second, in the following analysis, special attention will be paid to the question of interaction between different places in the Middle East (Egypt and the historical Syria, to specify). We will examine how political experiences were exchanged between different places, how they were influenced by one another, and what were the results of these interactions. Needless to say, to dig up whole the legacy of secularism in the region and to re-examine its significance in the context of Middle Eastern political history is a project which cannot be completed in the limited pages. The following is just a preliminary sketch.

Attempts in the course of anti-imperialist struggle Situation in the nineteenth century The first conscious search for non-sectarianism began in the historical Syria (bilad al-Sham) in the nineteenth century. As has been already pointed out by A. Hourani (and more recently by N. Yared), people such as Butrus al-Bustani and Faris al-Shidyaq tried to overcome sectarian conflict and called for solidarity which transcends the difference of religious affiliation. Al-Bustani, who emphasized the importance of language, is commonly known as a “father of Arab nationalism.” We should not forget, however, that what drove him to this call for linguistic nationalism was the intensification of sectarian conflict in Syria at that time (the culmination of which were the violent events in 1860). The Ottoman Empire was a state in which Muslims, Christians, and Jews used to coexist in a relatively peaceful manner. However, as the empire weakened and the European powers began to interfere in the name of the “protection” of non-Muslim population in the empire, “sectarian conflict” intensified, in a sense instigated and manipulated by the powers. By emphasizing the importance of language, and preaching love for the “country (watan),” al-Bustani was trying to build up solidarity on non-religious basis, which would reject any foreign attempt at divide and rule. It is important to note, therefore, that Arab nationalism was, from the beginning, a non-sectarian ideology aimed to overcome sectarian conflict.4 Both al-Bustani and al-Shidyaq were Christian intellectuals. As has been already argued by Yared, under the circumstances in which foreign intervention was being carried out in the name of the “protection” of non-Muslims, call for non-sectarianism and secularism on the part of Middle Eastern Christians was the expression of their denunciation of European intervention and patronage.5 Rejecting to be “protected” by foreign powers, and determined to live as ordinary local citizens, the Middle Eastern Christians called for the “Arabization of church,” too. These intellectuals of the historical Syria who called for non-sectarianism were, at the same time, committed to the existence of the Ottoman state at this stage.

The development of secularism in the Middle East 145 Although al-Bustani emphasized the importance of Arabic, his call for “Arab nationalism” was not a call for separation, and his love for watan (Syria) was compatible with his consciousness as an Ottoman citizen.6 Adib Ishaq, another Christian intellectual of Syrian origin, too, supported the Ottoman state. In his case, what was meant by the word watan was the Ottoman state. He even compared the Ottoman state to the United States, both being the states in which people of different languages and religions coexisted.7 Behind the essentially positive attitude shown by these Syrian intellectuals toward the Ottoman state was their esteem and expectation for the reforms (tanzimat) which were going on in the state at that time. They supported the spirit of tanzimat (which called for the equality of all the Ottoman subjects before the law, the abolition of discrimination on sectarian basis, and the introduction of constitutionalism and democracy), and demanded that these reforms should be carried through, so that the foreign powers would not find any pretext for interference. It is important to note that the call for non-sectarianism in the Ottoman state was, thus, closely associated with the call for democratization from the beginning. So far, we have been examining the case of Syria. Non-sectarianism, however, was a key element in the process of the Egyptian ‘Urabist revolution, too. Now let us turn to the case of Egypt. The ‘Urabist revolution (1878–1882) was a movement opposed to the subjection of Egypt to external pressures (embodied in the Anglo-French “Dual Control” over Egyptian finance) on the one hand and aimed at the democratization of internal politics on the other hand. Though it was eventually suppressed by British military intervention and the country was occupied by the British, it was undoubtedly the first full-scale anti-imperialist struggle in Egypt. It is well known that the slogan of the ‘Urabist revolution was “Egypt for the Egyptians (Misr li-l-misriyin).” Enough attention has not been paid to the fact, however, that this slogan was first devised by an organization called “Young Egypt” (Misr al-Fatat) which came into existence in the latter half of the 1870s, and especially by Ya‘qub Sannu‘, an Egyptian intellectual of Jewish origin. Sannu‘ (better known under the pen name of Abu al-Nazzara), who is famous for his anti-despotic views which he spread through his journals and plays after his return from Italy, called himself a “son of the Nile Valley,” “versed in Islam, Christianity, and Judaism.” His plea for “Egyptian nationalism” was based on the awareness of the necessity of overcoming religious differences.8 In this respect, “Egyptian nationalism” advocated by the ‘Urabists and “Arab nationalism” in the historical Syria had something in common. Interestingly enough, moreover, it seems that the emergence of democratic tendency in Egyptian society in the period prior to the revolution, itself, has its rise, to a considerable degree, in the activities of émigré intellectuals of Syrian origin who had moved to Egypt. For example, it was the aforementioned Adib Ishaq, who published newspapers such as Misr (Egypt) and al-Tijara, spread basic concepts concerning democracy and human rights, and contributed to the growth of political consciousness in Egypt. Egypt in the 1870s witnessed a development of intellectual and journalistic activities under the reign of Khedive Isma‘il, who

146 Yoshiko Kurita was vying with the Ottoman Empire in his modernizing policy. While the tanzimat reformist tendency failed and was eventually suffocated in the rest of the empire (especially after the outbreak of the Russo-Ottoman War in 1877), Egypt was enjoying a relative intellectual liberty. This led to the influx of a number of Syrian intellectuals to Egypt, and led, consequently, to the importation of political experiences, too.9 Although, in those days, the manipulation of sectarian difference by foreign powers was not yet conceived as an imminent threat in Egypt,10 the historical Syria had been already suffering from this phenomenon since the 1860s. It is most likely that the intellectuals of Syrian origin played a significant role in convincing the Egyptians of the necessity of trans-sectarian solidarity in the face of foreign intervention. It is said Adib Ishaq was engaged in the activities of the “Young Egypt,” too. Activities in search of trans-sectarian solidarity were undertaken, not only by intellectuals of Jewish or Syrian origin but also by more popular elements. Let us look into the case of ‘Abd Allah al-Nadim, the “orator of the ‘Urabist Revolution.” Compared with the other intellectuals who took part in the ‘Urabist revolution, Al-Nadim was of more popular background (his father used to work at the dockyard in Alexandria, and later opened a bakery), and even after his success as a journalist, he kept his contact with the lower classes. While, unlike the other intellectuals, he had never studied abroad and had no knowledge of foreign languages, he knew how to appeal to the hearts and minds of the ordinary masses and mobilize them. Islam seems to have played a quite significant role in this respect. al-Nadim’s speeches were full of quotations from the Qur’an. He established in Alexandria a mass organization called the “Islamic Benevolence Society” (al-Jam‘iya al-Khayriya al-Islamiya).11 At the same time, al-Nadim, who was working amidst the masses, had a keen interest in consolidating trans-sectarian solidarity. It is said that, while being engaged in the activities of the Islamic Benevolence Society, in the latter half of the 1870s, he supported the activities of the “Coptic Benevolence Society,” an organization which came into existence almost at the same time as the Islamic Benevolence Society, too. It seems that the Islamic Benevolence Society and the Coptic Benevolence Society were independent societies established for the promotion of welfare of their respective communities. They maintained a mutually friendly relationship, however, exchanging visits, and attendinng the meetings of each other. It is reported that when a certain Ahmad al-‘Awwam, a muslim official, made remarks which might provoke religious fanaticism, a meeting of the Islamic Benevolence Society was held to look into the problem. In this meeting, to which the members of the Coptic Benevolence Society, too, were invited, al-‘Awwam criticized himself and Al-Nadim also made a speech.12 In Alexandria, there was a “Benevolence Society for the People of Israel,” too.13 The Islamic Benevolence Society (and the “Society of the Youth” – Jam‘iya al-Shubban – which succeeded it) subsequently played a key role in the process of mass mobilization in the ‘Urabist revolution. It is interesting to note that these organizations, which bore apparently “sectarian” names (such as “Islamic” and “Coptic”) were actually engaged in the activities to prevent sectarian conflict and create trans-sectarian solidarity.

The development of secularism in the Middle East 147 As the revolution evolved and contradiction between the revolutionary government and the European powers (especially Britain and France) intensified, the danger of European intervention under the pretext of “protection” of nonMuslims became imminent. In European newspapers, the ‘Urabist regime was intentionally portrayed as a gang of discontented, anti-Western army officers supported by fanatical Muslims, in order to justify the coming military intervention. Trying to refute this sort of propaganda, the ‘Urabist regime published the “Programme of the National Party of Egypt,” in which the principle of peaceful coexistence of the Muslims and the Copts was emphasized. The program stated clearly that the National Party of Egypt was a “political party, not a religious party” and all “who cultivate the soil and speak the language of Egypt” were guaranteed the same political and legal rights irrespective of their religious affiliation.14 Intensive efforts were made to prevent the outbreak of sectarian violence, and Al-Nadim wrote an article in which he denounced fanaticism (ta‘assub). He also made a speech at the Society of the Youth in Alexandria, stressing the necessity of keeping order.15 Under the pressure of imminent foreign intervention, however, violence broke out in Alexandria in June 1882, and this eventually provided a pretext for British occupation of Egypt.16

The First World War and a new stage of anti-imperialist struggle The Egyptian 1919 revolution and the “Muslim-Christian Association” in Palestine With the outbreak of the First World War in 1914, the British, who had been occupying Egypt since 1882, formally turned it into their own protectorate. Immediately after the war, however, the Egyptians rose in revolution, demanding the overthrow of British Protectorate and independence (the 1919 Revolution). Non-sectarianism was one of the salient features which characterized this revolution. As we have seen, the Egyptians had already experienced, in the course of the ‘Urabist revolution, a foreign military intervention under the pretext of “protection” of non-Muslims. Furthermore, under British occupation, a policy aimed at the creation of Muslim-Coptic antagonism was pursued (especially in the period 1908–1911), and on the occasion of the establishment of the Legislative Council in 1913, a representative system based on sectarian principle was introduced.17 (As is to be clearly revealed by the subsequent “unilateral declaration of independence” by the British in 1922, in which the “protection of minorities” was stipulated as one of the four issues which were “reserved” for the future negotiations), the alleged “minority problem” (or the possibility of “sectarian conflict”) was an indispensable factor for continued British interference in Egyptian politics. It was because the Egyptian people were well aware of this fact that, in the course of the 1919 revolution, continuous efforts were made to consolidate national unity which transcends sectarian differences. It has been often pointed out that, at the time of the 1919 revolution, the shaykhs of the Azhar and the Coptic clergy exchanged visits (in which the Copts

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made speeches at the Azhar and the Muslims spoke at churches), took part side by side in demonstrations, and celebrated religious holidays together.18 Another impressive expression of trans-sectarian solidarity was the flag of “the Crescent and the Cross” used during the revolution. Flags, generally speaking, played a quite significant and special role in the 1919 revolution. Starting as a movement to send the Wafd (delegation) of the Egyptian nation to the Peace Conference in Paris, the key note of the 1919 revolution was to demonstrate to the international community the existence of the “Egyptian nation” which was entitled to exercise the right of self-determination. A flag was important, as it visualized this claim (i.e. the existence of the “Egyptian nation” as a member of the international community), and was used extensively at various stages of the revolution, especially when it was felt necessary to make a strong impact on international public opinion. (There was, for example, a demonstration, in which flags of all the nations of the world “except that of England” were carried. Again, there was a demonstration by women, in which each participant carried a small flag. There was a parade called the “funeral of the flag,” too, in which a flag wrapped in a piece of black cloth was carried, as a symbol of the victims who fell in the course of the revolution.)19 Now, it is worth noting that when a flag was thus used as a symbol of the Egyptian nation, it was often the flag of “the Crescent and the Cross,” in which the crescent (the symbol of Islam) and the cross (the symbol of Christianity) were drawn side by side, as if the former was embracing the latter.20 It was used at least as frequently as the official flag of Egypt in those days (on which three pairs of small “crescent and star” were drawn), and obviously had more effect than the official flag. Needless to say, this flag was a vivid visualization of the idea of trans-sectarian solidarity. It is interesting to note also that, in many of the existing photographs of the demonstrations, it is often women who carry these flags of “the Crescent and the Cross.” The flag of “the Crescent and the Cross,” which symbolizes transsectarian solidarity, was shown being held by a woman wearing traditional black veil (hijab), and, in this way, the truly national character of the revolution (which was confined neither to Muslims nor men) was emphasized. Interestingly enough, the flag of “the Crescent and the Cross” as a symbol of trans-sectarian solidarity was flowing in those days in another spot in the Middle West, too. In 1918, an organization called the “Muslim-Christian Association” (al-Jam‘iya al-Islamiya al-Masihiya) was established in Palestine, and it was the flag of “the Crescent and the Cross” that this organization adopted as its symbol.21 Now, let us have a look into the nature of this organization, and examine, through it, the situation in the historical Syria (Palestine being a part of it) immediately after the First World War. The Muslim-Christian Association was an organization established in Palestine in the final days of the First World War, in order to cope with the new developments which appeared in the region at that time, namely the defeat of the Ottoman state, British occupation of Palestine, the Balfour Declaration, and the subsequent upsurge of the Zionist activities. The first branch is said to have been established

The development of secularism in the Middle East 149 in Jaffa (it was composed of both Muslims and Christians, and its initial name was the “Local Association” – al-Jam‘iya al-Ahliya), but it was in Jerusalem in June 1918 that its formal inauguration as the “Muslim-Christian Association” took place. Organizations under the same name appeared in Nablus and other towns. Toward the end of 1918, these were unified into a single organization, and the first general assembly was held in Jerusalem in January-February 1919, in which it was agreed that the association supported the unity of the Arab nation, demanded independence for Southern Syria (i.e. Palestine), and was opposed to the imposition of British mandate. The association sent a telegram to the Peace Conference in Paris to convey these claims and express its opposition to Zionism.22 In the first half of 1919, the Muslim-Christian Association organized a series of demonstrations throughout Palestine against British mandate and Zionism. When the King-Crane mission (dispatched by the US president Wilson) visited Palestine in June 1919, the association submitted a memorandum, in which it stated that: 1 2 3

it supported the unity and independence of the whole Syria; it demanded, within that framework, self-government for Southern Syria; it was opposed to Zionism. As for the Jews who had been living in Palestine since the pre-Zionism days, however, they were regarded as local inhabitants and were guaranteed equal rights and duties with the other inhabitants.

A great number of petitions in support of these three points were submitted to the King-Crane mission, as it traveled through towns and villages in Palestine.23 In 1920, the activities of the Muslim-Christian Association subsided, as the suppression by the British authorities intensified and demonstrations were prohibited. Still, the association opposed the San Remo Conference, which decided the partition of the historical Syria between the British and the French, and the imposition of British mandate over Palestine. A Palestinian delegation headed by the president of the association, Musa Kazim al-Husaini, was sent to England in 1921–1922, and made a final appeal against British mandate.24 When we examine the activities of the Muslim-Christian Association in this way, what strikes us are the similarities between this movement and the Egyptian 1919 revolution. Both were movements against imperialistic re-organization of the Middle East after the First World War. Both tried desperately to appeal to the international community in order to achieve their goals. There are remarkable similarities between them in respect of strategy (the method of movement), too, since both of them took recourse to actions such as the appeal to the Peace Conference, the dispatch of delegation (wafd) to Europe, and the organization of nation-wide demonstrations and the collection of petitions. Finally, both were aware of the importance of transsectarian solidarity in the face of imperialistic intervention, and expressed this solidarity in the form of the flag of “the Crescent and the Cross.” Concerning the designation “Muslim-Christian Association,” it is said that the founding members initially intended to name their organization the “Arab National Society” (al-Jam‘iya al-‘Arabiya al-Wataniya). They gave up this idea,

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however, since it was feared that the British authorities would not permit the use of the word “national” (watani).25 Thus, there is a possibility that the name “Muslim-Christian Association” was merely a product of compromise, so to speak, and its members were not necessarily satisfied with this designation. This is understandable, since, paradoxically enough, this designation is in itself tinged with a sectarian idea, in the sense that it presupposes the division of human beings on the basis of religious affiliation. However, if one takes into account the fact that the foreign powers had been continuously interfering in the Middle East under the pretext of preventing “sectarian conflict” and protecting “minorities,” we might argue that putting stress upon Muslim-Christian solidarity was a positive step. As for the make-up of the association, among the eight founding members of the organization in Jerusalem in 1918, for example, we find both Muslim notables such as Musa Kazim al-Husaini (who was from Jerusalem, but was educated in Istabul, and had the experience of serving as an official in the Ottoman state) and Christian intellectuals such as Khalil Sakakini. Interestingly enough, this Sakakini, a Greek orthodox intellectual, was apparently in touch with the orthodox community in Egypt, too, and visited Egypt frequently in the period 1918–1920.26 It is possible that, through this kind of channel, news and views were being exchanged, and the movements in Palestine and Egypt were under the direct influence of each other. (Incidentally, Sakakini is known to have been engaged, in his youth, in an effort to “Arabize” the Greek orthodox church in Palestine, and, in this way, can be regarded as a successor to the tradition of Christian intellectuals in Syria who, as we have seen, called for nonsectarianism and democracy in the late Ottoman period.) Finally, it is remarkable that the Palestinian Muslim-Christian Association was, at this early stage, clear on the point that the Jews who had been living in Palestine in a normal way were their co-citizens. The principle of non-sectarianism, which was to characterize the Palestine liberation movement in the 1960s, was already there, from the very outset of the arrival of Zionism to Palestine, a purely sectarian ideology in the sense that it called for a “Jewish state” for the Jews.

The 1920s as a turning point The emergence of the “Arab States System” and the development of Zionist Project As we have seen, since the latter half of the nineteenth century until the period immediately after the First World War, the Middle East witnessed various sorts of attempts to create trans-sectarian solidarity. The situation began to change, however, in the 1920s. In the case of Egypt, after it achieved nominal “independence” as a kingdom in 1922 as a result of the “unilateral declaration of independence” on the part of the British, Egyptian politics began to evolve between the two poles, namely the

The development of secularism in the Middle East 151 Wafd (the successor to the legacy of the 1919 revolution) as the representative of democratic forces on the one hand, and the royal court, which functioned as the stronghold of reactionary forces connected with British imperialism on the other hand. The latter got the upper hand, after the resignation of the Wafdist government (led by Sa‘d Zaghlul) under pressure from the British toward the end of 1924, and a process of counter-revolution against the 1919 revolution started. What is of interest, from our point of view, is that at this stage these reactionary forces began to take recourse to Islam in their struggle against democratic forces, politicizing, in this way, various issues concerning Islam. Attacks (shrouded in religious garment) on the writings of ‘Ali ‘Abd al-Raziq and Taha Husayn (‘Ali ‘Abd al-Raziq’s al-Islam wa Usul al-Hukm and Taha Husayn’s book on preIslamic poetry) in 1925–1926 can be understood in this context. As has been already pointed out, ‘Ali ‘Abd al-Raziq himself was not a Wafdist, and his political view were moderate ones. Even his argument (that Islam does not stipulate a specific political system and the Caliphate was a product of historical and political process which had nothing to do with Islam) was nothing new, since almost the same view had been already expressed by Muhammad ‘Abduh. Nevertheless, by politicizing this issue, and by making this liberal thinker a social outcast, it was hoped to put an end to democratic atmosphere which had been existing in Egyptian society since the 1919 revolution. The book by Taha Husayn, which seemed to suggest the possibility of critical study of religious texts, came under attacks for the same reason. It is worth noting that this sort of utilization of Islam by reactionary forces was closely connected with the idea of coronation of King Fu’ad as the “Arab caliph,” a project which was being promoted by the royal court at that time.27 Attempts to utilize Islam as a means of counter-revolution culminated in the establishment of the Muslim Brothers (al-Ikhwan al-Muslimun) in 1928. In his memoirs, Hasan al-Banna, the founder of the organization, states clearly that it was the “un-Islamic” tendency he witnessed in Egyptian society in the 1920s, such as a university which “revolted against religion and fought the social tradition which derived from it,” and the books, newspapers, and magazines, which propagate ideas intended to “weaken the influence of religion” that drove him to start his movement.28 Thus, the Muslim Brothers came into existence as a part of counter-revolution against the liberal legacy of the 1919 revolution. In the latter half of the 1930s, the Muslim Brothers began to put forward the application of the Islamic law (shari‘a) as the central purpose of their movement. It is worth noting that this call for the application of religious law was a call for the unity between religion and state, and, at the same time, was based on the recognition of sectarian principle, since it was supposed that if the Muslims were to be ruled by the Islamic law, the Christians were to be put under the control of their clergy.29 As was apparent in the propaganda by the reactionary forces that the Wafd was the “party of the Copts” (they took advantage of the fact that Makram ‘Ubayd, the secretary general of the Wafd Party at that time was a Copt), there appeared in Egyptian politics at this stage an attempt to create sectarian divisions within the nation and to consolidate thereby the rule of the reactionary forces.30

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A phenomenon, in a sense, similar to that in Egypt, appeared in historical Syria, too. In the case of Lebanon, which constituted part of historical Syria, for example, it was under French mandate imposed after the First World War that the notorious sectarian system (ta’if iya) was finally consolidated (though its prototype had been already there since the 1860s, as a result of the European intervention, which took place under the pretext of solving sectarian conflicts). In 1926, a representative system founded on sectarian basis was stipulated in the constitution. In 1936, a system to distribute official posts among the representatives of the eighteen (later nineteen) sects was introduced. Finally, in 1943, the National Pact, a sort of bargain between the Christian Maronite leadership and the Muslim Sunni leadership, was concluded. With this, the full-fledged Lebanese sectarian system came into being, which divided the Lebanese nation along sectarian lines, on the one hand, and guaranteed the continuation of “bossism” based on patron– client relationship in respective sectarian communities, on the other hand.31 Hitherto, whenever the Lebanese sectarian system was discussed, the focus was on the point that this was a system which guaranteed the Maronite domination. More important, however, is the fact that sectarian politics inevitably tend to control and manage individuals in accordance with their religious affiliation. Just as we have seen in the case of Egypt, in Lebanon, too, there were attempts on the part of some of the Christian clergy and Mulsim ‘ulama to introduce “personal laws” based on respective religions, and secular Christian thinkers who opposed this were threatened to be excommunicated. Concerning the nature of Lebanese sectarianism which thus came into being under French colonial administration, Mahdi ‘Amil, a Lebanese communist thinker, argues that it should be analyzed in the context of the specific way of capitalistic formation which Lebanon experienced under French imperialism, not in the context of continuity with premodern Middle Eastern social tradition (the legacy of millet system under the Ottoman state, for example). According to ‘Amil, sectarianism is a political system through which the dependent Lebanese bourgeoisie (“colonial bourgeoisie”), which came into being under imperialism, consolidates its rule. The financial capitalists, who constitutes the core of the Lebanese “colonial bourgeoisie,” are interested in dividing the working masses along sectarian lines and thus preventing them from forming an independent political force.32 Putting stress on the point that sectarianism is essentially a product of the twentieth century, ‘Amil distinguishes between “religious ideology” which was the ideology of the “pre-capitalistic ruling elite” and “sectarian (ta’ifi) ideology,” which is the ideology of the “colonial bourgeoisie.” He admits, however, that, unlike the case of Europe, where a violent struggle took place between the feudal forces and rising bourgeoisie, in Lebanon, the relationship between the “precapitalistic ruling elite” and the “colonial bourgeoisie” is not a hostile one, and these two groups are supporting each other (though the initiative is now definitely in the hands of the latter). The only social force that is truly opposed to today’s ruling strata (which consist of an alliance between the financial and merchant capitalists and the landowners) is the working class.33

The development of secularism in the Middle East 153 It seems that ‘Amil’s insight into the nature of sectarianism is relevant, not only in the case of Lebanon but also in the case of the other Arab countries (including Egypt), which witnessed, in one form or another, the emergence of “sectarian” tendency in the period. Obviously, the emergence of sectarian tendency was closely related to the question of the formation of new local ruling strata in the Middle East, the ruling strata which came into existence after the First World War and grew up in the framework of the newly created “Arab states.” These local ruling classes which were essentially dependent on imperialism (landowners, who were the pillars of monoculture economy, and the merchant and financial capitalists of comprador type), nevertheless needed, as the Arab states achieved “independence” (nominal as it was), their own apparatus to control the masses, apart from military force which used to be provided by imperial powers. Sectarianism turned out to be this apparatus, which served well the interests of “colonial bourgeoisie.” Another factor which was decisive for the emergence of sectarianism in the Arab states was the impact of Zionism. Zionism was, in a sense, a legitimate successor to the imperialistic ideology of the foreign powers, which justified intervention in the Middle East under the pretext of the existence of “sectarian conflict” and the “protection of minorities.” And when a Jewish “national home” was established in Palestine based on this Zionist ideology, it had an effect on the political culture of sectarianism (which divide and control people on the basis of religious affiliation) rapidly spreading to the surrounding countries, too. As is well known, it was during the Palestine crisis (beginning in 1936) that the Muslim Brothers in Egypt greatly increased its influence among the masses, through their vehement anti-Jewish propaganda.34 Again, it was at this time that the Young Egypt (Misr al-Fatat) which had been established in 1933 (not to be confused with the organization of the same name during the time of the ‘Urabist revolution) went through an ideological change and started to mobilize the masses using “Islamic” vocabulary.35 If we turn to the case of “Arab nationalism” advocated by Michel ‘Aflaq (a Syrian intellectual, and a founder of the Ba‘th Party), here, too, we find that, although Ba‘thism is regarded essentially as a secular ideology, the place of Islam in this version of Arab nationalism is obviously larger than in the case of Arab nationalism advocated by al-Bustani.36 Thus, Zionism, which calls for the creation of a “Jewish state”, invoked the emergence of sectarian tendency in the surrounding area, and these two – namely, Zionism and sectarianism – were interdependent in a way, having much in common ideologically. Thus it is reported that the Muslim Brothers in Egypt admired, in a sense, Zionists, for “returning to the past, unashamed of their religion,” and for “calling themselves Israel.”37

Confronting Zionism and sectarianism The experiments of non-sectarianism and secularism in the 1950s–1970s The year 1948 was a watershed in Middle Eastern political history. Shocking as it was, the establishment of the state of Israel and the defeat of the Arab states in

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Palestine led to political awakening, so to speak, of the people of the Middle East. In the course of the Palestine War, the innate defect of the Arab regimes and their implicit complicity with Zionism were disclosed, and this subsequently led to a series of attempts to change the status quo in the Arab states, such as the July Revolution in Egypt in 1952, which signaled the beginning of the age of revolution in the Middle East. It is worth noting that these revolutionary movements which aspired to overthrow the corrupt existing regimes (which were essentially dependent on imperialism), democratize society, and cope with the newly implanted colonial state in the Middle East, that is Israel, were, at the same time, trying to overcome sectarianism. The age of revolution, which lasted in the Arab area approximately from the 1950s to the 1970s was, at the same time, the age of the experiments of nonsectarianism and secularism. Jamal ‘Abd al-Nasir, the leader of the Egyptian July Revolution had the experience of joining the Young Egypt and the Muslim Brothers in his youth. After the ideological turn he experienced in the battlefield of Palestine, and after he organized the Free Officers and successfully led the July Revolution, however, he came increasingly in confrontation with the Muslim Brothers. Interestingly enough, in his criticism of the Muslim Brothers, ‘Abd al-Nasir pointed out the ideological similarity between the Muslim Brothers’ vision of “Islamic state” and the Zionist vision of the “Jewish state.” “If we are to reject the idea of a Jewish state for the sake of the Jews,” he argued, “we must oppose a movement aimed at the creation of an Islamic state for the sake of the Muslims, too.”38 Thus, the conflict between ‘Abd al-Nasir and the Muslim Brothers was not a mere power struggle. It was an attempt on the part of the July regime to deny sectarianism. However, there was ambiguity, too, in the position of the July regime on the question of the relationship between politics and religion. Constitution which was enacted after the revolution stipulated that religion of the state was Islam. It has been pointed out that the July regime, while suppressing the Muslim Brothers, nevertheless made use of Islam.39 In comparison with the subsequent Sadat regime, however, it is remarkable that the Nasir regime was clearly opposed to the Islamist tendency which called for the building of an “Islamic state” in which the shari‘a was to be implemented. The attempt to overcome sectarianism was more conspicuous in the case of Lebanon. Lebanon since the 1950s witnessed an upsurge of anti-imperialistic movement, such as the campaign against the Baghdad Pact and the Eisenhower Doctrine. Democratization of internal politics and solidarity with the Palestine liberation movement were pursued, too. And amid this upsurge of revolutionary tendency, overcoming of sectarianism, which, as we have seen, in the case of Lebanon, had taken the shape of a political system, was regarded as a key issue for the democratization of Lebanese society. Among the political forces which called for the abolition of sectarianism were the Lebanese Communist Party (we have already examined the argument by one of its leading ideologues, Mahdi ‘Amil), the Syrian National Socialist Party (established by Antun Sa‘ada), the Ba‘th Party (which increased its socialist tendency since the latter half of the 1950s), and the

The development of secularism in the Middle East 155 Progressive Socialist Party (al-Hizb al-Taqaddumi al-Ishtiraki) led by Kamal Janbalat. Let us look into the case of this last party, as an example. The Progressive Socialist Party was a political party which attacked imperialism, supported the Arab unity, and sympathized with the Egyptian July Revolution to a great degree. At the level of domestic politics, what this party consistently called for was the “abolition of sectarian system” and the “establishment of ‘almaniya (secularism)”. Perhaps it should be added, however, that these expressions were always used with some reservation. As for sectarianism, it was “political sectarian system (nizam al-ta’ifiya al-siyasiya)” which was to be abolished. As for secularism (‘almaniya), the term was always shrouded in expressions such as consolidating “ ‘almaniya in a state which respects the freedom of religious faiths”, “virtuous ‘almaniya,” and “principled and realistic ‘almaniya.” It was declared that “religion is the fundamental basis of society,” “socialism and religion are not contradictory,” “teachings of every religion are essentially socialistic,” and it was emphasized that the party was not denying the social function of religion.40 Obviously this is partly due to the fact that the term ‘almaniya often tended to be equated by its opponents with “ilhad” (apostasy), and one had to be very cautious in expressing his support for ‘almaniya. It might be related to fact that Kamal Janbalat, the leader of the Progressive Socialist Party himself, had, at the same time, a sectarian background. He was a notable of Druze origin. Actually the Progressive Socialist Party was a party which relied, to a considerable degree, on the support of the Druze masses. Paradoxical as it seems, it is interesting that a political force, largely based on a sectarian community, should have struggled to overcome sectarianism, in its efforts to respond to the aspirations of its own masses. The Progressive Socialist Party was one of the main political forces (along with the Lebanese Communist Party) which maintained solidarity with the Palestinians in the course of the Lebanese Civil War. Now, if we turn to the activities of the Palestinians at this stage, we find that it was among the Palestinians, who were in direct confrontation with Zionism, that call for non-sectarianism and secularism was voiced most articulately. In the Palestine National Charter in 1968, it was declared that the “Jews who had been living normally in Palestine before the Zionist attack began are regarded as Palestinians,” an idea, which, as we have observed, had already exited since 1919, the days of the Muslim-Christian Association. Moreover, there was a debate inside the Fatah (the National Movement for the Liberation of Palestine, the biggest faction in the Palestine Liberation Organization) in the years 1968–1971, concerning the nature of “democratic Palestinian state” and “non-sectarian Palestinian society” which were to be built after the liquidation of Zionism. After 1969, the building of a “democratic and non-sectarian state” in the future Palestine was adopted as the official policy of the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO) as a whole. Actually, the term “democratic” state itself was meant to imply the opposite of theocracy, a state in which Muslims, Christians, and Jews would enjoy equal rights,41 but it was further emphasized by the addition of the term “non-sectarian.”

156 Yoshiko Kurita An article titled “Towards Democratic Palestine” written by Nabil Sha‘th (under the pen name of “Muhammad Rashid”) in 1970 gives us an idea of what was meant by “non-sectarianism” (in Arabic, it was expressed either as “lata’ifiya” or as “ ‘almaniya”) among the Palestinians in those days. In this article it is clearly stated that “non-sectarianism” means not only guaranteeing the freedom of different religious faiths but also means the denial of representative system founded on sectarian basis. The case of Lebanon is referred to as a negative example. The author makes it clear that the freedom of faith is not enough, and that what is important is the separation of religious affiliation and citizenship, the separation of religion and state. It is also emphasized that in the future Palestine, every citizen irrespective of faith (“whether he is a Muslim or a Christian, or a Jew”) is entitled to be a head of the state. Moreover, in this article, the author suggests the possibility that not only the Jews who were living in Palestine normally before 1948 but even the Jews who immigrated into Palestine afterwards (i.e. as settlers) may be allowed to stay, if Zionism as a political system is liquidated. They are to be accepted as the members of the democratic Palestinian state, if they are ready to abandon Zionism.42 To conclude, the Middle East in the 1950s–1970s witnessed various attempts in search of non-sectarianism and secularism. And these attempts were neither sporadic nor isolated ones, but rather seem to have been inspiring one another, exchanging their respective political experiences, and have formed, in total, a quite an influential movement which can never be ignored in the contemporary political history of the Middle East.43

Some concluding remarks In the latter half of the 1970s, the secularist tendency rapidly lost its momentum, and in its place the “Islamist” tendency, which calls for the building of the “Islamic state” gathered strength. Essentially, what was behind these developments was the fact that with the defeat of the Nasir regime in the 1967 War, the age of revolution in the Middle East ended, and imperialism (and the forces connected with it) returned. In Egypt, Sadat, who succeeded Nasir, abandoned the socialistic policies pursued under the Nasir regime and adopted the so-called open door policy (infitah) toward foreign capital. Trying to reconcile with the capitalist powers led by the United States, and pursuing the economic development of Egypt at any cost, Sadat eventually reconciled with Israel (the US bridgehead in the Middle East) in 1978, thus completing politically the military defeat of Egypt in 1967. Leading in this way a sort of counter-revolution against the July Revolution, Sadat, at the same time, turned to “Islam” to block the resistance of democratic forces. The 1971 Constitution stipulated that the shari‘a was “a major source of legislation.” In 1980, it was amended to be “the major source.” The Sadat regime directly supported and strengthened “Islamist” forces such as the Muslim Brothers, too, in order to contain democratic forces.44 The defeat of the Egyptian revolutionary regime in 1967 caused, on the other hand, a change in the balance of power in the Middle East, too, and the influence

The development of secularism in the Middle East 157 of the reactionary regimes such as Saudi Arabia (which had not yet experienced a revolution and was under the same old ruling strata) increased. These regimes, too, supported “Islamist” movements, and this led to the transformation of the Middle Eastern political culture from the 1970s onward. As a result, when we look at the Middle East today, at the beginning of the twenty-first century, we find that it seems to be almost totally dominated by the “Islamist” tendency, calling for the building of an Islamic state, while, at the heart of the region, Israel, a settler state in the guise of a “Jewish” state, prevails. Looking back, however, we find that this is not the first time. The upsurge of a sectarian political culture and the emergence of a sectarian political system were already witnessed in the 1920s–1940s, when revolutionary movements suffered a setback and democratic tendency was contained. Later, in the 1950s–1960s, however, sectarianism was denounced and was almost overcome. This means that the present state of things in the Middle East, too, is only a temporary one, and is bound to change. In spite of the continuous attempts on the part of imperialism to forge sectarian problems in the Middle East as a pretext for interference, the people of the Middle East, for more than a century, have been struggling to create transsectarian solidarity and to build democracy. Such a struggle will go on, in various forms.

Notes 1 As an example of the Islamist critisism of ‘almaniya, see Muhammad ‘Imara, Ma‘raka al-Mustalahat bayna al-Gharb wa al-Islam (al-Qahira: Nahda Misr, 1997), 23–41, Azzam Tamimi and John L. Espotito (eds), Islam and Secularism in the Middle East (London: C. Hurst, 2000), too, includes a number of articles criticizing secularism from Islamist standpoint of view. 2 In this chapter, we concentrate on the analysis of secularism as a movement which calls for the separation of state and religion. Of course, there could be other definitions for secularism, if we we take into account other elements such as the relationship between religion and society (not state), relationship between “this world” and the “other world,” and the question of a “state of mind.” See Muhammad Arkun, al-‘Almaniya wa al-Din (London: Dar al-Saqi, 1996), for example. Some define secularism as a “rational attitude towards the world,” and in accordance with this definition, it is argued that Islam is a “secularist religion,” from the beginning. 3 Yunan Labib Rizq, an Egyptian historian, puts stress on the fact that a movement in search of ‘almaniya has been an integral part of modern Egyptian history. Yunan Labib Rizq, Misr al-Madaniya (al-Qahira: al-Hay’a al-Misriya al-‘Amma li-l-Kitab, 1996), 17–21, Rif‘at al-Sa‘id, an Egyptian Marxist writer, too, argues that ‘almaniya should be treated as a social movement. Rif‘at al-Sa‘id, “al-Islam la ta‘rif sulta diniya wa la hakiman bism al-din,” al-Ahali (June 7, 2000): 6. Mahdi ‘Amil, an ideologue of the Lebanese Communist Party (whose ideas we shall later examine in this chapter), too, argues that the history of “sectarianism” in Lebanon cannot be discussed separately from the history of struggle against it, and suggests the importance of studying the history of “non-sectarianism.” Mahdi ‘Amil, Fi al-Dawla al-Ta’ifiya (Bayrut: Dar al-Farabi, 1989), 188. 4 Albert Hourani, Arabic Thought in the Liberal Age 1798–1939 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 98–102.

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5 Nazik Saba Yared, Secularism and the Arab World 1850–1939 (London: Saqi Books, 2002), 151. 6 Hourani, Arabic Thought in the Liberal Age, 101; Yared, Secularism and the Arab World, 25, 153. 7 Yared, Secularism and the Arab World, 150. 8 See the articles in al-Hawi, n.d., p. 6 and Abu Nazzara, Aug. 5, 1881,170, Oct. 7, 1881, 184–185 in Suhuf Abu Nazzara, 10 vols, Bayrut, vol. iii. 9 Incidentally, these intellectuals of Syrian origin formed an important part of the human networks Jamal al-Din al-Afgani built during his stay in Egypt (1871–1879). Concerning the intellectual and publishing activities in Egypt in the 1870s, see William Richards Charles Phelps, “Political Journalism and the ‘Urabi Revolt,” PhD thesis submitted to the University of Michigan, 1978. 10 Yunan Labib Rizq argues that in Egypt in the nineteenth century, as a result of modernization and centralization since the days of Muhammad ‘Ali, religious sects (tawa’if ) were, along with the other tawa’if (occupational or ethnic), on the way to dissolution. The residential system based on religious affiliation which had existed in the Ottoman period (such as the Coptic quarters and the Jewish quarters), too, was disappearing, as a result of economic development and domestic migration, and the residential pattern based on economic differences was beginning to be witnessed. Yunan Labib Rizq, Misr al-Madaniya, 13–15, 137–139. Incidentally, in the case of Egypt, the levy of jizya (poll tax) upon the Copts was abolished in the 1850s. 11 For the life and activities of ‘Abd Allah al-Nadim, see Muhammad Ahmad Khalaf Allah, ‘Abd Allah al-Nadim wa Mudhakkiratuh al-Siyasiya (al-Qahira: al-Maktab al-Anjlu-Misriya, n.d.). 12 See the article quoted from al-Watan (a Coptic journal), August 23, 1879, in Phelps, “Political Journalism and ‘Urabi Revolt,” 84. Incidentally, there seems to be strong possibility that this ‘Awwam might be the same Ahmad al-‘Awwam, who subsequently supported the ‘Urabist revolution vehemently, was exiled to the Sudan after British occupation of Egypt, sympathized with the Sudanese Mahdist movement, and was eventually executed by General Gordon. Concerning Ahmad al-‘Awwam, see Ibrahim Shahhata Hasan, Misr wa al-Sudan wa Wajh al- Thawra fi Nasiha Ahmad al-‘Awwam (al-Iskandariya, 1971). 13 Phelps, “Political Journalism and ‘Urabi Revolt,” 83. 14 Wilfrid Scawen Blunt, Secret History of the English Occupation of Egypt, 2nd ed. (London: T. Fisher Urwin, 1907), 383–385. 15 Latifa Muhammad Salim, al-Quwa al-Ijtima‘iya fi al-Thawra al-‘Urabiya (al-Qahira: al-Hay’a al- Misriya al-‘Amma li-l-Kitab, 1981), 383; Muhammad Ahmad Khalaf Allah, ‘Abd Allah al-Nadim, 66. 16 Concerning the riot in Alexandria, see Blunt, Secret History of the English Occupation, 235–239. 17 Tariq al-Bishri, al-Muslimun wa al-Aqbat fi Itar al-Jama‘a al-Wataniya (al-Qahira: Dar al-Wahda, 1982), 115–116. 18 Ramzi Mikha’il Jid, al-Wahda al-Wataniya fi Thawra 1919 (Qahira: al-Hay’a al- Misriya al-‘Amma li-l-Kitab, 1980), 28, 31–33. 19 Amal Kamil Bayyumi al-Subki, al-Haraka al-Nisa’iya fi Misr ma bayna 1919 wa 1952 (Qahira: al-Hay’a al- Misriya al-‘Amma li-l-Kitab, 1986), 19, 25, 33. 20 Amal Kamil Bayyumi al-Subki, al-Haraka al-Nisa’iya, 22; Tariq al-Bishri, al-Muslimun wa al-Aqbat, 132. See also the photographs at the end of Ramzi Mikha’il Jid, al-Wahda al-Wataniya. 21 al-Mawsu‘a al-Filastiniya, (Dimashq: Hay’a al-Mawsu‘a al-Filastiniya, 1984), vol. 3, 307–310. 22 al-Mawsu‘a al-Filastiniya, vol. 2, 64–67. See also A. W. Kayyali, Palestine: A Modern History (London: Croom Helm, 1978), 57–63. It is interesting to note that Jaffa is a town in which Al-Nadim used to live in self-exile after the defeat of the ‘Urabist revolution.

The development of secularism in the Middle East 159

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26 27

28 29

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Being a port town on the coast of the Mediterranean, Jaffa was in close contact with Egypt. Sahar Huneidi, A Broken Trust: Herber Samuel, Zionism, and the Palestinians 1920–25 (London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 2001), 15–16; al-Mawsu‘a al-Filastiniya, vol.3, 688–690. In the village of Bayt Jala, more than 1,000 signatures in support of the three points were submitted. In Nablus, a representative of the “Muslim-Christian Association” submitted the documents of “tawkil” (the delegation of powers to the association) from the neighboring 92 villages. Concerning the activities of the KingCrane Mission, see Henry C. King and Charles R. Crane, “King-Crane Report on the Near East,” Editor & Publisher, New York, 55–27, 2nd section, 1922. Huneidi, A Broken Trust, 149–162, See also Y. Porath, The Emergence of the Palestinian-Arab National Movement 1918–1929 (London: Frank Cass, 1974), 137–147. al-Mawsu‘a al-Filastiniya, vol. 2, 64–67. It was perhaps because of this rather conciliatory attitude shown by the Muslim-Christian Association that the American KingCrane Mission suspected the exsitence of hidden cooperation between the British authorities and the association. See the “Confidential Appendix” in “King-Crane Report on the Near East.” al-Mawsu‘a al-Filastiniya, vol. 2, 370–371. See Muhammad ‘Imara, “al-Shaykh ‘Ali ‘Abd al-Raziq: Ma‘raka Fikriya,” al-Tali‘a, 11 (1971): 90–111. It is interesting to note that Muhammad ‘Imara, who has since become an Islamist ideologue, was analyzing the political backgroud of this incident in a most objective way at the time of the writing of this article in al-Tali‘a. Richard P. Mitchell, The Society of the Muslim Brothers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1969), 4. In this context, it is interesting that Hasan al-Banna published an article in which he launched an attack on Salama Musa, a secularist of Coptic origin, and at the same time appealed to the Coptic patriarch, proposing joint struggle in order to fight secularism. See al-Sayyid Yusuf, Hasan al-Banna wa al-Ikhwan al-Muslimun (al-Qahira: Markaz al-Mahrusa, 1994), vol. 1, 250, 260. This sort of propaganda, in which the Copts and the Wafd were intentionally associated, was carried out by various forces such as Shaykh al-Maraghi (the Rector of the Azhar), the Muslim Brothers, and the Young Egypt (which came into existence in 1933. Not to be confused with the Young Egypt in the nineteenth century). See Tariq al-Bishri, al-Muslimun wa al-Aqbat, 533–535, 539, 543–544. It is interesting to note that what triggered off these assaults on the Copts was the abolition of capitulations by the Montreaux Convention in 1937. The Copts themselves had nothing to do with capitulations, since they were not foreign subjects, and had not been enjoying any privileges. However, as a result of the abolition of capitulations, the question of the expansion of the powers of the shari‘a courts emerged, and this led to the politicization of the question of shari‘a and the question of the status of the Copts on the part of the Muslim Brothers. Tariq al-Bishri, al-Muslimun wa al-Aqbat, 549. This reveals vividly the inseparable relationship between the question of the application of shari‘a (which constitutes a key issue in the Islamist platform) and the “question of minorities” created by the Powers since the nineteenth century. al-Mawsu‘a al-Siyasiya (Bayrut: al-Mu’assasa al-‘Arabiya li-l-Dirasat wa al-Nashr, 1983), vol. 3, 745–751. Mahdi ‘Amil, Madkhal ila Naqd al-Fikr al-Ta’ifi (Bayrut: Dar al-Farabi, 1989), 20–25, 282–299. Ibid., 25–35. Incidentally, what Mahdi ‘Amil says here about the relationship between the “religious ideology” and the “sectarian (ta’ifi) ideology” gives us a useful hint in considering the question of ta’ifiya in the twentieth century Sudan, too. In the case of contemporary Sudan, the term ta’ifiya does not mean a system based on the difference of religion (such as Islam, Christianity, and Judaism), but means a rather particular

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situation in Sudan, namely the difference between the Mirghani order (the biggest Sufi order in the Sudan) and the Ansar sect (the supporters of the Mahdi family) – that is the difference inside the Sudanese Muslim community – and the phenomenon that major political parties have been formed essentially based upon these two sects. Still, what ‘Amil argues about the relationship between the “pre-capitalistic ruling elite” and the “colonial bourgeosie” seems to apply, to a considerable degree, in the case of the Sudan, too. Mitchell, Society of the Muslim Brothers, 15. Tariq al-Bishri, al-Muslimun wa al-Aqbat, 502. For the place of Islam in the Ba‘thist ideology at that time, see, for example, “Dhikra al-Rasul al-‘Arabi” in Michel ‘Aflaq, Fi Sabil al-Ba‘th (Bayrut: Dar al-Tali‘a, 1980, reprint of the 1959 edition), 122–134. Mitchell, Society of the Muslim Brothers, 242, f. 3. Marlin Nasr, al-Tasawwur al-Qawmi al-‘Arabi fi Fikr Jamal ‘Abd al-Nasir (Bayrut, 1981), 393. Isma‘il al-Mahdawi, “Ma‘na al-‘Almaniya,” Adab wa Naqd, 44 (1989): 150–151; Farida al-Naqqash, “al-Muwatana bayna al-Dawla al-Diniya wa al-‘Almaniya”, al-Yasar, 117 (2001): 63–67. Faris Ishti, al-Hizb al-Taqaddumi al-Ishtiraki wa Dawla fi al-Siyasa al-Lubnaniya, 1949–1975 (Bayrut: al-Dar al-Taqaddumiya, 1989), 151, 271, 664; Kamal Janbalat, Mukhtarat fi Dhikra Miladihi al-Sittina (Bayrut, 1977), 91,141. Mahir al-Sharif, “Min al-Fikr al-Siyasi al-Filastini: Shi‘ar al-Dawla al-Dimuqratiya wa Mu‘dila al-Qa‘ida al-Amina,” al-Tariq, 4 (1995): 148–170. Muhammad Rashid, Nahwa Filastin Dimuqratiya (Bayrut: Markaz al-Abhath, Munazzama al-Tahrir al-Filastiniya, 1970), 40, 43. Lebanese politics and the Palestine liberation movement were inextricably intertwined. Interestingly enough, there are striking similarities between the Egyptian National Charter (al-Mithaq adopted in 1962 by the July regime) and the Palestine National Charter as well. Yunan Labib Rizk explains how the Sadat regime used the “Islamists” in order to cope with its opponents. After the October War in 1973, Sadat bagan to call those who were opposed to his policy “Nasserists (i.e. the followers of Nasir),” and instigated the Islamists against them. Afterward, when, in 1978, the Wafd party came back to the stage of Egyptian politics, Sadat tried to deny not only Nasserism but also whole the legacy of pre-July Egyptian politics (in which the Wafd played a key role), and used the Islamists again. All this led to the growth of the Islamist tendency in Egyptian society. In the field of history writing, this led to a most serious situation in which whole the experiences of modern hostory have been lost from the memory of nation. Yunan Labib Rizq, Misr al-Madaniya, 9–12.

9

Democratization and Islamic movements in Turkey Yasushi Hazama

Introduction Empirical studies of social movements seem to agree that political opportunities are one of the most important determinants of social movements and, in particular their emergence.1 A political opportunity can be defined as an environment that gives incentives for collective action by increasing the participants’ expectation of success.2 This perspective is useful for analyzing Islamic movements in Turkey. Their emergence and development were closely associated with the expansion of political opportunities such as democratization and religious liberalization. Although Islamic movements in Turkey potentially had a popular base of support, their emergence and development can be explained mainly by two kinds of political opportunities. First, waves of democratization from above, particularly in 1946 and 1961, opened the way for electoral competition over popular votes and increased the activity by voluntary associations and political parties. Second, state promotion of Islamic values in the early 1980s as an antidote to communism inadvertently encouraged political Islam, which subsequently flourished in the 1990s. To analyze the effect of democratization on the development of Islamic movements, the major concepts must be clarified. First, democratization is defined as an increase in competition and participation in the political system.3 Competition among political parties for the government is promoted most of all by a transition to a multiparty system. Participation in not only elections but also continuous political actions is increased by the expansion of suffrage and freedom of association and speech. Second, Islamic movements are defined as social movements that aim to protect and expand Islamic values in society. The movements include both systemic movements that seek freedom of religion in the private sphere and antisystemic movements that aspire to establish an Islamic state. It is difficult, however, to investigate systematically how democratization has changed major attributes of Islamic movements in Turkey. There are very few primary sources and empirical studies of organizations and activities of Islamic movements, which are officially illegal in Turkey. This chapter thus analyzes the phenomenon, instead of the body, of the movement and describes how political change since the establishment of the republic to the present has determined

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the development of Islamic movements in Turkey. This chapter is divided by conventional time periods in order to help to understand the basic trend of political change in Islamic movements in Turkey. Each section discusses in some detail the major phenomena that characterize each period. Although those phenomena have existed across different time periods, the phenomena are discussed for the time period in which they became most distinct.

From coalition to suppression: 1919–1946 While Mustafa Kemal and other secular nationalists led the establishment of republican Turkey in 1923, conservatives, including religious, forces dominated the politically influential figures in the country. In the National Liberation War (1919–1922), Kemal needed support and cooperation from local notables such as landlords, tribal leaders, and religious leaders in order to mobilize the peasant masses as battalions. After the republican transition, Kemal quickly eradicated religious forces from politics and within two decades completed the secularization process, at least in legal terms. The secularization was more of a control of religion by the state than a separation of religion and politics. Not only was political Islam banned but religious practices in the public were also restricted. War of National Liberation and the secular-religious coalition: 1919–1923 After Kemal’s declaration of the National Liberation War against the Allied Forces in 1919, the Turkish Grand National Assembly was convened, and the national government was established in Ankara in 1920. There was disagreement over the role of these institutions between the secular nationalists who sought the establishment of a republican regime and the conservatives who supported the Sultan-Khalif system. The first assembly (1920–1923) reflected the ruling stratum of the day: clergies constituted the largest group by profession.4 The secular nationalists formed a minority in the parliament. The Constitution Draft Committee, chosen by the parliament, prepared a constitutional draft stipulating that the assembly and the national government were only provisional until SultanKhalif was liberated from the Allied Forces. Although the draft defied the will of the secular nationalists, they put off a struggle with the conservatives until the end of the National Liberation War.5 The conservatives, in particular the religious force, played an important part in the National Liberation War. The first assembly set up education committees by administrative area in order to disseminate information to the masses. The committee consisted of local parliamentarians and was administered by religious leaders. A fatwa (religious decree) issued in Ankara, where the national government was founded, insisted that Sultan-Khalif was under the custody of apostates, and the Muslim nationalists’ mission was to liberate him. The taxation committee, consisting of muftis and imams, collected about 40 percent of the incomes of the people, thus contributing financially to the national government.6

Democratization and Islamic movements in Turkey 163 As a Turkish victory neared, the Sultanate-Caliphate issue reemerged in the parliament. In January 1921, the parliament adopted the 1921 constitution that established the principle of national sovereignty and that concentrated on both legislative and executive powers in the parliament. Although the constitution did not specify the form of the state, conservative MPs reacted strongly when Kemal’s intention to abolish the Sultanate-Caliphate became apparent. The conservativedominated parliament, however, also resented that the British did not recognize the national government in Ankara but instead invited the Sultan government in Istanbul to the peace negotiations. Kemal took advantage of this opportunity in November 1922 to propose a bill to separate the Sultanate from the Caliphate and to abolish the Sultanate. When the bill met resistance in the law committee of the parliament, Kemal forced the opposition to pass the bill by threatening that the heads of MPs who did not accept national sovereignty might fall. There was no strong reaction either at home or from abroad to the abolition of the Sultanate.7 Secularization under single-party rule and repression of Islamist movements: 1923–1946 There was a stronger resistance in the parliament to the abolition of the Caliphate. The conservatives tried to revive the Sultanate by preserving the Caliphate. Kemal, who wanted to establish a republican regime by introducing a new constitution, faced difficulties in securing support from the parliament. In the second assembly (1923–1927), the Kemalist MPs formed a small majority but the conservatives became radicalized and none of the cabinet members was approved by the parliament for weeks. Kemal did not rush to introduce a new constitution that would require a protracted drafting procedure and instead proposed an amendment to Article 1 of the 1921 constitution that would add a declaration of a republican regime to the current principle of national sovereignty. Strong opposition to the bill was subsequently stopped by the speech made by Abdurrahman Veref, the Ottoman Empire’s last historian bureaucrat and the most senior MP. In October, the constitutional amendment resulted in the declaration of a republican regime. During the debate over the constitutional amendment, the conservatives had partly countered Kemal’s move with an amendment to Article 2 that would designate Islam as the state religion. This amendment formed a foundation for the conservatives to defend the legitimacy of the Caliphate. However, in March 1924 Kemal had the parliament pass the bill that abolished the Caliphate, alleging that domestic reactionary forces and foreign powers were using the Caliphate politically.8 During the following years, secularization reform was accelerated9 while Kemal controlled the nomination process in the Republican People’s Party (RPP), established in 1923, to rid the parliament of religious MPs.10 Subsequently the number of the religious MPs in the parliament (Figure 9.1) showed the largest decline among the MPs by profession.11 The secularization reform was not a total denial of religion. From experience in the National Liberation War, Kemal was aware of the role of religion for the

164 Yasushi Hazama 18 16 14 12 10 8 6 4 2 0 1920

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Figure 9.1 Percentage of Turkish parliamentarians of religious profession. Source: Compiled by the author from Frey, The Turkish Political Elite, 181, table 7.5.

general population. Instead, he believed in the necessity of an enlightened Islam. Kemal asserted that Islam was a natural and rational belief but that autocratic monarchs usurped it to hold their subjects in control. He then said that people had to understand the Qur’an in their mother tongue, not through the religious authorities’ intentional interpretation.12 In 1931, ezan and sermons began to be given in Turkish all over Turkey without any law or obligation. It was not until 1941, three years after Kemal’s death, that Turkish ezan became compulsory by law. While Kemal was alive, a translation of the Qur’an was attempted but was not realized because the person in charge changed his mind due to opposition from the religious circle.13 Secular reform purported to separate religion from politics and the state and to relegate religion to the individual. Freedom of religion, however, was subject to certain limitations by law. First, Article 9 of the 1938 Law of Associations banned associations that were based on any religious sect or organization. Second, the same law also prohibited political associations and parties from seeking specifically religious support. Third, the penal law, amended in 1949, stipulated in Article 163 punishments for actions against secularism and actions to adapt the state system to religious principles or belief. Thus, freedom of religion was guaranteed unless it was misused to propagate political ideology.14 Secular reform initially brought about protests involving a religiously conservative population.15 From 1924 to 1925, incidents related to the introduction of the Hat Law, which obliged citizens to wear hats,16 occurred in the conservative Black Sea and eastern Anatolian regions when people responded to the call of local religious leaders to rebel. The government repressed these protests with force. In 1925, the Independent Court gave many death sentences for state treason.

Democratization and Islamic movements in Turkey 165 After the government showed a strong stance, protest movements by the masses became rare. During the 1930s, there were a few Islamist-related instances in religiously conservative regions.17 In contrast with the reaction to the Hat Law, however, these instances were actions by Islamist (Nakvibendi) leaders and their followers without a large participation of the local population. In the Siirt incident, inhabitants complained about Islamist activities to the authorities.

Transition to a multiparty system and the emergence of Islamist movements: 1946–1960 The introduction of the multiparty system and the subsequent deregulation of religious activities gave way to the emergence of Islamic movements that had been contained. The Democrat Party (DP) government expanded the policy of religious deregularization that the RPP government had started while keeping radical Islamic movements in check. The Democrat government, which during the late 1950s followed a failed economic policy, tried to buttress the government’s declining popularity by using Islamic discourse but did not introduce Islamic law. The Democrat government primarily aimed at garnering votes from the devout masses while keeping the framework of secularism. In turn, Islamists pragmatically chose to support the largest center-right party for religious liberalization rather than a strongly religious but small party. Islamists and the Democrats formed a symbiotic relationship. The introduction of a multiparty system and religious deregulation: 1946–1950 The declaration by President ⁄smet ⁄nonü in 1945 of a transition to a multiparty system encouraged the formation of new parties. The largest was the DP, founded by RPP defectors who represented landowners and who opposed the land reform proposal debated within the party. In the first multiparty election, the DP came a close second to the RPP. Whereas the DP complied with the state principle of secularism, parties with Islamic appeal were also formed. These parties were both personalistic and devoid of organizational ties with Islamists.18 The transition to a multiparty system also ignited debates within the RPP over the current religious policy. In 1945, an enlightened (rationalist) group within the party proposed religious reform. The group advocated an end to state control of religion, no ceremonial tools for the clergy and in places of worship, and the use of Turkish for the Qur’an and religious practice. At the 1947 party congress, the traditionalists demanded a revision of the party platform. The traditionalists criticized current secularism as having been diverted from genuine secularism, just as the enlightened group argued, but also argued that religion had a strong power to generate solidarity in society. Since the party was dominated by the opinion that supported state control of religion, neither view was accepted.19 In practice, however, the RPP government created religious deregulation that was in line with the traditionalists’ demand.20 In order to compete with the

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newly-formed parties with Islamic inclinations, the RPP had to adopt part of the proposal of the platform of these parties.21 In particular, the introduction of the imam-hatip course and an extracurricular religion class in primary school paved the way for the DP government to (re)open imam-hatip schools and make the religion class compulsory in primary school. The number of Qur’an schools administered by the Department of Religious Affairs increased rapidly from 61 in 1946 to 99 in 1947 and 118 in 1948.22 Islamists admitted that freedom of religion had been expanded since 1947 but did not moderate their criticism of the RPP, which the Islamists said made concessions in religious education just for the sake of popularity. Islamist publications such as Sebilürrevad and Selâmet accused the religion class of adopting an atheist approach and expressed anger that the Department of Religious Affairs had no place in religious education. The publications also argued that religion was the strongest source for the struggle with communism and that escape from Islam gave birth to psychological paralysis in society. The Islamists’ demands, however, did not extend further than prayer in Arabic and the revival of Arabic scriptures. They did not call for the establishment of an Islamic state partly due to the strict penal law.23 The symbiosis of the center-right government and Islamic movements: 1950–1960 The DP that defeated the incumbent RPP in the 1950 election showed a posture of religious deregulation to the masses. The new Prime Minister Adnan Menderes said in his inaugural speech that revolutions could be divided into those accepted by the people and those not accepted, thus implicitly criticizing Ataturk’s secular reform. The DP in the same year legislated the Arabization of ezan. When two DP parliamentarians proposed a bill to amend Article 526 of the penal law, the RPP also supported the bill in consideration of the political influence of religion.24 Islamist writers applauded the DP in their publications such as Sebilürrevad. The liberalization of Arabic ezan reflected the demand of the masses and contributed to an increase in the DP’s popularity.25 The DP continued its pro-Islamic policy with the expansion of religious education in primary and intermediate schools and the reopening of imam-hatip lisesi as vocational high schools in secondary education.26 On the other hand, the DP government did not allow complete freedom for religious activists. After religious deregulation that started in the last years of the RPP had stimulated radical Islamic movements,27 the DP government applied strict measures and passed laws to curtail the radical movements’ activities. The Law for the Protection of Ataturk in 1951 was used to quell the Ticani group, which rejected the secular regime. Following the Malatya incident in 1952, the behind-the-scenes publisher of Büyük Doæu and the Nation Party (NP) and the Islam Democracy Party that supported Islamist movements were banned by court order.28 Within the DP as well, delegates were prohibited from advocating Islamic social systems such as polygamy, the male advantage in inheritance, education in

Democratization and Islamic movements in Turkey 167 Arabic scriptures, and the reconstruction of sacred tombs; those parliamentarians who supported an Islamic state were expelled from the party. In 1953, the DP government passed the Law of Free Conscience with the aim of preventing religious intervention in politics. These measures dented the power of radical Islamic movements.29 After 1957, however, religion reemerged as an issue and tool of politics because the DP began to emphasize religion in order to prop up the declining popularity of the government, which was faced with a faltering economy.30 In the 1957 general election, the DP’s close relationship with the relatively moderate Nurcu faction of the Nakvibendi movement was revealed.31 The DP’s recourse to Islam, however, did not help to reinvigorate the government. The DP gained 43.7 percent of the total votes in the 1957 election, 9.3 points below the party’s votes (56.6 percent) in the 1954 election. At the end of the 1950s, the DP government lost control of the economy while turning more authoritarian and clamping down on opposition parties and the media. When the government ordered the military to shoot at a student demonstration, the military refused the order and then overthrew the government by coup. In the 1950s, most of the Islamists supported the DP. When the DP was in opposition, the Islamists complained in their publications that the party’s stance toward secularism was unclear. After the party leader, Celal Bayar, stated at the 1949 Bursa provincial congress that he did not allow shari’a, the Islamists condemned the DP and leaned toward the more pro-Islamic NP.32 In the 1950 general election, the NP secured only one seat with 3.1 percent votes, despite the Islamists’ full support with their newspapers and journals. The result pointed to the limited political power of an Islamic-oriented party. On the other hand, the DP gradually lifted restrictions on religious practices once it came to power.33 Consequently, the Islamists’ support shifted from the NP to the DP as a practical choice. A symbiosis thus emerged between the Islamists and the DP.34 In society as well, there was a surge of religious activities during the DP government. The number of religious associations rapidly rose during the 1955–1959 period and reached nearly a third of the total associations (Figure 9.2). The increase was mainly accounted for by associations for mosque construction. Religious organizations during this period aimed at providing physical facilities necessary for daily religious practices rather than initiating political movements.35 Also, in addition to state-run Qur’an schools, privately-run Qur’an schools (either state-sanctioned or not) began to increase in number. Privately-run Qur’an schools were financed by donations, thus reflecting the growing popular interest in religious education.36

Constitutional democratization and the political organization of Islamists: 1960–1980 The 1961 constitution expanded freedom of association and helped the Islamists to organize themselves into voluntary associations as well as a political party. During the 1960s, among the religious associations, the share of those that sought

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Figure 9.2 Percentage of religious associations to the total associations, 1946–1968. Source: Compiled by the author from Yücekök, Türkiye’de Örgütlenmv Dinin Sosyo-ekonomik Tabanı, 133, table 1.

radical social change increased. During the 1970s, some of the Islamists formed the first organizational pro-Islamic political party in Turkey. Not only the larger freedom of association but also the internal division of the capitalists contributed to this development. The pro-Islamic party participated in three coalition governments during half of the 1970s and exerted strong influence on religious policy and the expansion of religious education in particular. The pluralist constitution and the associational and political organization of Islamic movements: 1960–1973 The military government from 1960 to 1961 proclaimed that it did not allow reactionary forces to deny secularism to demand an Islamic state but at the same time guaranteed freedom of belief and showed leniency toward nonpolitical Islam. Nearly all the fruits of religious liberalization by the DP government such as the re-Arabization of the Qur’an were kept intact.37 The newly introduced 1961 constitution was the most democratic in Turkish history and expanded the rights of various social groups to political organization and participation. After the short-lived coalition governments led by the RPP from 1961 to 1965, the Justice Party (JP), the successor party to the DP that was disbanded following the 1960 military intervention, established a single-party government until 1971 and took measures to appeal to the religiously conscious section of the society. The JP government built or expanded mosques and opened imam-hatip lisesi more conspicuously than during the DP era. After 1966, girls were also admitted to the imam-hatip lisesi despite its official aim of producing clergies. Imam-hatip lisesi

Democratization and Islamic movements in Turkey 169 thus came to be religious schools for the masses. Similarly, in 1967, the once-a-week optional religion class was introduced in the first and the second grade of high school.38 During the 1960s, Turkish society witnessed a politicization of Islamic movements. Instead of mosque-building associations, more religion-oriented associations (such as associations for supporting privately-run Qur’an schools and imam-hatip lisesi, associations for mutual assistance among clergies, and other Islam- and theology-related associations) that aimed at supporting religious education increased in number more rapidly than other kinds of associations (Figure 9.2).39 These organizations chose to exert political influence without becoming political parties.40 The rapid increase in the number of religious associations during this period cannot be solely explained by the expanded freedom of association. Another reason was that there were social groups that enjoyed that freedom. Yücekök interpreted the rise in the number of religious associations (excluding mosque-building associations) as small capitalists’ (shopkeepers’ and craftsmen’s) reaction to capitalist development. In provinces that had both high economic development and many small or family-run businesses per person, the number of religious associations per person was also large. At the same time, the number of privately-run Qur’an schools grew more rapidly during the 1960s than before.41 The JP inherited the DP’s pro-Islamic policy but that did not guarantee longterm electoral support. Capitalist economic development since the 1950s generated a split within the JP’s support base, the capitalist class, and let go of two social groups. One was the declining class of large landowners. In most cases, they were clan leaders (aviret reisi) or religious leaders (veyh), and exercised religious influence on the local population. Some DP parliamentarians from that class opposed agrarian reform and taxation of the farmers advocated by Prime Minister Süleyman Demirel for economic modernization and formed the Democratic Party (DcP, different from the Democrat Party) in 1970.42 The second group was small capitalists, who felt threatened by elimination in their competition with large capitalists. Within the largest business organization in Turkey, the Union of Chambers and Exchanges in Turkey, a group that represented small capitalists in central Anatolia, intensified its criticism of the DP government for being close to large capitalists in Istanbul and supported Necmettin Erbakan in the 1969 election for the union’s president. When Erbakan’s victory was annulled by the prime minister’s intervention, Erbakan entered politics. Although his application for candidacy from the JP was rejected, he ran as an independent and became elected in the 1969 general election. In 1970, Erbakan founded Turkey’s first pro-Islamic party with an organizational basis, the National Order Party (NOP). During the late 1960s, internal security deteriorated due to clashes involving rising leftists, labor movements, and competing rightists. In 1971, a coup attempt by leftist young officers prompted a preemptive coup, without the use of force, by the top echelon of the military. The DP cabinet resigned and above-party cabinets were formed from 1971 to 1973. This interim government with strong military

170 Yasushi Hazama influence introduced strict security measures and carried out crackdowns, particularly on the leftists. The rightists were not unaffected, notwithstanding. Upon indictment by the state prosecutor, the pro-Islamic NOP was disbanded for promoting antisecular propaganda by the decision of the Constitutional Court in 1971. Although the party was subsequently followed by the National Salvation Party (NSP), which was founded in 1972 with almost the same members, the court decision became a cautionary message for the pro-Islamic party to slightly moderate its party platform.43 The secular elite, including the military, were also worried about the rapid increase in the number of imam-hatip lisesi students. The secular elite exerted pressure on the interim government to abolish the school’s junior stage, thus only the senior stage of four years remaining.44 The pro-Islamic party in coalition governments: 1973–1980 With the resumption of party politics during the 1973 general election, religious policy became politicized again. One reason is that the creation of the DcP and the NOP-NSP, as a reflection of the internal split in the capitalist class, led most of the Islamists to support the two religiously-inclined parties.45 The DcP and the NSP received 11.9 percent and 11.8 percent of the votes, respectively.46 A more important reason was that the NSP took part in three of the four coalition governments between 1974 and 1978. All religious policies in the 1970s that benefited the Islamists were realized during these three coalition governments. First, the NSP, when in coalition with the secular center-left RPP asserted itself with religious policy in order not to be submerged as the second party in government. The NSP secured state financing of more than a thousand village mosques, revived the junior grades of the imam-hatip lisesi (thus reverting it to a sevengrade school), and introduced a compulsory ethics class, which was a religion class in effect, each week in primary, intermediate, and high schools, except for the high school third grade.47 Second, in the other two coalition governments (1975–1977 and 1977–1978), the governing parties competed with their performance in religious policy because devout Sunnis formed their major constituencies. After 1975, the graduates of the (vocational) imam-hatip lisesi were given the status of general-high school graduates. The way was paved thus for the imam-hatip lisesi graduates to go on to university, although application was possible only for the faculty of theology, their field of specialization. The compulsory ethics class was also introduced in the third grade of high school in 1976.48 What characterizes the 1974–1980 period is a massive rise in the number of imam-hatip lisesi (Figure 9.3). The rate of increase in these schools, higher than during any other period, far exceeded the rate of increase in the number of students, although the latter began to rise more rapidly. The growing diffusion of the imam-hatip lisesi contributed to an institutional foundation of Islamization in Turkish society. After 1978, when the NSP was no longer invited to the government, there were no major changes in religious policy. In opposition, the NSP became more

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Figure 9.3 Number of imam-hatip lisesi and their students.* Source: Compiled by the author from State Institute of Statistics, National Education Statistics (Ankara: State Institute of Statistics, various years). Note * The total of junior and senior stages.

radical, and from 1979 to 1980 organized mass demonstrations, in such religiously conservative cities as Bursa, Sivas, and Konya, that called for an Islamic regime.49 These religiously motivated political actions aggravated the political and economic turmoil stemming from the second oil crisis and urban terrorism by the extreme rightists and leftists. In September 1980, the military staged a coup for the restoration of order, arrested major politicians and disbanded all political parties. The military government (1980–1983) drafted the 1982 constitution, to be approved by national referendum, that more extensively restricted the basic human rights than the 1961 constitution.

State encouragement, Islamic movements in full fledge, and the secular reaction: 1980– The military government aimed to stabilize society by adopting Islamic values into the state ideology and propagating them through education. After the civilian transition, the center-right Motherland Party (MP) government took over and developed its predecessor’s policy. While the military was opposed to political Islam, once the state policy encouraged Islamic values to prevail in society, these values could not be contained to the private sphere. They thus strongly contributed to the development of Islamic movements during the past two decades. During the 1990s, Islamic movements and the pro-Islamic party reached their peak in 1996 with the formation of the pro-Islamist-led government. Its subsequent clash with the secularists, including the military, shook the whole Islamist movement.

172 Yasushi Hazama The adoption of Islamic values as part of the state ideology: 1980–1991 The military government expected religion to play the role of integrating and stabilizing society. The government adopted Turkish-Islamic synthesis, a thought that combined the umma concept and Turkish nationalism, as the de facto state ideology and used normal education to spread Islamic values in order to fight communism, which the military believed constituted the most imminent threat to Turkey. The 1982 constitution stipulated in Article 24 that religious culture and ethics must be taught in compulsory classes for primary and intermediate schools. Accordingly, in 1982 the religion-ethics class began in all grades in primary, intermediate, and high schools except for the first to the third grades of primary school.50 In 1983, more importantly, all vocational high school graduates were allowed to apply for any university faculties regardless of the students’ own specialization. This was a great achievement that none of the former rightist governments had realized. The Motherland Party (MP) that won the 1983 transition election and stayed in power until 1991 was, among the center-right parties, particularly pro-Islamic. The MP government inherited and developed the Turkish-Islamic synthesis ideology from the military government. The majority members of the party were religious conservatives, whereas the minority members were economic and political liberals.51 The party represented the religious values of the middle and lower strata of society52 and regarded religion and religious organizations as a main component of civil society.53 The MP government’s program clearly promised an expansion of religious education. The number of mosques constructed or expanded during the MP rule exceeded the long-term trend (Figure 9.4). The MP government legalized Islamic banking and induced the flow of Islamic capital

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Figure 9.4 Number of mosques constructed or renovated. Source: State Institute of Statistics (SIS), Statistical Yearbook (Ankara: State Institute of Statistics, various years).

Democratization and Islamic movements in Turkey 173 from oil-rich Arab countries such as Saudi Arabia with which influential MP members made joint ventures. The profits were used to establish religious foundations that invested in Qur’an schools, mosques, and scholarships.54 The emphasis of Islamic values by the military government and the MP government encouraged various forms of Islamization in society. First, the influence of imam-hatip lisesi on regular education became stronger than before. The school’s three-year junior and four-year senior stages taught, in addition to religious subjects (about 40 percent of all subjects), regular subjects (the remaining 60 percent) with the same curriculum as the regular schools’. The level of education at imam-hatip lisesi was considered to be higher than the national average of high school. Those parents who wanted their children to acquire both general and religious education chose imam-hatip lisesi. Although the Ministry of National Education supervised the imam-hatip lisesi and appointed their administrators and teachers, most of the imam-hatip lisesi were built by associations and foundations and were donated to the state. The ratio of imam-hatip lisesi graduates to the total high school graduates has rapidly increased since the 1980s and reached nearly one-tenth during the early 1990s (Figure 9.5). A large majority of the graduates aimed for higher education or general professions.55 At the same time, illegal religious education for children such as officially unapproved Qur’an courses was also spreading.56 Second, the veil movement spread during the 1980s to the early 1990s in universities and other public institutions. It became a symbol for Islamic movements partly because of the government’s inconsistent attitude toward the veil issue. The veil movement was an urban political movement formed by educated women who criticized not only Western modernization but also rural oral Islam and who emphasized a strict practice of the Qur’an.57 The veil 12 10 8 6 4 2 0 1957

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Figure 9.5 Percentage of imam-hatip lisesi graduates of total high school graduates, 1957–1996. Source: Compiled by the author from State Institute of Statistics (SIS), Statistical Yearbook (Ankara: State Institute of Statistics, various years).

174 Yasushi Hazama movement cannot be explained without the global surge of Islamic movements such as the Iranian Revolution, but there is another reason why this movement became more momentous during this period. The military, which at first supported Islamic values, became increasingly wary of political Islam by the mid-1980s and exerted pressure on the MP government to ban the veil58 in university. This half-way religious liberalization heightened the expectations of the Islamists and later created great disillusionment and resentment that further stimulated Islamic movements.59 The MP was more pro-Islamic than other center-right parties and inherently favored the lifting of the ban on the veil. The MP government revealed its intention after President Kenan Evren, the former chief of the general staff, left office in 1989. The MP was narrowly reelected to government in the 1987 general election bloc votes from religious groups and in 1988 tried to introduce laws and decrees that would deregulate clothing for students. These attempts did not succeed due to the president’s vetoes and judicial review by the constitutional court and the administrative court. After Everen’s seven-year term expired and Özal was elected president by the parliament, the government became more lenient toward the veil. The Higher Education Council abolished the de facto universal ban on the veil and let each university decide its policy, which made universities more susceptible to political pressure from Islamists. In addition, MP parliamentarians inserted into the bill for the establishment of the General Directorate for Women’s Status and Problems, which the parliament later passed, an irrelevant article that said that clothing in university was free “as long as the current law was not impinged upon.” Although that article was meaningless in legal terms, it aimed at creating political pressure for lifting the veil while not violating secular law outright.60 The zenith of the Islamist movements: 1991–1996 Once the MP was defeated in the 1991 general election, the coalition government (1991–1995) between the center-right True Path Party (TPP) and the center-left and secular Social Democratic Populist Party (SDPP) did not pursue an explicit proIslamic policy. The government program did not include any reference to religious education. The social effect of the pro-Islamic policy in the 1980s, however, became more manifest in the 1990s, when Islamic movements reached their zenith. The 1990s were characterized by the immense growth of civil society organizations, and Islamist organizations in particular. The rate of religious associations to the total associations in Istanbul, for instance, rose to its highest, 10 percent (Figure 9.6). The same rate should be higher for the nation as a whole. Islamic capitals increased their size and expanded their organizations. Islamic companies,61 most of which were emerging small and medium scale industries in central Anatolia, organized themselves into the Independent Industrialists and Businessmen’s Association (MÜS⁄AD). It increased its members from 1,918 in 1994 to 2,100 in 1996 to 2,987 in 1998 and became the largest business association in Turkey.62 Three-fourths of the association’s members were established after 1980.63 The Islamists also showed intensified activity in the mass media. Among Islamist newspapers, Türkiye and Zaman, which had concentrated on doctrinal

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Figure 9.6 Percentage of religious associations in Istanbul province, 1946–1995. Sources: Compiled by the author from Yücekök, Türkiye’de Örgütlenmv Dinin Sosyo-ekonomik Tabanı, 82–83; Ahmet N. Yücekök, ⁄lter Turan, and Mehmet Ö. Alkan, Tanzimattan Günümüze ⁄stanbul’da Sivil Toplum Kuruluvları (Istanbul: Türkiye Ekonomik ve Toplumsal Tarih Vakfi, 1998), 211, table 2.

claims, shifted their target to a wider range of readers and increased their circulations. Newly published Akit and Yeni Vafak did not belong to any factions or groups of Islamic movements but were strongly Islamist.64 As of 1994, Islamists published 1 million newspaper copies (among the total 5 million copies for domestic papers), 600 magazines, and 6,000 books. There were also 200 Islamist publishers.65 After private television and radio broadcasts were tacitly allowed in the beginning of the 1990s and then approved by a constitutional amendment in 1993, the Islamists rushed into this area. Religious color was particularly strong in local broadcasts.66 During this period, voter support for the pro-Islamic Welfare Party (WP) kept rising (Figure 9.7). One reason was that the party tried to appeal not only to devout Muslims but also to the socially alienated masses. At the beginning of the 1990s, the party made an ideological transformation and presented a new platform, “Just Economic Order,” that incorporated capitalism, socialism, and Islamism while pursuing a well-organized electoral campaign based on personal relationships with constituents. Second, the popularity of conventional reformists, such as social democrats, receded. After the success of the SDPP in the 1989 general local elections, the water and sewerage administration of the Istanbul metropolitan municipality, led by the SDPP mayor, was charged with corruption. The reformist image of the party was eroded also because it had to give concessions to the center-right TPP in the coalition. Instead, the pro-Islamic party attracted people who yearned for social reform.67

176 Yasushi Hazama 40 35 30 25 20 15 10 5 0 73

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Figure 9.7 Vote percentage for the pro-Islamic party in general elections. Source: Compiled by the author from State Institute of Statistics (SIS), Statistical Yearbook (Ankara: State Institute of Statistics, various years). Note: The 1984 result is for general local elections. The 2002 result includes votes for the JDP and the FP.

In the 1991 general election, the WP formed an electoral alliance with two relatively pro-Islamic parties, the Nationalist Action Party (NAP) and the Reformist Democracy Party (RDP), and, for the first time, gained seats in a post1983 parliament. The vote percentage for the WP proper can be estimated to be 11 percent if the vote percentage for the alliance list is multiplied by the rate of successful candidates who returned to the WP after the election. The pro-Islamic party thus recovered the level of support the party had held during the 1970s. In the 1994 general local elections, the WP was the de facto winner. While the WP (19.1 percent) conceded the top position to the MP (21.0 percent) in terms of the average national vote percentage for the provincial council, the party won 28 mayoral elections in provincial-center municipalities (out of the national total of 76 such posts), including Istanbul and Ankara. The advent of WP-led municipalities in urban areas gave further momentum to the pro-Islamic party and Islamic movements during the 1990s. The WP municipalities functioned as the party’s political machine by employing Islamists as well as distributing food and fuel in lower-income districts where party supporters were concentrated. In the Istanbul, Ankara, Konya, and Konya metropolitan municipalities, which were controlled by the WP, public procurements were consecutively won by Islamist firms that later provided capital in the form of kickbacks to the WP. In the 1995 general election, the WP became the first party though only with 21.4 percent of the votes. After the initial anti–WP coalition government of the MP and the TPP collapsed in three months, the WP formed with the TPP the first

Democratization and Islamic movements in Turkey 177 government led by a pro-Islamist party.68 Due to public suspicion of Islamism and the need for support from a center-right coalition partner, Prime Minister Erbakan, the party leader, restrained the use of pro-Islamic expressions in government policy and tried to allay secularists’ fears.69 The radicalization of the pro-Islamic government and the secular reaction: 1997– Six months later, however, Erbakan began to adopt a more pro-Islamic policy in early 1997.70 This led the military to demand from the prime minister strict measures to contain the Islamists, at the National Security Council meeting held on February 28.71 At the same time civil society organizations that supported secularism, including business organizations, staged mass rallies and called for the resignation of Erbakan. Because of these pressures, the second party in the government, the TPP, began to discuss the dissolution of the coalition. The party leader, Tansu Çiller, proposed a rotation of prime ministership earlier than had been initially agreed. Erbakan and his cabinet resigned, but Çiller could not be appointed prime minister since her party fell to the third party in parliament due to defections. The WP-TPP coalition government thus collapsed in June.72 It is not clear what the government led by the pro-Islamic party achieved in one year. As Erbakan strengthened its pro-Islamic stance, the Islamists had been increasingly distancing themselves from the government. It came to the fore when Erbakan invited leaders of religious organizations to the fast-breaking dinner at his official residence in January. None of the major Islamic organizations took part in the dinner. Only the Azizmendi sect, a radical minor Islamic organization, participated.73 Ruven Çakır’s interviews in the conservative Black Sea region revealed that most of the leaders of Islamic organizations thought that Erbakan had provided an excuse for crackdowns on Islamic movements.74 Consequently, the Erbakan government aroused reaction from the secularists and brought about a negative result for the Islamists. In particular, the following secular coalition government, composed of the MP, the Democratic Left Party (DLP), and the Democrat Turkey with external support from the RPP, in August legislated the education reform that extended compulsory education from five to eight straight years. The integration of intermediate schools into primary schools meant the abolition of the three-year junior stage of imam-hatip lisesi with only the fouryear senior stage left. Vocational school graduates were also barred from going on to a faculty outside their own specializations. These changes conformed with what the military had demanded from Erbakan in the February 28 meeting. The Islamists opposed the abolition of the junior stage of imam-hatip lisesi across the country but failed to arouse public sympathy.75 The secularists had stronger momentum. The majority of the mass media supported educational reform and opened a donation campaign for educational facilities and human resources. After the initiative of eight straight years of compulsory education was launched, the number of imam-hatip lisesi senior-stage students fell by 63 percent in five years, from 192,927 in 1996 to 71,583 in 2001.76 Given that the number of imam-hatip lisesi

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of the senior stage did not drastically decline, from 601 in 1996 to 558 in 2001, devout but pragmatic Sunnis seemed to have lost hope for the imam-hatip lisesi that could not lead their children to higher education. Secular backlash hit the pro-Islamic party as well. In 1997 the prosecution had demanded the abolition of the WP on charges of anti-secularism, which were approved by the Constitutional Court in January 1998. Erbakan and several other WP parliamentarians were banned from political activities for five years. Although WP parliamentarians established a successor party, the Virtue Party (VP), in 1997, the VP was also disbanded by the Constitutional Court, in June 2001. Most Islamists did not want confrontation with the secularists.77 The VP was succeeded by the Justice and Development Party (JDP) and the Felicity Party (FP). The first split of the pro-Islamic party, while basically reflecting the division between the post-Erbakan reformists and the traditionalists, also stemmed from reaction against Erbakan’s continuous provocation of the secularists, in such cases as the Merve Kavakçı affair, even after he was banned from politics.78 The confrontation between the pro-Islamic party and the secularists weakened public support for the Islamists. Four waves of a nationwide survey by TÜSES showed that support for Islamic law rose during the mid-1990s, 19.9 percent in 1995 and 26.7 percent in 1996, but declined after the secular reaction called the “February 28 process”, 19.8 percent in 1998 and 9.9 percent in 2002.79 At the same time, however, answers of no ideas or responses to the surveys rose from 15.2 percent in 1996 to 20.2 percent in 1998 and 29.4 percent in 2002, thus indicating that a large part of previous support for the Islamists consisted of the undecided. Although the secular backlash dealt a blow to Islamic movements, they had the potential to recover their strength by attracting floating voters who were dissatisfied with the status quo. The victory of the JDP in the 2002 general election owed much to the party’s moderation and reformism and the incumbent’s (DLP-NAP-MP) catastrophic economic policy failure rather than the surge of Islamic movements.80 In fact, the other proIslamic party, FP, could collect only 2.5 percent of votes in the same election. The JDP’s leader, Recep Tayyip Erdogan, was new, young, and charismatic, whereas the FP’s leader, Recai Kutan, was old and the same as the previous party. Ideologically, the JDP depicted itself as conservative democrat, thus extending the party’s constituency to the center right while promising its core supporters, devout Sunnis, to ease restrictions on religious clothing and education. The vote swing (from the incumbent to the opposition) of 38.7 percent in the 2002 election, the largest in Turkish electoral history, had a lot to do with the decline of national incomes in real terms during the previous government.81 Due to the Marmara earthquake in 1999 and the economic crisis in 2001, per capita GNP in 2001 became 16 percent lower than that in 1998, prior to the inauguration of the DLP-NAP-MP government.

Conclusions Islamic movements in Turkey were heavily influenced by political opportunities such as democratization from above and the state’s religious policy. Political

Democratization and Islamic movements in Turkey 179 opportunities opened on three occasions: first, in the transition to a multiparty system, second, during the introduction of the 1961 constitution that expanded freedom of association and party activities and the subsequent participation of the pro-Islamic party in coalition governments in the 1970s, and third the adoption of Turkish-Islam synthesis as state ideology in the 1980s. These political opportunities gave momentum to Islamic movements, which flourished most during the mid-1990s. Erbakan’s pro-Islamic government dramatized a confrontation with the secularists in 1997 and dealt a blow not only to the government but also to Islamic movements that it had tried to defend. For Islamic movements, the shrinking of political opportunities was brought about by the inner circle. The present JDP government, despite its control of two-thirds of the seats in the parliament, is more cautious than the Erbakan government in avoiding secular-religious confrontation. Although Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdoæan presented pro-Islamist initiatives such as freedom of the veil in university and allowing imam-hatip lisesi graduates to go on to any faculty in university, he was ready to withdraw them when he encountered fierce criticism from the secular academics, jurists, and the military. This has been interpreted as a pragmatic tactic to make the secularists come to terms with the “Islamic realities” of Turkey while averting any showdown.

Notes 1 Doug McAdam, John D. McCarthy, and Mayer N. Zald, “Introduction: Opportunities, Mobilizing Structures, and Framing Processes – Toward a Synthetic, Comparative Perspective on Social Movements,” in Doug McAdam, John D. McCarthy, and Mayer N. Zald (eds), Comparative Perspectives on Social Movements: Political Opportunities, Mobilizing Structures, and Cultural Framings (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996); Sydney Tarrow, Power in Movement: Social Movements and Contentious Politics, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). 2 This definition largely relies on Tarrow, Power in Movement, 76–77. 3 Robert A. Dahl, Polyarchy: Participation and Opposition (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1971). 4 Frederick W. Frey, The Turkish Political Elite (Cambridge, MA: M.I.T. Press, 1965), 181. 5 Niyazi Berkes, The Development of Secularism in Turkey (Montreal: McGill University Press, 1964), 444–445. 6 Binnaz Toprak, Islam and Political Development in Turkey (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1981), 65. 7 Berkes, The Development of Secularism in Turkey, 445–450. 8 Ibid., 454–460. 9 Major secularization reforms include the following: in 1924, the abolition of the Caliphate, the shari’a court, the Ministry of Religious Affairs and Pious Foundations (integrated into the prime ministry), with the Ministry of National Education becoming solely responsible for religious education; in 1925, the abolition of the Fez hat, a ban on religious organizations (tarikats), the closure of holy tombs to worship, the adoption of the Western calendar; in 1926, the adoption of Swiss civil law, German commercial law, and Italian penal law; in 1928, the abolition of the national religion, the adoption of arithmetic numbers and Latin alphabets; in 1931, the adoption of the metric system; in 1934, the surname made compulsory, a ban on wearing religious clothing in public places, women made eligible to vote and to be elected; in 1935, the weekly holiday changed from Friday to Sunday; in 1937, the declaration of a secular state by constitutional amendment; in 1941, Turkish ezan legislated.

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10 Verif Mardin, “Ideology and Religion in the Turkish Revolution,” International Journal of Middle East Studies, 2: 208. 11 Frey, Turkish Political Elite, 183. 12 Berkes, The Development of Secularism in Turkey, 483–484. 13 Ibid., 496–497. 14 Ibid., 499–499. 15 The Veyh Said rebellion is better characterized as having used Islam for Kurdish nationalism. Tarik Zafer Tunaya, ⁄slamcılık Cereyanı: ⁄kinci Mevrutiyetin Siyasi Hayatı Boyunca Gelivmesi ve Bugüne Bıraktıæı Meseleler (⁄stanbul: Baha); Toprak, Islam and Political Development in Turkey, 67–69. 16 These incidents took place in Rize, Erzurum, Kahramanmarav, and Çerkez. 17 These incidents occurred in Menemen, Bursa, Siirt, and ⁄skilip. Tunaya, ⁄slamcılık Cereyanı, 184–188; ⁄lhami Soysal, “Mezhepler/Tarikatlar,” Cumhuriyet Dönemi Türkiye Ansiklopedisi, Cilt 5 (⁄stanbul: ⁄letivim, 1983), 1366. 18 Tunaya, ⁄slamcılık Cereyanı, 191–192. 19 Ibid., 193–198. 20 In 1947, permission to go abroad and a foreign exchange allocation were given to pilgrims to Mecca. In 1949, the Ministry of National Education introduced the imam-hatip course (ten months), on the condition of the completion of middle school and military service, and the extracurricular religion class twice a week in primary school for the willing in the fourth and the final grades with parents’ written application required; Ankara University decided to open a faculty of theology. In 1950, the Department of Religious Affairs was given the authority to supervise the clergies, and nineteen tombs of saints were opened for worshippers. Toprak, Islam and Political Development in Turkey. Soysal, “Mezhepler/Tarikatlar.” 1983. 21 Tunaya, ⁄slamcılık Cereyanı, 219. 22 Doæan Duman, Demokrasi Sürecinde Türkiye’de ⁄slamcılık (⁄stanbul: Eylül, 1997), 183. In republican Turkey, the Qur’an school that originally dates back to the Ottoman Empire was established in 1924. This school teaches the reading and memorization of Qur’an. Although the law stipulates that the students must be primary-school graduates, this requirement is not always met. 23 Tunaya, ⁄slamcılık Cereyanı, 201–217. 24 Ibid., 223–226. 25 Toprak, Islam and Political Development in Turkey, 79–80. 26 In 1950, the law that required ezan to be read in Turkish was abolished, the broadcast of the Qur’an on the state radio was allowed, and the religion class in primary school became compulsory (exempted if either parent made a written application). In 1951, the Ministry of Education reopened imam-hatip lisesi that had been closed since the mid-1930s due to lack of demand. The school consisted of the junior (four years) and senior (three years) sections. In 1953, the compulsory religion class (one hour per week) was introduced in the ninth and tenth grades of the vocational school for primary school teachers. In 1956, the compulsory religion class was introduced in intermediate school. Students would be exempted on a written application by their parents. See Toprak, Islam and Political Development in Turkey; Duman, Demokrasi Sürecinde Türkiye’de ⁄slamcılık. Soysal, “Mezhepler/Tarikatlar.” 27 Tunaya, ⁄slamcılık Cereyanı, 282–283. 28 Soysal, “Mezhepler/Tarikatlar,” 1367. 29 Duman, Demokrasi Sürecinde Türkiye’de ⁄slamcılık, 42–44. 30 Toprak, Islam and Political Development in Turkey, 84–85. 31 Ibid., 83; Soysal, “Mezhepler/Tarikatlar,” 1367; Duman, Demokrasi Sürecinde Türkiye’de ⁄slamcılık, 48. 32 Toprak, Islam and Political Development in Turkey, 72–75; Çetin Özek, Devlet ve Din (Istanbul: Ada, n.d.), 541. 33 Duman, Demokrasi Sürecinde Türkiye’de ⁄slamcılık, 65.

Democratization and Islamic movements in Turkey 181 34 Sencer Ayata, “Patronage, Party and State: The Politicization of Islam in Turkey,” Middle East Journal, 50: 44. 35 Ahmet N. Yücekök, Türkiye’de Örgütlenmv Dinin Sosyo-ekonomik Tabanı (1946–1968) (Ankara: Ankara Üniversitesi Siyasal Bilgiler Fakültesi, 1971), 133–134. 36 Yücekök, Türkiye’de Örgütlenmv Dinin Sosyo-ekonomik Tabanı, 143–145. 37 Duman, Demokrasi Sürecinde Türkiye’de ⁄slamcılık, 52–61. 38 Ibid., 140, 159. 39 Yücekök, Türkiye’de Örgütlenmv Dinin Sosyo-ekonomik Tabanı, 133–134. 40 Özek, Devlet ve Din, 560. 41 Yücekök, Türkiye’de Örgütlenmv Dinin Sosyo-ekonomik Tabanı, 146. 42 Feroz Ahmad, The Turkish Experiment in Democracy: 1950–1975 (London: C. Hurst for the Royal Institute of International Affairs, 1977), 247. 43 For the slight moderation of the party platform, see Soner Yalçın, Hangi Erbakan (Ankara: Bavak, 1994), 68. 44 Duman, Demokrasi Sürecinde Türkiye’de ⁄slamcılık, 160. 45 Soysal, “Mezhepler/Tarikatlar,” 1369–1370; Ahmad, Turkish Experiment in Democracy, 383; Özek, Devlet ve Din, 558–559. 46 Nakvibendi groups and part of the Nurcu group (the Yazıcı faction) supported the formation of the NOP and the NSP. In the 1977 general election, however, the Nurcu group withdrew its support for the NSP since the Nakvibendi groups monopolized the party leadership. Yalçın, Hangi Erbakan, 106–112, 124; Ruven Çakır, Ne Veriat Ne Demokrasi: Refah Partisini Anlamak (⁄stanbul: Metis, 1994), 21. 47 Duman, Demokrasi Sürecinde Türkiye’de ⁄slamcılık, 89, 141. 48 Ibid., 141. 49 Yalçın, Hangi Erbakan, 145–147. 50 Duman, Demokrasi Sürecinde Türkiye’de ⁄slamcılık, 143. 51 Turgut Özal, the first party chairman, prime minister from 1983 to 1989, and president of the republic from 1989 to 1993, promoted economic liberalization while remaining religiously conservative. He was a Nakvibendist and in 1987 made the first religious pilgrimage to Mecca as the prime minister of Turkey. He also ran for the 1977 parliamentary by-election on the pro-Islamic NSP ticket but was not elected. 52 Feroz Ahmad, The Making of Modern Turkey (London: Routledge, 1993), 220. 53 Levent Köker, “Anavatan Partisi,” Cumhuriyet Dönemi Türkiye Ansiklopedisi: Yüzyıl Biterken Cilt 15 (Istanbul: ⁄letivim, 1995), 1255. 54 Uæur Mumcu, Tarikat, Siyaset, Ticaret, 7.basım (Istanbul: Tekin, 1993), 151–153. 55 Zekai Baloælu, Türkiye’de Eæitim (Istanbul: Türk Sanayicileri ve ⁄vadamları Derneæi, 1990), 137. 56 In the first half of the 1980s, there were 2,700 state-founded Qur’an courses in the country as a whole, whereas unsanctioned privately-founded Qur’an courses run by the Süleymancı faction amounted to 1,900 in number with their 100,000 students. Mumcu, Tarikat, Siyaset, Ticaret, 164. 57 Nilüfer Göle, The Forbidden Modern: Civilization and Veiling (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press,1996), chap. 4. 58 At first, only bavörtüsü that extended to the shoulders was banned, but later, türban that only wrapped up hair was also banned. 59 Duman, Demokrasi Sürecinde Türkiye’de ⁄slamcılık, 219–224; Elizabeth Özdalga, The Veiling Issue: Official Secularism and Popular Islam in Modern Turkey (Surrey: Curzon, 1998), 41–43. 60 Duman, Demokrasi Sürecinde Türkiye’de ⁄slamcılık, 226–227. 61 The managers of the firms were devout Muslims. The operation of the firms complies with the principles of capitalism. 62 Faik Bulut, Tarikat Sermayesi, II: ⁄slamcı Virketler Nereye, Gelistirilmis 4. Basım (Istanbul: Su, 1999), 101–102.

182

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63 Ayve Buæra, “Class, Culture, and State: An Analysis of Interest Representation by Two Turkish Business Associations,” International Journal of Middle East Studies, 30 (1998): 525, table 1. 64 Yalçın Akdoæan, “⁄slamcı Basın,” Cumhuriyet Dönemi Türkiye Ansiklopedisi, Yüzyıl Biterken Cilt, 11 (Istanbul: ⁄letivim, 1995), 150–151. 65 Bulut, Tarikat Sermayesi, II: ⁄slamcı Virketler Nereye, 55. 66 Bülent Çaplı and Can Dündar, “80’den 2000’lere Televizyon,” Cumhuriyet Dönemi Türkiye Ansiklopedisi: Yüzyıl Biterken Cilt, 15 (Istanbul: ⁄letivim, 1995), 1381. 67 Ziya Öniv, “The Political Economy of Islamic Resurgence in Turkey: The Rise of the Welfare Party in Perspective,” Third World Quarterly, 18 (1997): 756–757. 68 The main reason for the coalition agreement between the two parties was TPP leader Tansu Çiller’s wish to circumvent the parliamentary investigation into her corruption charges initiated by the then main opposition WP. 69 “Erbakan’s U-turns,” or his revocations of anti-Western and anti-Israeli statements, included his support for Turkey’s Customs Union with the EU, parliamentary approval of extended accommodation of the allied forces for Operation Provide Comfort in northern Iraq, his signing of the agreement for joint flight training between the Turkish and Israeli air forces as well as the agreement for the modernization project for the F-4 fighter between the Turkish air forces and an Israeli firm: Yasushi Hazama, “Civil Society in Turkey,” in Ömer Faruk Gençkaya, Ruven Kelev, and Yasushi Hazama (eds), Aspects of Democratization in Turkey (Tokyo: Institute of Developing Economics, 1999), 88. 70 The government planned construction of a mosque on the Taksim square, the center of Istanbul’s new metropolitan area, liberalization of the veil in public institutions, changes in work hours during the fasting month, abolition of the state monopoly in the collection of sheep skin during Kurban Bayramı, the holidays after the pilgrimage month, and liberalization of pilgrimage to Mecca, the haj, by land, although none of these plans was realized. More important was the Sincan incident in February 1997 in which the WP mayor of the Sincan municipality in suburban Ankara invited for the pro-Palestinean meeting the Iranian ambassador to Turkey, who supported the establishment of Islamic order in Turkey. Three days later, the military took its tanks on the streets of Sincan and gave a tacit warning to the WP. See Kemal Saybavlı, “Siyasal System Bunalımı,” in Gencer Özcan (ed.), Onbir Aylık Saltanat: Siyaset, Ekonomi ve Dıv Politikada Refahyol Dönemi (Istanbul: Boyut,1998), 88; Hazama, “Civil Society in Turkey,” 88. 71 The military placed the matter on the agenda of the monthly National Security Council. The statement, prepared by the secretariat held by the military, demanded strict measures against the Islamists, including the rigid application of secularism in education, stronger supervision over religious education and religious organizations, the prohibition of the political use of religion, and regulation of air rifle transactions. The last part of the statement referred to unspecified “sanctions” unless these measures were put into practice. Erbakan grudgingly signed the statement but did not enforce it. 72 It is thus incorrect to say that the military forced Erbakan to resign, as after alleged. 73 “Tarikatların Seçim Sınavı,” Nokta, 14–20, Vubat 1999,” 11–12. 74 Ruven Çakır, “Cemaatler ve Seçimi / 3: Fazilet’in Ruhu Kalmadı,” Milliyet, Ocak 16, 1999. 75 During the antireform protests in 1997, there were 79 assemblies and demonstrations, 15 press conferences, 9 signature campaigns, and 25 telegram and fax campaigns, but the number of participants was limited to about 70,000 in 11 provinces. Leaders of Islamic organizations who gathered in Istanbul in December 1998 to assess the antireform movement confessed that the movement could not attract support from the public. Bulut, Tarikat Sermayesi, II, 338, 342–343. 76 Milli Eæitim Bakanlıæı, www.meb.gov.tr. Accessed on July 23, 2002. 77 The questionnaire survey conducted prior to the abolition of the WP showed the moderation of the supporters of the pro-Islamic party. For the reasons for the February 28 Process, “the action of WP parliamentarians” was the third most-frequent answer

Democratization and Islamic movements in Turkey 183

78 79 80 81

(33.8 percent) following “the media” (38.2 percent), and “the military” (38.0 percent) among multiple answers. For the ideology of the party that would succeed the VP, 67.5 percent preferred moderation while only 27.9 percent preferred no change, among single answers. Milliyet, 27, 28 Haziran 2001. In May 1999, Erbakan directed the female VP parliamentarian, Merve Kavakçı, to enter the general assembly of the parliament with her veil (türban) on. This incident was one of the reasons for the abolition of the party. Necat Erder, Turkiye’de Siyasi Partilerin Yandav/Seçmen Profıli (1994–2002) (Istanbul: Türkiye Sosyal Ekonomik Siyasal Aravtırmalar Vakfı [TÜSES], 2002), 22–23. See Soli Özel, “After the Tsunami,” Journal of Democracy, 14 (2003): 2, 80–94; Ziya Öniv and E. Fuat Keyman, “A New Party Emerges”, Journal of Democracy, 14 (2003): 2, 95–107. Since the end of the Second World War, for the first time, real GNP per capita declined on an annual average basis during the DLP-NAP-MP coalition government.

Index

Note: Page numbers in italics indicate figures. Most frequently mentioned versions of the names have been indexed irrespective of their being either first names or family names. Aa Gym 137, 139, 142 nn.39, 43, 45; and penetration of Islamism in Indonesian society 137–138 Abaz Ali 35, 38 ‘Abd, al-Rahman, Mawlay 12, 30 n.41, 32 n.97 ‘Abd Allah, Ahmad Ibn 17 ‘Abd Allah Ma’n, Ahmad Ibn 3, 4 ‘Abd al-Raziq, ‘Ali 151 ‘Abd al-Wahhab, Shaykh Muhammad Bin 141 n.28 ‘Abd al-Vahid, tomb in Turkistan 45, 47 ‘Abduh, Muhammad 127, 151 Abdulbaqi 50 Abdullah Gymnastiar see Aa Gym Abi Bakr, Ahmad Ibn 28 Abinales, P. 96 n.9 Abi Talib, ‘Ali Ibn 16 Abu al-Awahib 65 Adib Ishaq 145, 146 Adil Khan 46, 47, 50, 52, 54 nn.13, 15, 16 al-Afghani, Jamal al-Din 158 n.9 Afghanistan 134 ‘Aflaq, Michel 153, 160 n.36 ‘agurram’, terms of 12 Ahansal 16 Ahror, Ubaydullo 56 n.51 Ait Umalu Berbers 13 Akdoæan, Yalçın 182 n.64 al-‘Alam, Jabal 24 Alatas, S.F. 100 Alatas, Syed Hussein 121, 124 n.85, 125 n.101 ‘Alawids 10, 12; state and various religious groups, relation between 23; struggle to conquer Morocco 4; sultans, risalat al-qarn 15

Albania/Albanian: annexation by Italy 34, 35; Arkivi Qendror I Shtetit 41 nn.4–8, 11–12, 42 nn.13–15; Bektashism 39, 40; communist take over 35; Islamic institutions 34; Islam, ‘map’ of 36; model of sainthood 38; Muslim authorities 35; political reforms and democratization process 36; saints and Sufis in post-Communist 33; turuq and sufism in 33–36 Albar, Syed Ja‘afar 114 Algar, Hamid 55 nn.35, 37, 56 n.45 Algeria x Ali-Baba economy 111, 113 ‘alims 25–27; and awliya’ 1; dependence on Makhzan 25; as guardians of faith 15; marginalization by sultans 26 ‘Ali Mubarak 61 Alkan, Mehmet, Ö. 175 Alonto, Madki 84, 92, 97 n.25, 98 nn.32, 51, 99 n.58 Alonto, Sultan Alauya 84 al-Aman, Alim Usman Imam Sheik 95 America/n: colonial administrators 79, 86; perception of Dimakaling 83; public education system 87 ‘Amil, Mahdi 152, 154, 157 n.3, 159 nn.32, 33; insight on nature of sectarianism 153; see also Lebanon ‘Ammalik, A. 31 nn.64, 81, 32 nn.96, 99–100 al-‘Amrani, Muhammad 30 nn.31, 35 Anderson, B.R. 139 n.11 Antun Sa‘ada 154 Anwar Ibrahim 115; ousting of 100 “Arab States System”, emergence of 150–153

Index 185 Arabization of church 144 al-Arbi Bannis 4 al-Arbi Buskhur 14 al-Arbi Ibn ‘Ayshun 4 Arkun, Muhammad 157 n.2 Aron, R. 122 n.5; discussion on nature of democracies 102 ‘asabiya 3, 5, 6 ‘Ashur, Muhammad ‘Ali Muhammad 61 Asian Currency Unit (ACU) 119 Asian economic crisis 100, 101; and democratisation 115–116 ‘Askar, Muhammad Ibn 29 n.15 Atatürk see Kemal al-Attas, Syed Muhammad al-Naquib 121, 125 nn.98–100 authoritarian state 101; defined 122 n.4 Awang, Mohd Said 116 al-‘Awwam, Ahmad 146 Awwas, Irfan Suryahardi 133, 141 nn.29, 32 Ayata, Sencer 181 n.34 Azra, A. 139 n.5 Ba’asyir, Abu Bakar 132, 133, 134, 138; network around 141 n.26 Ba‘ath Party 160 n.36; founder of 153; in Lebanon 154 baba (or shaykh), traditional figure of 40 Babajanov, B. 53 n.8 Baba Selim 36, 39, 42 n.30 al-Badisi, Ahmad Ibn Yahya (Bugammusa) 12 Baghdad Pact 154 Baha al-Din Naqshband 54 n.25 Baha al-Din shrine in Bukhara 47, 48 Bakanliæı, Milli Eæitim 182 n.76 al-Bakkari, ‘Abd al-Salam 29 n.26 Balfour Declaration 148 Bali bombing 126, 132, 134 Balim Sultan 38 Balkans 39 Baloælu, Zekai 181 n.55 al-Banna, Hasan 151, 159 n.29 Banu Amghar 16 Baraja, Abdul Qadir 141 n.32 baraka 1, 5, 8, 22 Basri, Ahmad Fawzi Mohd 122 n.6 Bektashism/Bektashi: babas, laments for 36; babas in Martanesh 35; brotherhood 33; corpus, new 39; tarikat 38; as version of Islam 39 Bektashiyye 34, 35; literature 38 Bennigsen, A. 44, 53 n.4, 54 n.17

Berbers: kings 8; murabits 8; Umalu 30 n.33 Berkes, N. 179 nn.5, 7, 8, 180 nn.12–14 Berque, J. 16, 17, 31 nn.57–58 al-Bishri, Tariq 158 n.17, 159 n.30, 160 n.35 Blaschke, J. 55 n.35 Blunt, W.S. 158 n.14 Boland, B.J. 139 n.7 British: occupation of Egypt 145, 147; occupation of Palestine 148; protection of minorities 147 Brown, D. 124 n.77 Bruinessen, M.V. 55 n.35, 139 n.6 Buæra, Ayve 182 n.63 Bukhara 45 Bukhorij, Sadriddin Salim 55 n.27, 56 n.52 Bulut, Faik 181 n.62, 182 nn.65, 75 Burhami order: abroad 68; administrative structure of 67–68; age and marital status of members in Egypt 74; contemporary 61–74; daftar system 64; financial sources of 66–67; historical development of 60–61; historical development of silsila (succession map of the shaykhs) 60; karne system 65; levels of membership in 70; modern, and Islamic resurgence in 57; new entrants in Egypt 63; occupations of members 68–72; reform of organizational structure 74; residential distribution of members in Egypt 72–74; Sufi orders in Egypt 61; women 76 n.6; see also Egypt al-Bustani, Butrus 144, 145, 153 Büyük Doæu 166 al-Buzidi, Ahmad 32 n.97 Buzurg Khan 46 Cadar, Usopay Hamdag 99 n.55 Çakir, Ruven 55 n.35, 177, 181 n.46, 182 n.74 Çaplı, Bülent 182 n.66 Catholicism 36 Caucasus 52, 53 n.4 Celal Bayar 167 Central Asia: madrasas 46; Naqshbandiyya 44, 45 el-Cezeri, Muhammed Nurullah Seyda 49 Chanjago, Jr 140 n.23, 141 n.29 Chase-Dunn, C. 123 n.38 Chen, W.S. 124 n.72

186

Index

Chinese capital 112, 113, 118; in Indonesia 112, 113, 118; predominance in Malaysia 108, 111 Chinese Communist Party 105 Christian intellectuals: in Middle East 144; in Syria 150 Çiller, Tansu 177 civil society: and democratization 119–121; role in process of democratization 101 Clayer, N. 33, 41 nn.1, 2, 3, 9, 10, 42 n.17, 18, 19, 20, 22 colonial bourgeoisie: in Lebanon 152, 153; in Sudan 159 n.33 colonialism: Israel as implanted state of 154; obligatory educational policies in Philippines 91; resistance by Philippine Muslims 78, 80; within Mindanao agrarian society 78 Commonwealth of the Philippines 85 conversion 41 n.1; see also Islamization Coptic Benevolence Society 146 Coptics: assaults on 159 n.30; Muslim antagonism 147; quarters in 158 n.10; and Wafd 159 n.30; see also al-Watan Corfou 35 Cornell, V. 299 n.2 Coronel, M.A. 99 n.55 Crane, C.R. 159 n.23 “Crescent and the Cross” flag 148, 149 Crypto-Sufism 44; case of Fethullahcı 51–2 Dahl, R.A. 179 n.3 Damanik, Ali Said 140 n.20 Datuk Onn bin Ja‘far 108 Dede, Ahmed Myftar 39 Deden Ridwan, M. 142 nn.40, 44 Dede Reshat Bardhi 39 De Jong, F. 75 n.1, 77 n.11 Delooz, P. 1 Demirel, Süleyman, Prime Minister 169 democracy/democratic 127; and authoritarianism in Indonesia and Malaysia 102–105; central feature of 119; in post-colonial states 100–101; state, defined 121 n.3 The Democracy of Islam 121 democratization: in Albania 38; conception of xi; in Egypt 145; in Indonesia 135; in Lebanon 154; in Ottoman state 145; in Turkey 161, 167–171 Dervi Rexhebi 42 n.16 dervishes 35, 38

Dhakidae, D. 122 n.11 dhikr: oral practice 45, 46, 50; secret in USSR 47; silent 45; Sufi practices 44; women in 76 n.6 Diamond, L. 122 nn.8–10 Dijk, van, C. 122 n.12 Dila’i zawiya 7, 10, 22 Dimakaling 78; attacks 86; death of 82, 91–92; evaluating uprising 93–95; “the Fearsome Ruler of Lanao” 80, 91; kebel students 90; motivation behind support for 86; movie on 96 n.5; and Muslim population 81–89; oral tradition surrounding 89–93, 99 n.60; significance of uprising in eyes of Maranao people 92; supernatural powers 90–91; uprising 79, 80–82, 95; violence, justification for 89 Dimakaling, Jamel Linogaranao 98 nn.34, 45, 50, 99 n.53 Djamas, Nurhayati 140 n.19 Douglas, C. 81 Drague, G. 20 Drita Hyjnore (‘The Divine Light’) 35 Dritë Bektashiane (Bektashi Light) 42 n.26 Drizë (Gransh) 35 Dudoignon, S.A. 53 n.1 Duman, Doæan 180 nn.20, 22, 26, 29, 30, 33, 181 nn.37, 38, 44, 47, 48, 50, 59, 60 Dünar, Can 182 n.66 Durrës 34 al-Dusuqi, Ibrahim 60; tomb of 61 Dutch: sovereignty to the United States of Indonesia 110; use of the Chinese as middlemen 113; see also Netherlands al-Dyuri, Abu al-Qasim 26 Effendy, Bahtiar 141 n.25 Egypt/Egyptian: 1919 revolution 147–151; as British Protectorate 147; Free Officers 154; High Council of Sufi Orders (al-Majlis al-Sufi al-A ‘la) 59, 64; Internal Rules of Sufi orders 64; July Revolution 154, 155, 156; Karne (karniya) system 64, 65; modern Burhami order and Islamic resurgence in 57; Muslim Brotherhood 131, 136; nominal “independence” 150; organizational structure of Sufi orders in 69; Programme of the National Party of Egypt 147; society, emergence of democratic tendency in 145; al-Turuq al-Sufiya 68;

Index 187 ‘Urabist revolution 145, 146; Wafd (delegation) to Peace Congress in Paris 148; Young Egypt 146, 153, 154, 159 n.30; see also Burhami order Eickelman, D.F. 64 Eisenhower Doctrine 154 elite cohesion 101, 114–115, 119 Elsie, R. 41 n.2 Erbakan, Necmettin, Prime Minister 169, 177, 182 nn.69, 71, 183 n.78 Erdoæan, Recep Tayyip, Prime Minister 178, 179 Erman, E. 140 n.23, 141 n.29 Erol, Revid 55 n.35 Erol, Sbdurrakib, S. 55 n.35 Esat Covan, Shaykh 48, 49 Espotito, J.L. 157 n.1 Ethiopia 66 ethnicity and internal strength of state 111–114 Evren, Kenan, President 174 Fachruddin, A. 140 n.14 Fachry, Ali 124 n.64, 141 n.25 Farghani Sufi poetic repertoire 46 al-Fasi, ‘Abd al-Mahasin 17 al-Fasi, ‘Abd al-Rahman 32 n.94 al-Fasi, Muhammad al-Mahdi 29 nn.3, 6, 7, 31 n.62 Fasi zawiya 17 Fataha 155 Fathullah Verkanisi, Shaykh, ‘eiht rules’ of 50 Federation of Malaya 108, 109 Feith, H. 123 nn.45, 47–51, 139 n.7 Ferghana valley (Uzbekistan) 44; Menzilköyü Community/tariqa 50, 55 n.38, 56 n.42; pre-Soviet and post-Soviet Sufism in 43 Feroz, Ahmad 181 nn.42, 45, 52 Fes 3, 4, 6, 13, 24; scholarly milieu of 14 Fethullachı crypto-Sufism 51–52 Fethullah Gülen 52, 56 n.44 Filipinos: Christian 83, 89; Constabulary commanders 86; Muslims 95 n.1; view of Dimakaling 79 Fort, G., Col. 98 n.35 Frank, A.J. 53 n.11 freedom: of association and speech 161; of religion 164 Free Papua Organisation movement 107 Frey, F.W. 179 n.4, 180 n.11 Fu’ad, King 151

Gadja Mada University 131 Geertz, C. 8, 17, 18, 22, 29 nn.1,16, 31 nn.60, 65, 82, 126, 139 n.2 genealogy building 16 God’s delegated authority 27–28 Goh Cheng Teik 103, 122 n.7, 124 n.81 Göle, Nilüfer 181 n.57 Golkar 104, 116, 117, 119, 129, 139 n.12 Gowing, P. 96 n.9 Gramsci, A. 127 Gross, J-A. 55 n.37 Gülen, Fethullah 56 n.49 Gunawan, B. 122 nn.31–33, 123 n.34 Gus Dur 119 Habibie, President 116, 118, 119, 135 Hadith 127, 138 hagiographic writings 3–4 Hague Round Table conference at the 110 Haji Bektash Research Institute of the Ankara University 39 al-Hajj, ‘Abd al-Jalil Ibn 30 n.36 al-Hajj, Ahmad Ibn 9, 12, 29 n.11, 30 nn.29, 42–46, 31 n.53, 32 n.88 Halil Inalcik ‘Arnawutluk’ 41 n.1 Halvetiyye 33, 34, 35 al-Hammumi, Muhammad al-Tuhami 30 nn.38, 47 al-Hanafi, Muhammad Al 27 Hansali zawiya 6, 7; Murabits 9 Harrak, Fatima 32 nn.85–86 Harvey, B.S. 139 n.9 al-Hasan, Fatima’s son 16 al-Hasan, Mawlay 9, 12, 27, 30 n.41, 31 n.56 Hassan II 13, 30 n.49 Hatta 109, 110, 128 al-Hawwat, Sulayman 25, 32 n.87 Hayden, J.R. 82, 97 nn.14, 20, 22, 23, 98 n.39 Hazama, Yasushi 161, 182 nn.69, 70, 72 healers 37; main role of 35 Heffington, J. 78, 81, 82, 83, 97 n.22, 98 n.39 Hefner, R.W. 139 n.1, 140 nn.16, 17 Heng Pek Koon 124 nn.60, 61 Hernowo 142 n.40, 142 n.44 Heryanto, A. 121 n.2 Hidayat Nurwahid 142 n.37 Hizbut Tahrir 131, 133, 140 n.21, 141 n.30 Hobsbawm, E. 96 n.3 Hoffman, V.J. 76 n.8 Hoji Akbar Turajon-zoda 49 Hoji Fatkhullokhon Sharif-zoda 49, 53 n.7

188

Index

Hourani, A. 144, 157 n.4, 158 n.6 Hoxha, Enver 36 human rights 127 Huneidi, S. 159 nn.23, 24 Husayn, Muhammad 45 Husayniyya silsila 50 7th International Bektashi Congress 42 nn.25, 29 Ibn Khaldun, ‘Abd al-Rahman A. 3, 5, 25 29 nn.17, 23 Ibn Khaldun University 140 n.21 Ibn Mashish, Mawlay ‘Abd al-Salam 6, 7 Ibn Nasir, Ahmad 10 Ibn Nasir, Muhammad 2, 19, 28 Ibn Suda, Ahmad 14, 26 Ibn Suda, al-Tawdi 14 Ibn ‘Uthman, Abu al-Hasan 30 n.28 Ibn Zaydan, ‘Abd al-Rahman 31 n.84, 32 n.98 Ibrahimjan Shaykh 45, 46, 47, 50, 54 n.16 Ibrahim Pasha 61 Ibrahim Shahhata H 158 n.12 al-Ibtisam 26 Idrisid Sharifs 8 Idris, Mawlay 4, 6, 7 al-Ifrani, Muhammad al-Saghir 31 n.74 Iguillid, pre-Islamic 9 Imaddudin Abdul Rahim 131 imam-hatip lisesi see Turkey Imam-I Ghazali 51 ‘Imara, Muhammad 157 n.1, 159 n.27 Imhawish igurramin 7 imperialism ‘Imranis 8 Indonesia/Indonesian 101, 103; 1945 Constitution 128; ‘Ali cabinet 103; armed resistance against state 108, 110, 117–118; Bandung Institute of Technology (ITB) 130, 131, 132, 141 n.29; Bogor Institute of Technology 140 n.21; Chinese 112, 113, 119; Communist Party (PKI) 106, 107, 110, 128; Dakwah Kampus 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 136,140 n.21; Darul Islam movement 107, 128, 133; democracy 100, 101, 107, 115, 116; Democratic Party (PDI) 104; Dewan Dakwah Islam Indonesia (DDII) 129, 131; economy collapse 104; factionalism 119; Guided Democracy 103, 113; influences from Middle East and South Asian Islamist movements 131; Institute for Social and Economic Research, Education and

Information 130; Islamism, historical roots of 128–130; Justice Party (PK) and middle-class Islamism 134–136, 139, 141 n.33, 34, 35, 142 n.38, 39; Kesatuan Aksi Mahassiswa Muslim (KAMMI) 135; Komite Indonesian untuk Solidaritas dengan Dunia Islam (KISDI) 129; KOMPAK 131; Lembaga Bantuan Hukum (LBH) 130; Lembaga Dakwah Kampus (LDK) 134; Lembaga Penelitian 130; Masyumi 103; Mujahidin Committee (MMI) 133; Nahdatul Ulama (NU) 127, 131, 134; New Order 128; Pancasila state doctrine 104, 128; parliamentary democracy 103, 114; Partai Muslimin Indonesia 128; Partai Persatuan dan Pembangunan (PPP) 128; Pelajar Islam Indonesia (PII) 129; Pendidikan dan Penerangan Ekonomi dan Sosial (LP3ES) 130; People’s Consultative Assembly (MPR) 104, 117; PNI 110; political and economic change in 117; problem of elite cohesion 114; PSI (Indonesian Socialist Party) 104, 130; Public Forum for Democratic Solidarity 118; Revolutionary Government of the Republic of Indonesia (PRRI) 107, 113, 128, 139 n.9; society, stages and modes of mobilization of various social groups in 117–118; state, internal strength of 118; war of independence 106; Wilopo cabinet 103; see also Suharto; Sukarno Indonesia and Malaysia: comparability, cases of 102; contrast between 100; internal state strength 101, 108, 111, 118–119 ⁄nonü, ⁄smet, President 165 intellectuals, role in terms of agitation for change 119 International Centre for Islamic Researches of Uzbekistan 49 International Crisis Group 141 nn.26, 33 Iran/Iranian x; model for replacing modern nation-state 127; Revolution 174; Iraq, attack on x al-lrsyad 133 Isa Halilaj 42 n.6 al-‘Isawi, Fatima 32 n.93 Ishanism 43, 44, 49 Ishan, Sayyid Supikhan 46 Is’haqov, D. 53 n.1 Ishon Abdurrahmanjan 45 Ishti, Faris 160 n.40

Index 189 ⁄skenderpava community (cemaat)/tariqa (Istanbul) 44, 48 Islam/Islamic: law see Shari‘a; as means of counter-revolution 151; notion of mujtama‘ madani 121; in relation to the idea of civil society 121; resurgence 57; view of Fethullahcı 51 Islam Democracy Party 166 Islamic Area Studies Project xi, xii Islamic Benevolence Society 146 Islamic movements: global surge of 174; in Indonesia 126; in Turkey 161, 169, 178 Islamic World League (Rabitat al-‘Alam al-Islami) 131 Islamism: defining 127–128; suspicion in Turkey 177 “Islamist tendency” in Middle East 143, 154, 156, 157; in Egypt 160 n.44 Islamization 41 n.1; among Albanian population 33; in Turkish society 170, 173 Islam Observed 18 Islom Karimov 48 Isma‘il, Mawlay 1, 3, 8, 9, 14, 20, 23, 24, 26, 31 n.55; definition of saint’s duties 9; rule 4 al-Isma‘il Mahdawi 160 n.39 Ismail, Syed Nasir 114 Israel 154; anti-Israeli sentiments 182 n.69; Benevolence Society for People of 146; creation of 153; Sadat’s reconciliation with 156; settler state in guise of “Jewish” state 157; see also Zionism Iyas, Ibn 60 ‘Izz al-Din, Ahmad 76 n.3 al-Jabarti 61, 76 n.4 Jakarta Charter 128, 136, 142 n.38 Jamaah Islamiyah (JI) and radical Islamism 132–134 Jamaah Tabligh 131, 140 n.21 Jama‘a Ihya al-Sunnah 131 Jamal ‘Abd al-Nasir see Nasser Jamous, R. 8, 29 n.14, 30 n.28 Java/Javanese 108, 110; dominance in rural trade 112; Muslims, Santri and Abangan 126 al-Jazariy, Muhammad Nurulloh Saydo 55 n.33 al-Jazuli, Muhammad Ibn Sulayman 2, 3 Jeshurun, C. 123 nn.35, 36 Jesudason, J.V. 122 n.20, 123 n.57, 124 nn.62, 63

Jihad Group 58, 74 al-Jilani, ‘Abd al-Qadir 51 Joffe, E.G.H. 31 n.77 Jogjakarta 110 Johor 108 Jordan 66 Jurayev, Zurfarjon 56 n.41 Kadiriyye, forms of 33 Kahin, G. 122 nn.29, 30, 123 n.44, 46 Kamal Janbalat 155 karamat (miracles) 7, 20 Kavakçı, Melve 183 n.78 Kawashima, Midori 78 Kazakhstan, Sufi families, genealogical charts found in 56 n.50 Kemal Atatürk (Mustafa) 162, 163; declaration of National Liberation War against Allied Forces 162; intention to abolish Sultanate-Caliphate 163; on Islam 164; move with amendment on Article 2 163; secularization reform 166; Turkey of 51 Kemper, M. 53 n.11 Keyman, Fuat, E. 183 n.80 Khalaf Allah, Muhammad Ahmad 158 n.11 Khalidiyya silsila 50 khalifa 1 al-Khalifa, Ahmad 10, 11, 14, 17, 19, 20, 23 Khalil Sakakini 150 Khamlichi, al-A. 32 n.95 Khatami, President x al-Khattabi, Muhammad Ibn ‘Abd al-Karim 8, 29 n.27 Khedive Isma‘il 145 Khoja Abdulkholiq Ghijduvonij 56 n.51 Khojaghi Ahmadi Kosoni 56 n.51 Khon, Muhammad Muso 53 n.9 Khvaja Mavlana Husayn 46, 53 n.9 Khvaja Mavlana Mir Muhammad Ibrahim 46 Khvaja Muhammad Emin 53 n.9 Khvaja Muhammad Solih 53 n.9 Khvaja Muhammad Vali Khan 46 Khvaja Muhyi al-Din 46 Khvaja Siddiq 53 n.9 Kim Ho-Dong 54 n.14 Kinacı, Selahaddin, A. 55 n.35 King-Crane Mission 149 King, H.C. 159 n.23 kingship 1, 3, 5 Kisaichi, Masatoshi 95; Masatoshi Kisaichi 57

190

Index

Kisarazu xi, xii Köker, Levent 181 n.53 Komatsu, H. 54 n.12 Korkusuz, Vefik, M. 55 n.35 Kroef, van der, J.M. 123 n.37 Kryegjyshata, Bektashi centre in Albania 39 Kuder, E. 87, 97 nn.15–18 Kujtim Ahmataj 42 n.32 Kükelgen, A. von 53 n.11 Kurban Ali 54 n.16 Kurds/Kurdish of Turkey and Iraq 52; nationalism 180 n.15 Kurita, Yoshiko 95, 143 Kuwait 66 Lakhsassi, Qasim 17 Lanao 78; Constabulary in 87; dynamism of Islamic movement in 93; Muslim residents, attitudes of 84–86; Muslim society, class structure and political relationships 84–85; “outlaws” in 81; relations between Muslim and Christian communities of 94; see also Dimakaling; Philippines Lanao Progress 79, 81, 91, 98 n.30, 99 nn.54, 59 Lane, E.M. 61 Laroui, A. 20, 31 nn.56, 76, 32 n.89 Laskar Jihad 126, 132, 140 n.22 Latifa Muhammad Salim 158 n.15 Laubach, F. 79, 92, 99 n.54 Laubach, R. 99 n.54 Lebanon/Lebanese: anti-imperialistic movement 154; Civil War 155; colonial bourgeoisie 152, 153; Communist Party 154; National Pact 152; politics and Palestine liberation movement 160 n.43; Progressive Socialist Party 155; sectarian system 152; society, democratization of 154; under French mandate 152; see also ‘Amil, Mahdi Lemercier-Quelquejay, Ch. 44, 53 n.4, 54 n.21 Liddle, R.W. 122 nn.14, 15, 19, 140 nn.15, 16 Linz, J.J. 122 nn.8–10 Lipset, S.M. 122 nn.8–10 McAdam, D. 179 n.1 Macaraya, Batua 99 n.54 McCarthy, J.D. 179 n.1 Maceda, J. 99 n.56

McVey, R.T. 139 n.11 Madale, A.T. 95 n.2 madrasas 43, 53 n.10; Central Asian 46; clandestine 45, 47 Magdalena, F. 95, 98 n.37 Mahathir Mohamad 114; dictatorship 115 al-Mahdi, Muhmmad al-Shaykh 15, 98 nn.33, 48 Mahir al-Sharif 160 n.41 al-Majhud al-Dhati 64 al-Majiri, Salih 6 Majlis al-Sha‘ab (people’s parliament) 60 Makhzan 7, 14; centralization policy on part of 27; control of holy lineages 24; dependence on 18; political and administrative strategy 23; and zawiya, relations between 27; see also state Makhzanization 27; process of sufi institutions 22–23 Makram ‘Ubayd 151 Maktubat of Ahmad Sirhindi 45, 52, 53 n.10 Malacca 108 Malay/s: capital 111; and Chinese antagonism 112; and Chinese elites, alliance between 114; extremists 115; political and cultural equality of non-Malays with 108; ruling elite 109; UMNO elite 115 Malaysia/Malaysian x, 101; armed resistance against state 117–118; authoritarian tendencies 102, 115; Communist Party of Malaya (CPM) 106–107; democracy 102, 107, 109, 114; as democratic post-colonial state 101, 107; democratization in 100; domestic capitalist class 108; elite cohesion in 114–115; general elections 103; internal strength of state 118; ISA (Internal Security Act) 115, 116; Malayan Chinese Association (MCA) 109, 112, 114; NEP 111, 112; political elite 119; racial riots 103; since independence 103; state, post-colonial history 104; United Malays National Organization (UMNO) 108, 109, 114, 119 Mali 66 Maluku islands, violent incidents in 126 Mamitua Saber 99 n.57 Mandal, S.K. 121 n.2 Manila, A. de 96 n.9 Mannheim, K. 125 n.94; concept of utopia 120

Index 191 al-Mansour, Mohamed 30 n.33, 31 n.77; Mansour, El, M. 1, 31 nn.80, 83 al-Maqsad al-Ahmad 3, 5 marabutic activity 15, 16, 17, 18 al-Maraghi, Shaykh 159 n.30 Maranao 78, 80; accounts of two Dimakalings 97 n.11; heroes 91; Sabir, idea of martyrdom in 91–92; society 98 n.31; see also Dimakaling Mardin, Verif 180 n.10 Marinid sultans 8, 15 Marrakesh 13 Marshall Plan Aid 110 Mashaykh al-Turuq al-Sufiya, Shaykh 58, 60 Masyarakat madani, concept of 121, 135 Masyumi party 103, 114, 127, 128, 130 Mathnav 45 Maududi 132 al-Mawardi, ‘Ali 32 n.90 Mawlay ‘Abd Allah al-Sharif 4 mawrids 58 May, R.J. 123 n.37 Megawati Sukarnoputri 118, 142 n.37; faction of the Indonesian Democratic Party 130; plan to assassinate 132 Meknes understanding 11 Menderes, Adnan, Prime Minister 166 Menzilköyü tariqa 44, 55 n.38, 56 n.42 Middle East: anti-imperialist struggle and attempts at secularism 144–147; attempts in search of non-sectarianism and secularism 147–150, 156, 157; Burhami order, spread of 68; emergence of “Arab States System and development of Zionist Project 150–153; equated with “Islamic world” x, 143; “Islamist” tendency domination in 157; secularism and non-sectarianism, development in 143; Sufi orders and business enterprises 56, 57; war of June 1967 58; Zionism and sectarianism in 153–156; see also Muslim-Christian Association Miichi, K. 126, 140 n.18, 141 n.36 militant/s: Islamic movements, emergence of 126, 139; in Malayan labour 106; networks 132, 134 Mindanao State Univeristy Mamitua Saber Research Center 96 n.6, 99 n.60 Mir Arab Madrasa (Bukhara) 46, 54 n.25 Misioni Shenjtëror Eleonorë 41, 42 nn.35–38

Mitchell, R.P. 75, 159 n.28, 160 nn.34, 37 modernism 127; Masyarakat madani as 135–136; rationality as 132; rejection by Islamic movements 126; Salafi as 127; and traditionalism, Islamic 139 Mohamd Mahdi 90 Möhämmätshin, R. 53 n.1 Moikom Zeqo 40, 42 n.34 Montagne, R. 9, 30 n.32 Moore, Barrington Jr 108 Morishita, Akiko 139 n.12 Morocco/Moroccan: history 15; Islam, proliferation of filial murabits in 16; Makhzan 23; precolonial, religious authority and temporal power in 1; religious experience 16; Rif uprising 8; saints in history 6; sultans 8; tribal societies 9 Moro Province, military regime 79 Mubarak, President 58 Muhaimin, Yahya 124 nn.66–69 Muhammad ‘Ali 158 Muhammad, Shaykh 64 Muhammad al-Shaykh, Sultan 5 Muhammadiyah 127, 134 muhtasib 26 Mukhtar Khan 48, 49 Mukhtorjon Abdullah 54 n.25 Mullojonov, Parviz 55 n.31 Mumcu, Uæur 181 nn.54, 56 Mumti‘ al-Asma 2 murabit/s 12, 13, 15; and Prophet, relation between 16; the term 11 Murphy, F., Governor-General 82, 97 nn.14, 23 Musa Kazim al-Husayni 149, 150 Musa, tomb of 61 Muslim/s: aid in Britain 131; mysticism 44, 51; residents of Lanao support for Dimakaling 83; rural leadership 94; social thought, underdeveloped 120; society under American colonialism 85; in Southeast Asia 120 Muslim Brotherhood (al-Ikhwan al-Muslimun) 57, 58, 74, 75, 76 n.2, 77 n.11, 131, 151, 153, 154, 159 n.30 Muslim-Christian Association in Palestine 147–150; San Remo Conference 149 Muzaffar, C. 124 n.79 Nabil Sha’th 156 al-Nadim, ‘Abd Allah 146 Nagasura Madale 99 n.56

192

Index

‘Naim Frashëri 39, 40 Najmiddin Komilov 49 Nakahara, Zentoku 90, 96 n.7, 98 n.46 Nakvibendi groups 181 n.46 Naqib al-Ashraf 58 al-Naqqash, Farida 160 n.39 Naqshbandi: order 43; lineages 44; shaykhs in Central Asia 44 Naqshbandiyya: in Ferghana valley, present state of 44–47; following disintegration of USSR 47 Naqshbandiyya-Husayniyya 45, 50; and Ottoman Naqshbandiyya-Khalidiyya, encounter of 49–51; shaykhs of 47 Naqshbandiyya-Jahriyya 44 Naqshbandiyya-Khafiyya 44, 46, 48, 50, 51 Naqshbandiyya Khalidiyya 48–51, 52 Naqshbandiyya-Mujaddidiyya-Husayniyya see Naqshbandiyya-Husayniyya al-Nasiri, Ahmad Ibn Khalid 19, 21, 30 n.37, 31 nn.50–51, 54, 59, 68–73, 78 Nasiriya 10, 17, 19, 27 Nasiri zawiya 14, 23; expansion 18–20 Nasr, Marlin 160 n.38 Nasser 58, 154, 156; administration 75; Free Officers 154; revolution in 1952 57 nationalism: of ‘Aflaq 153; Albania 35; Arab 144, 145, 153; Egyptian 145; Kurdish 180 n.15; linguistic, call by al-Bustani in Syria 144; Turkish 172 Natsir, Mohammad 128, 129 Nawawi, Ahmad 141 n.28 Necat Erder 183 n.79 Netherlands 110; BFO (Bijenkomst voor Federaal Overleg – Federal Consultative Assembley) 110, 123 n.52; see also Indonesia Nevruz, Sultan 39 Nigeria 66 Niyaz Qulu Turkmani, Shaykh 45 non-sectarianism: attempts in course of anti-imperialist struggle 144–150; principle of 150 Nurcholish Madjid 129 Nurcu Fethullahcı organization 44 Nuri Çuni 42 nn.28, 31 Nur Mahmudi Isma‘il 142 n.37 Öniv, Ziya 182 n.67, 183 n.80 Ottoman Empire 33, 144, 163; in Albania 34, 35, 39; call for non-sectarianism

in 145; residential system 158 n.10; state, defeat of 148; see also Turkey Özal, Turgut 48, 181 n.51 Özcan, G. 182 n.70 Özdalga, E. 53 n.5, 181 n.59 Özek, Çetin 180 n.32, 181 n.40 Özel, Soli 183 n.80 Palawan 79 Palestine/Palestinian: crisis 153; delegation appeal against British mandate 149; liberation movement 150; National Charter 155; War 154; Zionism, arrival of 150; see also Muslim-Christian Association Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO) 155 Palmier, L. 123 n.56 peasants against the state 105–107 Penang 108 Pennell, R. 29 n.27, 31 n.77 people’s movements and activism xi Phelps, W.R.C. 148 n.9 Philippines: antipublic school sentiment 87–88; Battle of Bayang 86, 91; Battles of Taraka and Bacolod 86; Constabulary 86, 93, 94, 97 n.12, 98 n.35; darangen or Maranao folksong 92–93; Maranao art of bodily protection, kebel 90; Muslim regions, attacks on public schools and teachers 80–82, 86, 88; Muslim society, banditry and the internalization of violence in 78; police informers 88; see also Dimakaling; Filipinos political opportunities as determinants of social movements 161, 178, 179 Popovic, A. 41 nn.2, 10, 42 n.17, 54 n.17 Poso, violent incidents in 126 post-colonial states, democratic and authoritarian 100 Poulton, H. 42 n.20 power (shawka) 3, 5; and sanctity, association of 6 Prabowo 119 Privratsky, B. 54 n.22 Purwoko, Dwi 140 n.18 al-Qabbab, al-Husayn 27 al-Qabli, Muhammad 29 nn.24, 25 al-Qadiri, ‘Abd al-Salam 3, 6, 29 nn.8–9, 12, 13, 20, 21, 24 Qari, Abdallah 46, 53 n.9; grave in Tashkent 47

Index 193 Qari, Ayyub 45 al-Qastali, Abu ‘Amr 30 n.36 Qerbela 39 Quezon, Manuel, President 82 Qur’an: courses 173, 181 n.56; and Hadith, supremacy of 127; schools 166, 167, 173, 180 n.22 Qurban ‘Ali Ahmad, Shaykh 45, 46, 50, 52, 53 n.10; tariqa of 50 Qutb, Sayyid 132 Rabe, P. 124 n.73 Rais, Amien 141 n.25 ra‘iyya (subjects) 1, 2, 15 Ramage, D.E. 139 n.1 Ramiz Alia 36 Ramzi Mikha’il Jid 158 n.17 Rashahat ‘Ayn al-Hayat 45 Rashid, Muhammad 160 n.42 Rashid Rida 127 Raysuniya 7 Recai Kutan 178 Reid, A. 123 n.44 The Religion of Java 126 religious and spiritual authority in Islam 5 Republic of the United States of Indonesia (RUSI) 110 Revid Efendi (Revid Erol), Shaykh 50 ‘revival’ of religion 36 revolutionary organizations 105; in Middle East 147, 154, 157 Rifaiyye, network of 33, 34 al-Risala 133 Risalat-u-Thaqalayn 39 Riwarung, Labi 95, 96 n.6, 99 n.60 Rizq,Yunan Labib 148 n.10 157 n.3, 160 n.44 Robison, R. 124 nn.65, 70 Rocamora, J.E. 124 n.78 Rosjadi, Imron 124 n.75 al-Rusi, ‘Abd Allah 3 Russia, collapse of Romanov autocracy in 105 Russo-Ottoman War 146 Saadi Shirazi foundation 39 Sa‘adi sultans 8, 10, 15 Sa‘ad Zaghlul 151 Saber, M. 96 n.9, 99 n.55 Sadat 156; reconciliation with Israel 156; regime 58, 154 Safarov, A. 53 n.3 Said Nursi 51

saint/s: authority 4; enterprise, metamorphosis of 18; and national heroes in Albania 37–40; spiritual authority (baraka) 10; veneration 45, 47; worldly ambitions 10 sainthood (qutbaniya) 2, 3; and ‘asabiya, connection between 7; manifestations of 1; miracles and 10, 12, 19, 28, 38; and power 2–5 Salafi, reformism of 127 al-Salam al-Wazzani, Mawlay 31 n.56 salih 12; term 11 Salman Mosque 130; Islamic Studies at 131 sanctity and might 5–7 al-Sanhuri, Jamal 65 Sannu (Abu al-Nazzara) 145 Sannu, Ya‘qub 145 San Remo Conference 149 Santos, Paulino 86 Sarekat Islam 108 Sari Saltik 36, 38 Sarowang, Abdulkarim 99 n.52 Saudi Arabia 66, 157 Saybavh, Kemal 182 n.70 Sayyid, B.S. 139 n.4 Sayyid, Muhammad 53 al-Sayyid Yusuf 159 n.29 Schumaker, C. 123 n.42 Sebilürrevad 166 Second World War 108 secularism 143; in modern Middle East, development of 143–157; in NGOs 130; on part of Middle Eastern Christians 144; in Turkey 164, 165, 177, 182 n.71 secularization: Suharto in Indonesia 129; under Ataturk in Turkey 162, 163, 164, 166 Vefik Korkusuz 56 n.45 Selamet 166 Semlaliyin 16 Veref, Abdurrahman 163 Veyh Fethullah, eight rules 56 n.43 Veyh Said rebellion 180 n.15 al-Shadhili, ‘Abd al-Latif 30 n.36, 31 n.52 Shaharuddin Maaruf 120, 125 n.95 Shammuh, Hasan 76 n.3 al-Sharahbili, al-Husain 17 al-Sharani 60 Shari‘a (Islamic law) 127, 133, 151; enforcement movements 134, 139; norms 15 Shari‘ati, ‘Ali 42 n.27, 132

194

Index

Sharifism 15, 16, 23 Sharif, Muhammad 45, 46 Sharifs/Sharifian 7, 8, 23–25, 27; ‘asabiyya 24; dynasties 8; genealogy 15; pattern within realm of sainthood 16; zawiyas 22 Sharqawiya 7 al-Sharrat, Mas‘ud 30 n.36 al-shaykh al-kamil, accomplished saint 2 shaykhs 35, 45; in Burhami order, concept of 61–62; and disciples within tekke, relationship 38; transmission of shaykhdom 17 Sheh Ali Bogdani 35 Sheh Mohamed Ali Tekhiri 42 n.27 Shehu, Hysni, Dervish 38, 42 nn.16, 19, 23, 24 Sheh Zejnel 34 Sheh Sulo Petrela Halvetiyye 34 Shiite/s inspired iconography 39; literature 39 al-Shinquiti, Mahmud 14 al-Shiyaq, Faris 144 Shkodra, Ahmed Shaykh 34, 36 Sidi Muhammad Ibn ‘Abd Allah, Sultan 7, 14, 24, 25, 26, 27, 32 n.96 Sidi Sa‘id Ahansal 6 Siirt incident 165 silsila (spiritual genealogy) 43, 44, 60; of Ibrahimjan’s Naqshbandiyya 50, 53 n.9; Khalidiyya 50; of Shaykh Adil Khan 46 Singh, B. 123 n.37 Sirhindi, Ahmad 45, 46, 51; Maktubit of 49 Sirriyeh, E. 75 n.1 Sjahrir 109; government 110 Sjarifuddin, Amir 110 Skocpol, T. 105, 122 nn.21–28 Smit, C. 123 n.44 Society of the Youth in Alexandria 147 Soebadi, S. 123 n.37 Soysal, ⁄lhami 180 nn.17, 20, 28, 31, 181 n.45 Spillmann, G. 30 n.40, 31 n.75 state 22; promotion of Islamic values as antidote to communism 161; see also Makhzan al-Subki, Amal Kamil Bayyumi 158 nn.19, 20 Sudan x; Burhami order 65, 68, 76 n.8; al-Khalifa in 20; sectarian (ta’if i) ideology 159 n.33 Sudjan, E. 140 n.14

Sufism/Sufi: ‘alims 14; annual report (istibyan) order 62; books of 50–52; in Central Asia 50, 52; and dynastic drive, institutionalization of 15–18; in Egypt, orders currently recognized in 59; elite and popular manifestations 43; erosion of sanctity 18–22; intellectual trend 34; khanaqahs 45; manuals, lack of 45; networks 33, 37; orders and business enterprises, link between 66; orders in modern Egypt 58–60; relationship of orders to society 57; Shaykhs 44; and state, study of power relations between institutionalized 1; tariqa xi, 17, 43, 45; teaching of 53 n.10; terminology 43 Sufism and Islam (al-Tasawwuf al-Islami) 58 Suharto 115, 116, 117, 119, 128, 135; “New Order” of 104, 117, 129, 139; ousting of 100, 117, 118, 134; see also Indonesia Sukarno 103, 106, 109, 110, 114, 128; system of Guided Democracy 103, 106, 113, 114; see also Indonesia Sulayman in Ibn Zaydan, Sultan Mawlay 14, 26, 30 n.48, 32 n.88 sultan/s: authority conferred by 27–28; holy standing of 9; encouragement to Sufis and saints for zawiya 13; power of 7; supremacy and position of imam 9; supremacy vis-à-vis religious groups 8; tradition under Sa’dis and ‘Alawids 11 Sulu Archipelago 79 Sumatra 110; Minangkabau traders 112 Sundaram, J.K. 123 n.58 Sundhaussen, U. 122 nn.8–10, 124 nn.75, 76 Sungkar, Abdullah 133, 134 Sunni: Islam 34, 36; sufism 14; zawiyas 17 Suryadinata, L. 124 n.74 Syria 52, 150; historical 144, 145, 148, 152; intellectuals moving to Egypt 146; intensification of sectarian conflict in 144; National Socialist Party 154; non-sectarianism 144, 145; San Remo Conference 149; see also King-Crane Mission; Muslim-Christian Association Taha Husayn 151 al-Tahiri, Ahmad Ibn Hamdun 19, 29 n.10, 31 n.67 Taji-Farouki, Suha 42 n.20

Index 195 Tajikistan 45, 46; Spiritual Board 49 Tal‘at al-Mushtari 2, 19, 21 Tales of Mindanao Island 90 Tamegrout 17, 28 Tamimi, A. 157 n.1 Tan, Mely G. 124 n.71 Tan, S. 78, 95 n.2, 96 n.9, 98 nn.38, 42 Tan Chee Leng 122 n.18 Tansu Çiller 182 n.68 Tarrow, S. 179 n.2 al-Tastawti, Ahmad 14 Tataristan 50 al-Tawfiq, Ahmad 29 n.22, 30 nn.30, 34 Tawhid, oneness of God 132 taxation (maks) 3, 26; committee of muftis and imams 162 Taylor, A.M. 123 n.44 al-Tayyib, Mawlay 20 terrorist attacks in United States on September 11, 2001 126 The Third Eye 40 Thomas, R. 96 n.9 Tidjaniyye 34 Tirana 34 Toprak, B. 179 n.6, 180 n.20, 25, 26 Trimingham, J.S. 60 Trisakti University incident 115 Trix, Frances 42 n.21 Tsugitaka Sato xii al-Tuhami, Mawlay 9, 11, 12, 20, 21, 23, 31 n.55 Tuhfat al-Ikhwan 4 Tunaya, Tarik Zafer 180 nn.15, 18, 19, 21, 23, 24, 27 Tunku al-Haj 107, 115, 124 n.83 Tun Razak 115 Tun Tan Siew Sin 114 Türbe: of Dervishe Hatixhe 37; rebuilding of 36 Turkey/Turkish 39, 44, 52; 1938 Law of Associations 164; constitutional democratization and political organization of Islamists 167–171; Democratic Left Party (DLP) 177; Democratic Party (DcP) 165, 166, 169; democratization 161, 167–171, 178; educational reform 177; Erbakan’s government 179; ezan 164; Felicity Party (FP) 178; flow of Islamic capital from Saudi Arabia 173; Grand National Assembly 162; Hat Law 164, 165; imam-hatip lisesi 168, 169, 170, 171, 173, 178, 179, 180 nn.20, 26; Islamic values, adoption into state ideology

172–174; Islamist movements 169, 174–177; Islamist publications 166, 174; Justice and Development Party (JDP) 178, 179; Justice Party (JP) 168; Law for the Protection of Atatürk 166; Law of Free Conscience 167; Malatya incident in 1952 166; Marmara earthquake in 1999 178; Melve Kavakçı incident 178; Motherland Party (MP) 171, 172, 174; Nakvibendi movement 167; Nationalist Action Party (NAP) 176; National Liberation War 162; National Order Party (NOP) 169; National Salvation Party (NSP) 170; Nation Party (NP) 166, 167; Nurcu organization 51; parliamentarians of religious profession 164; Penal Law 164; pluralistic constitution and associational and political organization of Islamic movements 168–170; pro-Islamic party in coalition governments 170–171; Qur’an schools 166, 167, 169; real GNP per capita 183 n.81; Reformist Democracy Party (RDP) 176; religion as issue and tool of politics 167; Republican People’s Party 163, 165, 166; secularization under single-party rule and repression of Islamist movements 162, 163–165, 179 n.9; Social Democratic Populist Party (SDPP) 174; state encouragement, Islamic movements and secularist reaction 171–178; Sultanate-Caliphate issue 162, 163; symbiosis of center-right government and Islamic movements 166–167; Ticani Group 166; True Path Party (TPP) 174; veil movement 173, 179; Virtue Party (VP) 178; War of National Liberation and secular-religious coalition 162, 163 Turner, B.S. 21, 31 nn.61, 66, 79 UAE 66 ‘Ummar 57 United Nations Security Council 110 United States: coalition forces led by UK and x; colonial government 79, 81, 93; colonial policy toward Muslims 84, 96 n.9; colonial rule, obligatory education 87, 88; military superiority of 94; pro-Indonesian stance 110; terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001 126 University of Indonesia 131

196

Index

Urtësia 42 n.27 Usama bin Ladin 133 USSR, disintegration of 44 ‘Uthman, Muhammad 65 Utopian thinking 120 Utusan Zaman 115 Uzbekistan/Uzbek: Adabiyati va Sanati 51; elite Sufism 46; Muftiyat 49; Muslims, young 51; Naqshbandis shaykhs 49; Naqshbandiyya-Husayniyya 47; quest for identity 52; Spiritual Board 48; state, ‘fighting fundamentalism with Sufism’ 49, 52; Sufism 44; tariqa tradition in 52 Veinstein, G. 42 n.17, 54 n.17 Vernon, J.S. 53 n.5 Vorys, K. von 123 n.39 Wafd Party 1511 60 n.44 Wahhabism 49; reformism of 127 Wahid, Abdurrahman, President 118 wali 2; term 11 al-Wallali, Ahmad 29 nn.4, 5, 31 n.63 Wanandi, Jusuf 125 n.90 Warner, J.L. 55 n.33 al-Watan 158 n.11 al-Wazzani, ‘Abd Allah 30 nn.39, 48 Wazzaniya/Wazzani 7, 10, 16, 19, 22, 27; Sharifs 11; shaykh 9; sufi order 4; zawiya 10, 20, 23 Weber, M. 17, 18 Western colonization and modernization 57 Wibisono, C. 118 Wood, L. 87, 98 nn.37, 41 Wood-Forbes Mission 88 World Ahlul Bayt Assembly 39 World Depression 86 World Ehli Beyt Assembly 39

Xinjiang 45, 46 Yalçın, Soner 181 nn.43, 46, 49 Yared, Nazik Saba 144, 158 nn.5, 7 Yasavi 56 n.50 Yathrib 121 Yavuz, Hakan 56 n.44 Yeni Vafak 175 Yoshihara Kunio 123 n.59 Yücekök, Ahmet, N. 168, 175, 181 nn.35, 36, 39, 41 Yusanto, Ismail, M. 141 n.31 al-Yusi 5, 8, 17, 29 nn.1, 16 zahir (royal decree) 5, 27; of sharifdom 24 Zald, M.N. 179 n.1 Zaman 174 Zarcone, Th. 53 nn.1, 2, 11, 43, 54 n.12, 17, 23, 24, 55 nn.29, 30, 35, 56 nn.44, 45, 52 zawiya/s 7, 13; degeneration and increasing subservience to state 27–28; expansion 18, 20; founders 17–18; marabutic lodge 18; material privileges bestowed on 16; perpetuation of religious character 22; prestige 20; routinization of sufism in case of 21; stage of charisma disintegration 22; under ‘Alawids 27 Zayn Allah 50 Zeinolabedin Rahnema 42 n.27 Zijai, ‘Ali Akbar 42 n.27 Zionism/Zionist 156; activities, upsurge of 148; and creation of “Jewish state” 153, 154; in Palestine 150; Project, development of 150–153; and sectarianism in Arab states 153–156 Zogu, Ahmed 34 Zulfiqar Ahmad 48