Human Conscience and Muslim-Christian Relations: Modern Egyptian Thinkers of Al-Damir (Islamic Studies Series)

Human Conscience and Muslim-Christian Relations Can human conscience be a uniting bond between Christians and Muslims, across moral and religious differences? Human Conscience and Muslim-Christian Relations deals with this question and discusses the notion of as employed by the Egyptian Muslim authors Abbās al-Aqqād, Khālid Khālid and M.Kāmil In the 1950s and 1960s, these authors used the notion of to express the inward dimension of Islamic ethics. As Islamic humanists, they also used it to express what Muhammad and Jesus said and what Muslims and Christians ‘know together’ in the field of ethics. In Oddbjørn Leirvik’s analysis, their works are read in the light of universalistic tendencies in the 1950s, but also with a view to later developments towards more communitarian discourses among Muslims and Christians in Egypt. Subjects investigated include: • Muslim-Christian relations in Egypt; • the theme of conscience in modern Muslim discourses; • the conceptual history of conscience; • the semantic history of • the multilayered tradition of Islamic ethics; • authenticity and ‘the turn to the Other’ in moral philosophy. Human Conscience and Muslim-Christian Relations provides a fascinating insight into the notion of conscience and the impact of Christian-Muslim relations in Egypt on the works of Muslim authors. This book is essential reading for scholars with interests in Islam, cultural studies and Ethics. Oddbjørn Leirvik is Professor in Interreligious Studies at the Faculty of Theology, University of Oslo. His primary research interests include Christian-Muslim relations and he is involved in Christian-Muslim and inter-faith dialogue at national and international levels. His recent publications include the co-edited volume The Power of Faiths in Global Politics (2004) and Images of Jesus Christ in Islam; Introduction, Survey of Research, Issues of Dialogue (1999).

Routledge Islamic Studies Historians, State and Politics in Twentieth Century Egypt Contesting the nation Anthony Gorman The New Politics of Islam Pan-Islamic foreign policy in a world of states Naveed Shahzad Sheikh The Alevis in Turkey The emergence of a secular Islamic tradition David Shankland Medieval Islamic Economic Thought Filling the great gap in European economics S.M.Ghazanfar The West and Islam Western liberal democracy versus the system of Shura Mishal Fahm al-Sulami The Regency of Tunis and the Ottoman Porte, 1777–1814 Army and Government of a North-African Eyâlet at the end of the eighteenth century Asma Moalla Islamic Insurance A modern approach to Islamic banking Aly Khorshid The Small Players of the Great Game The settlement of Iran’s eastern borderlands and the creation of Afghanistan Pirouz Mojtahed-Zadeh

Interest in Islamic Economics Understanding riba Abdulkader Thomas Muslim Diaspora Gender, culture and identity Edited by Haideh Moghissi Human Conscience and Muslim-Christian Relations Modern Egyptian thinkers on Oddbjørn Leirvik

Human Conscience and Muslim-Christian Relations Modern Egyptian thinkers on

Oddbjørn Leirvik

LONDON AND NEW YORK

First published 2006 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX 14 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 Oddbjørn Leirvik 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 0-203-96119-6 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 10: 0-415-38566-0 (Print Edition) ISBN 13: 978-0-415-38566-4

Contents Preface

viii

Some notes on bibliography, abbreviations and transliteration

PART I Introduction: horizon and focus, terms and methods

ix

1

1 Horizon and focus

3

2 Terms, concepts and methods

9

PART II Christian conscience and Islamic ethics 3 The Self and the Other in Christian and European discourses of conscience 4 Islamic ethics: knowing with whom? PART III Interlude: the semantics of 5 Conscience in Arabic: the semantics of PART IV 6 The notions of 7

in modern Egyptian Muslim authors and wijdān in Egyptian reformers and writers

(1889–1964): ethico-religious internalisation, human conscience and Islamic apologetics

8 Khālid Khālid (1920–96): conscience, human authenticity and Islamic democracy 9 M.Kāmil (1901–77): conscience as the law of inhibition and the voice of God

22 24 38 64

66 79

81 90 128 178

10 Christians and Muslims in Egypt: united or separated by modernity?

199

11 Conclusions to Part IV

217

PART V Concluding discussions 12 Wronging the Self, wronging the Other: conscience and ethics in modernity 13 Conscience in interreligious dialogue: telling the story of Oneself as Another 14 Knowing with God: face to face with the Other?

222 224 236 249

Notes

252

Bibliography

300

Arabic (and other foreign) terms

316

Name index

319

Subject index

325

Preface The present book builds on a doctoral thesis entitled Knowing by Oneself, Knowing with the Other: Human Conscience and Christian-Muslim Relations which was submitted to the Faculty of Theology, University of Oslo, in 2001 (Leirvik 2002a, cf. the summary in Leirvik 2003). and the notion of The underlying research is focused on the concept of human conscience in the works of the modern Egyptian authors Khālid Khālid and Kāmil The study attempts to read their works from the 1950s and 1960s in a contextual perspective, considering also subsequent developments in MuslimChristian relations in Egypt. The bulk of the book is a literary and contextual study of the Egyptian works in question. In separate chapters, the book offers a historical-semantic investiga-tion of the notion of and a history of ideas-oriented discussion of the relation between the notion of conscience and Islamic ethics. The historical and contextual investigation is framed by a more general discussion of the relation between Self and Other in conscience-based ethics, in the perspective of interreligious studies. There are several people to whom I am grateful for the inspiration they have given and the insights they have shared with me during my research. First, I want to express my indebtedness to Kenneth Cragg (Oxford) and Olaf Schumann (University of Hamburg) who, through their translations and surveys, put me on the track of the possible centrality of in the works that the named Egyptian authors wrote about Islam and Christianity Second, I would like to express my gratitude to Michael G.Carter, formerly professor of Arabic at the University of Oslo, who has contributed with his rich knowledge of classical Islam and the sub-tleties of the Arabic language. For sharing their insights on particular aspects of the present investigation I would also like to thank (Cairo University), Usāma Khālid (writer, publisher, son of Khālid Khālid F.Peter Ford (Nile Theological College, Khartoum), Jan Hjärpe (University of Lund), Gunvor Mejdell (University of Oslo) and Berit Thorbjørnsrud (University of Oslo). I am also thankful to Carol Bebawi (Birmingham) for assistance in proof reading. Oslo, January 2006, Oddbjørn Leirvik

Some notes on bibliography, abbreviations and transliteration Bibliography When two years separated by a slash are given in a bibliographical reference, the first indicates the year of publication and the second that of the first edition.

Abbreviations Bible:

Bible edition (cf. bibliography)

LCB:

Loeb Classical Library

EI:

Encyclopaedia of Islam

Q:

the

Two different translations are indicated in

parentheses: Yūsuf

Fakhry (cf. bibliography)

TRE:

Theologische Realencyclopädie

WA:

Weimarer Ausgabe (of Luther’s works)

Transliteration

and are rendered with the In Arabic transliteration, the letters conventional dot under. The letters shīn and ghayn are rendered as and when exact transliteration of the Arabic text is intended (in italics). But in names, these letters are rendered as th, kh, dh, sh and gh, and initial hamza is dropped. Otherwise, hamza is rendered and With the exception of words like is only rendered in construct forms. In both Arabic and Greek transliteration, long vowels are rendered with macron (a, ē etc.). Greek theta is rendered as th, phi as ph, chi as ch.

Part I Introduction Horizon and focus, terms and methods

1 Horizon and focus 1.1 Interreligious studies and theology in dialogue in the works of three Muslim The present exposition discusses the notion of intellectuals in Egypt who in the 1950s and 1960s wrote creatively about human conscience as a uniting bond between people of different faiths and convictions. Although the investigation gives a contextual analysis of the writings of three modern Muslim thinkers it does not entirely fall within the established academic genres of Islamology or Middle Eastern studies. It contains an element of both scholarly traditions but should primarily be seen as a contribution to the discipline of ‘interreligious studies’. Being conducted by a theologian who has a background in Christian-Muslim dialogue and works within the context of a Faculty of Theology the study can also be read as an attempt at ‘theology in dialogue’. The relatively new discipline of interreligious studies has academic affinity to both theology and religious studies. In the Western academic context, theology and religious studies are institutionally integrated in some places, and sharply divided elsewhere. In the Norwegian context, challenges arising from new and inclusive models for religious education in school that were introduced during the 1990s have triggered a new interest in interdisciplinary approaches to religion in which theology and religious studies creatively interact in studying religion from the insider’s as well as the outsider’s perspective (Leirvik 1998, 1999b; Østberg 1998). Similar integrative processes between theology and religious studies can be observed in many other contexts. One result is the introduction of ‘interreligious studies’ as a new scholarly discipline transcending traditional approaches to the study of religion. In both theology and religious studies, academic interest has most often been focused upon distinct religious traditions which have been dealt with separately, often with a strong focus on textual studies. Although ‘comparative religion’ and ‘theology of religion’ are well-established disciplines, there have been fewer attempts in both religious studies and theology to approach the living, contextual encounters between different faiths, and the challenges to interreligious dialogue arising from such encounters. In the age of globalisation, when religions react to and interact with each other more intensively than in earlier periods of modernity, the need is increasingly felt for a study of religion that deals academically with what takes place in between different beliefs and believers. This is the focus of interreligious studies: the dynamic encounter between living religious traditions. Such encounters may be studied historically and sociologically with a view to the local as well as the global context, or systematically with a view to the challenges interreligious relations pose to ethical and theological thinking. The present study deals with the works of some modern Muslim thinkers in Egypt who in the 1950s and 1960s wrote inclusively about the Muslim and Christian traditions,

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4

with a focus on ethics and on human conscience as a potentially uniting bond between Muslims and Christians. The Muslim intellectuals in question are (d. 1964), Kāmil (d. 1977) and Khālid Khālid (d. 1996). None of them were theologians in the professional sense. Khālid was trained as an but did not serve in any official religious position. The impact they had on the intellectual and religious scenes came from their writings and their role as public intellectuals. In tune with their commitment to writing, the interaction between Islamic and Christian tradition they embodied was primarily of a literary nature. However, in the critical perspective of interreligious studies their literary contribution to Muslim-Christian dialogue must be analysed with a view to the wider social, cultural and political context of their works. Their writings can also be studied as samples of theology in dialogue. In its systematic efforts, theology (both in its Christian and Muslim modalities) deals with the coherence of a particular faith, its truth claims and its relevance in a contemporary situation. Although these authors were not religious leaders or academic theologians their writings can still be seen as innovative attempts at reformulating Islamic theology and ethics with a view to the relevance of the Islamic tradition in modernity. In their effort to demonstrate the modern relevance of Islam, the authors in question are in dialogue with the other great faiths, as well as with philosophical interpretations of the human existence. In that perspective, their works can be read as attempts at formulating more dialogical forms of religious thinking. In many circles, theology is increasingly seen as a dialogical effort at studying a particular tradition in its relation to other faiths and beliefs. From the vantage point of Christian systematic theology, the American theologian David Tracy on the threshold to the 1990s stated ‘that we are fast approaching the day when it will not be possible to attempt at a Christian systematic theology except in serious conversation with the other great ways’ (Tracy 1990:xi). Doing dialogical theology, however, necessitates a critical awareness of the relation between Self and Other. In both Christianity and Islam, ‘comparative religion’ and ‘theology of religion’ have often referred to the study of other religions in the clarifying light of one’s own. In such approaches, theology runs the risk of reducing other religions to simply more of the same (as seen from the vantage point of one’s own tradition) or cutting other faiths down to size in order to fit with one’s own ethical or theological patterns. A theology in dialogue must seek ways to avoid such pitfalls. With Emmanual Levinas, I would suggest that interreligious theology must respect ‘the distance of proximity’ (Levinas 1999:93). Or as David Tracy puts it: a theology in dialogue can only deserve the name when the ‘divine Otherness’ of the partner in dialogue is acknowledged and respected (Tracy 1996). What is needed is an ethical and theological dialogue which takes fundamental differences seriously but still allows for and facilitates communication between different religious traditions. Such an approach presupposes (1) a will to creative imagination across the borders of differing universes of meaning; (2) a will to identify common concerns across respected differences; and (3) recognition of the plurality and ambiguity of all traditions in responding to issues of common concerns (Tracy 1994).

Horizon and focus

5

In the present investigation, I will engage in dialogue with the named modern Egyptian Muslim writers. In their approaches to Islam and Christianity and Khālid all have a striking focus on the notion of ‘conscience’ Although my investigation deals with the concept of conscience in the broader perspective of ethics and theology in dialogue, it has a double contextual anchoring. First, the general thrust of my study springs from fresh challenges in my own Norwegian context, which has become increasingly multi-religious. Second, I have chosen the writings of some modern Egyptian authors as a mirror of challenges to dialogue faced in the European context. The choice of Egypt is not arbitrary: Egypt is heir to a quite unique tradition of deep-rooted Muslim-Christian coexistence, from which there is also much to learn in other contexts. 1.2 Genesis, focus and organisation of the investigation My academic interest in Islam and Christian-Muslim relations stems from my involvement in interfaith (in particular, Christian-Muslim) dialogue from the late 1980s onwards, in Norwegian as well as international contexts (Leirvik 2001/1996). My initial focus when I began to study Christian-Muslim dialogue as an academic issue was perhaps typical for a Christian theologian: I took interest in the Muslim images of Jesus Christ (Leirvik 1999a). What triggered my interest in Islamic christologies and Christian-Muslim dialogue about conscience, was the books that and Khālid wrote about Christ in the 1950s. Common to these Muslim authors (and some others writing in the same vein, see Goddard 1996, chs 5–6) was their non-polemical approach to the Gospels, their keen interest in identifying common challenges for Christians and Muslims in modernity, and their endeavour to depict Christ and as true companions on the road towards a ‘new morality’ and a sociopolitical community imbued with ‘humanist’ values. Kenneth Cragg’s English translation of meditations on the drama of Good Friday in City of Wrong (Hussein 1994/1959) drew my attention to the centrality (translated as ‘conscience’) in his depiction of Good Friday as of the notion of the day when human conscience was crucified. Through some passages in Olaf Schumann’s (Schumann 1988/1975) examination of (‘The Genius of Christ’, n.d./1953) and (‘With Christ in the four 1966/1961), I realised that the notion of might also be Gospels’, equally central to approach to Christian tradition. Schumann’s remarks were, in fact, a major factor behind the genesis of the present study. Before I was able to read the works of Khālid myself, the single hint I had found about in Khālid was in a review article of his book about the possible centrality of and Christ ( Khālid 1986/1958). The review article (its author is not indicated) noted that according to Khālid, Christ defended ‘that which is most real and alive at the very heart of man, which

Human conscience and Muslim–Christian Relations

6

is freedom of conscience’ (Encounter 1982:8). Hugh Goddard has also noted that and Christ ‘exalted the importance of according to Khālid, both conscience’ (Goddard 1996:157). As I became acquainted with Arabic and was able to read other works of and I recognised that their preoccupation with was by no means confined to their books concerning Christian tradition. It also appeared to be quite central to their modern reappropriation of the Islamic heritage, their reconstruction of Islamic ethics and their Islamic philosophy of religion. Being able to study also the works of Khālid Khālid none of which have been translated into English, I was further convinced that in the 1950s and 1960s, might in fact have been quite typical of the preoccupation with the notion of these modern Muslim writers. I was struck by the centrality of this notion in Khālid’s book about and Christ ‘together on the road’ (Khālid 1986/1958), and in other books from the 1950s and early 1960s which reveal his inclusive, almost universalist approach to religion in that period. In 1963, Khālid dedicated a book to ‘human conscience on its journey towards its destiny’ (Khālid 1963). As Chapter 8 will show, I have given more space to the works of Khālid than to those of and One reason for this is that the works of Khālid are less researched. Since Khālid belongs to a generation after and his works also reveal the shift in the intellectual climate in Egypt from the 1950s and 1960s to the 1970s and 1980s. Why did I choose Egyptian authors, and their writings from the 1950s and 1960s? I have already pointed to the centuries-long history of Muslim-Christian coexistence in Egypt, as a repository of experience from which lessons may also be drawn for other contexts. As for the choice of authors, there is always an element of arbitrariness, or perhaps providence. Although the innovative writings about Christ of these Egyptian authors have already received much attention in Christian-Muslim dialogue, I have felt that their creative use of the notion of in their writings from the 1950s and the 1960s called for additional research. As I acquainted myself with the Egyptian writers and their use of I was also increasingly caught by the more general question of whether and how ‘human conscience’ may be a clue to the interpersonal dynamics of ethical and interreligious dialogue in general. Working my way through the conceptual history of conscience in Christianity I had such questions as these in mind: Is conscience merely inwardly directed, or is there a social, other-directed aspect of conscience as well? If so, who are the others included in conscience, and how broad is the communal horizon of any given discourse of conscience? As I wrestled with the dialogical potentials in the notion of conscience, I took a similar approach to Islamic ethics: How is the relation between individual integrity and communal obligation thought of in the multi-layered tradition of Islamic ethics? I was also interested in the question of intertextuality: To what extent has classical Islamic ethics been worked out in dialogue with other traditions, such as Greek philosophy and

Horizon and focus

7

Christianity? In what sense does Islamic ethics contain moral insights that may be held jointly by the children of Abraham, or even endorsed universally? It is against this background that I will investigate systematically the dialogical potentials of the notions of conscience and To my knowledge, the present study is the first investigation of the literary and contextual importance of the word in a given corpus of modern Muslim writings. My ‘testing ground’ will be the writings of the Egyptian authors mentioned above. Their works will be read against the intellectual, religious and political context of Egypt in the latter half of the twentieth century. Part IV of this book, in which I give a contextual analysis of the works of and Khālid, can also be read as a separate study of three prominent Egyptian intellectuals’ innovative approaches to the religion of Islam, its modern relevance and challenges. I hope that Chapters 7–9 may add some new insights to research that has already been 1 2 carried out on the works of and Khālid.3 My particular interest, —in the wider context of these however, has been to elucidate the notion of authors’ religio-political writings. The organisation of the present investigation My investigation falls into five parts, interrupted by an interlude on the semantic history of In Part II (Chapters 2–4), I shall explain my understanding of some pivotal concepts that will recur frequently in my investigation, and the methodological basis of my work (Chapter 2). In relation to my doctoral thesis upon which this book builds (Leirvik 2002a), Chapters 3–4 contain a summarised version of a fuller exposition of the history of ideas behind the notion of conscience in Christian and European tradition and of different paradigms of Islamic ethics.4 My particular interest in Chapter 3 about the conceptual history of the Christian and Western notions of conscience will be to elucidate the relation between ‘knowing by oneself’ and ‘knowing with the other’, as conceived of in Christian, European and modern universalist understandings of conscience. Chapter 4 deals with Islamic ethics as a multi-layered tradition, and—as signalled by the expression ‘knowing with whom?’— its dialogical potentials. It also investigates Islamic ethics’ potential for integrating the moral and anthropological concerns normally associated with the notion of conscience. Classical Islam does not have any word comparable to ‘conscience’ and the coining of as ‘conscience’ is a modern development. Chapter 5 (‘Interlude’) investigates the semantic history of the modern Arabic word for conscience. The chapter may be read as a separate investigation, which yields some insights about the interrelation between Islamic- and Christian-Arabic in the semantic history of In Part IV (Chapters 7–11), which constitutes the main bulk of the book, I will focus as it has been used by some modern Egyptian writers, that is in on the notion of a specific literary and historical context. As I have already explained, my particular in (Chapter 7), interest will be the discourse of

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Khālid Khālid (Chapter 8) and Kāmil (Chapter 9). But I will also make some observations on how the notion of has been used by other Muslim writers in Egypt from the same period (Chapter 6 and Section 8.8). In Chapter 10, I will elaborate on the historical context of the writers in focus and connect the question of conscience to changing Muslim and Christian identity discourses in modern Egypt. I will also give some perspectives on Coptic notions of conscience, as related to the intensified quest for Coptic authenticity from the 1970s onwards. I will summarise my Egyptian findings in a separate chapter (Chapter 11). The inclusive discourses in Egypt in the 1950s and early 1960s, centred as they were around the theme of human conscience, deserve to be remembered, but also critically analysed with a view to modern or rather post-modern debates on authenticity, selfhood and otherness, and related discussions on universalism and communitarianism in ethics. In Part V (Chapters 12–14), I will discuss more systematically conscience as a possible clue to ethical and interreligious dialogue. My concluding discussions will be organised in three chapters. I will relate the Egyptian material to current debates about ethics (Chapter 12), philosophy of dialogue (Chapter 13) and theology proper (Chapter 14). In Chapter 12, I will mainly focus on the individual aspects of moral formation, and connect my discussion of ‘wronging oneself, wronging the other’ to Emmanuel Levinas’ insights into selfhood and otherness. In Chapter 13, I will further explore the communal aspects of conscience, using Paul Ricoeur’ notion of ‘oneself as another’ as a clue. The short final Chapter 14, which may be read as an epilogue, addresses the theological question more directly: what difference does it make to speak of God in a philosophy of dialogue?

2 Terms, concepts and methods In this chapter on terms and methods, I will present the conceptual and methodological basis of my investigation, beginning with my understanding of the concepts of conscience, modernity and authenticity I will also introduce the paired keywords of selfhood and otherness, communitarianism and universalism, as they have been used in recent debates about ethics and moral formation. After these terminological considerations, I will present the methodological perspectives of ‘conceptual history’ and ‘intertextuality’ which have informed my investigation of the Christian and Muslim history of ideas, and of the modern Muslim concept of 2.1 Terms and concepts Conscience, and In the article on ‘conscience’ in The Encyclopedia of Religion, Michel Despland writes: On the interreligious scene today, it is to be wished that dialogue and encounter shall proceed from conscience. And the notion of conscience may well be—or become—part of the account that each will give to the other of his or her own humanity. Such meeting of consciences cannot occur without the labor of consciousness: each trying to communicate over a period of time what he is aware of. (Despland 1987:51) Could ‘conscience’ have any role to fulfil in a dialogue between religions? The notion of conscience is moulded in Christian tradition and European philosophy—beginning with the Greek syneīdēsis and the Latin conscientia. Attempts have been made to identify a notion of conscience in other traditions as well. In the Encyclopedia of Religion and Ethics from 1911, one will find articles on ‘conscience’ in Babylonian, Egyptian, GraecoRoman, Jewish and Islamic religion (Hastings 1964/1911, vol. IV:30ff.). Such an approach, however, presupposes that some conceptual essence in the notion of conscience—such as internalisation of morality or personal responsibility—is distilled in advance. As the cited encyclopedia notes, both in ancient Egyptian religion, in Jewish tradition and in Islam, the metaphor of the ‘heart’ refers to an inner centre of the human being which is capable of moral judgements and self-evaluation as well as of personal communication with God.

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Etymologically: ‘knowledge with’—whom? The Graeco-Roman, and later Christian notion of ‘conscience’, however, involves something more than moral and religious internalisation. Etymologically, as the prefixes syn-, con- (from the Latin cum) and sam- (in Scandinavian languages5) indicate, conscience is knowing with someone: ‘with/by’ oneself, or ‘with’ another. When these constructs are traced back to their Greek and Latin roots, we find that both syn-eídēsis and con-scientia are defined as ‘knowledge with others and by oneself, consciousness, conscience’.6 Recent dictionaries of the English language focus either upon the joint knowledge with others implied in conscience,7 or the personal, inward aspect of the knowledge referred to by use of the word conscience.8 What appears to be specific to the notion of conscience, is in fact the tension between the turn inwards (towards the self) and the orientation outwards (towards the others)— between ‘knowing by oneself’ and ‘knowing with the other’.9 In the English, German and the Scandinavian languages, but not in French, ‘conscience’ is distinguished from ‘consciousness’.10 It should be noted right from the outset, then, that ‘conscience’ in modern European languages belongs to a wider semantic field of self-reflection, of which ‘moral consciousness’ or ‘conscience’ is but one aspect. As Chapter 3 will reveal, ‘conscience’ is a truly polysemic word, with the capacity of containing quite differing meanings in changing contexts. As I will explain in Chapter 5, the etymology of the modern Arabic word for conscience, is markedly different from that of ‘conscience’. In classical Arabic, refers to the innermost part of the human being, and more specifically, to an inner consciousness or knowledge which is not divulged. Also in modern contexts, when gradually acquires the sense of moral consciousness or conscience, one should be aware of the fact that the word almost inevitably turns the attention inwards. The word itself does not contain any tension between knowing by oneself and knowing with others, as ‘conscience’ does. may still imply some kind From a pragmatic perspective, the modern use of of shared knowledge. Pragmatically as well as philosophically, it can be argued that what a single human being knows intimately by himself/herself will always imply elements of shared knowledge (e.g. of moral rightness or human authenticity). When trying to understand the modern Egyptian authors, a central question will therefore be how this shared knowledge is conceived. Philosophically: knowing by oneself, knowing with others Returning to the words for conscience in European languages, the question of how to understand the prefix denoting ‘with’ may be debatable from an etymological perspective. But a decisive solution to the etymological question is not necessary for my purpose. I will rather argue philosophically that in the constitution of the moral Self, there is always also the Other. This is as true for conscience, as for in the sense of moral consciousness. When speaking of conscience as knowing by oneself, the notion seems to presuppose some kind of cleavage within the self—between the agent and the internal observer of the

Terms, concepts and methods

11

act. In inner awareness, the human being may experience himself/herself as simultaneously ‘oneself’ and ‘another’—in a sense of strangeness to oneself.11 In being another to oneself, however, real others and relations to others in the outside world are always implied in one way or another. My mentors in this respect will be the Canadian philosopher Charles Taylor, who speaks of the ‘inescapable horizons’ or ‘frameworks’ of individual identity (Taylor 1994b, 1995), and the French-American philosopher Paul Ricoeur, who argues that in any philosophical ethics, one must be able to account for ‘oneself as another’ in terms of interpersonal relations (Ricoeur 1994). When Taylor speaks of inescapable horizons and the ‘webs of interlocution’ (Taylor 1994b:36) that surround any discourse of personal identity, he endorses the communitarian argument that individuals always make moral choices in dialogue with distinctive others and in the context of a given horizon of meaning. But how are others included in the webs of interlocution—as others with whom the self identifies, or merely as figures of contrast? Who are included, and who are excluded or stamped with enemy images? With Robert Lee, who has researched Western and Islamic notions of authenticity, I will suggest that the most critical question to the communal horizon of any discourse of identity and authenticity would be ‘how broad these horizons or dialogues might be’ (Lee 1997:17). This is what I will investigate contextually in my chapters about the modern Egyptian authors. Taylor has been endorsed, but also criticised by the feminist philosopher Seyla Benhabib. Although appreciating his relationist outlook on the self, she criticises him for neglecting the bodily dimension of self-identity (Benhabib 1997:139, 142f.). A similar critique might be levelled against the modern Egyptian authors’ notion of In Sections 10.3 and 10.4, I will therefore give attention to the role of body discourses in changing relations between Muslims and Christians in Egypt. As I will argue in my summary of the Christian and European discourses of conscience in Chapter 3, conscience may be invoked as a part of quite different conceptions of ethics (such as virtue ethics, duty ethics, common-sense ethics and ethics of authenticity). In many cases, invocations of conscience also reveal a ‘transmoral’, theological agenda—by speaking of conscience as a divine voice within or an obligating bond with the divine Other. Modernity The present investigation focuses upon discourses of conscience in ‘modernity’. Rather than a distinct historical period, modernity can be seen as a cultural code. According to the Norwegian philosopher and sociologist Dag Østerberg, the cues of the modern code are the closely interrelated concepts of (1) the free individual, (2) reason and (3) progress. In modernity, the individual claims freedom externally as well as internally; reason challenges the mythical and religious mind; and human progress is conceived of as the mounting emancipation of individuals and their potentials (Østerberg 1999:11f.). As others have pointed out more strongly, modernity’s emphasis on self-realisation also entails new visions of community, conceived of as a community of equals. The idea of individual authenticity corresponds to the idea of more authentic communities (Taylor 1995). As part of this process, new visions of political community may also be

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expressed—cues of which are ‘social contract’, ‘freedom’, ‘democracy’ and ‘religious tolerance’. Historically, Østerberg (following convention) distinguishes between the disparate beginnings of the first era of modernity, often referred to as the ‘early modernity’ of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and the definite breakthrough of the modern code in dominant Western cultures from the middle of the eighteenth century. Against any unilinear or even teleological conceptions of modernity, Østerberg underlines the constantly contested nature of the modern code. This means that modernity as a historical epoch may also contain distinctively amodern or anti-modern modes of thought and behaviour—such as political restoration, religious anti-modernism or (in Østerberg’s view) spiritualised versions of Romanticism. As for Romanticism, I would argue that its focus on emotion rather than on rationality is not necessarily at variance with the modern code. It is rather part of a modern discourse of human ‘authenticity’ which has always competed with the discourse of ‘autonomy’ (Ferrara 1993). Contrary to Østerberg’s view, romanticism may thus be seen as a distinct variety of the modern code—as ‘romantic modernity’ (Guneriussen 1999:86ff.). In the ‘mature’ modernity of the late nineteenth century, social reality was increasingly thought of as divided into compartments—with the result that science, morals, law, religion and art were now supposed to restrict themselves to their distinctive area of competence. Part of this process has been the phenomenon of ‘secularisation’, in the sense of either a general weakening of religion’s influence in society, or a sharper distinction between political and religious authority. Østerberg notes that after the weakening of the moral bonds of institutionalised religion or social convention, the task of morality was redefined as the dissemination of personal virtue and the individual sense of duty, and the reinforcement of human conscience (ibid.: 215). It is in fact quite common among sociologists of religion to refer to modern ethics as an accentuated ethics of conscience—in correspondence with a broader understanding of modernity as a quest for self-identity and a call for continuous self-reflection (Giddens 1991). In The Invisible Religion, Thomas Luckmann points to the fact that in modern societies, religion increasingly becomes a question of personal identity (Luckmann 1967:77ff.). In this context, he refers to the Jungian idea of individuated consciences as a typical expression of modernity which sheds new light on intersubjectivity: ‘The social forms of religion are thus based on what is, in a certain sense, an individual religious phenomenon: the individuation of consciousness and conscience in the matrix of human intersubjectivity’ (ibid.: 69). As I have already suggested, there is both an individual and a communal dimension to this process. In early modernity, new emphases on individual autonomy or authenticity brought forth new visions of community—communities that were reinvented as congregations or new nations, and conceived of as based on free choice rather than on inherited tradition. In a further development, the breakaway of the individual from traditional, communitarian bonds led to new visions of universal community and universal obligation. In a still further move, universalist discourses have triggered communitarian reactions to what many have seen as the all too abstract nature of universal obligation, and the non-equal distribution of power in the real world of globalisation (cf. 2.1.5).

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In Section 10.1, I will come back to differing approaches to the question of Islam and modernity. Whereas book titles such as Islamic Fundamentalism and Modernity (Watt 1989) might seem to imply that ‘modernity’ is a uniform phenomenon to which ‘Islam’ must respond in one way or another, the book title Islams and Modernities (al-Azmeh 1993) reflects the recognition that both modernity and Islam are plural phenomena. As for the Egyptian authors focused on in this book, I will argue that they are distinctively modern in Østerberg’s sense. They share a combined emphasis on the free individual, the rule of reason and a strong vision of human progress. As we shall see, they also put human conscience at the centre of their moral and religious discourse. But their approach to conscience may be just as much marked by the Romantic notion of individual and communal authenticity as by the Enlightenment notion of autonomy. With respect to these authors, two further terminological distinctions will be appropriate. First, a distinction must be made between ‘modernity’ as an analytical term, and ‘modernism’ as a normative one (with ‘modernisers’ as its economical, political, cultural or religious agents). I will argue that the authors in focus can be seen as modernisers in this sense. Second, I will distinguish between secularism as a political system and secularism as an anti-religious ideology. Although, for example, Khālid Khālid in the early 1950s did call for a separation between state and religion, and hence a secular political system, he was never a secularist in the sense of negating the importance of religion in society. Authenticity In Chapter 3, I will employ the notion of ‘authenticity’ alongside ‘autonomy’ to denote the distinctively new accents that ‘modernity’ brings to ‘conscience’. In more recent existentialist philosophies of conscience, such as in Heidegger, the German Eigentlichkeit acquires a similar importance. In Greek, the prefix auto-refers to the self. The verb authentéō and its derivates (authéntēs, authentía, authentikós) are normally explained as either having full power and authority over,12 or (in the case of the adjective) being original in the sense of possessing first-hand authority.13 In ancient Greek contexts, an authentic human being might thus have been a man who was a law to himself in the Aristotelian sense (i.e. ‘autonomous’), and who was also (as a man of ‘authority’) able to implement his decisions. In the English language, the adjective ‘authentic’ is used in the sense of either ‘authoritative’, ‘genuine’ or ‘original’. The adjective may be traced back to Middle English. The abstract noun authenticity, however, is not found until the seventeenth century, and is thus more distinctively an early modern concept (Brown 1993, vol. 1:150). In the context of European Enlightenment and subsequent Romanticism, it becomes clear that authenticity means something different from autonomy. In The Ethics of Authenticity, Taylor notes that the idea of authenticity is ‘a child of the Romantic period, which was critical of disengaged rationality and of an atomism that didn’t recognize the ties of community’ (Taylor 1995:25). In discourses of authenticity, truth is associated with the originality of the self: ‘Being true to myself means being true to my own

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originality’ (ibid.: 29). Although the idea of authenticity also brings with it a new vision of community, it is in the first place tied to the idea of an inner voice: ‘Morality has, in a sense, a voice within… Being in touch with our moral feelings…takes on independent and crucial moral significance. It comes to be something we have to attain to be true and full human beings’ (ibid.: 26). Taylor finds this to be different from ‘earlier moral views, where being in touch with some source—God, say, or the Idea of the Good—was considered essential to full being’. It is all about ‘a new form of inwardness, in which we come to think of ourselves as beings with inner depths’ (ibid.). Like many others, Taylor points to Rousseau as the main source in the history of ideas for an ethics of authenticity.14 He also notes the centrality of Rousseau’s notion of conscience as a voice of nature in this respect (Taylor 1994b:358f.). In Modernity and Authenticity, Alessandro Ferrara has examined Rousseau’s ethics of authenticity more closely (Ferrara 1993). He contrasts the ethics of authenticity (associated with Rousseau, Schiller, Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Heidegger) with the modern rival ethics of autonomy (associated with Kant, Hegel, the Utilitarians, Habermas and Rawls; ibid.: xi). Whereas the ethics of autonomy puts reason and self-imposed principles at the centre, natural, conscience-based feelings are seen as constitutive of the ethics of authenticity: ‘decrees of conscience are not judgements but feelings’ (ibid.: 77, citing Rousseau). Like Lionel Trilling in his pioneering study Sincerity and Authenticity (Trilling 1972), Ferrara claims that ‘authenticity’ in Rousseau refers to something more profound than being true to oneself (‘sincerity’). In the perspective of Rousseau, authenticity is about being true to human nature itself, in particular when society allures the human being to appear as someone different from whom he or she really is. It is well known that in Rousseau, pedagogy is conceived of as a kind of de-learning, in order to set ‘the natural’ free and thus pave the way for a more genuine form of sociability. Authenticity presupposes the freedom to realise ‘the best of one’s potentialities, to become a human being in the fullest sense of the word’ (Ferrara 1993:61). In Chapters 7 and 8, I will argue that both and Khālid come close to Romantic notions of individual originality and authenticity in their discourses. But as Charles Taylor has argued, authenticity is not necessarily an individualist concept. In the German history of ideas, Herder’s notion of originality refers not only to the individual person, but also to the culture-bearing people which, as a Volk, is called to be true to its heritage.15 Nor in late modern discourses, do aspirations of authenticity refer only to the has become a salient term for authenticity. individual. In modern Arabic, has to do with being rooted. Thus, it also connotes firmness. In Etymologically common usage, denotes either strength of character, or (in late-modern usage) a quest for authenticity which may be conceived of as alternatively cultural (i.e. Arab) or religio-political (i.e. Islamic). In the latter case, it is closely intertwined with Islamist revivalism, and is often propounded in contradistinction to rationalist, Enlightenmenttype universalism (al-Azmeh 1993:39ff.). In both liberal and more militant discourses of Islamic authenticity, one finds that its proponents programmatically posit themselves beyond the dichotomy of ‘tradition’ and

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‘modernity’ (Salvatore 1995; Lee 1997). It should also be noted that references to often have a distinctively anti- or post-colonial ring. I will discuss individualistuniversalist versus communitarian references to ‘authenticity’ in Sections 7.6 (comparing Amīn and ) and 8.8 (comparing Khālid with ), and in Section 10.4. 2.2 Clues to current debates Selfhood and otherness: the capitalised Other In my concluding discussions in Chapters 12–14, the relation between the Self and the Other will be a pivotal theme. By capitalising Self and Other, I follow a widespread convention in late modern moral philosophies. For a great part, the convention is inspired by a French, post-structuralist distinction between ‘sameness’ and ‘otherness’ (le même et l’autre, Fürst 1998:178). The word ‘otherness’ (or ‘alterity’) may either refer to the other in relation to a subject, that is, as an object, or to that which lies beyond the dominant matrix of meaning. In the latter sense, ‘otherness’ signals a rupture which fundamentally disturbs the selfsufficiency of a person or a community. As will become clear from my use of Emmanuel Levinas in Chapters 12–13, my reference to the capitalised Other points to the disturbing, challenging character of otherness. It signals a resistance to the temptation of the Self to see the Other merely as ‘more of the same’, that is, as a mere extension of the moral insights and emotions of the Self. It should be noted from the outset that in Levinas, the Other is something different from the concrete other person. In the view of Levinas, the Other by my side is ultimately the infinite Other, carrying the trace of God. A question arising from my reference to the capitalised Other will be what difference it makes to be confronted with the religiously Other. On the one hand, sensitivity to religious difference may deepen one’s respect for the concrete Other (Christian or Muslim), who would normally not like to see his or her most profound beliefs and convictions harmonised away by an expanding Self. On the other hand, the encounter with the religiously Other may also enhance the sense of transcendence, in a move towards the divine infinity reflected in the Other believer’s face. To be sure, consciousness of religious difference does not only arise in the encounter with someone who belongs to another religious community. In a sense, every person is a ‘religiously Other’ to his or her neighbour. But in general, the encounter with someone who belongs to another religious community involves an increased sense of otherness— when one is confronted with convictions, beliefs and practices that are felt to be substantially different.

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Universalism and communitarianism The recognition that religious belief really makes a difference does not have only a personal dimension to it. It also has to do with the fact that the Other belongs to a different community. In recent debates about ethics and pluralism, the discussion of selfhood and otherness is often intertwined with a discussion of universalism versus communitarianism. The communitarian position is often brought to the fore as an argument against the modern code with its typical focus upon the freedom of the individual, the rule of reason and the universalising idea of progress.16 Against rationalist and merely procedural conceptions of ethics, communitarians have highlighted the importance of virtue formation, the differing contents of value systems, and the formative role of living communities (faith communities, family networks, local communities) which uphold and nourish the values and virtues by which individuals live.17 Apart from rationalism, communitarians have also targeted what they perceive as the inherent emotivism in modern individualism (e.g. the idea that moral conflicts can only be resolved by emotional preferences). The dichotomy between communitarianism and individualism implies ‘a contrast between two conceptions of the self: one grounded in community membership and the other in individual autonomy’ (Daly 1994:xiv). It could be argued, then, that the primary dichotomy is not between communitarianism and universalism, but rather between communitarianism and individualism. Communitarianism need not be taken in the conservative or relativist sense of advocating the right to live unchallenged within one’s traditional community. Communitarians often present themselves as post-liberals, in search for some kind of synthesis between the traditional values of a particular community and the modern, universalised values of individual freedom and equality. The communitarian approach may kindle discussions about universal obligations which respect contextuality and difference. Many communitarian philosophies could be read as outlines of a ‘contextualist universalism’ which seeks to overcome the postmodern fragmentation of moral discourse, but at the same time does not wish to fall into the modern fallacy of generalising universalism (Ferrara 1990:28). An important perspective on ‘contextualist universalisms’ is that of unequal power relations and the fact that claims to universal validity have never been endorsed universally. In the post-colonial era, many have seen the need to unravel the imperialist and parochial character of Western universalism. From this perspective, the Muslim conviction that ‘you were the best nation brought forth to mankind, bidding the right and forbidding the wrong, and believing in Allah’ (Q 3:109, Fakhry) could clearly be regarded as one of the most powerful contextualist universalisms. The dividing lines between communitarianism and universalism are thus not easily drawn. Many ‘universalists’ would in fact also be sensitive to the factual differences of content and context in ethics. For instance, John Rawls early declared his readiness to renounce of the power of the best rational argument and would rather seek for some kind of ‘overlapping consensus’ (e.g. on universal human rights) between the adherents of different religious and moral communities (Rawls 1973:388, 1993).

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Alessandro Ferrara opts for a kind of ‘prudential universalism’ beyond the alternatives of rational formalism and tradition-oriented contextualism: an adequate version of a non-objectivist and non-formalist universalism must conceive truth and justice as radically situated but, unlike contextualism, must complement this view with a reconstruction of the common basis which allows differently situated actors to assess, and recognize as binding, trans-schematic or transcultural judgments. (ibid.:33) In my analysis of the modern Egyptian authors in focus, I will identify a tension between seemingly ‘universalist’ and ‘communitarian’ approaches, marked by the cues of ‘humanistic’ and ‘Islamic’, respectively. Both approaches are typically modern in the sense that they focus on the integrity of the individual person, in the perspective of human progress. They are also universalist, in the sense of arguing their case in front of a global audience, and in their claim that Islam—when given a rational or ‘conscientious’ interpretation—represents an unsurpassed universal or humanitarian vision. But both approaches are also communitarian, in the sense of invoking the communal legacy of a specific religious tradition (Islamic, or even Islamo-Christian). They are also communitarian by virtue of their search for a new kind of synthesis between individual integrity and the bonds of community. I would suggest that what takes place in this process is in fact a redefinition of community which seeks to accommodate the integral individual—either in the sense of a shared humanity, or in the sense of an Islamic community with universalist pretensions. Modernity gives way to both options. As I see it, it is possible to overcome the communitarian-universalist dichotomy. There are in fact many ‘communitarianisms’ and a whole set of rivalling ‘universalisms’. If the primary dichotomy is that between ‘communitarianism’ and ‘individualism’ in ethics, the universalist-communitarian debate could in fact be reformulated as the question of how broadly ‘community’ is defined and how it is delineated in a given ethical discourse. When discussing the nature of a morally formative community, it must be remembered that religious belonging is only one factor by which the individual defines his or her identity. Although citizens belong to different religions, they may share a loyalty to their common nation and a sense of belonging to the same local community or national culture. Or conversely, in a given context religion may be or become the most important means of defining oneself, and the primary point of moral reference. One of my tasks, then, will be to explore what sense of community is signalled by a given use of the word ‘conscience’ or How was community thought of in classical Christian discourses of conscience? How was it redefined by the Catholic church in the Middle Ages? What kind of community is implied in competing versions of Islamic ethics? And how broad is the communal horizon of modern, conscience-related discourses which redefine community in search of personal authenticity—be it in a Christian or an Islamic context? In many cases, borders of obligating community are demarcated by use of religious identity markers. What is the role of conscience in these processes? Can human

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conscience bridge the gap between the believing Self and the religiously Other? How much difference can the bridge of conscience bear? Can it endure the weight of the real Other? Having now initially introduced my understanding of communitarianism and universalism, I will pursue my discussion of this problematic in Section 13.5. 2.3 Methodological perspectives Conceptual history and discourse analysis —at The present investigation puts an English and an Arabic word—conscience, the centre of its interest. In my investigation, I will need to distinguish between a ‘word’ and a ‘concept’. What is in a word? Certainly, a word is not a stable entity. In new contexts, an old word may give birth to a new concept. Once conceived, a concept (or notion) contains more than a word, but is also more distinct than a conception (or idea). According to Reinhart Koselleck and his method of Begrijfsgeschichte, every concept is associated with a word, but not every word is a concept. Different from a mere word, concepts ‘possess a substantial claim to generality and always have many meanings’ (Koselleck 1985:83). Koselleck’s method may be regarded as a way of connecting lexicography to social history, by literary investigation and socio-philosophical reflection. Koselleck emphasises the role of the context in the shaping of a word into a concept: ‘a word becomes a concept when the plenitude of a politicosocial context of meaning and experience in and for which a word is used can be condensed into one word’ (ibid.: 84). So the meaning of a concept (such as ‘conscience’) is not stable. Pregnant with context, the concept gives birth to ever new meanings. To my mind, the English word ‘concept’ has connotations that are somewhat different from the German Begriff. Whereas in a Begriff (or in a Norwegian begrep), meaning might be thought of as grasped or seized once and for all, the birth-related notion of ‘concept’ gives the sense of something that may be born again—or of something conceived but not yet fully developed, and open to various possibilities of development. I would not, however, make too much out of the difference between Begriff and concept. What is grasped, may be grasped anew in a different way. As a theory, Begriffsgeschichte aims in fact at accounting for historical change as a decisive clue to the understanding of a concept.18 Koselleck’s most poignant essay in this field, ‘Begriffsgeschichte und Sozialgeschichte’ (Koselleck 1989:107ff.), was produced as a comment on a monumental manual in German of socio-political concepts such as citizen, state and revolution.19 A major ambition of the project was to grasp the formation of modernity by examining its central concepts: ‘the dissolution of the old world and the emergence of the new in terms of the historicoconceptual comprehension of this process’ (ibid.: xi). In tune with modernity’s typical orientation towards progress and future, the notion of ‘future’ itself is incorporated in Koselleck’s definition of a concept: ‘concepts no longer merely serve to define given states of affairs, they reach into the future’ (Koselleck 1985:78). As the title of his collected essays indicates, Begriffsgeschichte deals with

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vergangene Zukunft, ‘futures past’. As a historical method, it posits itself somewhere in between a history of ideas approach focused on the philosophical potentials of a given text, and a socio-historical approach which is primarily interested in the referential nature of texts. More than a Foucault-inspired discourse analysis, Begriffsgeschichte aims at grasping the convergence of concept and history (ibid.: 85). By the same token, its approach is both synchronic and diachronic.20 The way in which a word becomes a concept by being loaded with a particular context can only be grasped synchronically. Once having become a concept, however, the concept itself becomes a formative part of history—in a sliding process in which the concept, by its interaction with social history, may give birth to modified meanings. Hence, a concept must also be dealt with diachronically. Noting the difference between inventing a new analytical concept in order to grasp the futures scientifically, and picking up a concept which is already there in the historical source texts, Koselleck speaks of Begriffsgeschichte as ‘a heuristic means of access to the understanding of past reality’ (ibid.: 90). This is how I will approach the notion of in the modern Egyptian authors in focus, as well as the conceptual history of in ‘conscience’ in differing Christian/European contexts. I will heuristically pick the modern sense of moral consciousness not only as potentially indicative of certain religious and political circumstances, but also as a formative factor within them (cf. ibid.: 84). I will suggest that the notion of with the Egyptian authors not only marks a difference, as a signpost on the road, but potentially also makes a difference. Whether it really did make a difference, remains to be seen. Unlike politically formative concepts in German history studied by Koselleck, it could be that the difference made by the novel concept of was too fragile to endure dramatic changes in the cultural-religious climate. Do the Egyptian authors in focus represent a past which is near but nevertheless passed? To my understanding of the term ‘concept’, I will add a note on my occasional use of the notion of ‘discourse’, in constructs such as ‘discourse of conscience’. Discourse analysis deals with what lies beyond the singular sentences of a particular text or body of writings—or even beyond the individual concepts that may be detected in a text: A discursive structure can be detected because of the systematicity of the ideas, opinions, concepts, ways of thinking and behaving which are formed within a particular context, and because of the effects of those ways of thinking and behaving. (Mills 1997:17) By my use of the word ‘discourse’ I do not signal any pretension to a methodologically refined ‘discourse analysis’ of a particular kind. I shall only use the word ‘discourse’ to indicate the recognition that concepts are always part of a more comprehensive sign system. With a view to the conceptual focus of the present study: invocations of ‘conscience’ will probably belong to a systemic cluster of several concepts and ideas in the writings of the authors in question (e.g. other concepts typical of modernising ambitions).

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Discourse analyses may either be oriented towards the inherent structures of the text, or stretch out for context by viewing words and concepts as speech acts which aim at some kind of change in the external world. Dietrich Hilger emphasises that in a broader semiotic perspective, Begriffsgeschichte has both a syntactical, semantic and a pragmatic dimension to it (Hilger 1978:125f., 131). Obviously, the method of Begriffsgeschichte is closer to the pragmatic, speech act end of this spectrum than a structuralist one. In my conceptual history-oriented approach to conscience and in the present investigation, I will give attention to the multi-dimensional character of a concept, including its pragmatic aspect. (However, in my exposition of the semantic history of in Chapter 5, I must mainly restrict myself to the surface level of meaning.) Intertextuality, dialogical imagination and diapractice As individual concepts are intertwined with larger conceptions, a particular text (in which a specific concept may occur) is always intertwined with other texts, in an ‘intertextuality’ that may be both intended and unintended. The notion of intertextuality, as developed by Julia Kristeva and others, is sometimes associated with the Russian literary theorist M.M.Bakhtin’s concept of ‘the dialogic imagination’. In Revolution in Poetic Language, Kristeva defines ‘inter-textuality’ as the ‘transposition of one (or several) sign system(s) into another’ (Kristeva 1984:59f.). To avoid any banal restriction of the intertextual approach to the study of mutually interrelated sources, she prefers the term ‘transposition’. The passage from one signifying system to another demands a new ‘thetic’ articulation, by a creative rupture in the signifying process.21 As a result of constant, remoulding transpositions, the denoted ‘object’ of any particular discourse is never single or identical to itself, but polysemic: ‘always plural, shattered, capable of being tabulated’ (ibid.: 60). I find Kristeva’s notion of ever transposing intertextuality fruitful for the understanding of what takes place in the ‘intertwined’ worlds of Jewish-Christian and Islamic literature (Lazarus-Yafeh 1992). In Greek, Christian and Islamic ethics, words and concepts oscillate between and are transposed from one religious-literary sign system to another. The intertextuality in question points not only to mutual conceptual and literary inspiration, but sometimes also to a closely intertwined social history. When studying a particular concept as it occurs in the sign systems of Christianity or Islam respectively, one must always be sensitive to its function in its particular Christian or Islamic context. But one should be equally aware of the concept’s capacity to be transposed from one context to another. With his idea about ‘dialogic imagination’ (Bakhtin 1996a), Bakhtin adds further insights to Muslim-Christian intertextuality. Reflecting on the relation between monologism and dialogism, he claims that however monological an utterance may be, it cannot but be, in some measure, a response to what has already been said about the given topic, on the given issue, even though this responsiveness may not have assumed a clear-cut external expression… The utterance is filled with dialogic overtones, and they must be taken into account in order to understand fully the style of the utterance. (Bakhtin 1996b:92)

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Dialogical overtones in Bakhtin’s sense may strike a note anywhere on the scale between parody, polemics and affirmation. Bakhtin emphasises that thought itself is born and shaped in the process of interaction and struggle with others’ ideas. Any utterance, when studied in greater depth and with a view to context, will reveal ‘half-concealed or completely concealed words of others with varying degrees of foreignness’ (ibid.: 93). If this is so, it would also apply to the intellectual and literary history of Christianity and Islam, and their interrelated though distinctively different ethico-religious concepts. As for texts, Bakhtin speaks of the complex interaction between text and context, in which there is always an interplay between Self and Other. The event of the text always ‘develops on the boundary between consciousnesses, two subjects’ (ibid.: 106). He also notes the notorious open-endedness of this dialogic imagination (ibid.: 155). In the present study, I will treat as a concept that evolves on the boundaries between Christianity and Islam—in the context of modern Muslim intellectuals who not only reveal, but even intend intertextuality with European philosophy and Christianity. Coming back to the pragmatic aspect of speech and literary production, I will also declare my indebtedness to the Danish theologian Lissi Rasmussen’s concept of ‘diapractice,’ which she has employed in her study of Christian-Muslim relations in Africa and Europe (Rasmussen 1997). Whereas ‘dialogue’ may sometimes become an abstract concept, ‘diapractice’ refers to shared experiences and common action between Muslims and Christians (ibid.: 35f.). It has to do with shared history, and—potentially— the sharing of stories. Trying to understand what the Egyptian authors in focus mean by the word conscience in their writings will therefore necessitate some contextual reflections on the nature of Muslim-Christian interaction in Egypt (as laid out in Chapter 10). I will return to the concept of diapractice in my concluding discussions in Section 13.4.

Part II Christian conscience and Islamic ethics

3 The Self and the Other in Christian and European discourses of conscience 3.1 Some fundamental ambiguities in the notion of conscience The method of Begriffsgechichte or conceptual history takes as its starting point a specific word that conveys a concept, and looks for its changing function in specific literary and historical contexts. In what follows, I will give a brief historical outline of the concept of conscience in Christian tradition and European philosophy, taking account of changing contexts. The following exposition aims at identifying what ‘conscience’ may mean when read in differing Christian and European contexts.22 Far from intending any exhaustive exposition of the notion of conscience, I will direct my attention towards some inherent ambiguities or tensions in the notion of conscience. In particular, I shall focus on the connection between knowing by oneself and knowing with the other. As suggested in Section 2.1, this tension may be related to the very etymology of the word conscience: with whom does one know something (or whom does one know) in ‘con-science’? Conscience refers not only to something known intimately by oneself, but also to relationships with distinctive others and something known together with them. But who is the privileged other—human or divine—implied in a particular discourse of conscience? In analysing differing contextual usages, this is what one should be looking for: how is the relation between oneself and the other, between selfhood and otherness, conceived of in differing discourses of conscience? One should also be critically aware of a related tension between communitarian and universalist understandings of conscience. Conscience can either be thought of as something communitarian, informed by specific confessional (for instance, Christian or Islamic) insights, or as something universal, referring to a moral consciousness which is anchored in the individual and potentially interreligious in nature. In other words: the tension between knowing by oneself and the other refers not only to the individual levels of existence, but may involve the relation between communities as well. 3.2 Conscience in Graeco-Roman literature, and in the New Testament If one looks for the rhetorical function of conscience-centred discourses in Christian tradition and in European philosophy, it may seem that conscience most often refers either to self-knowledge, or to an intimate knowledge shared only with God as the

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transcendent other. The human other is less visibly present. In fact, having ‘a good conscience’ for doing something often implies an element of distancing oneself from the others (who hold a different view of right and wrong, good and bad). As expressed by the Roman Stoic Cicero (d. 43 BC): ‘there is no audience for virtue of higher authority than the approval of conscience (consdentia)’.23 In the Greek and Roman classics, there are few or no references to syneídēsis before the writings attributed to various Stoic schools, and the term itself only appears in extensive use immediately before and parallel to the New Testament writings. Some evidence points in the direction of popular Greek wisdom, possibly of Stoic inclination (Stelzenberger 1989). A related concept, however, is found in Plato’s reference to Socrates’ sense of acting in correspondence with an inner voice. In the Apology, Plato informs us that Socrates claimed that he had a voice within and was guided by a spirit, a daimónion. The accusation levelled against Socrates was that ‘he corrupts the youths, and does not believe in the gods the state believes in, but in other new spiritual beings (daimónia kainá)’.24 In his defence, Socrates points to the fact that he is driven by ‘something divine and spiritual (theión ti kaì daimónion)’ that comes to him: ‘it is a sort of voice that comes to me, and when it comes, it always holds me back from what I am thinking of doing, but never urges me forward’.25 Among the modern Egyptian authors in focus, Khālid Khāild holds Socrates to be a ‘devoted son of conscience’, who long before Christ and rang the bells of conscience.26 The impact of Greek philosophers on Christian and Muslim discourses of conscience, however, is not confined to the concept of conscience. It has rather to do with more general ideas like human autonomy and a view of ethics oriented towards virtues and character formation. Closer to the time of the New Testament, one finds—maybe for the first time within a religious universe—a systematic teaching of the functions of conscience, notably in the Jewish philosopher Philo of Alexandria (d. AD 50).27 Philo, who was influenced by both Platonism and Stoicism, used the notion syneidós (in three cases, also syneídēsis) to name a specific function of the human mind. Making syneidós a clearly defined concept, he speaks of it as a prosecutor, a reproaching witness and a convicting judge: ‘there are some who…proved to be guilty of highly reprehensible conduct, convicted, if not by any other judge, at any rate by their conscience’.28 In most cases, syneidós in Philo is linked with the term élenchos or the verb elénchein. As a judge, the élenchos instructs, admonishes and exhorts the soul to change its ways.29 Philo clearly identifies the élenchos as syneidós: ‘it is the conscience within which convicts them and pricks them in spite of the godlessness of their lives’.30 Conscience in the New Testament In the New Testament there are twenty-nine (or thirty, if a variant reading of John 8:9 is included) occurrences of syneídēsis in the singular or the plural. Differently from GraecoRoman usages, in the New Testament the tension between knowing by oneself and knowing with the human other, is readily identifiable—most conspicuously in the epistles of Paul. When Paul deals with the question of conscience in 1. Corinthians 8 and 10, he faces two groups in the Christian community who held different views about eating meat. One party knew by themselves—from their gnōsis—that they could eat all kinds of meat

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with a good conscience—even that which had been consecrated to the idols in connection with the Roman temple cult. The others—those with a ‘weak conscience’—did not believe they could do so, and were afraid that their conscience would become ‘polluted’ if they ate meat that might have been consecrated to the idols. In this conflict, Paul argues that the gnōsis of the strong individuals must give way to that which could be known together by the divergent groups in solidarity. As Paul saw it, conscience has to do with community. In the influential passage of Romans 2:14f., which informed later theories about natural law, Paul describes conscience as even transcending the confines of the Christian community. The conscience of the gentiles testifies to a moral knowledge which can be shared by Jews, Christians, Greeks and Romans alike—reflecting the fact that the divine law is written in the heart of every human being. (‘What the law requires is written on their hearts, while their conscience also bears witness and their conflicting thoughts accuse or perhaps excuse them’.) Paul’s inclusive reference to conscience in his Epistle to the Romans has inspired modern, universalist understandings of conscience. It should be noted, however, that the New Testament contains also far more exclusive, communitarian discourses of conscience. Whereas in the Pauline epistles, syneídēsis is mostly used without any valuebased qualification, in the Acts of the Apostles and the Pastoral and Catholic epistles it often occurs with qualifying adjectives such as ‘good’, ‘bad’ or ‘pure’.31 At the time when the Pastoral and Catholic epistles were composed, the Christian communities had probably evolved into more distinct and well-ordered communities than in the incipient stages of Pauline Christianity. In the Pastoral epistles, a sharp distinction is drawn between the ‘good’ and ‘pure’ consciences of those conforming to the prevailing Pauline doctrines on the one side, and the blemished consciences of the deviating opponents on the other. For example, the faithful Timothy is attributed with a good conscience as well as a pure heart and a sincere faith (1. Tim. 1:5), as opposed to the spurned conscience and wrecked faith of named individual opponents (1:19f.). As can also be seen from the requirement of a good conscience for a deacon, syneídēsis in these strands of the New Testament is strongly marked by a discourse of church discipline, with dualistic overtones both practical and metaphysical.32 A sharp demarcation line is drawn between the pure and godly consciences of named adherents to Pauline Christianity and named opponents’ consciences which are said to be branded by the devil.33 In 1. Peter, conscience appears to be a truly religious term, denoting a specifically Christian God-consciousness.34 The same is true of the use of the notion of conscience in Hebrews. Here, conscience is understood as an inner, spiritual ‘location’ where salvation takes place in the human being. As in 1. Peter 3:21, ‘good conscience’ is linked with the external, bodily sign of baptism. In these later parts of the New Testament, the concept of a ‘bad’ or ‘good’ conscience is related to religious rather than moral self-consciousness. The transition from a bad to a good or pure conscience is thought of not as a moral effort, but as something truly transmoral: as a spiritual and sacramental appropriation of Christ’s expiatory death for human sins (cf. Hebrews 10:22). Correspondingly purification in Christ is argued to be far more profound than that of the Jewish temple cult, the ‘outward ordinances’ of the latter being unable to perfect the cleansing of consciences (Hebrews 9:9, cf. 10:2).35

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Summing up rhetorical evidence from the Pastoral and the Catholic letters, one might argue that conscience in these strands of the New Testament is not primarily an otherdirected moral concept, as we have seen it in the Pauline epistles. Instead, conscience refers to an inner consciousness purified by sacramental faith in Christ (Hebrews), a particularly Christian consciousness which must be carefully safeguarded when faced either with rival interpretations of the Christian faith (1. Timothy) or with external hostility. As a Christian, communitarian conscience, conscience as a bond to God, is seen as a source of resistance in times of persecution (1. Peter). With a view to how the implied Other in conscience is conceived of, we can now conclude that conscience in the New Testament is a thoroughly ambiguous notion. It may be an inclusive concept, embracing not only Christian brothers and sisters who know something different from oneself but even those with another religious faith (Paul in Corinthians and Romans). But conscience may just as well be an exclusive concept, related to a particularly Christian consciousness which is polemically profiled not only against heathen surroundings, but also against other Christian groups (the Pastoral and Catholic epistles). Before leaving the New Testament evidence, a small reflection on the relation between words, concepts and broader ideas is in place. In the Gospels, the only occurrence of the word syneídēsis is found in a variant reading of John 8:9.36 In the Egyptian authors studied in Part II, however, it is precisely the ethos of the Gospels that stands at the centre of what they perceive as a Christian, or rather Christ-related, notion of conscience. Curiously enough, they do not mention any passages from the Epistles in their references to conscience This may indicate that they are more interested in a subject area (for instance, internalisation of morals as associated with Christ) than in a particular concept. 3.3 Conscience in medieval scholasticism, and in Luther In medieval scholasticism, the notion of conscience oscillates between universalist notions of natural law (cf. Paul) and communitarian concepts of ecclesiastical guidance and discipline (cf. the Pastoral epistles). Bonaventure and Thomas Aquinas picked up a distinction introduced by Hieronymus (Jerome, d. 420) between an infallible synteresis (often spelled as synderesis) and a potentially erring conscientia.37 This allowed Thomas Aquinas to affirm both the human being’s capacity to grasp the first principles of the natural law (conscience as synteresis), and the necessity of authoritative counselling from the church (in order to prevent conscientia from erring).38 According to Thomas Aquinas, the major cause of an erroneous conscience is ignorance—either of the correct moral principles, or about the factual circumstances of the particular case involved at some given time.39 Overcoming this ignorance is a major task of the church and her authoritative counselling. Since Thomas (differently from Bonaventure) sees erroneous conscience primarily as an intellectual and not as a willrelated problem, his system provides a conceptual space for the guidance and authority of the church. Since reason and thus conscientia may err and will may sin, the church needs to train her believers in the right application of conscientia. Only thus can they— informed by an infallible synderesis, but liable to error in the process of application—

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reach the right conclusions and the right actions. It was these ideas about ecclesiastical guidance that were institutionalised in medieval casuistry with its ‘Forum of Conscience’ balanced by a unified body of canon law (Huff 1995:119ff.). In a study of ‘the rise of early modern science’ (which follows up Benjamin Nelson’s study On the roads to modernity. Conscience, Science, and Civilizations, Nelson 1981), sociologist Toby Huff sees the Scholastic understanding of conscience as one of those ideas emerging in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries that ‘created an unprecedented faith in reason and the rational ordering of the world’ (Huff 1995:91). A different view is taken by Jonsen and Toulmin who focus on the ecclesiastical authority involved in casuistry and canon law rather than on its modernising, universalising potentials. From the thirteenth to the early sixteenth century, Europe witnessed a steady flow of casuistic Summas, listing and discussing cases of conscience in alphabetical order (see the list of casuistic works in Jonsen and Toulmin 1988:345–53). Jonsen and Toulmin see the emergence of a theory of casuistry—as formulated by Scholastic theologians—as a direct response to the specific needs of a professional practice, namely those of the confessors and canon lawyers from around 1050.40 With Jonsen and Toulmin, I will argue that Scholastic discourses of conscience can hardly be separated from their casuistic framework. This framework allowed for a certain freedom in ethical decisions. But essentially, casuistry’s approach to matters of conscience was communitarian and aimed at knowing with the church (ibid.: 335): ‘its primary concern was to place the individual agent’s decision into its larger context at the level of actual choice: namely, the moral dialogue and debate of a community. Conscience was “knowing together” (con-scientia)’. Whereas casuistry was communitarian in its outlook and oriented towards moral knowledge with the church, medieval mystical discourses on human conscience transcended the realm of morals and focused upon the divine spark in the soul of the individual. In 1945, the Protestant theologian Paul Tillich published an essay about ‘The transmoral conscience’ (Tillich 1957/45). Defining transmoral conscience, Tillich claims that ‘A conscience may be called “transmoral” which judges not in obedience to a moral law but according to the participation in a reality that transcends the sphere of moral commands’. Informed by Lutheran insights (see below), he adds: ‘A transmoral conscience does not deny the moral realm, but is driven beyond it by the unbearable tensions of the sphere of law’ (ibid.: 145). Tillich’s concept of a transmoral conscience fits well with the notion of conscience as developed in medieval mysticism. By their emphasis on inner authority and their call for lay piety medieval mystics loosened the ties between conscience and casuistry As Meister Eckhart linked conscience to the idea of an inner light, Thomas à Kempis (in De imitatione Christi) related it to his ‘counsels on the inner life’. In due time, the idea of an illuminated conscience was to prove the undoing of the medieval Forum of Conscience, and evolve into the Enlightenment concept of autonomous reason. According to Benjamin Nelson, the triangulated system of conscience, casuistry and cure of souls broke down with the devastating critique of casuistry by Luther, Calvin, Descartes and Pascal. As Nelson sees it, all of them ‘attacked the late medieval casuistry of conscience and probabilism of opinion at their very roots…in the name of true knowledge, subjective certitude, and objective certainty’ (Nelson 1981:5f., 46).

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With Martin Luther (d. 1546), an acute crisis of conscience occurs.41 As Luther came to see matters in retrospect, his transmoral reinterpretation of conscience was triggered by a profoundly existential experience, which made him feel that he was ‘a sinner before God with an extremely disturbed conscience’. Raging with ‘a fierce and troubled conscience’, he began to understand that the righteousness of God is but a gift of God, namely by faith.42 Conscience in Luther turns out to be a relational notion, which involves the totality of human experience. Incapable of guiding the human being to righteousness coram Deo, bad conscience breaks down. Only by the grace of God in Christ, as a gift and not as a merit, it can be transformed into a good, transmoral conscience which seeks its comfort and certitude far beyond the realm of ethics (Tillich 1957/45:146f.). In the subsequent stages of Luther’s theology, during his accelerated career as a reformer, his initially God-related and existential understanding of human conscience gradually takes on more world-related meanings. In his address of defence in Worms 1521, he invoked his God-liberated conscience against papal as well as political authority: Unless I am convinced by the testimony of the Scriptures or by clear reason… I am bound by the Scriptures I have quoted and my conscience is captive to the Word of God. I cannot and I will not retract anything, since it is neither safe nor right to go against conscience.43 In De votis monasticis from the same year, Luther elaborated his view that conscience is liberated from church-established norms.44 Endowed by God with a ‘good’ or ‘pious’ conscience (pia conscientia), the human being can now live freely in the world as a new creature in Christ. Freed from the burden of self-justification, a Christian may have moral insight together with others, even with those outside the Christian community. In principle, a Christian is free to endorse the moral insights of Muslim Turks just as well as Christian customs: ‘Whether you abstain from wine with the Turks or drink wine with Christians makes no difference at all, as long as you drink it with a good conscience.’45 3.4 Conscience in Early Modernity Although Luther did not teach that conscience was autonomous in the modern sense of the word (he saw conscience as bound by the Word of God), he inspired Enlightenment thought which saw in Luther’s refusal to submit to the pope a struggle for reason and the freedom of conscience (Lohse 1987:59, 209). Paul Tillich sees in Luther the root of a transmoral understanding of conscience: a joyful, liberated conscience ‘arises as much above the moral realm as the desperate conscience was below the moral realm’ (Tillich 1957/45:146). By his insistence that the integrity of conscience cannot be taken for granted, Luther also prefaces modern existentialist thought and its insistence that conscience cannot be reduced to a moral faculty, but raises the question of true human existence. In European Enlightenment philosophers, the notion of conscience acquires a set of new accents. In its moral function, conscience is now seen as the seat of the individual’s

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moral autonomy. In the political realm, ‘freedom of conscience’ emerges as a powerful concept. Parallel to new accents in moral and political philosophy, conscience is also rallied in a romantic (and transmoral) quest for human authenticity. From the beginning of Early Modernity, French philosophical discourses of conscience were intimately bound up with the political case for freedom of conscience. The expression ‘freedom of conscience’ can be found already in Montaigne’s Essais from 1580, and was elaborated by Pierre Bayle who in his tract on universal tolerance from 1686 spoke of ‘the rights of conscience’.46 Parallel to the emergence of new political ideas, discourses of conscience became increasingly self-conscious and self-reflexive. The development towards a more selfconscious conscience was reflected in a fresh distinction between ‘conscience’ and ‘consciousness’. According to Catherine Glyn Davies’ study of the concept of Conscience as consciousness (Davies 1990), one should not expect to find any distinction between ‘consciousness’ and ‘conscience’ in European languages before the seventeenth century. Until then, the world spelled conscience both in English and French, was used ‘in the wide sense of a private and inward kind of knowledge, as well as in the narrower meaning of an awareness of right and wrong’ (Davies 1990:2). Conscience in French Davies claims that not until the latter part of the seventeenth century, was la conscience (in French) used in the sense of ‘the perception of what passes in a man’s mind’. With reference to the new coining of conscience in French, Davies argues that ‘Its genesis heralded a revolution in thinking and feeling in which his own inner personality became a centre of unprecedented interest to each individual’ (ibid.: 154). Davies highlights the influence of the works of Jean Jaques Rousseau in this respect. What was now distinguished in English by the notions of ‘consciousness’ and ‘conscience’ respectively appears to have been closely interrelated in Rousseau. The distinction has to do with the dialectic between knowing by oneself and with others: ‘There exists in Rousseau’s mind a double relationship between consciousness and the moral conscience. On the one hand, conscience is the fruit of self-knowledge and comparison with others, and on the other it is a prerequisite of true self-knowledge’ (ibid.: 96f.). In Rousseau’s Émile (1762), conscience is referred to as ‘divine instinct’, ‘sure guide’ and ‘infallible judge of good and evil’. Rousseau’s notion of conscience transcends the moral realm and has been taken as the ideational foundation of the modern notion of individual ‘authenticity’ (Ferrara 1993). It should be noted, however, that authenticity with Rousseau is not solipsistic but inextricably linked to the idea of a binding social contract into which humans should freely enter (cf. Du Control Social, published in the same year as Émile). According to the Savoyard priest in Émile, conscience is related to inner light and conviction and mirrors God’s wise and powerful will. Against any intellectualised or rationalist definition of conscience, the Priest claims: ‘The decrees of conscience are not judgments but feelings’ (Rousseau 1974a:253). In the view of Rousseau, reason deceives us too often, and only emotion-based conscience can be a true guide in moral affairs. The famous ‘hymn to conscience’ sums up Rousseau’s argument, as expressed by the

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Savoyard Priest: ‘Conscience! Conscience! Divine instinct, immortal voice from heaven; sure guide for a creature ignorant and finite indeed, yet intelligent and free; infallible judge of good and evil, making man like God!’ (ibid: 254.) In Émile, Rousseau touches also upon the relation of Christianity to Judaism and Islam. What Rousseau advocates, is a religion of tolerance which he tends to identify with Christianity: ‘Apart from fanaticism, the best known religion has given greater gentleness to Christian conduct’ (ibid.: 277). However, Rousseau also gives some credit to Judaism and ‘the Mahometans’ in this respect. Although Rousseau holds the morality taught by Christ and ‘the religion of the Gospel’ in high esteem, he is also impressed by the ‘sound views’ of Mohammed that religion and state should be held together. What he ultimately seeks for is made abundantly clear in chapter 8 of Du contrat social, about ‘Civil religion’.47 Rousseau sees the need for a civil religion that may tie the hearts of the citizens to some fundamental tenets that are indispensable for every society. For all his emphasis on conscience-based morality and freedom in upbringing, Rousseau is emphatic that mature individuals should voluntarily subordinate their interest to the general will, as expressed by the sovereign. For this aim to be fulfilled, a sort of absolutely obligating civil religion must be sought for and formulated—‘not precisely as dogmas of religion, but as sentiments of sociability, without which it is impossible to be a good citizen or a loyal subject’ (Rousseau 1974b:113). As for the negative tenets of civil religion, he limits them to a single injunction: ‘There shall be no intolerance, which is part of the religions we have excluded’ (ibid.). Those who refuse to believe in the tenets of the civil religion of tolerance, should rightly be banished from the state, and those who after having publicly acknowledged the tenets behave as though they did not believe in them, should be put to death. Rousseau’s view of the sanctity of human conscience and his appeal to a universal religion of tolerance thus end in a rather severe insistence on the boundaries of human freedom. With his combined stress on individual authenticity and obligating social contract, it should be no surprise that Rousseau has been a favourite source of inspiration for several reformist Muslim thinkers in twentieth-century Egypt. Conscience in English and German In English philosophy and theology from the seventeenth century onwards, individual consciences are either conceived of as a threat to human polity (Thomas Hobbes in Leviathan, Hobbes 1978:287), or seen as the seat of commonsensical knowledge of the natural good (Joseph Butler in his Sermons from 1726).48 In the context of German Enlightenment thought, Gewissen may either be a marker of human autonomy as exercised by rational judgement (Kant), or denote emotional authenticity in terms of innermost consciousness (Fichte, Schleiermacher—cf. Rousseau). In reaction to what they saw as far too individualist concepts of conscience in other Enlightenment philosophers, Hegel and Feuerbach emphasised the sociability and otherdirectedness of conscience. Conscience in Kant is connected to the categorical imperative, and his theory of the universalisation of ethical maxims.49 His idealist philosophy and his notion of conscience have influenced modern Muslim philosophers in Egypt, who have often supplemented

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Kant’s rational universalism with Rousseau’s more emotional notion of human authenticity.50 In Religion innerhalb der bloβen Vernunft (1793), Kant depicts the numerous temptations that assault conscience: threats or offers made by the state, civil advantages or absolute claims to truth made by clericalism and inquisition.51 Instead of a church that intimidates consciences, he pleads for a universal church (allgemeine Kirche) which aims at building an ethical state of God (ethischen Staat Gottes, cf. Rousseau’s concept of civil religion), and marches towards the consummation of this state under a steadfast principle which is one and the same for everyone and for all times.52 Kant linked conscience with moral autonomy and characterised das Gewissen as the ability of moral self-assessment.53 Hegel, on the other hand, in his Phänomenologie des Geistes (1807) insisted on conscience’s social character. In his philosophy of conscience, Hegel distinguishes between true and formal conscience. Whereas formal conscience (in the Kantian sense) is subjective and personal and expresses itself as Morälitet (‘morality’), true conscience is objective and social and is realised as Sittlichkeit (‘ethical life’).54 Seeing Kant’s formal and individualised understanding of conscience as insufficient, Hegel emphasised that conscience is first of all knowing with others: ‘it is the social element of self-consciousness…it has to do with being recognised by others’.55 Although the philosophy of Hegel is firmly within the scope of idealism, his theorising about historical change within the universe of ideas makes conscience (as every other idea or concept) liable to dialectics and change in time, as well as to hermeneutic suspicion. In the left Hegelian philosopher Ludvig Feuerbach (d. 1872), conscience becomes a word for something else, fully understandable as an anthropological quality, but historically so immersed in a theological discourse that other words should perhaps rather be used to express the reality of conscience. Feuerbach sees conscience merely as the other human being’s imprint on the Self: ‘Conscience is the alter ego, the other I in I’.56 Feuerbach agrees with Hegel’s insistence on the social nature of conscience. Differently from Hegel, he sees it basically as a ‘bad conscience’ which he understands as the internalised voice of the wounded other: ‘My conscience is nothing but an I that puts itself in the place of a wounded You’.57 Feuerbach returns conscience to what he sees as its etymological origin, namely other-directed knowledge: Conscience is ‘knowing with’. To such a degree is the imprint of the Other woven into my self-consciousness, my self-image, that even the expression of what is more than anything else my own, my innermost, the conscience, becomes an expression of socialism, communality.58 In Feuerbach, conscience has thus become the secondary product of social-psychological processes. Its claim to autonomy has proved to be unwarranted. Its reality has been revealed as internalised heteronomy—submitted not to God, but to the human other.59

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3.5 Critique of conscience and globalisation of the concept in the twentieth century The twentieth-century discourses on conscience have been marked by contrary developments: on the one hand, by Nietzsche and Freud’s critical deconstruction of conscience, on the other, by a rapid globalisation of the notion of conscience particularly in the wake of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. In Nietzsche (d. 1900), conscience is reduced not only to social psychology (as in Feuerbach), but to pathology. According to Nietzsche, conscience as a sense of obligation is but a reflex of authority, and the masked submission to the power of the other. Bad conscience is a disease that can only be healed by releasing the instinct of freedom and the will to life. As Nietzsche explains in Zur Genealogie der Moral (1887), the autonomous individual must transcend both bad conscience and ‘der Sittlichkeit der Sitte’.60 Feuerbach’s psychological approach to conscience as other-directedness and Nietzsche’s attempt at saving the instinct of freedom from ‘bad conscience’ were later taken up by Sigmund Freud (d. 1939). Freud relates conscience to the internal struggle between the powers of passion (id), human subjectivity (ego) and parental authority internalised as super-ego. Conscience protects the taboos, the violation of which causes an unbearable sense of guilt. By subduing and taming the desires of the ego, conscience exercises an anxiety-controlling function.61 Late modern discussions about conscience, selfhood and otherness—such as those between Heidegger and Levinas—reflect the inherent tensions in the notion of conscience between ‘knowing by oneself’ in an existentialist sense and ‘knowing with others’ in a communal bond. In Being and Time, Martin Heidegger (d. 1976) deals extensively with the notion of conscience under the heading ‘Dasein’s attestation of an Authentic Potentiality-for-Being, and Resoluteness’. Heidegger seeks to protect the authenticity (Eigentlichkeit) of individual consciences in order that the Self will be not lost in the multitude of ‘they’, das Man. Only when the human being comes to his/her authentic Self, he/she can listen to Others without getting lost in talkative fraternisation with ‘they’.62 In the fundamental call to Being-one’s-Self, there are no Others: ‘the call undoubtedly does not come from someone else who is with me in the world. The call comes from me and yet from beyond me’.63 The caller is existence (Dasein) itself. Against Heidegger and other Self-oriented modernists, Emmanuel Levinas puts the Self in the accusative and insists that the call of conscience comes from the outside, from the Other. Reminiscent of Feuerbach, Levinas speaks of conscience first of all as bad conscience, related to the fear that comes to me from the face of the Other: ‘fear of all that my existing, despite its intentional and conscious innocence, can accomplish of violence and murder’.64 We shall return to a fuller discussion of Levinas’ notion of conscience in Chapter 12.

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Conscience as a globalised concept Since the notion of conscience is rooted in the New Testament and deeply embedded in a Christian tradition which is not ‘Western’ but truly global, conscience should not be referred to as a European concept. But admittedly, conscience belongs to those concepts that were moulded in an interaction between Semitic and Greek (i.e. European) impulses. Since then, the notion of conscience has followed the spread of Christianity and of Bible translations. Despite its proliferation due to Christian globalisation, it is only in the twentieth century that conscience has become a truly globalised concept in the interreligious sense. Together with such notions as democracy and human rights, the wide-spread reference to conscience in everyday usage is probably one of the best examples one can find of globalisation in its linguistic and cultural mode. Most languages, including those that lack a classical parallel to the notion of conscience, have coined words for conscience that have become an integral part of vernacular usage. There are several impulses at work in this process other than those coming from Christianity and European thought. A major factor in the globalisation of conscience was the Universal Declaration of Human Rights from 1948. In the preamble, the Declaration states that ‘disregard and contempt for human rights have resulted in barbarous acts which have outraged the conscience of mankind’. The main implicit reference of the preamble is probably to the World Wars of the twentieth century. The emblematic reference to conscience can be interpreted as a universal reproach of certain violations of human integrity that—right across cultural and religious divides—must be recognised as crimes against humanity. In article 1, the reality of a universal conscience is postulated in more positive terms: ‘All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood’ (Stahnke and Martin 1998:57). Both in the preamble and in article 1, conscience is referred to as the seat of a shared, universal knowledge of good and evil, right and wrong In these parts of the Declaration, the reference is clearly to conscience’s social dimension as a morally binding ‘knowing with the other’, as demonstrated by the close association in article 1 between the voice of conscience and the ‘spirit of brotherhood’. Against the possible suspicion that the reference to conscience was included in article 1 because of Western influence, it should be noted (as research has revealed) that the word conscience was proposed by the Chinese member of the drafting committee. In his eyes, the Christian or Western notion of conscience paralleled the Confucian notion of jen. In Chinese script, jen is composed by the signs for ‘human being’ and ‘two’. Literally, it may be translated as ‘two-manmindedness’ or ‘consciousness of one’s fellow men’ (Lindholm 1992:33).65 But the Declaration conveys clearly also the understanding of conscience as a personal property. Whereas the preamble and article 1 emphasise the social dimension of conscience, in article ‘freedom of conscience’ is defined as a right that every individual holds:

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Everyone has the right to freedom of thought, conscience and religion; this right includes freedom to change his religion or belief, and freedom, either alone or in community with others and in public or private, to manifest his religion or belief in teaching, practice, worship and observance. (Stahnke and Martin 1998:59) Both dimensions of the notion of conscience—the individual ‘knowing by oneself and the social ‘knowing with the other’—are thus present in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. or Arabic translations of the Universal Declaration render conscience as either 66 wijdān. In the Egyptian authors considered in this study,‘conscience’ is often linked with but still differentiated from ‘reason’ as in article 1 of the Declaration. In tune with article 1, they often use the notion of conscience to express what may be known universally as good, right and obligating. But conscience in the Egyptian authors is also—as in article 18—intimately associated with the concept of freedom. There are no direct indications that these authors’ notion of is directly influenced by the Universal Declaration.67 It is nevertheless probable that the universal discourses of human rights in the 1940s and 1950s were part of their inspiration. Generally, the discourse of conscience in the Declaration reflects a typical modern understanding of conscience. It affirms the social dimension of moral knowledge, but redefines moral community in a universalist direction and puts the integral individual at the centre of moral formation and binding community. Since conscience can only be owned by the individual, heightened stress on conscience tends to relativise cultural and religious differences and to redefine moral community as universal rather than confessional. In this sense, conscience (as referred to in modern discourses) is both the most personal and the most universal property of the human being. In the 1940s, there were also other factors at work pointing in the direction of a globalised concept of conscience. Besides the Universal Declaration, the most important contribution in terms of ideas came probably from Mahatma Gandhi. In Gandhi, the sanctity of human conscience belongs to a cluster of closely related convictions and conceptions such as the inner voice of God, the gospel of love, passive resistance and non-violence. Equating conscience with God, he states that ‘the Voice of God, of Conscience, of Truth, or the Inner Voice or “the Still Small Voice” mean one and the same thing… God is conscience’ (Gandhi 1946:39, 27). Gandhi saw belief in God as something deeply personal which transcended the confines of religious communities. Confessing his inspiration from the teachings of several religions, he linked conscience with a religious inclusivism of the most universalist kind: ‘I am no Communalist’ (ibid.: 90). As we shall see, a Gandhi-like cluster of ideas of which loyalty to the voice of conscience is an integral part, will recur in the Egyptian authors. This is also the case in Kāmil who to a lesser extent than and Khālid makes explicit references to Gandhi. The overlap of ideas is probably not incidental: Gandhi obviously made a great impact on modern universalist discourses on conscience.

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3.6 Preliminary conclusion The conceptual history of the notion of conscience in Christian and Western contexts yields several insights. In my introductory, conceptual reflections in 2.1, I suggested that there is a fundamental tension in the notion of conscience between knowing by oneself and knowing with the other. Invocations of conscience always entail a heightened awareness of moral responsibility and the inviolable moral integrity of the individual. Cicero invoked human conscience as an inner audience, Kant as an inner court of supreme authority. As in Luther, references to the dictates of conscience may also signal a fervent ‘no’ and a split from the conventions or dictates of a given spiritual or political community. But the human being is never alone in his or her recourse to inner conscience. There are always others implied—only in very different modes. Conscience’s others may be thought of either as embodying the social element in moral selfknowledge (cf. Butler, Hegel, Feuerbach), or as representatives of bonds that should not be broken (cf. Paul’s argument for communal solidarity in Corinthians), or as figures of contrast (as in the Pastoral and Catholic epistles’ branding of the others’ consciences as blemished, and in Heidegger’s warning against the inauthentic Man of the masses), or as brothers in arms against commonly held convictions (as in conscientious objection to military service). As can be seen in Luther and several modern reformers, invocations of conscience legitimise opposition to authorities, but also bring with them alternative visions of community. In modernity, the new kind of inwardness implied by conscience’s alliance with autonomy or authenticity entails new visions of social contract which are now thought of as originating from the free individual and presupposing unrestricted freedom of conscience in society. As for modern understandings of conscience, both autonomy and authenticity are often brought to the fore as part of universalist visions which are thought of as transcending confessional insights and obligations. In the legacy of Kant, conscience’s alliance with autonomy entails a kind of universalism which is predominantly rational. It is tied to a conception of general rules which connects the individual to the universal family without the mediation of a particular religious community. When wedded to authenticity conscience speaks in a more emotional mode. Discourses of conscience often have a strong orientation towards the integrity and originality of the individual. In recognition of the morally formative role of distinct communities there may also be a communal dimension to the quest for authenticity (cf. my discussion of Islamic and Coptic authenticity in Chapters 7, 8 and 10). When related to late modern discussions about universalism versus communitarianism, the notion of human conscience turns out to be ambiguous. We have seen that Nelson and Huff cite scholastic notions of conscience as early forms of humanitarian universalism, whereas Jonsen and Toulmin rather focus on scholastic conscience’s alliance with casuistry and perceive it as a reinforced kind of ecclesiastical communitarianism. If we reformulate the communitarian-universalist problematic to the question of whether moral knowledge may be thought of as interreligious, Paul in Romans 2:14f. clearly seems to imply that the voice of conscience says the same to Jews, Christians and heathens. Also Thomas Aquinas thinks of synderesis as reflecting a natural law which is

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universally accessible, but distinguishes it from conscientia which is fallible and must therefore be informed by the church. Although Islam is within the scope of both Luther and Rousseau, the question of some kind of binding moral knowledge across religious or cultural borders was not raised comprehensively until twentieth-century attempts at universalising the discourse of conscience as symbolised by the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and Gandhi. I regard the contributions of the Egyptian authors considered in Chapters 7–9 as similar attempts at interreligious universalism, presented in an Islamic context. In my exposition of the conceptual history of the Western notion of conscience, I have made no secret of my interest in the implied role of ‘others’ in any given conception of human conscience. As for twentieth-century approaches to conscience marked by the post-existentialist ‘turn to the other’ in philosophy and theology, I will postpone my discussion to Part III. There, I will return to Charles Taylor’s notion of authenticity (which was introduced in Chapter 2). I will also relate my discussion to Emmanuel Levinas’ critique of the existentialist notion of ethics and his insistence on the otherdirected nature of conscience, and to Paul Ricoeur’s understanding of conscience as ‘oneself as another’. We shall then be able to see recent European/Western discussions in the light of modern Egyptian writers’ twentieth-century contributions to an Islamic understanding of conscience as In Chapters 13–14, I will also return to the ‘transmoral’ aspects of human conscience—ultimately as a question of ‘knowing with God’.

4 Islamic ethics Knowing with whom? 4.1 Bridging ‘conscience’ and ‘Islamic ethics’ In Chapters 6–9, I will analyse some modern Egyptian authors’ employment of the term in the light of modern European discourses of conscience focused on autonomy authenticity and freedom rights (as laid out in Section 3.4). But I will also read them as modern reappropriations of Islamic anthropology and ethics. My hypothesis will be that both Islamic in the process of coining a concept of conscience by way of the word and Christian-European impulses were at work. But exactly how can ‘conscience’ and ‘Islamic ethics’ be bridged? A search only for words and concepts that may parallel ‘conscience’ could easily lead us astray. It is probably more appropriate to ask whether classical Islamic ethics has space for the moral and anthropological ideas that are normally associated with the word conscience in Christian and European tradition. In his lectures on Islam in 1910, Ignaz Goldziher warns against over-focusing on words when studying the history of ideas in Islam: ‘The assumption has proved prejudiced that a word is the only reliable witness to the existence of a concept’ (Goldziher 1981/1910:16f).68 Goldziher’s warning was given during a series of lectures at the beginning of the twentieth century. He reproached William Tisdall, who in his book The Religion of the Crescent had pointed out that Islam is lacking a proper word for conscience.69 For his own part, Goldziher maintains that ‘The evidence of ethical maxims, of principles reflecting ethical consciousness, must be regarded as more conclusive than the evidence of a word or technical term.’ Claiming that there are indeed Islamic maxims that bear on the question of conscience, he singles out the birr (virtue, piety) as a classical equivalent to the modern notion of conscience (ibid.: 17). Kenneth Cragg has also observed that ‘the normal Arabic word for “conscience,” does not occur in the (Cragg 1984:131). He suggests that the reason might be that in the the focus is on obeying God and the Prophet and on the militant struggle for justice. Loyalty to individual conscience was therefore not a primary concern. Like Tisdall’s approach, Cragg’s remark reveals the inherent danger of focusing on a particular word rather than on broader ideas. As for the allegedly missing element of loyalty to conscience, there are other words in the that focus rather strongly on the importance of personal integrity, such as taqwā and birr. Among modern Muslim thinkers, both Fazlur Rahman and Farid Esack have singled out taqwā as the closest parallel to conscience. Taqwā can be translated either

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as piety, fear of God or God-consciousness. In the the term and its verbal roots often occur in conjunction with birr.70 In the view of Fazlur Rahman, taqwā is‘perhaps the most important single term in the At its highest, it denotes the fully integrated and whole personality of man’. Noting that taqwā implies that a human being or a society is conscious that the judgement of human actions lies outside the human being, Rahman claims that this is exactly the essential implication of the concept of conscience (Rahman 1980:28f.). Also Farid Esack, in his outline of a social-ethical hermeneutic of the equates taqwā with conscience: taqwā is‘heeding the voice of one’s conscience in the awareness that one is accountable to God’ (Esack 1997:87). As can be observed, both Rahman and Esack stress the transcendent, God-conscious aspect of conscience. The same is true of Abdulaziz Sachedina, who in a more elaborate discussion of the notion of conscience links up with the Thomistic distinction between synteresis and conscientia. Sachedina sees a parallel between synteresis as the unblemished reflection of natural law and the notion of ‘natural disposition’. As for conscience in its fallible function of making moral judgements, he parallels conscientia with the notion of qalb (the heart) which (according to Sachedina) can also be referred to as (Sachedina 1988:65, 70, 86). As for the notion of ‘bad conscience’, many modern Muslim authors have pointed to the converging notion of ‘the self-reproaching soul’ (al-nafs al-lawwāma, 75:2) which has played an important part in psychology and ethics. However, a quest for parallel concepts in the is only one way of bridg-ing Islamic ethics and the notion of conscience. A more general search for anchoring points of conscience in the multi-layered and (in many respects) dialogical tradition of Islamic ethics may be more rewarding.71 In such an approach, the question of a faith-transcending conscience can be linked with the tension between divine command ethics and philosophical ethics in Islam, a tension which overlaps with the one between revelationbased communitarianism and reason-based universalism in Islamic ethics. Instead of searching for terminological parallels to ‘conscience’, in the following I will approach Islamic ethics with a view to possible anchoring points for a modern ethical dialogue focused on ‘conscience’. In the previous chapters, I have been arguing that conscience does not only mean ‘knowing by oneself. In conscience there is also an element of ‘knowing with others’—in morally binding and emotionally engaging knowledge. Hence, the question of conscience and Islamic ethics could perhaps be reformulated as follows: What kind of moral bond may be knit between Muslim and Christian believers? Which moral and ethical insights may be shared between Christians and Muslims? And from a historical perspective: What kind of intertextuality has been at work between Islamic and Christian ethics? It goes without saying that the following exposition will be far from exhaustive as regards the rich and varied tradition of Islamic ethics.72 My particular interest will be its inter-religious dimension, and how different trajectories in Islamic ethics relate to the communitarian-universalist problematic. Within this larger horizon, it also makes sense to search Islamic ethics for terms and concepts that overlap more or less with certain aspects of the notion of conscience. In this chapter, several such attempts will be identified. In Chapter 5, I will also raise the

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question of when Arabic language and Islamic ethics developed their own word for ‘conscience’. Against the background of Chapters 3–5, it will be possible to identify the mixed influences of ideas and concepts of both Christian and Islamic origin that as the carrier of a contribute to the modern Egyptian authors’ use of the word modern Arabic-Islamic concept of conscience (Chapters 6–9). 4.2 Islamic ethics as a multi-layered tradition Like ‘Christian ethics’, the term ‘Islamic ethics’ is a construct and is not found as such in the normative sources of Islam. ‘Ethics’ and ‘morals’ are words derived from Greek éthos and Latin mos (pl. mores)., and they have no direct equivalents in Arabic. In modern Arabic usage, one will most often find that the words and are employed for ethics and morals. Both terms were already used in this sense in classical philosophical ethics in Islam, and belong to a semantic field which has to do with personal character and cultured manners.73 Among the classical philosophers, the expression (‘refinement of character’) became an established topos.74 In linguistic terms, there might thus be good reasons for expecting that ethical theories in Islam would have virtue ethics as a focal point. Even in the case of Islamic law, which is often linked does not only delineate with a deontological ‘divine command ethics’, fiqh-based the lawful and the prohibited and ). It also defines what is commendable and reprehensible. Thus, it relates not only to legislation but to personal morality and virtue as well. In the latter part of the twentieth century, several attempts have been made at analytical classification of the multi-layered tradition of Islamic ethics—by both Islamic and Western scholars. Their attempts reveal divergent views about focal points as well as boundaries of ‘Islamic ethics’.75 Majid Fakhry argues that Islamic ethics, to be distinguished from Islamic morality, must contain ‘a reasoned account of the nature and grounds of right actions and decisions and the principles underlying the claim that they are morally commendable or reprehensible’ (Fakhry 1994:1). According to this view, one should not expect to find ethical theories in the or in the Prophetic traditions, in exegesis (tafsīr) or in Islamic jurisprudence (fiqh). Only in classical Islamic theology (kalām) and philosophy (falsafa) can one expect to find ethics in the sense of a structured moral reasoning. In an article about ‘Islamic law as Islamic ethics’, A.Kevin Reinhart argues the opposite view: the essence of Islamic ethics should be sought in Islamic law and jurisprudence rather than in the theological and philosophical discourses of classical Islam. In fact, he claims that Islamic ethics can refer only to Islamic law and legal theory. Seeing ethics as basically a practical science that studies normative action, he excludes from Islamic ethics not only the varying cultural practices of Muslims, but also the purely theoretical efforts of Islamic theologians and philosophers (Reinhart 1983:186). Reinhart is right in insisting that Islamic law must indeed be seen as a most central aspect of Islamic ethics. His exclusion of philosophical ethics on a par with cultural practices, however, obscures the difference between normative and descriptive

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approaches to ethics. His one-sided emphasis on Islamic law might also easily fall into the pitfalls of orthodox-essentialist discourses. In my view, Islamic law represents only one modus of Islamic ethics. But it should not be played down (as Fakhry tends to do) as an ethical theory in its own right.

4.3

ethics: exclusive or dialogical?

employs more than When unfolding moral values and divine injunctions, the one mode of expression—a variety that corresponds to quite different ethical genres as found in classical Islam. In the following, I will distinguish between prescriptive, exhortatory discursive and narrative genres of Islamic ethics. Ethical genres in Islam Much of the divine guidance to the God-conscious (Q 2:2) offered by the is prescriptive in its nature. The prescriptive aspects of the cover a wide array of topics, ranging from food and drink via all kinds of interpersonal relations (in family and society) to communal issues such as financial transactions, punishments and regulations of warfare. Some of them come in the form of biblical style commandments. The injunctions and prohibitions were elaborated in narrative form in the collections, and in legal form in what eventually became systematic formulations of Islamic law. ethics is far more, however, than what can be contained in casuistry and legislation. Divine injunctions in the do not only come in the form of detailed prescriptions for Muslim believers. The contains also more general and potentially universal admonitions like ‘seeking the good’, in a genre that could perhaps be characterised as exhortatory ethics. By theologians and philosophers in the classical era, key ethical concepts of the such as the notions of ‘good’ and ‘right’ (cf. below) were taken as an invitation to formulate a discursive ethics in Islam (the ethical genre per se according to Fakhry). In its philosophical form, discursive ethics took values rather than detailed prescriptions in the as points of reference for a virtue ethics that was formulated in dialogue with ancient Greek philosophers (in some cases, also with contemporary Christian intellectuals) who held similar notions and concepts of good and bad, virtues and vices. Apart from concepts—related to prescriptions, admonitions and ethical reflection—the contains also a wealth of morally edifying narratives. Whereas the philosophical ethics was often markedly rationalistic in its tone, narrative ethics in Islam (as expressed in al-Ghazālī and in important parts of ethics) takes the and even Jewish-Christian tradition as the foundation of a virtue ethics that is far more didactic in its orientation. When the tells the stories of the earlier, mostly Jewish-Christian prophets, it is often with an obvious moral lesson. The story of Yūsuf (Joseph), which

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occupies the entire Sura 12, is introduced as the most beautiful of stories. It ends with Joseph’s assurance that he will certainly ask his Lord for forgiveness for his deceitful brothers (12:98)—pointing thus to forgiveness and reconciliation as moral values that should be sought for by the believers. Key ethical concepts—references to shared moral knowledge? ethics have often been centred Instead of focusing on genres, discussions of 76 around ‘key ethical concepts in the As mentioned, Goldziher pointed to the birr (which can either be translated as ‘piety’ or ‘righteousness’) as a conceptual neighbour to conscience. He also suggested that there might be a conceptual affinity between conscience and notions such as (‘purity of heart’), taqwā al-qulūb (‘piety of heart’), and qalb salīm (‘a whole heart’).77 definition of birr in Q 2:177 ends with a reference to those with taqwā The (cf. Q 2:189 and 5:2). As noted above, Fazlur Rahman singles out taqwā (‘fear of God’, or ‘God-consciousness’) instead as the closest conceptual neighbour to conscience. In his exposition of major themes of the he presents taqwā as ‘perhaps the most important single term in the At its highest, it denotes the fully integrated and whole personality of man’ (Rahman 1980:28). Noting that taqwā implies that a human being or a society is fully conscious that the judgement of human action lies outside the human being, Rahman claims that ‘This idea can effectively be conveyed by the term “conscience,” if the object of conscience transcends it.’ This is why it is proper to say that conscience is truly as central to Islam as love is to Christianity ‘when one speaks of human response to the ultimate reality—which, therefore, is conceived in Islam as merciful justice rather than fatherhood’ (Rahman 1980:29).78 As we shall see in Chapter 7, too occasionally points to taqwā as a conceptual parallel to conscience, especially as regards conscience’s curbing function ( 1974/1961b:410). Like Rahman, the South African Muslim Farid Esack puts much emphasis on taqwā. In his outline of a social-ethical hermeneutic of the he equates it with ‘conscience’: taqwā is ‘heeding the voice of one’s conscience in the awareness that one is accountable to God’ (Esack 1997:87). Esack also reflects critically upon the concepts of and taking them as references to dynamic, personal qualities (Esack 1997:114–34). He warns against any reification of these terms, which would easily turn them into something specifically ‘Muslim’ in the confessional sense. Out of his experience of co-operation with Christians in the struggle against apartheid in South Africa—a struggle which was controversial in both camps—he searches for more inclusive readings of these key terms, so that they may contribute conceptually to an ‘interreligious solidarity against oppression’.79 Esack also discusses the much cited invitation in 5:48 to the people of the Torah, the Gospel and the to compete in good works in accordance with what they have been given by God. Although Jews, Christians and Muslims know

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different things by themselves and apply distinct methods, they aim at something that can be known and lived together, in ‘good works’. Esack takes the call for a competition in good works as the basic message to the Abrahamic family. In the same literary context, however, the warns the Muslim believers against taking Jews and Christians as friends and protectors (5:51). How can these seemingly contradictory attitudes be reconciled? Esack resolves the problem by taking the more polemical words against Jews and Christians in the as expressions of historically determined conflicts, in which the vested interests of the others were often seen as economical and political obstacles to the ‘Muslim’ project of liberation. In a different context, in which the lines between religious affiliation and social conflict are differently drawn, this must be reconsidered. On this hermeneutical concepts, aimed foundation, he calls Muslims to a thorough-going rethinking of at ‘redefining self and other’ in a new historical context (ibid.: 114ff.).80 The verse aforementioned (Q 5:48) invites the children of Abraham to compete in good works (good) is the opposite of al-šarr (evil). Taken together, they are two of several ethically relevant concepts which come in bipolar oppositions, such as right and wrong ( and munkar) and lawful and unlawful ( and ). How should these concepts be regarded? As conventional references, or as terms whose content has been determined by revelation? The does not uncritically take over conventional wisdom. But it relates to it. For instance, it replaces the tribal code of honour and shame with divine judgement, and modifies violent notions of manliness. In Izutsu’s study of ethico-religious concepts in the (Izutsu 1966), he investigates the transition from tribal code to Islamic ethics which is reflected in the redefinition of pre-Islamic epithets of virtue such as karīm (noble, honourable). According to the egalitarian and God-oriented message of the the most noble among men is the one who has most taqwā (Q 49:13). As for the paired concepts of good and bad, right and wrong, many have observed the common-sense or convention-oriented nature of these concepts (Fakhry 1994:12; Hourani 1985:43). In particular, this is true of the paired concepts of and al-munkar (right and wrong), which carry strong connotations of what is generally agreed upon by convention ( of the same root as ), or commonly rejected. Some would also emphasise the traditional connotations of honour/dishonour inherent in and al-munkar (Kassis 1983:277f.). The repeated admonition to enjoin what is right and forbid what is wrong 81 may include a value-oriented invitation towards what is good ( 3:104). The inclusive nature of the admonition is corroborated by the assertion that not only the Muslims (as ‘the best of peoples’, 3:110) but also some Jews and Christians (3:113f.) have taken upon themselves the obligation to enjoin what is right and forbid what is wrong (al-munkar).

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Other examples of references to common wisdom can be found in which belongs to the semantic connection with the numerous variations of the stem field of ‘the good and beautiful’ and thus carries both moral and aesthetic connotations. and are used together, to denote the holistic In 2:112, the verbal roots of ideal of submission to God and well-doing to other human beings. There are good exegetical reasons for taking not only but also as a reference to a universally attainable ideal. In 16:90, appears together with a whole series of conventional terms for justice and liberality, injustice and shameful deeds. Fakhry and Izutsu both argue that the combined evidences from ethicoreligious key concepts in the testify to the fact that ethics was shaped in dialogue with existing notions of good and bad, right and wrong, and virtues recognised by Arab ancestors as well as by Jews and Christians. The employment of conventional terms, in critical dialogue with tradition, may be taken as an indication that Islamic ethics—right from its beginnings—refers to values that make common sense. As George Hourani has noted: when the enjoins upon the Muslims to ‘make peace with justice’ (49:9), the injunction only makes sense when taken as a reference to some standard of justice that can be commonly agreed upon (Hourani 1985:32). Divine guidance: exclusive or inclusive? As for the way in which the relates Islamic revelation to social convention and the wisdom of the other religious ways, the verses 5:35–50 (which include the admonition cited earlier to ‘compete in good works’, Q 5:48) are particularly instructive. In this section, one repeatedly finds the admonition to judge according to what 82 God has revealed Although ‘God decrees whatsoever He wills’ (5:1), his revealed decisions in moral and legal issues are not presented as something arbitrary in relation to conventional wisdom. It is for the Prophet and the Muslims to judge between people in equity ( 5:42). In the the verb to judge ( noun ) is etymologically related to the concept of wisdom, Moreover, wisdom appears to be a truly inclusive concept. By use of a generalising epithet of divine revelation, the states that the whole people of Abraham has been granted ‘the Book and the Wisdom’ 4:54).83 ( and the verb hadā—to guide—also occupies a prominent Along with place in the Like wisdom, guidance is not conceived of as exclusively In the Torah and the Gospel too, there is guidance and light (5:44–6). The concept of divine guidance might thus also be taken in an inclusive sense, so as to encompass the entire Abrahamic family. In a discussion about Islam and concept of guidance is human rights, Abdulaziz A.Sachedina argues that the indeed universal in its outlook, and that ‘it is possible to speak of natural-moral grounds

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of human conduct in the which parallel Paul’s presuppositions in Romans 2:14f. and 3:19’ (Sachedina 1988:62). He bases his argument on verses that presuppose that guidance has been given to all peoples (e.g. 5:48 and 2:213), and points to key ethical notions in the (such as ) that imply some kind of natural law accessible to all irrespective of a particular revelation. Intertextuality, communitarianism and supersessionist claims In all the modalities (or genres) of ethics, there is the question of intertextuality: how does ethics relate to the moral traditions of the ‘people of the Book’, that is, the Jews and the Christians? The assures the reader that Muslims do not differentiate between the prophets and their moral and religious messages. They were all guided to the straight path.84 As for Jesus, it is said that he came to confirm the Torah that had come before him and add to it the guidance and light of the Gospel (5:46), making lawful part of what had previously been forbidden (3:50).85 In general, the seems to imply that Christians live by a law that is slightly different from that of the Jews and the Muslims: ‘Let the People of the Gospel judge by what Allah hath revealed therein’, for ‘To each among you have We prescribed a Law and an Open Way’ (5:47f., Yūsuf ). Although the prescriptive ordinances of the might seem to come closer to the Torah than to the Gospel, the speaks more favourably of the Christians than of the Jews (5:82–5). The question of Jewish-Christian-Muslim intertextuality is thus a complex one. Initially, the cross-fertilisation was probably not of a scriptural kind. It must rather have been an oral sharing of religious narratives and moral conceptions. By the event of the however, a new element of formalised intertextuality in the Abrahamic family was introduced. Nevertheless, one should not confuse vibrant intertextuality and positive references to Jewish and Christian tradition with a modern ‘universalist’ or ‘pluralist’ position. Frederick M.Denny (Denny 1985) has argued convincingly that ethics—in all its modalities—presents itself as the ideal foundation of a wellbalanced Muslim community which is the best community ever established for the human race (Q 2:143, 3:110). Picking up the thread from the ideal community established by Abraham (Q 2:128), it supersedes all communities in between. In the light of classical and modern exegesis, Jane Dammen McAuliffe has even suggested that positive references to Christians in the may have the underlying premise that ‘good’ Christians are not recognised in their religious difference, but only as implicit Muslims (McAuliffe 1991).86 There is probably no escape, then, from seeing ethics as a communitarian ethics, that is, as integral to the understanding of the Muslim community as a distinct religious community. The hermeneutical question remains, however, of how to reinterpret ethics and its view of the religiously other in the light of new historical experience.87

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concepts of the person: qalb, nafs and later conceptualisations ethics is a theological ethics that aims ultimately at attaining proximity to God. By use of verbs or verbal nouns for ‘seeking’ and ‘desiring’ the may even speak of the desire for ‘God’s face’ or ‘countenance’ (wajh Allāh) as the ultimate aim of a righteous life (2:272, 6:52). However, as in other forms of religious ethics there are also a number of anthropological assumptions underlying ethics. In classical formulations of an Islamic anthropology, the notion of (commonly understood as a reference to ‘original nature’) was the focus of much attention, although it is found only once in the (30:30). In later interpretations, this verse has been taken to mean that human beings possess a natural disposition to become God-conscious and and to grasp moral truths. Abdulaziz A.Sachedina discusses different interpretations of and opts for the understanding that includes the capacity to exercise rational choice in the matter of faith (Sachedina 1988:65f.). As noted, Sachedina has also made an interesting link between the concepts of natural disposition ‘heart’ (qalb) and ‘conscience’. He compares conscience in the Thomistic sense of synderesis with the concept of and takes both concepts as references to the human being’s inborn capacity to grasp universal moral truths (Sachedina 1988:65, 86). He proceeds by associating ‘conscience’ in its capacity of making moral judgements (i.e. conscientia) with the notion of ‘heart’: ‘So understood, the heart is a notion very close to the concept of conscience’ (ibid.: 70, cf. 86). Sachedina also speaks of the heart as the ‘receptacle’ of —that is, as a receptive organ by which the human being is able to respond to the divine guidance given by revelation. But Sachedina is critically aware of the fact that the heart does not always respond positively to divine guidance. According to the human hearts are often ‘veiled’ (18:57), ‘blind’ (22:46) and ‘hardened’ (39:22)—and thus in need of healing. As for the notion of nafs (‘soul’), in keeping with general Semitic usage it does not necessarily refer to something inner as opposed to outer. It rather designates the human being in its totality, or ‘man’s personality’, as Rahman understands it (Rahman 1980:24). This is also reflected by the fact that in Arabic, the word nafs is often used in a general, reflexive form for ‘oneself’.88 As the heart is often sick and in need of healing, the soul is prone to evil and needs to be purified in order to succeed (12:53, 91:7–10).89 Only through constant struggle with oneself will the soul attain peace, well pleased and well-pleasing unto God (89:27f.). has taken the to imply that there are three basic states of the soul. These are epitomised by the expressions al-nafs (the soul commands what is evil, 12:53), al-nafs al-lawwāma (the self-reproaching soul, 75:2) 90 (the soul at peace, 89:27).91 The notion of al-nafs al-lawwāma and al-nafs

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is equated by and other modern authors with the reproaching function of conscience.92 An expression much used in the to denote human wrongdoing and sin is al-nafs, ‘wronging oneself’, or maybe more pointedly: ‘wronging one’s soul’.93 The reference is often to wrongdoing populations who are punished by God (Q 21:l 1, 22:45, 48). In several places, the asserts that when people do wrong and suffer the consequences, it is not God who is wronging them. They are rather wronging themselves (3:117), and it is not God who is harmed by their wrongdoing but rather their own souls (2:57). The verbal expressions of the were later conceptualised as al-nafs, a notion which in modern interpretations is often taken in an authenticityrelated sense of not doing wrong to oneself.94 Among the modern Egyptian authors in focus, Kāmil alludes to the concept of in the title of his novel about human conscience (Qarya 1954) and elaborates it more directly and Cragg 1959). (I will pursue the discussion of wronging one elsewhere ( ethics in Section 12.5—in the general perspective of self/wronging the other in selfhood and otherness in ethics.) The cares not only for the human ‘heart’ and ‘soul’, but for the human focus has been directed upon intellect as well. In modern interpretations of the the repeated appeals to human intellect and reasoning in the By use of the or f-k-r, one finds numerous expressions such as ‘do you not verbal roots understand?’ or ‘perchance you will understand’. The reference is often to the right understanding of God’s signs, which are ‘signs for a people who understand’.95 often occurs together with the In the Egyptian authors in focus, we shall see that central concept of the present investigation, Differently from has no etymological roots in the As I will show in Chapter 5, it belongs to a later development of Islamic anthropology, in which it came to designate the innermost conscious which is not divulged.

4.4 Some notes on ethics in

fiqh and classical theology

invites the human being to seek the straight path, al-mustaqīm (Q The 1:6 and passim). The Prophet is presented not only as a Messenger to be obeyed in this respect (4:59), but also as a beautiful model to be emulated ( 33:21). Ethics in The collections of sayings attributed to Muhammad and stories about his life and acts cover a wide range of topics which are treated holistically that is, not divided

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into religious, moral and legal issues. The issues dealt with in include themes such as faith, knowledge, virtue, ablution, marriage, financial transactions, prescribed punishments, fighting for God’s cause (jihād), food and drink, clothing, medicine, the tribulations of the last times, the day of judgement and life after death. Taken individually, the sayings offer themselves as the foundation of a detailed moral casuistry as well as of legislation. However, the Prophetic traditions may also be read in the narrative mode, as edifying stories of an exemplary model. Taken holistically the collections may just as well lay the foundation for a virtue ethics collections of character formation as for an ethics of minute casuistry. The elaborate extensively on the reference to the Prophet’s supreme character (68:4). Malik’s and Ibn Musnad report that said: ‘I 96 was sent only to perfect the noble qualities of character’ The collections have separate sections about the character-related concept of 97 ‘virtues’ Muslim dedicates a separate section to the concept of birr, (good manners) as section titles.98 and both Muslim and Bukhārī have Neither of these terms, however, should be taken as a heading of the entire ethical system of the collections. They are rather sub-divisions of collections that are basically concrete, narrative and circumstantial in their approach. As for the key ethical concepts noted from the the collections (doing what is good and beautiful) and emphasise and elaborate concepts such as birr (piety or righteousness). They add the crucial concept of niyya (intention), which is not found in the reported in the collection of Muslim, in his Kitāb In the very first (‘The book of faith’), religion (dīn) is summarised as (surrender), 99 (faith) and (doing what is good and beautiful). As this introduction of Muslim’s collection indicates, the numerous and meticulous prescriptions of the collections should not be taken merely as expression of an externalised duty ethics. The ethical ideal reflected in the Prophetic traditions is doing what is good and beautiful. It is directed towards worshipping God ‘as if you are seeing Him, for though you don’t see Him, He, verily, sees you’ (as is explained in the in question). A similar concern is reflected in the strong emphasis put on right intention (niyya) in the very first reported by al-Bukhārī, in ‘The book of the beginning of revelation’: ‘But the deeds depend upon the intentions and every person will get the reward according to what he has intended.’100 As we shall see in Section 5.4, niyya was long the preferred word for ‘conscience’ in Arabic Bible translations. In a comment on this particular the modern Egyptian Amīn sees niyya as the equivalent of ‘in our modern philosopher language’.101 collections should In an interreligious perspective, it is debatable whether the only be seen as the foundation of a confessional-communitarian ethics, or whether they

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can also allow for a universal interpretation of moral obligation. The collections include a Muslim version of the Golden Rule, which figures prominently at the beginning of al-Bukhārī’s book of faith: ‘No one of you will become faithful till he wishes for his brother what he likes for himself.’102 But it is not clear whether the golden rule in this version can in fact be taken as a testimony to the universalist nature of ethics in Whereas Abdullahi Ahmad in his outline of a legal reformation in Islam, reads the occurrence of the golden rule in different religious traditions as a 1990:1, 162–5), many reflection of ‘the universal principle of reciprocity’ ( translators of the in question take ‘brother’ only in the confessional sense, that is, as a reference to ‘the Muslim brother’.103 (I will continue my discussion of conscience and the golden rule in Section 12.4.) As for the question of Muslim-Christian intertextuality the collections contain several examples of religious and moral motifs that are found in quite similar forms in Christian tradition.104 Muslim’s book of birr includes a saying about the merits of visiting the sick and feeding the hungry which is almost identical with the judgement scene in Matthew 25:31ff.105 Instead of seeing the parallels to Jewish and Christian tradition as plagiarism, one might take them as examples of a vibrant intertextuality which became all the more pervasive as, during the first centuries of Islam, knowledge of Christian tradition increased. Islamic law as prescriptive ethics: universal or communitarian? In classical Islam, the questions of the lawful and the prohibited received a systematic treatment in what became eventually the schools of law in Islam, centred around the concept of and based on the methods of fiqh. As noted earlier, A.Kevin Reinhart sees Islamic law as the supreme expression of Islamic ethics, in a moral and legal theory of human behaviour ‘in which initial moral insights are systematically and selfconsciously transformed into enforceable guidelines and attractive ideals for all of human life’ (Reinhart 1983:199). covers both the moral and legal aspects of Islamic law. It contains The notion of not only legal distinctions between the lawful and the unlawful but also ethically relevant distinctions between compulsory, commendable and reprehensible acts within the category of the lawful (Schacht 1993/1964:121; Hallaq 1997:40). Rooted in the the term denotes the ‘way’ which is laid down by God for human Q 45:18). In Q 5:48, its conceptual relative beings to follow ( designates the different laws or ways prescribed for the various faith communities by came to stand God. In the early development of Islamic jurisprudence, however, for Islamic law as a coherent and holistic system of applied jurisprudence. (d. 820) had defined the overriding principles of fiqh and the schools After of law had been consolidated as four alternative systems of applied jurisprudence, the view developed among the jurists that the doors of independent reasoning (ijtihād) had now been closed (Schacht 1993/64:69–76). In modern interpretations of Islamic law and ethics, however, the claim that the doors of ijtihād had been closed once and for all has been challenged (Hallaq 1997:207ff.

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1990). In the modernist view of Fazlur Rahman, Islamic law must constantly be reinterpreted, since it relates to day-to-day life and hence a changing social environment. With social change, it will necessarily have to be reformulated, or stagnate and eventually collapse (Rahman 1982:156). For Rahman, this actualises the need for a moral reasoning which instead of casuistic directives takes as its starting point more general values expressed by the (Rahman 1985:8). In Chapter 7, we shall see that links creative ijtihād with the rule of against petrified religion and conscience, when calling for a never-ending jihād externalised interpretations of Islamic law.106 Classical Islamic law has often been accused by modern Muslim reformers of entailing the externalisation of ethics and legalistic reification of Islam at the expense of its dynamic character as a faith for all seasons. We have seen that Reinhart views the matter differently. He emphasises the creative rather than the restrictive aspects of classical Islamic law and its profoundly unifying character, and claims that ‘By grounding all of life in the relatively small body of Revelational texts, Muslim scholars insured the universalistic and transnational character of Islamic intellectual and moral life’ (Reinhart 1983:192). A similar point is made by John Kelsay who sees the divine command ethics of as ‘the development of a systematic theory of guidance which would replace the variety of ‘local’ versions of Islam, thus contributing to a uniting (and universal) vision of Islamic life’ (Kelsay 1994:103). Against Reinhart and Kelsay, I would argue that classical Islamic law was only universal in the sense of being transnational within the Islamic empire. It was not universal in the modern sense of offering legal standards which might be agreed upon on the basis of an overlapping consensus between representatives of different faiths and moral systems. Instead, special provision was made for the differing legal practices of the protected minorities, in rules and regulations for the communities. By relating imperial law to a revelation which was only recognised by one particular religious community, classical Islamic law was communitarian rather than universalist. Reinhart and Kelsay are right, however, that in the formative period, Islam functioned as a dynamic, transnational and cross-cultural force. It helped in building new communities which were in many respects more ‘universal’ than the ones they replaced. It was— ‘contextually universalist’.107 Theological ethics in Islam and the fight about rationalism In classical Islamic theology which came to be labelled kalām, 108 conflicting efforts were made to systematise the underlying anthropological and theological presuppositions of ethics. Unlike the proponents of the action-oriented jurisprudence associated with fiqh, kalām theologians reflected systematically upon the relation between God’s omnipotence and human freedom, and between God’s wise judgement and human rationality. Unlike contemporary philosophers (see Section 4.5), the representatives of kalām did not explicitly relate their discourses to other systems of learning. The central positions in classical Islamic theology have been epitomised as the and schools of theology. The theologians often referred to themselves as ‘the people of (divine) justice and unity’

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Influenced by the study of Greek philosophy and science, they emphasised logical reasoning and the study of the laws of nature. As defenders of reason, they fought on several fronts—against determinist thought and theological literalism. In terms of ethics, the position of the has been characterised as ethicotheological rationalism. Fakhry sees them as ‘the first genuine moralists of Islam’ (Fakhry 1994:31), with the writings of (d. 1025) as the most mature expression of their Islamic rationalism. Against claims that the divine injunctions of the must be received argued that revelation must ‘without asking how’ (bi-lā kayf), the necessarily be in accordance with human reason. Their duty ethics was based on a value ethics which related the lawful and the forbidden to categories of good and bad that could be rationally explained, and to the ontological conviction that certain actions (e.g. lying) are intrinsically good or bad. positions may be seen as an ideological In political terms, the early caliphate. For a short time, their school became the state foundation of the dogma under caliph (813–33), with the jurist and theologian ibn as one out of several imprisoned victims. From the middle of the ninth century, theologians continued to let their influence be the winds changed. Although felt, Islamic theology became more and more dominated by the synthesising efforts of (d. 935). His school aimed at reconciling faith with reason and divine fore ordination with a relative human freedom in ethics (Frank 1983). school was discursive, but—in marked The theological ethics of the —not rationalist. As for the concept of God’s difference from that of the ), the theologians claimed justice (a favourite topic among the that human reason has neither the right nor the capacity to judge about matters divine. As school questions about the justice of God were turned Hourani has noted, in the into legal concerns for justice in terms of law (Hourani 1985:66). In contradistinction to the ethico-theological rationalism of the theological ethics represents a kind of ethico-theological voluntarism (Fakhry the foundation of moral obligation is only to be 1994:46). According to found in God’s injunctions and prohibitions: ‘Lying is wrong since He declares it to be wrong…and if He were to command it there would be no argument to the contrary’ according to Frank (1983:210)). ( set out to combat rationalism, they did not neglect rational Although the arguments. These were, however, utilised to defend divine injunction rather than independent reason. Similar to post-modern critiques of universalist rationalism, the maintained that human reason cannot be regarded as universal in its claims. As a rational prize argument against the rationalist ontology of the theologians pointed to the factual disagreement between different peoples on what should be regarded as good or bad. Against the ontological claim that actions are intrinsically good or bad, they argued circumstantially and claimed that lying for the purpose of a higher good may sometimes be right, just as killing (in a traditional view) can be right in the case of capital punishment.

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theological ethics and Islamic law—particularly in its dominant version—may thus be regarded as two sides of the same coin, both contributing to an elaborate system of divine command ethics and moral/ legal casuistry (Hourani 1985:57ff. Makdisi in Hovannisian 1985:47–72; Brown 1999). 4.5 Philosophical ethics in Islam: universalist humanism? can be seen as implicitly universalist in their defence of Although the human reason as such, their outlook was rather communitarian as their point of reference was the particular tradition of the and The frame of reference of the classical philosophers in Islam was different. It was primarily defined by the parameters of the Greek heritage—as represented by Stoicism, Plato, Aristotle and Neoplatonism. From the ninth century, vast amounts of Greek literature were made available in Arabic translations through the great linguistic efforts initiated by the caliphs and carried out by ibn (d. 873) and others—many of them Nestorian Christians such as Ibn Much of this work was initiated by the Caliph (813–33) who is traditionally associated with the so-called Bayt (‘House of Wisdom’) in Baghdad (Watt 1994b:30–2). Since ethics was seen as a part of philosophy in the Aristotelian taxonomy of science, practically every Muslim philosopher (faylasūf) wrote on ethics. The philosophers’ approach was discursive rather than narrative and tradition-oriented, and the morality of the and is often merely implied: ‘ethics, according to its exponents, is an autonomous enquiry which revelation can confirm, but whose principles and precepts are valid in their own right and independently of such confirmation’ (Fakhry 1994:67). Whereas Fakhry holds the philosophers in high esteem for their great theoretical contribution to Islamic ethics, Hourani views the matter differently. In his view, the philosophers were often quite pragmatic in their approach, as proponents of a virtue ethics which had less originality and analytical quality than the duty ethics of the theologians (Hourani 1985:21). I believe that Fakhry’s view is more justified. With a view to the dialogical potential of Islamic ethics, philosophical ethics represents a pointed attempt to reformulate traditional ethics in a framework which was common to Muslim and Christian intellectuals at that time. Among the influences behind philosophical ethics in Islam, three major Greek elements can be identified. One is the ‘therapeutic’ kind of ethics formulated by Galen (d. ca. AD 200) in his Perì ethōn, on the basis of Plato’s and Aristotle’s theories of the three faculties of the soul (reason, desire and will). A second is the general thrust towards value and virtue ethics in Plato and Aristotle, with the four cardinal virtues (wisdom, courage, temperance and justice) at the centre of their interest. A third element was Neoplatonism and its spiritualised approach to ethics. In Plato and Aristotle, the concern for personal virtues is closely linked with the idea of the virtuous city (cf. al-Fārābī’s ethico-political treatise Al-madīna ). It should be no surprise that the Greek blend of personal and communal ethics must have been

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attractive to Muslim philosophers,—by its combined concern for character formation, community building and wise legislation. The Aristotelian concept of the golden mean (Greek mesótēs, Latin aurea media) was also adopted. In the virtue ethics of Miskawayh and others, the middle road is presented as the best way to avoid the vices (Miskawayh 1978:33ff, 126). Goldziher sees an affinity between this Aristotelian notion and the concept of the Muslim community as a ‘people in the middle’ ( Q 2:143; cf. Goldziher 1971:360–2). The incipient efforts to merge Greek philosophy with Islamic tenets are associated with the names of Abū al-Kindī (d. ca. 866) and Abū Bakr al-Rāzī (d. ca. 925), who introduced and developed a Greek-inspired and therapeutically oriented virtue ethics in Islam (Fakhry 1994:67–77). In the towering philosophers al-Fārābī, Ibn Sīnā and Ibn Rushd, both Aristotelian and neo-Platonic themes can be identified in their preoccupation with virtues, politics and that which lies beyond. The first Arab-Islamic philosopher to comment on parts of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics was al-Fārābī (d. 950) who worked in Baghdad and Aleppo.109 Al-Fārābī belonged to an intellectual milieu in which Islamic, Christian-Nestorian and Greek-philosophical elements cross-fertilised each other. The Nestorian Christian ibn was one of his mentors (Netton 1992:3, 5, 7). In Ibn Sīnā (=Avicenna, from Bukhāra, d. 1037), Aristotelian logic and moral theory are merged with neo-Platonic epistemology and illuminationism. His ethics has a distinctive ‘therapeutic’ touch which is also reflected in the title of his encyclopaedic work Al-šifā, ‘Healing’.110 Through later translations into Latin, the works of Ibn Sīnā influenced both medicine and philosophy in the Christian West. The influence of the later Andalusian philosopher Ibn Rushd (=Averroes, d. 1198) was even greater. Ibn Rushd countered the vehement attacks on the philosophers by al-Ghazālī (see later), and defended philosophy as an Islamic science.111 It was his conviction that philosophy and revealed religion were both true, and could not therefore be in disharmony. As a political ethicist, he agrees with Aristotle that the practical aim of ethics—the virtuous city—may be achieved either by rational argument or by coercion. Whereas the ordinary people only need rhetorical arguments to be convinced, the select few of the philosophical elite can only live by rational demonstration. In between, Ibn Rushd finds a place for the intermediate class of the people of dialectic (jadal): the theologians who stand above the ordinary people by virtue of their reasoning efforts, but fall short of truly demonstrative arguments. His hierarchical division of classes corresponds to different levels in religion, ranging from the bodily aspects of the religious law to the utmost aim of religion which is conjunction with ‘the active intellect’. Ibn Rushd’s way of reasoning enabled him to administer the Islamic law in the function of a judge in Seville, Cordoba and Marrakesh, and simultaneously search intellectually for that far beyond legislation and politics. Through the translations of his commentaries into Hebrew and Latin, the influence of Ibn Rushd and his elaboration on Aristotelian thought was even greater in Europe than in the Muslim world. His works were seminal in a massive Greek, Islamic, Jewish and Christian intertextuality in the field of philosophy and ethics (Watt 1995).

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shares the commonly held view that al-Fārābī, Ibn Sīnā and Ibn Rushd were ‘the great three’ in Islamic philosophy.112 All of these philosophers’ preoccupation with personal character, their appeal to human reason and their elitism is reflected in the modern reappropriations of the Islamic heritage by and Khālid (although the elitist element is less strong in Khālid). Universalist humanism ‘in the renaissance of Islam’ Also and Khālid’s notion of ‘humanity’ has firm roots in classical philosophical ethics in Islam. As Joel L.Kraemer sees it, ‘the towering figures’ of al-Fārābī and Ibn Sīnā stand at the beginning and end of intense philosophical activity in Baghdad during the Buyid era (945–1055). The era has been epitomised by Kraemer as ‘Humanism in the Renaissance of Islam’ (Kraemer 1986). According to Kraemer, the uniting elements in Islamic philosophical humanism were as follows: adoption of ancient Greek philosophical classics for the purpose of cultured education and character formation, the idea of the essential unity of humankind, and a corresponding orientation towards humaneness or philanthropy. A key notion was which appears also as a pivotal concept in the Egyptian writers to be analysed in the present study. Whereas is a expression, the term is not and represents a later, philosophical conceptualisation. For the classical philosophers, humanity came to designate not only what human beings have in common, but also what it means to be truly human—‘in the sense of realizing the end or perfection of man qua man, often synonymous with the exercise of reason’ (Kraemer 1986:10). According to Kraemer, the Islamic humanist renaissance was marked by individualism and cosmopolitanism and by a keen interest in the ideal human types of the philosopher, the ruler and the courtier (ibid.: 11–20). The Buyid emirs acted as patrons for an intellectual activity that was often carried out by their privileged secretaries (such as the courtier Miskawayh) and organised in schools, circles and societies. As noted earlier, in these ‘schools’ Christians and Muslims influenced each other, united by a shared interest in Greek philosophy and philosophical interpretation of moral-religious tenets (Netton 1992). In this environment, a complex intertextuality took place during the Buyid age. It was nourished by Arab, Persian and Greek sources, and Muslims and Christians alike participated in it. The Islamic renaissance in Kraemer’s sense, with its antecedents in the period, has left a legacy of Islamic humanism which is truly intercultural and interreligious. It should thus be no surprise that the inclusive notion of ‘humanity’ as well as the concept of ‘humaneness’ and ‘humane features’ resurfaces in the dialogical works of the modern Egyptian authors focused on by this study.113 One of the most influential schools in Baghdad during the Buyid age was that headed by the Jacobite (i.e. monophysite) Christian ibn (d. 974). He is known to have been a disciple of al-Fārābī, and himself became the mentor of a new generation of

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philosophers—most of them Muslims. ibn set a standard for Arab reception of Greek virtue ethics in his ‘the refinement of character’, in which a combined Christian-Muslim focus on the universality of reason and the essential unity of and the one who humankind is expressed. Men are ‘joined together by humanity’ loves perfection should ‘train his soul to harbor friendship toward all men, and to have affection and compassion for them’ (Kraemer 1986:115). ibn most influential Muslim disciple was Miskawayh (b. 932, d. 1030) affiliation.114 His main ethical work who was of Persian origin and probably of carries the same title as that of ibn (‘The refinement of character’). Like his Christian mentor, Miskawayh’s ethics has a combined focus on humanity reason virtue and the human good 115 Miskawayh maintains that the human good can only be attained when other-directed love adds to the rational activity of the Self: ‘To this end people must love one another, for each one finds his own perfection in someone else, and the happiness of the latter is incomplete without the former’ (Miskawayh 1968:14, cf. Miskawayh 1978:23). Miskawayh makes it clear, however, that the aim of character formation lies far beyond the realm of human relations. The highest rank of virtue is that in which all activities of the human being are divine and proceed from the inner core of his personality which is identical with his divine intellect. In this state, imitating the Creator becomes an aim in itself, and actions are no longer done primarily for the sake of others: ‘What he performs for others he rather does for a secondary purpose, while the primary purpose of his activity is his own self and the activity itself,’ (ibid.: 79f./100f.). This is because difference or otherness is due to matter only (ibid.: 126/152). Correspondingly, and in accordance with the he sees human failure primarily as wronging oneself ( li-nafsihi, ibid.: 113/139). In Miskawayh’s ethics, references to the and are scanty, whereas citations of alleged sayings of Plato, Aristotle and Galen abound. God is most often referred to as the Creator rather than the author of a particular revelation. Miskawayh teaches also that conformity with the religious law is but a first step in character formation. When a person is trained to follow the morality of the law from youth, in mature age the requirements of the law may eventually become a habit 116 But one must proceed from the morality of the law to the study of ‘the books of ethics’ Only thus can morals and fine qualities be confirmed by rational demonstration. In order to acquire virtues and reach ‘genuine morality’ there is also the need for an inner jihād—a fact which Miskawayh demonstrates by reference to his own personal history.117 Such is the thrust of Miskawayh’s philosophical ethics. Is it ‘universal’? There is at least a universalist drive in Miskawayh’s ethics—inasmuch as it aspires to and reflects both Islamic-Greek and Islamic-Christian intertextuality

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As we shall see, elements of Miskawayh’s ethics—such as his concern for the and his combined focus on ‘refinement of character’, his generalised notion of rationality and love—resurface in the main Egyptian authors to be studied in Part II, in particular in The general thrust of classical philosophical ethics is reflected in modern Egyptian works on moral philosophy such as the influential Kitāb of Amīn (Amīn 1985/1920) and the Falsafat of Tawfīq ( 1976).

4.6

ethics and the synthesis of al-Ghazālī

Although the formulation of philosophical ethics in Islam was more or less aborted after Miskawayh, several aspects of his ethics were picked up in the grand philosophical, theological and mystical synthesis of al-Ghazālī—although in a more traditional, communitarian and narrative framework. Al-Ghazālī (see p. 60) incorporates also important aspects of the manifold tradition of ethics. Modern books by authors develop the therapeutic aspects of character ethics on the basis of what is perceived as The Psychology of (Nurbakhsh 1992), the ‘ science of the soul’ (Ajmal 1991) and more generally as ‘Psychology in Islamic Ethics’ (Quasem 1981). As the bottom line, one finds the therapeutic recognition that the ordinary soul is in a state of sickness resulting from separation from God, and a general orientation towards the inner aspect of human existence.118 was less psychologically oriented. It was marked by stern asceticism, Early but also by the language of love—as classically expressed by (d. 728) and (d. 801), respectively. The love poetry of the woman saint and others transformed asceticism ‘from the violent wrenching of the spirit from matter enjoined by a dualistic perception of universe into a force for moderation, as well as temperance, and harmony’ (Awn 1983:246). In these early stages of in the much later love poetry of Rūmī (d. 1273) and other Persian mystics, obvious influences from Christian monasticism can be identified as well as frequent references to the ethical and spiritual example of Jesus.119 It is in fact a common feature of ethics (in most of its varieties, from early ascetism to later love poetry) that it interacts with Christian tradition in a creative way. Margareth Smith has made much of this point, and sees Christian impulses as a major factor behind the formation of (Smith 1976/1931). Although her strong emphasis on Christian influences might seem to blur the rich and Islamic resources for a mystical spirituality, her outline of numerous and striking similarities between and the asceticism and mystical theology of (in particular) Syrian Christianity testifies to a living intertextuality and spiritual crossfertilisation between the two traditions in the formative years of Islam. In the Andalusian-born Ibn (d. 1240), is linked with a philosophical al-wujūd, the unity of existence. In his theosophy which was epitomised as

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version of a kind of Gnosticism is added to the metaphor of love good and evil are relations. Peter J.Awn (Awn 1983) argues that in Ibn ultimately conceived of as relative terms, since all that exists is rooted in God’s free will and corresponds to the particularities of the individual person: ‘Whoever truly understands this Wisdom and establishes it in himself and realizes it releases himself from dependence of others and knows that good and bad come to him only from himself.’120 Coming close to modern understandings of authenticity, Ibn continues: ‘By good I mean what is in consonance with his aim, in harmony with his nature and disposition, and by evil what is contrary to his aim and in conflict with his nature and disposition.’121 In spirituality and ethics, as well as interpretations of the pointed Whereas to a mystical, inward way alongside the outward roads delineated by the some mystics would tend to place themselves aloof from the others were satisfied with demanding more than it—without in any way acting or suggesting anything that went contrary to its legal expressions. From the beginning of Islamic mysticism, there was also a constant and controversial quest for the inward meaning of revelation and tradition. In exegesis, the inward turn found expression in the esoteric interpretations of the which developed alongside the more exoteric tafsīr exegesis which stuck to the outward meaning of the text. Among the modern Egyptian authors focused on by this study, there is a striking emphasis on the inner meaning of text and tradition in the works of and Amīn to subsume partly in those of Khālid. It was this fact that led religious philosophy under the heading of juwwāniyya, ‘interiorism’ (Amīn 1964:293–315; Amīn 1966).122 one will also find an elaborate anthropology focused on the inner human In being. In some thinkers, one will find that their mystical anthropology includes the Whereas al-sirr in standard interpretations stands for paired concepts of sirr and could be taken as a reference to the non-divulged the innermost unconscious, conscious of the human being (cf. Section 5.2).123 The notion of occurs also in the spiritual manuals of of Baghdad (d. 857). name is associated with the classical technique of inward accounting which has some points of convergence with the selfexamining or judging function of conscience in Christian and Western tradition. In a modern summary of these techniques R.Deladrière has characterised concept of inward accounting after the action ( al-nafs ) as ‘the examination of conscience’.124 In his Kitāb Allāh (‘The book of observance of the rights of God’), unfolds his famous concept of inward accounting or self-examination. He speaks both of an anticipatory inward accounting, a constant surveillance, and selfexamination after the action which may include sincere remorse (nadāma,

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1940:149ff.). Further elaborating the different levels of self-examination, even employs the notion of He distinguishes between a piety (taqwā) at the level of the body which is aimed at doing what is right, and a piety at the level of which is aimed at sincerity ( ibid.: 9, 11).125 Whereas the bodily level has to do with actions, is associated with the heart (ibid.: 13).126 The of the righteous ones is directed towards the face of God—bent upon avoiding all that is displeasing to Him and doing what He pleases (ibid.). Not surprisingly, also cites dictum about the intention behind the deed ( bi-lniyya) in the same context, and unfolds the concept of niyya more thoroughly in a different section of the book (ibid.: 141ff.). concept of was taken up and further developed by alal-dīn ‘On spiritual surveillance Ghazālī, in his deliberations in book 38 of (murāqaba) and inward accounting ’. Narrative religious ethics in Islam: al-Ghazālī It is almost a convention to say that the task of a grand synthesis of theology, philosophy was left to Abū al-Ghazālī (b. in Persia 1058, d. and 1111).127 By virtue of its reference to prophetic tradition and its call for obedience to God, alGhazālī’s ethics must be characterised as a ‘religious’ rather than a philosophical ethics (cf. Fakhry 1994:151). This was also the way al-Ghazālī saw it when he wrote about ethics in the perspective of ‘revival of the religious sciences’; the title of his masterpiece al-dīn. Al-Ghazālī saw ethics in the wider perspective of the religious sciences and their typical kind of seekers. He regarded ethics in the sense of character formation as superior both to theology ( al-kalām) and law ( al-fiqh).128 As for fiqh, he saw Islamic jurisprudence as part of the outward or worldly sciences. But he was conscious that this view was questioned by the jurists of Islam.129 Al-Ghazālī’s approach to Islamic ethics was marked by a strong concern for reconciliation between its inner and outer aspects. His emphasis, however, was on the inner prerequisites of moral action. In the section about belief in vol. 1 of aldīn, al-Ghazālī states that the aim of human life is to acquire divine light in the heart.130 In the subsequent exposition of the five pillars of Islam and the excellence of the his focus is always on the pillars’ subtle meanings and their inherent secrets, the inward prerequisites of ethics and the inner sense of the which is its real Amīn characterises meaning.131 The twentieth-century Egyptian philosopher al-Ghazālī’s approach as ‘ethical interiorism’ (al-juwwāniyya ) and sees his ethics as the very foundation of modern Muslim attempts to put human conscience at the centre of moral theology.132

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Although al-Ghazālī shares the philosophers’ concern for virtues and character formation, his approach to ethics is narrative rather than discursive in style. His points of reference are the stories of the prophets rather than the legacy of Plato and Aristotle. In this respect, he may be considered a model for the narrative style used by and Christ, and other Khālid when they wrote about the exemplary models of prophets and reformers. In his theory of virtue, al-Ghazālī links up with the four Greek principal virtues. But his emphasis is rather on mystical virtues like repentance, patience, gratitude, hope and fear, poverty and love (cf. Sherif 1975). Unfolding the virtues, he quotes extensively from and from the sayings of Muslim saints and sages such as Imām and He also cites available traditions about the pre-Islamic prophets— Jesus in particular. In there are more than 100 references to the sayings of Jesus, focusing on his asceticism and the inward orientation of his teachings. Some of the sayings are known in similar form from the biblical or the apocryphal gospels. But many of them are otherwise unknown, such as: ‘Whoever has prayer for his speech, meditation for his silence and tears for his vision, he is like me,’ or: ‘Love of the world and love of the hereafter cannot be brought together in the heart of the believer, any more than fire and water can coexist in one place’.133 Al-Ghazālī’s virtue ethics is unfolded in vol. III–IV of His exposition in vol. III of the destructive evils of life begins with three books about the wonders of the human heart (21), on disciplining the soul (22), and on breaking the two desires of the stomach and of sex (23). In book 21, he links up with the Greek theory of a tripartite soul.134 In the title of book 22, he joins the concern of the philosophers and the mystics for disciplining the soul, refining the human character and curing the inner sickness of the human being.135 Emphasising the need for a constant, spiritual struggle on the battlefield of the soul, alGhazālī quotes the which defines jihād against the soul as the greater jihād (alGhazālī 1995a:56).136 He defines character as ‘a term for the condition and inner aspect ibid.: 18, 16). of the soul’, connected to man’s God-given capacity of inner sight ( Jesus and other prophets—are According to al-Ghazālī, some people— born with a good character as an innate disposition prone to perfection (kamal ). They become learned without instructors (ibid.: 7, 31). Others need disciplining education in order to acquire the moral virtues which al-Ghazālī enumerates in accordance with the classical, fourfold table of the philosophers. Al-Ghazālī’s volume on the constructive virtues (vol. IV) includes books on the mystical practices of repentance (book 31), spiritual surveillance and inward accounting book 37), he puts much stress upon right (book 38). In connection with sincerity ( intention (niyya, )—without which there can be no virtuous act and no divine reward. In sum, al-Ghazālī’s elaborations on spiritual discipline, his focus on the inner aspects of religion, his ethical concern for character formation and his keen interest in exemplary models from among the prophets can be regarded as paradigmatic for and Khālid’s modern versions of person-oriented ethics in Islam.

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4.7 Conscience, science and civilisation in European Christianity and Islam After having discussed Islamic ethics in the perspectives of person-oriented ethics, communitarianism and universalism, the question may be raised anew whether the Christian and Islamic traditions are fundamentally different in their approach to ethics, or converge at key points. Correspondingly one may ask whether ‘conscience’ connotes specifically Christian and Western insights, or overlaps with central tenets and trajectories in Islamic ethics. In Section 3.3, I briefly mentioned the views put forward by the historian Benjamin Nelson and the sociologist Toby E.Huff about the role of conscience in the West. In their discussion of ideational formation and institutionalisation of science in Europe from the twelfth century onwards, they have taken the Western concept of conscience as a clue to fundamental civilisational differences between Europe and the Muslim world in that period. As the bottom line of Huff’s and Nelson’s historical approach, one finds the notion of a European ‘renaissance’ in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, far predating the fifteenth and sixteenth-century awakening more commonly referred to by the same term. The idea that the Scholastic notion of conscience and casuistry played a major part in this process has been hinted at by several scholars, and is given pre-eminence by Nelson and Huff.137 Nelson speaks of ‘the triangulated structure of conscience, casuistry and the cure of souls’ which was introduced in this period and focuses upon the interrelation of universalisation and individualisation in thinkers such as Abelard, Bonaventure and Thomas Aquinas: ‘The concrete individual was presumed to have access to universal norms of the utmost generality’ (Nelson 1981:9). In his studies of the idea of usury, he highlighted the ideational enlargement of the moral community and the development of Christian universalism ‘from tribal brotherhood to universal otherhood’ (ibid.: xi). Seeing Scholastic preoccupation with ‘conscience’ in the modern light of ‘universalism’, Nelson suggests that the notion of conscience (conscientia) only comes to the fore when structures of collective consciousness are broken down, with the ensuing need to establish assessments of individual liability, responsibility and blame (ibid.: 223). Downplaying the authoritarian and hierarchical aspects of the development of casuistry and canon law, he concentrates instead on the innovative idea of the rule of conscience which was formulated in this period. In his inter-civilisational deliberations, Nelson occasionally touches upon Islam. In a sweeping generalisation, he contends that in medieval Islam the prevailing consciousness never really transcended the ritual-oriented and faith-affirming structures, so as to reach the degree of rationalisation. As an implication, Muslim (and Jewish) structures remained ‘stubbornly communalistic’, and failed to formulate universalised norms and standards in ethics and science. According to Nelson, only in Christianity was there an ‘accelerated passage to universalistic structures’, fuelled by the new logic and the new patterns of science emerging in the twelfth and the thirteenth centuries. As Nelson sees it, it was this early European renaissance which paved the way for the distinctive patterns of Western civilisation and its thrust towards modernisation, rationalisation and universalisation (ibid.: 100f.).

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Nelson’s concern for a comparative study of the concepts of conscience and science in the West, in China and in Islam was taken up and further elaborated by Toby E.Huff in his study of The rise of early modern science. Islam, China and the West (Huff 1995). Underlying Huff’s investigations one finds the conviction that prior to the emergence of autonomous sciences, ‘the sources of reason and rationality in any civilization are to be found in its religion, philosophy, and law’. In conjunction with Nelson, Huff contends that certain religious images emerging in the Western world in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries ‘created an unprecedented faith in reason and the rational ordering of the natural world’ (ibid.: 91). Huff adds the observation that conceptual innovations were linked with the establishment of colleges and universities, in new cities and towns. As for the interaction between Europe and Islamic culture, Huff recognises the fact that contact Arabic-Islamic culture was an essential prerequisite for the occurrence of an early renaissance in Europe. But events took a different turn in Europe from what happened in the Islamic world. According to the European view, humankind was now conceived of as ‘possessed of reason, and may use that reason to weigh the validity of custom, tradition, and religious authority, and even Scripture itself’. Furthermore, the human being was thought of as ‘possessed of conscience, that unquenchable agency which allows men to discern right and wrong in moral affairs’ (ibid.: 142). According to Huff, the ideological developments were markedly different in medieval Islam. Islamic legal and religious thought kept on insisting ‘that the powers of man’s reasoning are too limited and too uncertain to be a guide in moral, religious, and legal affairs’. Huff also repeats Orientalist claims that ‘Conscience, as the medieval Europeans understood it, is unknown to Islamic law, ethics, and religion, and classical Arabic lacked such a term’ (ibid.). Regarding institutional developments, Huff points to the fact that a universalised body of Islamic law was never formulated. In the madrasa (the Islamic colleges), the four major schools of law were taught not as a single entity but as exclusive systems, applicable by personal choice. Furthermore, Islamic law remained related to the case of individuals. Concepts such as legal personalities were never developed, and the principle of the ruler’s discretionary powers restricted the universalisation of Islamic law in the field of politics. Huff also notes that in the field of individual liability, intention remained merely a moral and spiritual concept, and was not allowed to carry any weight in legal matters. As for ethics in general, Huff notes that the dominant theology insisted that reason, although capable of dialectical exposition of theological truths, ‘in fact yields no universal principles’. As al-Ghazālī put it, ‘no obligations flow from reason but from the ’ (ibid.: 115). In the view of Huff, then, reason for the Islamic orthodox was little more than common sense. There was no acknowledgement of the idea that reason could reach new truths unaided by revelation: ‘Innovation, in matters of religion, was equivalent to heresy’ (ibid.: 117). Given their focus on rationalising and universalising processes, both Nelson and Huff downplay the dominance of ecclesiastical authority over independent reason in subsequent European developments. Huff admits that the rationalising efforts of European medievals ‘did not proclaim a holiday of unfettered free thinking in all the realms, but it did lay the groundwork for intellectual autonomy’ (ibid.: 117).

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In my view, it could be argued more forcefully that in medieval Europe, reason remained in practice just as much subordinate to revelation and religious control as in medieval Islam. As emphasised by Bryan S.Turner, in pre-Reformation Christianity ‘conscience was institutionalized within the sacrament of penance, controlled and monopolized by an ecclesiastical elite’ (Turner 1994:63). In some regions—notably Islamic Spain—Islam proved to be a more fertile ground for free intellectual activity than Christendom. Instead of unveiling the resources for a relatively free reasoning in Islamic philosophy, Huff focuses his attention on the institutional victors in mainstream Muslim culture, those of the orthodox type. From a sociological point of view, this makes good sense. Admittedly, in most contexts it was theological orthodoxy that got the upper hand in medieval Islamic developments. But in terms of the history of ideas, medieval Islam proved to be capable of quite different conceptualisations of ethics, including patently ‘humanist’ efforts. The question arises whether it makes any sense to speak of ‘civilisations’ in broad and generalising terms. It might be more fruitful to explore the tensions between innovative intellectual efforts and institutional control in both ‘Western’ and ‘Islamic’ civilisation, and the regional variations within both. ‘Christianity’, ‘Europe’ or ‘Islam’ cannot be referred to as monolithic systems. The inherent tensions within the traditions are often more striking than the differences between them. Vibrant intertextuality and widespread cross-fertilisation between the traditions testify to the fact that Christian and Islamic ‘civilisations’ cannot be neatly categorised and separated. Nelson and Huff are probably right, however, that the notion of conscience played a role in rationalising and universalising developments in medieval Europe. Their elucidation of the formative role played by a certain concept in a particular historical context makes good sense in the perspective of Begriffsgeschichte. But the warning of Goldziher—not to focus solely on words and terms in a comparison of ideas—should always be kept in mind. In both ‘Europe’ and ‘Islam’, there is far more to the relation between revelation and reason, communitarianism and universalism, than the occurrence or non-occurrence of a certain term such as ‘conscience’. 4.8 Preliminary conclusion Is there, then, a conceptual space in classical Islam for a distinctively modern interest in the authority of conscience, autonomous reason and universalised ethics? In the present chapter, I have tried to demonstrate that classical Islam was able to accommodate both rationalism and universalism. In philosophical ethics, a community-transcending universalism epitomised by the word ‘humanity’ was developed. But is rationalist and universalist ethics necessarily what should be sought for, when trying to find a bridge between Christian ‘conscience’ and Islamic ethics? Is Greekinspired philosophical ethics necessarily more universalist and inclusive than a narrative religious ethics? To a post-modern sensitivity the question of universalism would rather be one of competing universalisms (Islamic, Christian, Islamic-Christian, Islamic-Greek, Islamic-Greek-Christian etc.). Correspondingly, the concern for reason would have to be reformulated as ‘whose rationality?’

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The insistence that reason can never be independent of a particular ‘revelation’, might in fact be more in tune with a post-modern sensitivity than the Islamic philosophers’ stress on rationality and universalism. From a dialogical perspective, the narrative religious ethics of al-Ghazālī was no less inclusive towards Christian tradition than the allegedly universalist ethics of the Islamic philosophers. It only represented a different and maybe more formative genre of ethics than that of the philosophers. The present chapter has partially aimed at demonstrating that Islamic ethics cannot be thought of as a uniform system. Any approach to ethics in Islam must take into account the fact that ‘Islam’ is the name of a multi-layered tradition, which offers differing frameworks for ethical reflection. Is there a space for conscience, then, in Islamic ethics? Until the twentieth century, this question had not been explicitly raised. With regard to the classical tradition, we have seen that Islamic ethics in most of its versions has rich resources for a person-oriented ethics with stress on inward accounting and character formation. Such concerns in Islamic ethics may easily link up with important aspects of conscience-based ethics as developed in Christian and European tradition. More critical, however, is the question of whether Islam only allows for internalisation of norms and virtue traits that are established by divine prescriptions once and for all. A merely prescriptive approach to ethics would, of course, severely restrict the rule of conscience—as it has repeatedly in Christian-European history. The modern Egyptian authors focused upon in this study link up with several aspects of Islamic ethics—value-based ethics, philosophical ethics, mystical ethics, and they draw a narrative ethics similar to that of al-Ghazālī. In their discourses of upon the rich tradition of Islamic-Jewish-Christian and Islamic-Greek intertextuality in the classical period—in search for what is truly ‘human’. In Chapters 6–9, I will investigate exactly how the modern Egyptian authors create a conceptual space for human conscience in their Islamic context, which parts of Islamic tradition they link up with, and what kind of intertextual, interreligious processes they are involved in. Before that, I will look into the semantic history of with a view to as a modern possible Islamic-Christian cross-fertilisation in the very coining of Arabic word for conscience.

Part III Interlude The semantics of

5 Conscience in Arabic The semantics of In this chapter, I will trace the semantic history of with a view to how and when it was coined as ‘conscience’ in modern Arabic. Part of the focus will be on lexicographical evidences. Dictionaries summarise the evidence of a specific textual corpus at a given time, not as neutral observations, but as an interpretative effort in its own right. In the case of dictionaries from European languages into Arabic, entries may even function as innovative suggestions. A second focus will be on Arabic Bibles, from early medieval manuscripts to modern printed versions, with the purpose of elucidating how became the preferred term for rendering the Greek syneīdēsis and its cognate words in Syriac, Coptic and Latin. although it is used One cannot presuppose that the modern Arabic notion of to translate ‘conscience’ and made to carry much of its conceptual content, is identical to its conceptual neighbour in Christian and European traditions. Only a literary and historical analysis of the actual use of among modern Egyptian authors can might stand for in a particular discursive context. elucidate what 5.1 ‘Conscience’ in modern Arabic and are the words mainly used for self-reflexive In modern Standard Arabic, consciousness (Wehr 1979:554, 1268). Given the oscillation between self-reflexive consciousness and moral conscience in European languages, one cannot preclude that in its modern usage as the preferred word for conscience, may also connote self-consciousness in a wider sense. Perhaps even more importantly, there are classical in the wider sense of self-reflexive consciousness (see Arabic models for using Section 5.2). For moral consciousness or conscience, as distinct from consciousness in a general sense, a modern English-Arabic dictionary gives two alternatives: and wijdān (Doniach 1982:75). As we shall see from the works of Khālid and to be analysed in Part II, it is that dominates the semantic field of moral will consciousness/conscience. A closer investigation of what they mean by transcend the realm of semantics, and presupposes a contextual and history of ideasoriented reading of their works. In some other modern Egyptian authors, we shall see that

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wijdān may also be used for moral consciousness.138 As noted in Section 3.5, in modern alternates with Arabic translations of the World Declaration of Human Rights wijdān. in the modern Standard Arabic lexicon, Schregle distinguishes As regards between three levels of meaning: (1) inner, mind, heart; (2) conscience and (3) pronoun (Schregle 1986:1172, in my translation). Correspondingly Wehr lists the following meanings: ‘heart; mind; innermost; conscience; (independent or suffixed) personal pronoun’ (Wehr 1979:637). has to do with the hidden.139 In the coining of as a word Etymologically for conscience/moral consciousness in modern Arabic, etymology therefore indicates a (or even ism strong inward orientation, towards a moral voice within. The use of ) for the personal pronoun in Arabic grammar may point in the same direction: the personal pronoun conceals the agent, who devoid of his name has ‘shrunk’ into anonymity140 Proceeding to modern Egyptian colloquial Arabic, we find that Badawi and Hinds as ‘1. conscience. 2. [gram] pronoun’ (Badawi and Hinds 1986:524). For render wijdān (wigdān), they list ‘(inner) consciousness, imagination, mind’. They also mention composite forms such as il-wigdān (‘the Egyptian mind’) or il-wigdān (‘social consciousness’, ibid.: 924). which The philosophical dictionary compiled by the Christian Arab Jamāl as concentrates on French and Arabic philosophical terminology, translates as ‘conscience morale’. First, defines ‘conscience psychologique’ and as a disposition of the soul to distinguish between good and bad actions, accompanied by the faculty to issue immediate moral judgements on the value of individual actions. Second, he cites Rousseau in order to show that conscience—as a ‘divine instinct’—can also be conceived of as capable of issuing moral judgements in 1971:763).141 advance, functioning both as a guide and a restraint (

5.2

in classical and medieval Arabic, and in medieval/early modern Arabic dictionaries

is not found either in the or in the collections. Among The word Islamic writers of classical and medieval Arabic, the word occurs. But there is no was ever used in the specific sense of moral evidence that in the general sense consciousness/conscience. What we do find, is the following: in the grammatical meaning of pronoun; a technical of hidden, innermost thought; use of in the logical theory of Ibn Sīnā; and a typical distinction between as ‘the inner conscious’ and sirr as ‘the inner unconscious’.

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and philosophical/secular usage

In the mystical commentary on the attributed to the Imam 142 (d. 765), one finds a reference to in his explanation of 28:10. This verse employs two different words for ‘heart’: and qalb. His commentary adds other words for the interior of the human being, and runs as follows: ‘The is the source of submission, the qalb is the source of certitude, the is the source of contemplation, is the source of the secret (al-sirr, i.e. things known only to God), and the soul (nafs) is the refuge of all good and all evil’.143 Among the words listed by for the inner ‘sources’ of the human being, is the only word that does not occur in the As one can see, it is identified with, or at least intimately related to sirr. sermons, which were edited in their present form Also in the collection of Imām in Nahj in the eleventh century, one finds references to in the sense speaks of the of the inner Self. In an intriguing passage from one of his sermons, of human beings as ‘God’s eyes’. After having assured his audience that nothing is hidden from God of whatever people do in their nights or days, he says: ‘Your limbs are a witness, the organs of your body constitute an army (against yourself), your inner self serves Him as eyes (to watch your sins; and your loneliness is open to Him’.144 In one of his sayings, he states that if a person is too eager with distress which keeps altering to acquire the riches of the world, then it fills his in ‘the black part of his heart’, some grief worrying him and another giving him pain.145 The use of in Nahj is not necessarily very pointed. As a reference to seems to be interchangeable with, for example, sarīra.146 the inner, invisible Self, sermons, however, might indicate that there A parallelism in the opening of one of could be more to it than mere synonymy: ‘Allāh knows hidden matters and is 147 aware of inner feelings ’. It might be that these passages from should be read in the light of usage, in and sirr. In which some interpreters do find a rather elaborate distinction between certain contexts, one will find a very pointed usage in which denotes the inner conscious, whereas sirr stands for the inner unconscious. According to Louis Massignon, this distinction can be traced already in the works of (d. 922). as used by Massignon gives 13 references (Massignon 1954:29), and translates as ‘le moi conscient de l’homme (opp. sirr, son inconscient profond)’.148 in Ibn (d. 1240) and possibly also in his In later philosophical contemporary Ibn (d. 1235), seems to have been used in the same way— signifying the conscious self and contrasting sirr, the deep unconscious.149 This is also the meaning of given by the Arabic-French dictionary

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which—in tune with Massignon—defines as ‘Le moi conscient de l’homme’ in contrast to sirr which means ‘Inconscient profond de l’homme’.150 and sirr may have been In medieval Arabic, this particular distinction between usage. As for a more general, secular or even philosophical use of restricted to several attestations can be given. According to al-Fārābī, the externalism of the 151 voice gives expression to what is otherwise concealed in the mind Other with reference to heartfelt Muslim philosophers from the classical period used relations or inner thoughts, but with no apparent mystic or moral connotations.152 (d. 857) employed the notion of As I have shown in Section 4.6, in the context of his spiritual technique self-examination. His use of and sirr seems not to be influenced by the more technical, usage referred to earlier. and sirr are rather used to distinguish the inner from the outer in a more general sense. For example, he distinguishes between pious fear (taqwā) at the level of the limbs ( 1940:9, cf. 11, 13).153 He employs the and at the level of notion of sirr with a similar distinction, namely that between self-examination and taqwā on the secret (sirr) and overt levels, respectively (ibid.: 6f, cf. 133). In al-Ghazālī’s al-dīn (‘Revival of the Religious Sciences’), refers to secret, inner thoughts.154 In his work ‘The Beginning of Guidance’ (Bidāyat al-hidāya ), it has possibly mystical overtones too, when he states that ‘God most high is aware of your secret being ’.155 He seems to equate with sarīra, and states elsewhere in the same work: ‘God most high is aware of your inmost thoughts (sarīra) and sees your heart (qalb)’.156 in grammar and logical theory A firmly established use of is found in classical Arabic grammar, where has carried the meaning of ‘personal pronoun’ from the second Islamic century onwards. By the hidden, non-expressed aspect of the pronoun is emphasised, more than use of its function as a ‘pro-noun’ (i.e. replacing the noun) in grammars within the Latin tradition (Carter 1981:250f.).157 It is interesting to note that in a discussion of al-Mubarrad’s refutation of the great grammarian Sībawayhi, al-Mubarrad is accused by Ibn Wallād of having made up something in his own mind without any support in Sībawayhi’s qawlihi). What is merely in the may also be contested (Carter text (fī 2001:59f.). Ibn Sīnā (d. 1037), who is mostly known for his illuminist philosophy, also has a quite to elaborate logical theory influenced by Aristotle. In his logical theory, he uses explain a special kind of deduction or syllogism (qiyās) which conceals its major is a syllogism, the major premise of which is hidden’.158 premise:

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in early dictionaries, Arab and Western In influential Arabic dictionaries from before the modern period, one finds that usages, it tends to be invariably stands for what one conceals in one’s heart. Unlike which was compiled by Ibn (d. identified with sirr. The famous Lisān 1311) and completed in 1290, marks the end of the lexicographical progress in the classical period (Carter 1990:114). It defines as al-sirr, as inner thought, or as the thing that you conceal in your heart.159 Several centuries later, the Arab lexicographical min jawāhir al-qāmūs, tradition reached its peak with the gigantic dictionary Tāj compiled by al-Zabīdī (d. 1791) between 1760 and 1774 (ibid.: 106, 115). Its definition 160 is substantially identical with that given by Lisān of Turning to the first dictionary of the Arabic language to be edited and printed in the West, the Lexicon Ambicum by F.Raphelengius (Raphelengius 1613), we find that this as ‘sensus, conscientia’. The added Latin index gives particular dictionary defines and niyya. Given the fact that in three different entries for conscientia: European languages, there was hardly any distinction between ‘conscience’ and ‘consciousness’ until the seventeenth century (cf. Section 3.4), it is hard to decide whether conscientia in this context is meant to connote moral consciousness, or merely refers to consciousness in general. Among the words listed, niyya might be the word that carries the most specific moral connotations of conscientia.161 Raphelengius’ dictionary was published posthumously by the Dutch scholar Thomas Erpenius. As we shall see in Section 5.4, Erpenius was responsible for the first printed edition of the New Testament in Arabic, published in Leiden in 1616. At the beginning of the seventeenth century, the Netherlands were still under Spanish domination, and there are evidences that Thomas Erpenius was acquainted with Moriscos of Spanish origin.162 Thus, Erpenius and Raphelengius had Hispano-Arabic as a major linguistic source to draw upon. One of the sources probably utilised by Raphelengius was a manuscript of Spanish, Mozarabic origin known as ‘The Latin-Arabic glossary of the Leiden University Library’, which may be so old as to go back to the twelfth century.163 For conscientia, it 164 wa-niyya As one can see, the lists the following Arabic equivalents: entries are identical with those of Raphelengius. The glossary in question may stand as However, intriguing evidence of a medieval Arabic rendering of conscientia as this Hispano-Arabic usage seems to have had no major impact either on Oriental Christian-Arabic or on Islamic-Arabic in the medieval period.

5.3

as moral consciousness—since when?

has been used in the sense of moral Since when, then, can one find that consciousness/conscience, in modern Standard Arabic and Egyptian colloquial Arabic? Most Western dictionaries from the nineteenth century are oriented towards classical should be taken in the sense of moral Arabic. None of them indicate that consciousness/conscience. Neither G.W.Freytag’s Lexicon Arabico-Latinum (Freytag 1835) nor William Lane’s monumental Arabic-English lexicon from 1874 (Lane 1874)

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include ‘conscience’ among the meanings of only variations on the theme of ‘secret thought’.165 For the indefinite sense, Lane lists the following meanings: A thing that thou concealest, or conceivest, or determinest upon…in thy heart, or mind:…a secret; syn. sirr’. Hence, he notes, it is also used as meaning a pronoun. As for the definite sense, he informs that may also signify ‘The heart [itself]; the mind; the recesses of the mind; the secret thoughts; or the soul’.166 The contemporary 1875-edition of Dictionnaire Arabe-Français by A.de Biberstein Kazimirski gives similar evidence. It does not include ‘conscience’ among the mind—only spirit, heart, intimate and covert thought at the bottom related meanings of of the heart.167 One may thus conclude that the dictionaries of Freytag, Lane and Kazimirski reflect traditional Arabic as well as classical usage, in which designates innermost, secret thoughts (i.e. the hidden conscious). There are, however, other nineteenth-century dictionaries—even from the first half of the century—which indicate that could also be taken in the sense of moral consciousness. These dictionaries reflect also contemporary and colloquial usage. In a chapter about ‘défauts’ in Guide de la conversation arabe from 1838, Jean Humbert (who was a professor of Arabic in Geneva) suggests that ‘conscience’ might be rendered either or (the colloquial and standard form of the word, Humbert as 1838:249). Humbert clearly has ‘conscience’ in the sense of moral conscience in mind, since he also lists some Arabic expressions for remorse: 168

Interestingly, dictionaries related to a Christian Arab context and originating from the same period, give similar evidence. An early testimony which corroborates Humbert’s suggestion can be found in a French-Arabic dictionary which was compiled by the Egyptian Copt Ellious Bocthor, and published in 1828–29 after having been revised and expanded by A.Caussin de Perceval (Bocthor 1828–29).169 For ‘conscience’ in the sense then of ‘sentiment intérieur du bien et du mal’, Bocthor/Perceval first lists and as a third option sarīra.170 The combined evidence of Humbert and Bocthor might indicate that the coining of as conscience was early noted and/or suggested by French-speaking Arabists and francophone Christian Arabs. can also be used in Another nineteenth-century Christian Arab suggestion that the sense of moral consciousness is found in Kitāb the famous dictionary al-Bustānī which was published in Beirut in two volumes in 1867–70 (alof al-Bustānī, who was a Maronite but later became a Bustānī n.d./1870). Protestant, was strongly involved in the translation work which resulted in the so-called Bustānī-van Dyck Bible (Section 5.4). The dictionary’s relevant entry under goes as follows (in my translation): and and the secret (al-sirr), and the innermost thought hence in the sense of the created ability in the human being to

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distinguish between what he is permitted to do and not do; or an inner feeling which informs about the lawful and the illicit, forbidding the latter.171 A Christian-Arabic evidence of in the sense of conscience can also be found in the Arabic-French and French-Arabic dictionaries that were compiled by the Jesuit Jean Baptiste Belot and published in Beirut in the 1880s and 1890s. But differently from the earlier dictionaries of Bocthor and al-Bustānī, Belot gives no clue as to whether his and other Arabic words by the French ‘conscience’ should be taken translation of in the general sense of ‘consciousness’ or more specifically as ‘moral consciousness’.172 As we shall see later, Arabic Bibles from 1860 onwards corroborate Bocthor’s and alBustānī’s lexicographical novelties. The combined evidence indicates that in the was given the meaning of ‘moral consciousness’ and nineteenth century, ‘conscience’ in both Christian-Arabic usage and French-Arabic lexicographical efforts. This seems to have happened in both the Egyptian (Bocthor) and Syrian-Lebanese (alBustānī) contexts, with translation work between French and Arabic as a possible trigger (Humbert, Bocthor).173 Towards the turn of the century, we find similar evidence in dictionaries of Egyptian colloquial Arabic. Socrates Spiro’s Arabic-English dictionary from 1895 renders as ‘conscience, mind’, and his English-Arabic dictionary from 1897 translates 174 and (2) ‘conscience’ as (1) in the From the beginning of the twentieth century, one also regularly finds sense of ‘conscience’ in dictionaries of modern Standard Arabic. In Saadeh’s EnglishArabic dictionary from 1911, published in Cairo, ‘conscience’ is rendered as (alternatively) wijdān, sarīra, —whereas ‘consciousness’ is 175 and The combined lists may testify to a rendered as wijdān, certain oscillation in some Arabic words between ‘conscience’ and ‘consciousness’, probably paralleling the corresponding ambiguity in European languages. At the time of Saadeh’s dictionary, the Encyclopedia of Religion and Ethics which was also first published in 1911, states that ‘The modern Islāmic languages employ conventional translations of the European words [for conscience]; in Turkish vijdan (properly ‘sensation’) is employed, in Arabic (‘the hidden being’).’176 William Tisdall, writing in 1906, contended that the Arabic language does not have any word which ‘properly expresses what we mean by conscience’. It is obvious, was already in the picture, since he qualifies his assertion by however, that (the heart, the mind), but recording that ‘In Arabic and Persian we have to use 177 even this does not occur in the

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in biblical Arabic

in medieval and early modern Arabic Bible language Editing work on Arabic Bible translations from the early Middle Ages has been limited and they are difficult to overview.178 When searching for Arabic renderings of New Testament verses in which syneídēsis occurs in the Greek manuscripts, it must be kept in mind that most Arabic translations from the ninth until the nineteenth century were made from versions in languages other than Greek, namely from the Syriac Peshitta,179 the Latin Vulgate, or from Coptic. Thus, one cannot necessarily say that this or that Arabic word is a translation of the Greek syneídēsis. In Coptic, however, suneidēsis is used as a loan-word from Greek. As for the versions based upon the Latin Vulgate, the Arabic words that are used translate and interpret conscientia.180 In the following, I will examine the vocabulary used in the relevant verses in the Acts of the Apostles and the Epistles of the New Testament. As for the variant reading of John 8:9, one finds that the Greek manuscripts underlying the so-called textus receptus181 read kaì hypò tês elenchómenoi (‘blamed by the consciences’) in the scene when Jesus confronts the elders who were about to stone the woman caught in adultery This variant is also corroborated by some Coptic-Bohairic manuscripts.182 When investigating Arabic Bible manuscripts which have been edited, it turns out that has in fact not been the preferred word for syneídēsis and related words in other (‘clear evidence’, languages. Instead, either niyya (‘intention’) or the word is preferred in one single tradition, namely Hispano-Arabic ‘insight’) prevails.183 bible translations that may date from as far back as the tenth century. Niyya was the most common choice in the early Medieval manuscripts originating from monasteries in Palestine and Sinai. Three Sinai Arabic manuscripts containing translations from Syriac or Greek all testify to the prevalence of niyya in the South Palestinian tradition.184 Sinai arab. 151, 154 and 155 all have niyya in the vast majority of (‘mind’) in two places where the Syriac Peshitta also cases. But Sinai arab. 151 has has different options.185 A similar testimony is given by a Tischendorf-related Arabic manuscript from 892. The codex, referred to by Tischendorf as arpet, has niyya in six (‘opinion’) in three.186 legible cases, and From the period between the ninth and fifteenth centuries, only a few Arabic Bible manuscripts are available. As regards Bible translations from the Hispano-Arabic context, a 1542–43 New Testament manuscript in the Biblioteca Nacional in Madrid, parts of which might go back to the tenth century, distinguishes itself by its unique preference for 187 Together with the lexicographical testimonies cited earlier from the twelfthcentury Latin-Arabic glossary of Mozarabic origin and the Lexicon Arabicum from 1613 which also probably was influenced by Hispano-Arabic, the manuscript in Madrid testifies to a medieval ChristianArabic use of in the sense of moral consciousness.

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As for other medieval and early modern manuscripts, MS Vat. copt. 9 (dated 1204/5) contains an Arabic version accompanying the Goptic-Bohairic text, but with additions from both Greek and Syriac sources. According to Thompson, this eclectic recension, which is sometimes called the ‘Egyptian Vulgate’, is as old as the tenth century. It became generally used in the thirteenth century not only in Egypt but in Syria also.188 Its version of the Gospels was reworked by the Alexandrian scholar Hibat Allāh ibn resulting in the so-called ‘Alexandrian Vulgate’ which, according to Metzger, became a source of linguistic corruptions and formed the basis of all printed editions of the Arabic Gospels from the editio princeps of 1591 until the twentieth century.189 In connection with the European renaissance and Catholic missionary efforts, printed Arabic Bibles appeared in various contexts. In 1591, the Medicean printing house in Rome published the first printed version of the Gospels in Arabic, basing itself mainly on the MS Vat. copt. 9, and rendering John 8:9 as minhu mutafahhimīn al-tabkīt, ‘they were fathoming his blame’.190 As for the rendering of syneídēsis in Acts and the Epistles, we shall see that two major tendencies can be identified in subsequent editions of the New Testament and the Bible. One is represented by the editio princeps of the New Testament (Leiden 1616) and of the Bible (Rome 1671) in Arabic, the other by the Polyglot Bibles of the seventeenth century in some cases. The second tendency The first tendency prefers niyya, but includes opts for 1 In 1616, Thomas Erpenius in Leiden published the first printed edition of the entire New Testament in Arabic.191 For his editio princeps, Erpenius mostly based himself on manuscripts from the collection of Joseph Scaliger.192 According to Metzger, the Acts, Pauline epistles, James, 1 Peter and 1 John in this edition are translated from the Peshitta. In the remaining Catholic epistles the version seems to have been made directly from the Greek (Metzger 1977:265). As we have seen, Erpenius was also involved in a lexicographical work which was in part influenced by Hispano-Arabic/Mozarabic, the linguistic tradition in which the medieval for conscientia is attested by both dictionaries and a New Testament use of manuscript (cf. above). As for the rendering of syneídēsis in Erpenius’ Arabic New Testament, however, the preferred option was not Instead, niyya is used in the in 2. Corinthians 1:12, 4:2 and majority of cases. But Erpenius’ edition does have 5:11, in Romans 9:1, and (together with niyya) in Romans 2:15 and Titus 1:15.193 In 1671, following the final union between Rome and the Arabic-speaking Maronites in the sixteenth century, Congregatio de Propaganda Fide printed the first edition of the entire Bible in Arabic—based on the work of Maronite Christians.194 This so-called ‘Propaganda Version’ conformed itself to the Latin Vulgate, but was partly based on previous Arabic manuscripts of Syrian and Coptic origin.195 Like Erpenius’ New Testament, the Propaganda Version has niyya in nearly all places, with the same as in Erpenius.196 exceptions for 2 In the same period, Arabic versions of the Bible were included in both the Paris and London Polyglot Bibles, completed in 1645 and 1657, respectively.197 The editor of the Paris Polyglot, Guy Michel le Jay, put a Lebanese-Maronite scholar, Gabriel

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Sionita, in charge of editing the Arabic text. The scholars based their work on a variety of manuscripts, which as far as the Gospels were concerned were mostly in accordance with the aforementioned ‘Egyptian Vulgate’. As for the rest of the New Testament—that is, the most relevant parts for the present investigation—the source appears to have been a different one, namely an Arabic manuscript translated from Greek and brought from Aleppo by the Carmelite Father Joseph.198 In all Arabic Bible editions within this tradition, there is a preference for the word (‘insight’). The London Polyglot was edited by Brian Walton, and depends on the Paris (‘insight’) corresponding to syneídēsis in Polyglot for the Arabic version.199 It has most of the verses in question, but a wide variety of alternative renderings in other verses.200 In 1727, a translation of the New Testament by the Syrian Salomon Negri was published in London (Bible 1727). According to Graf, the translator keeps close to a Melchite recension of ‘the Egyptian Vulgate’, but reworks it from Greek.201 As for the rendering of syneídēsis, this version comes close to the Polyglots and opts for (‘insight’) in all places except one.202 in modern Arabic Bible editions From the latter part of the nineteenth century, a variety of modern Arabic Bible translations have been produced and used by the churches in the Middle East. In the 1840s, American missionaries in Syria initiated a new, Arabic translation of the Bible, which came to be known as the Bustānī-van Dyck or the Smith-van Dyck Bible.203 The New Testament was published in 1860, followed by the edition of the entire Bible in 1865. In 1878, a Catholic initiative resulted in a different version of the New Testament, which is now conventionally referred to as the old Jesuit Bible.204 More recent translations include the new Jesuit version from 1969 (New Testament),205 the so-called ‘Today’s Arabic version’ from 1978206 and ‘The Living Bible’ of the International Bible Society from 1988.207 In 1857, shortly before the Bustānī-van Dyck version, a new Arabic translation was published by the Society for the Propagation of Christian Knowledge in London. The translation work was headed by the Lebanese Christian Fāris al-Shidyāq.208 In rendering syneídēsis, the Shidyāq version keeps itself close to the tradition from Erpenius. It has in six.209 niyya in most cases, but Then, with Bustānī-van Dyck, comes the change. Contrary to prevailing practices in Arabic Bible translations till then, the translation team took the decision to let render syneídēsis. In the wake of the Bustānī-van Dyck Bible, the Jesuits made the same in all decision. In Acts and the Epistles, the Bustānī-van Dyck Bible makes use of the verses in question. With one exception, this is also the case with the old Jesuit Bible from 1878.210 In John 8:9, the Bustānī-van Dyck version follows textus receptus, and renders the verse as wa-kānat tubakkituhum (‘and their consciences were blaming them’).211 The work which resulted in the Bustānī-van Dyck version was initially headed by Eli Smith, who was assisted by al-Bustānī, the author of Kitāb (cf.

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Section 5.3) and Nasīf al-Yāzijī. At this stage, al-Bustānī was actually the chief translator.212 The Bustānī-van Dyck translation was entirely based on Hebrew and Greek manuscripts. The linguistic ambition was to conform to living Arabic. It is regarded as a landmark in modern Arabic Bible translation. According to the Bible Society in Egypt, this version has remained by far the most widespread Bible translation in Egypt—both among Copts, Catholics and Protestants. It has often been described as ‘the book of the people’. It is also the version commonly used for liturgical readings in Egyptian churches. This would also be the Bible edition most often referred to by Egyptian Muslims.213 There are strong indications, then, that Bible Arabic was in fact one of the main for moral consciousness/conscience factors in the process towards a general use of in modern Standard Arabic, and in Egyptian Arabic usage more specifically. At least, it seems highly probable that Bible Arabic has contributed towards the semantic and conceptual development which was taken a step further when, in the 1950s and 1960s, and Khālid put at the centre of their innovative approaches to Christ, and the shared Muslim-Christian heritage. 5.5 Other words and constructs for ‘conscience’ in modern Arabic is In the modern Standard Arabic lexicon as well as in Egyptian colloquial usage, often used in composite forms with verbs expressing remorse and pangs of conscience: (‘remorse’),214 (‘pangs of remorse’),215 217 (‘pangs of conscience’)216 or In the modern Egyptian authors in expressed by focus, there is not much interest in the aspects of conscience or notions such as ‘remorse’ and ‘bad conscience’. But as we shall see, these aspects are not entirely excluded.218 and Other words for conscience in the modern Arabic lexicon include wijdān, sarīra. In some modern English-Arabic dictionaries—such as Saadeh (1911) and Doniach for ‘conscience’.219 Neither (1982)—wijdān is listed as the second option after Wehr’s Standard Arabic-English dictionary nor Badawi and Hind’s dictionary of modern Egyptian Arabic (1986), however, include ‘conscience’ among the translations suggested for wijdān.220 As for earlier evidences, neither Freytag (1835) nor Lane (1874) have any (1867–70) does have an entry. entry for wijdān. But al-Bustānī’s Kitāb He explains that among the wijdān designates encounter with God whereas in other well-known usages, it stands for ‘the soul 221 and its inner forces’ (al-nafs wa-quwāhā In all the listed meanings, wijdān seems to connote experience and emotion, also when used in the possible sense of moral consciousness/conscience. We shall see that the modern Egyptian authors referred to in this study may sometimes employ wijdān

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alongside or in possible contradistinction to According to context, I will translate it either as ‘conscience’, or as ‘(moral) feelings’. Other words occasionally translated by or used for ‘conscience’ in the Modern Arabic and sarīra.222 We have seen that both Belot’s French-Arabic lexicon are dictionary from 1890 and Spiro’s English-Arabic dictionary of colloquial Egyptian as the first entry and as the second.223 According Arabic from 1897 have is ‘protection, care, custody’. But as the to Wehr, the most common meaning of last entry, he includes ‘conscience’ as one possible meaning of the word.224 The use of for ‘conscience’ might be emphasising the binding aspect of conscience, which some users of Modern Arabic may have regarded as not sufficiently covered by Saadeh’s dictionary (1911) has sarīra as its third entry for ‘conscience’, German) Wehr does not render sarīra itself as Arabic dictionary (1974) as its second (after ‘conscience’, but translates the composite form al-sarīra as ‘clearness of conscience’.225 As a cognate of sirr, sarīra would be expected to underline the inner, nondivulged character of conscience. The variety of words used for rendering conscience triggers the question of what is really at stake in this semantic process: is it the European notion of ‘conscience’ that is translated into Arabic, by use of several words covering different aspects of the received notion? Or are we rather faced with a number of Arabic words that gradually acquire new meanings when—in a modern context—the need is felt more strongly than before to express a concern for personal integrity and moral internalisation? Probably, the process went both ways. As for the different words that may have been considered as candidates, it is clear that during the twentieth century has become the standard word for translating conscience, as well as for expressing the modern Arabic (Islamic-Arabic as well as Christian-Arabic) notion of conscience.226 Classical Arabic and Islamic tradition gives the modern Arabic notion of some other emphases than those found in the European words for conscience. It is which consistently resonant with an etymology and a spiritual tradition, notably turns the attention inwards. 5.6 Preliminary conclusion As a general conclusion to my lexicographical and semantic considerations, I will suggest that Christian-Arabic has been a major influence behind the modern Arabic (even Islamic) coining of as moral consciousness or conscience. We have seen that in Christian-Arabic in Spain, there is both lexicographical and could be used for conscientia/syneídēsis in the Bible manuscript evidence that medieval period. It seems, however, that medieval Mozarabic usage remained a marginal voice, with no strong impact on the Arabic-speaking community or written Arabic in general. As for Christian and biblical Arabic in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the evidence is more conclusive: here lies a major source of the semantic development I have tried to trace. As I will show in Section 6.2, translations of European philosophy into

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Arabic in the beginning of the twentieth century may have contributed in the same direction. As regards the relation between etymology and the pragmatics of language, we have points rather unequivocally in the direction of something known seen that the word intimately by oneself, as innermost knowledge. Pragmatically, in the way twentieththere may still be a most important century Egyptian writers employ the word communal dimension to it. When and Khālid write about they refer to moral insights that—according to these writers—can be known by Muslims and Christians together, or even universally. Thus, in my contextually oriented presentation of their works in Chapters 7–9, a major question will be how these authors negotiate the relation between knowing by oneself and knowing with the other in a personal as well as communal sense.

Part IV in modern Egyptian Muslim authors

6 The notions of and wijdān in Egyptian reformers and writers 6.1 Introduction to Part IV In this part of the book, my main purpose will be to investigate the notion of as developed by Khālid and in the 1950s and 1960s. But I will also take a sideways look at some other Egyptian writers who have either commented upon the works of these authors, or reflected similar or contrasting concerns. With the background of my semantic considerations in Chapter 5, I will mostly as ‘conscience’. Given the fact that may also have a more translate general reference to the innermost mind, I recognise that this decision may be challenged, but I believe that my choice is justified. Both in modern Standard and Egyptian colloquial has more and more come to mean conscience. I also believe that my Arabic, presentation of the modern Egyptian authors in focus will support my decision to in this way. translate However, when approaching the works of these authors, it must be kept in mind that and conscience are not entirely equivalent. Whereas the word the words does conscience implies an interaction between the Self and the Other, the word not. Etymologically it only points inwards, to what is concealed in the mind. It can still are comparable. Only a contextual be that the concepts of conscience and reading will show this and such a reading may also disclose the possible communal as used by modern Muslim authors in Egypt. implications of the notion of As I have explained in the introduction, it was the notion of in and Khālid’s books on Christ from the 1950s that triggered the question of whether might also turn out to be a central concept in their other recurs often and works. In Chapters 7–9, I will demonstrate that the notion of pointedly enough in these authors to justify an investigation from the perspective of conceptual history. What kind of concept is contained in this modern Arabic word for conscience, when read in its literary and socio-historical context? What implications does it carry for a modern reinterpretation of the Islamic heritage, and for Muslim-Christian dialogue? In Chapter 5, I have indicated the influence that Bible Arabic or Christian-Arabic may have had on modern Muslim use of the word Ideational and linguistic crossfertilisation in the Arab context must, however, be weighed against the impact that

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European philosophy and its reception among Egyptian intellectuals may have had in coining the modern Arabic word for conscience. Before I approach the works of the three main writers under consideration, I will try to gained a foothold in the writings of a few shed some light on how the notion of other leading Egyptian Muslim intellectuals of the twentieth century After some reflections on the influence from French thought on Christians and Muslims alike, I will and wijdān in the modernist make some observations on the notions of reformers and writers Haykal, Amīn and (contemporaries with ), as well as al-Qaddūs (contemporaries with Khālid). I will also consider the and possible background role of

6.2

and the reception of French thought and European philosophy in Egypt

With regard to the authors focused on by this study, it could well be that their partner in dialogue was Western and literary—that is European philosophy—rather than Coptic or Middle Eastern Christianity Also in the semantic process towards coining as a modern term for moral consciousness or conscience, it seems clear that influences from European philosophy have contributed. In particular, there are some indications that influences from Rousseau have played a role in shaping modern Egyptian discourses of conscience centred around the term In his Arabic Thought in the Liberal Age, Albert Hourani highlights the strong influence on Arab intellectuals in the nineteenth century of French thinkers such as Montesquieu, Voltaire and Rousseau (Hourani 1995:53f.). He points to the fact that in Egypt, reformers in subsequent generations such as (1801–73), (1849–1905) and al-Sayyid (1872–1963) read Rousseau’s Du contrat social and Émile in French, and were inspired by his books (ibid.: 69f., 135, 171). According to P.J.Vatikiotis, these works of Rousseau were translated into Arabic at the beginning of the twentieth century.227 The role of the Christian intellectual (1874–1922) was important in ( 1899–1910), he did this process. Through his influential journal much to introduce French thought and European philosophy into Egypt.228 In his journal, educational reform and the situation of women were recurring concerns, along with a keen interest in modern literature (e.g. Tolstoi), contemporary philosophy (e.g. Nietzsche and Rousseau) and scientific innovations in the West. also drew his audience’s attention to Ernest Renan’s Vie de Jésus (1863), by translating sections of it in the journal.229 In Renan’s liberal and rationalist approach to the Gospels, Jesus is seen as a representative of a ‘pure religion’ without priests or law-makers. He anchored religion in the heart and conscience of the individual: ‘Jesus recognised only the religion of the heart, while that of the Pharisees consisted almost exclusively in observances.’230

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As for the Islamic heritage, wrote a controversial study on the philosophy of Ibn Rushd, in which he argued that the conflict between religion and science could only be solved if their tasks were assigned to their proper spheres.231 also laid down the principles of a secular state in which Muslims and Christians could participate on an equal footing, granted that both would take their religions as the foundation of general values that could be shared across religious boundaries. His view provoked a vehement response from the main representative of Islamic reformism at that time, who was also influenced by Rousseau, but differently from and stressed the importance of religion as the basis of political life (Hourani 1995:135, 257). In the discussions between and one witnesses an early expression of the general conflict between a Christian secularist (universalist) and Islamic reformist (particularist) interpretation of Rousseau and his concept of the social contract. In there is also evidence that at least in this intellectual milieu, was used in the sense of conscience in moral-philosophical discourses at the beginning of Yannī in vol. 4, the twentieth century. This can be seen from an article by falsqfiyyan, entitled ‘The source of morals, philosophically speaking’ ( as the innate ‘principle of the good’ Yannī 1903–04). Here, Yannī speaks of in the human being, which upbringing and education must seek to nourish and support. As long as people honestly seek the good and are not directed by utilitarian or passionate aims, they will suffer no punishment from conscience—even though their moral actions may not always be successful when judged by their external outcome. But if one is indifferent towards the good, one will most certainly be exposed to the pangs of conscience ( ibid.: 93). In a further discussion of European philosophy, Yannī notes that the source of morals may be sought either in sensory perception or in feelings or in reason He refers to Rousseau’s view that conscience has to do with feelings more than with reason (ibid.: 96). For his own part, Yannī seems to endorse a more rational, Kantian-like understanding of conscience, by identifying the principle of good with ‘conscience or duty’ (ibid.: 99).232 A Muslim intellectual who was much influenced by French thought was al-Sayyid, the influential editor of the liberal nationalist newspaper Al-Jarīda of the ‘People’s Party’ (published from 1907 to 1915). al-Sayyid also translated Aristotle’s Ethics into Arabic. As an Egyptian rather than Islamic nationalist, he was known for his inclusivist views on religion and ethics.233 One of those inspired by al-Sayyid was the Muslim writer Haykal (1888–1965). He belonged to the same generation and intellectual circles as (Awad 1986:123–6). But in contrast to who sided with the Wafd, Haykal involved himself in the Liberal Constitutionalist party which put more emphasis on the Islamic character of the Egyptian nation (Smith 1983).234

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Haykal, who studied in France, contributed much to Rousseau’s influence in Egypt through a work about his philosophy (Haykal 1965/1921–23).235 Translating parts of Émile in this book, Haykal paid much attention to the relation between Rousseau’s ideas about education and the idea that the human being is good by nature but in dire danger of corruption from society. Citing ‘the creed of the Savoyard priest’, Haykal translated Associating Rousseau’s notion of conscience with the conscience as concept of the spirit, he states that ‘conscience is the voice of the spirit, and the spirit is by God’s command. God wills nothing but good, so the spirit never works with moral feelings, he cites Rousseau anything but good’ (ibid.: 282).236 Linking as implying that conscience is nothing but the image of human wijdān imprinted in the soul of the individual (ibid.: 283f). Having summarised and critically discussed this part of Émile, Haykal concludes that there can be no doubt that the Savoyard priest, being a man of religion, ‘always resorted to the inspiration of conscience and the guidance of spiritual insight’ (hudā Haykal 1965/1921–23:285). He also notes that in the view of Rousseau, natural religiosity and the rule of conscience were principles that Christians, Jews and Muslims alike could agree upon. Historically, they inspired the modern struggle for freedom of thought (ibid.: 354).237 Haykal combined his inspiration from French Romanticism and his similar approach to Egyptian ‘Pharaonism’ with a strong emphasis on the Islamic character of the Egyptian nation, as expressed through his involvement in the Liberal Constitutionalist Party. In this sense, his writings are seminal of both universalist and distinctively Islamic discourses of authenticity.238 When, at a later stage, and Khālid focused on in their ethicoreligious writings, there are several indications that part of the inspiration may have come from their acquaintance with Rousseau. This is corroborated by their explicit references to Rousseau’s works (although not explicitly to Émile), and the strong affinity between and the French Romantic conceptions of innate integrity, human their notion of authenticity and human potentials waiting to be released.239

6.3

and wijdān among Egyptian reformers, ca. 1900–25

Prior to use of in his presentation and discussion of Rousseau’s notion of conscience in the early 1920s, there are indications that both Christian and Muslim modernists in Egypt were already employing the notion of at the turn of the century, as part of their reformist rhetoric. One example from has already been cited. Another example is the Muslim reform thinker Qāsim Amīn, who had a French education and became famous for his book about the emancipation of women in Amīn, he used to refer to or as the 1899.240 According to cornerstone of any virtuous act and of any sound ethics (Amīn 1964:96). Although Qāsim Amīn wanted to base his vision of freedom on the and Islamic tradition, his standards of judgement were clearly of a more universal kind and in tune with typical nineteenth-century conceptions of freedom, progress and civilisation (Hourani 1995:167).

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In a brief discussion of the apparent centrality of the notion of in the works by and about Christ, Olaf Schumann suggests that their interest in conscience (Gewissen) may have been due to their being influenced by the great Islamic reformer (1849–1905). After being heavily involved in nationalist activities in the nineteenth century which resulted in exile in returned to Egypt, became Grand Muftī and concentrated his efforts on Europe, social, cultural and educational reform. Through his contact with Europe, acquainted himself with modern theories of education found in such works as Rousseau’s Émile and Spencer’s Education, and the historical-critical works on Christ, Christianity and Islam by Renan and Strauss (Hourani 1995:135). aimed at was a Notwithstanding his inspiration from European thought, what restoration of the original purity of Islam by recourse to the ideals of the forefathers. This was reflected in what became a common characterisation of his and Rashīd reformist movement as salqfiyya, that is, oriented towards the Islamic forefathers was more communitarian in his (Vatikiotis 1991:198f). Although modernist, approach to cultural and educational reform than were al-Sayyid and Qāsim Amīn. This was also reflected in critical approach to (Hourani Christianity, which was triggered by his discussions with 1995:254).241 Schumann quotes a saying cited As for possible references to conscience in Amīn in his biography of in which allegedly referred to by the integrity of his ‘conscience’. In reaction to friendly advice not to set himself against II in a matter regarding the administration of religious endowments in Khedive Egypt, but rather to make sure that his hands would remain free for the reform of alreplied: ‘I am aware of this, but my conscience (wijdān) and my fear of Azhar, God makes it impossible for me to acquiesce in anything not permitted by the Sacred Law’ (Amin 1953:80/Amīn 1944:115).242 —as denominators of The extent of possible further references to wijdān or moral and personal integrity—in early Egyptian reformers, remains a task for future investigation. In this context, I will only add some observations about the use of wijdān as used by a liberal ethical theorist in Egypt. or In 1920, Amīn (1886–1954) published a book on ethics entitled Kitāb (‘The Book of Ethics’, Amīn 1985/1920), which was meant as a textbook for secondary schools and for teachers’ colleges.243 Amīn belonged to the circle of liberal intellectuals around al-Sayyid and Al-Jarīda. Through his writings, translations and high positions in the fields of higher education and government administration, he established himself as a leading representative of liberal modernism in Egypt.244 In Kitāb he calls for an ethics based entirely on reason and intuitions, in which religion would only be one among many other factors—‘such as friends, habit, family, environment’—serving as ethical controls (Safran 1961:160). By the discursive

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style of his ethics and the lack of explicit references to the and Amīn places himself firmly in the tradition of philosophical ethics in Islam.245 Discarding any ethics based solely on tradition and custom Amīn formulates an ethical theory which distinguishes between public ethics oriented towards utility and the common good, and personal ethics based on a Kantian conviction of the soundness of inner judgements. The focal point of his ethics is the quality of the human person. Enlightened ethics presupposes a thorough knowledge of the forces at work in the human soul (Amīn 1985/1920:10ff.), and is ultimately oriented towards the establishment of classical virtues such as truthfulness courage temperance ibid.: 184ff.). and justice ( As part of his exposition of the faculties of the human soul, he includes a chapter about conscience, under the heading of Al-wijdān He speaks of conscience— referred to in the text itself as wijdān—as a power or faculty (quwwa) deep in the human soul, which warns against evil and commands the good that ought to be done. It does not refer itself to external judgements but to inner feelings: the positive sense of conviction, ibid.: 55). Revealing a and the negative feeling of remorse and rebuke (nadam psychological and empirical approach to conscience, he speaks of its necessary growth, the variations in its concrete expressions and its capacity for error. As potentially erring, it must be enlightened by reason and reflection (fikr), and educated. When enlightened and educated, conscience and its dictates must always be followed. Only conscience can give authority to external laws. It is anchored in the depth of the human soul, and oriented towards the ‘supreme ideal’ which Amīn refers to with the expression and puts at the heading of Chapter 7. As we shall see, and Khālid also link their discourses on conscience ) to the notion of by which these Muslim intellectuals colour (as their philosophical idealism with God-talk.247 Amīn, however, makes no explicit reference to the in this context, and rather speaks empirically of the different supreme ideals that guide the peoples of the earth (ibid.: 64). Nadav Safran sees Amīn’s ethics as a typical expression of what he terms ‘the progressive phase’ among Egyptian intellectuals in the 1920s who explicitly or implicitly rejected any other-worldly sanction ‘and relied rather on the individual conscience, social responsibility, or the sanction of society to provide the necessary support for ethical norms’ (Safran 1961:161). Rightly noting their Western inspiration, but neglecting their inspiration from classical Islamic rationalism and philosophical ethics in Islam, Safran claims that liberal intellectuals such as Haykal and Amīn ‘drew their ideals entirely from Western sources, without making any attempt to disguise the fact’ (ibid.: 161). In a more nuanced evaluation, Ibrahim Ibrahim sees Amīn’s project as a typical expression of ‘the overriding concern of Egyptian intellectuals at that time: how to reconcile Islam with Western civilisation…assimilate Western ideas and values and at the same time retain their own identity’ (Ibrahim 1988:212). As for the role of religion in ethics, Ibrahim notes that Amīn believed that although ethical rules vary in accordance with the environment in which they originate, all

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religions basically teach the same values. Any religion must thus have a certain kind of flexibility or ijtihād that allows for adaptation as new conditions arise (ibid.: 215). Like many of his liberal contemporaries, Amīn remained vague about what kind of laws might arise from a renewed ijtihād (ibid.: 217).248

6.4 Literary reflections of in modern Egyptian essays and fiction, ca. 1950–75 Among modern Egyptian writers in the genres of the essay short story novel and drama, it can easily be demonstrated how the notion of finds its place in their literary worlds—either to designate personal and national authenticity, or in the context of a moral problematic in the stricter sense. This is particularly the case from the 1940s onwards, that is, in the period in which Khālid and Kāmil set out to write about human conscience. In the genre of the essay, figures in the title of a book by from 1949 ( ‘Mirror of the modern conscience’), and in another from 1972 ( ‘The story of by the modern Egyptian conscience’). The book of (1902–95) consists mainly of essays ‘slightly dramatised as letters of reproach or exhortation to imaginary correspondents, some in imitation of (Cachia 1956:216).249 In an essay entitled ‘Egypt between happiness and hell’, implies that the ultimate hope of the destitute ones is that God will eventually strike a righteous balance. At that divine moment, the hearts and consciences of those living a luxurious life will be filled with a terrifying, burning anxiety 1977/1949:108f.). Behind this burning fear, there is a faint sorrow ( taking its abode in the depths of conscience, stirred by the voices of the destitute (ibid.: 111). (‘Something in my chest’), In a novel written in the same vein, entitled the popular novelist al-Qaddūs (1919–90) describes the inner drama of a paralysed man of the old wealthy class—a prototype pasha—under house arrest after the al-Qaddūs 1963/1958).250 In the preface, al-Qaddūs 1952 revolution ( explains that the underlying question of the novel is whether a ‘capitalist’ will really be able to live happily, or whether ‘the others’ who are victimised by capitalism will always make themselves felt as a pain in his chest (ibid.: 13). al-Qaddūs depicts the pasha as a prisoner of his At the end of the novel, paralysed body, longing only for death. He feels himself punished more by Allāh than by the revolution: ‘Allāh anteceded the revolution by a few moments’. At the end of the road, he is torn between mixed feelings of self-defence and self-reproach. When led to confess his exploitation of the people for which he was convicted and suffered the loss of his wealth and the happiness of a whole lifetime, the pasha feels a sting in his chest that cannot be silenced, ‘something which some people would call conscience’ (

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ibid.: 658). As the thing in his chest is actually the voice of the revolution and its ideals, he is led to recognise a battle within between ‘my conscience’ and ‘my 251 —in which the latter defends his old ambitions (ibid.). After the intelligence’ officers of the revolution have made the necessary assessment of his properties, he is released: ‘I am free now’ (ibid.: 664). But to no avail. Only painful solitude and a sting in his chest remain. As the pasha realises, ‘I’m dying’, he realises too that ‘this thing in his chest’ does not die away (ibid.: 664, 669).252 al-Qaddūs’notion of in and that of Both in the section of cited earlier have an other-directed dimension, and resemble Feuerbach’s notion of conscience as the internalised pain of the wounded other. Judging from one recognises that does not only refer to in the sense of a terrified, ‘bad’ conscience. He may also refer to it as the anchor of human integrity. In an essay entitled (‘The Brethren of 253 with ‘a generous soul, an Purity’), he attributes the classical poet Abī intelligent heart, an integral conscience and a most strong desire for fidelity’ ( 1977/1949:152). Revealing the inherent elitism in the outlook of his generation of Egyptian intellectuals, he ends his book with a hope for a perfect friend who will best be found in the ranks of a small elite ( ibid.: 156). What characterises these true friends, who are really the brethren of purity, is their balance of temperament and the purity of their hearts, characters and consciences (ibid.: 157). In the last volume of his autobiography, invokes the integrity of his own conscience. Looking back at the cultural and political conflicts in which he had been involved, he claims: I have changed or retracted nothing, great or small. For, in word and deed, I have hearkened only to the dictates of my conscience as it summoned me to strive without fear or cowardice, and to do so most of all when evil is rampant and partisanship prevails.254 Identifying honesty of conscience with personal integrity, he adds: ‘When I have suffered for what I saw to be right, I have been right with myself’ (ibid.).255 Whereas speaks of a ‘modern social’ conscience, the dramatist refers to conscience in a more nationalist way, as ‘modern Egyptian’. In his (‘The story of the modern Egyptian conscience’, 1972), he tells the story of the awakening and development of a national Egyptian consciousness in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and depicts some major intellectual developments in the light of significant historical ‘This is a journey events.256 In the preface, he uses the word wijdān instead of through the conscience (wijdān, i.e. conscience as moral feelings) of Egypt in the nineteenth century, and something of what we have experienced of the twentieth’ (ibid.:

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5). When writing about the revolutionary development of the famous orator of the revolt, al-Nadim, says that al-Nadīm came to realise that ‘his reason and conscience alike refused to allow him to be content with his position in the vicinity of the Pasha’ (ibid.: 78). As for his image of depicts him as one of the great mediators of Anglo-Saxon culture—on a par with and others who rather leaned towards France and the Latin culture.257 Both groups aimed at a reconciliation between the European and the Arab heritage (ibid.: 9, 118ff.). shares ‘heroic’ outlook on human and Egyptian history, as well as his emphasis on intellectual freedom and integrity (al-nazāha al-fikriyya) in the struggle against blind tradition and foreign occupation. According to intellectual integrity is reflected in the ability to save one’s soul from partiality and passion, by focussing on ‘the truth in its innermost heart’ ( fī qalbihā ibid.: 7). This is first of all the task of the elite the finest of the intellectuals ( al-fikr) whose 258 role—according to —has been belittled nowadays. 6.5 Preliminary conclusion Summing up the findings of this chapter, we can recognise a double approach to human conscience among modern Egyptian authors. One is focussed upon ‘bad’ conscience— ‘something in the chest’ that brings remorse and regret. The other is rather oriented towards the ‘good’ conscience and denotes human integrity and authenticity. Authenticity can either be conceived of in personal terms, as the moral integrity of the person, or in collective terms, as social conscience or the modern conscience of an Egypt seeking its true identity as a nation. One should also note that most writers cited earlier employ the notion of conscience in an inclusivist sense, to describe an inward or social drama which is ‘human’ and ‘national’ rather than exclusively ‘Islamic’.259

7 (1889–1964) Ethico-religious internalisation, human conscience and Islamic apologetics 7.1 Biographical and bibliographical introduction was one of the most prolific writers in twentieth century Egypt, and is regarded throughout the Arab world as an outstanding literary and cultural critic.260 who was born in Aswan, had no formal education beyond primary school, but educated himself in literature, history and philosophy as well as in the English language. He held a number of teaching positions and governmental-administrative jobs, and at an early stage engaged in writing and publication. Much of his literary production was within the field of literary criticism. Along with his first attempts at poetry and essays, he co-founded the so-called ‘Diwān school’ of poetry and literary criticism, which—through its break with archaic literary styles—was to set the standard for modern Arabic poetry. Politically, he avidly supported Zaghlūl’s revolt against the British after the First World War. He became heavily involved with the Wafd party and its newspaper AlBalāgh, and was also appointed as a Wafd delegate to the parliament in 1925.261 During was regarded as a nationalist, liberal and critical the 1920s and the 1930s, author. In the field of politics, he was known as a staunch advocate of national independence and defender of the 1923 constitution in recurring periods of political dictatorship. He fought so fiercely against absolute monarchy that in 1930 he was imprisoned for nine months after having made critical statements about the king. As for cultural politics, he defended his colleague against the religious establishment when was attacked for his critical approach to traditional interpretation in 1926. Present-day Egyptian authorities honour him as a hero of freedom and a distinguished exponent of the Egyptian conscience: ‘He waged many battles in defence of freedom of thought and the liberation of the homeland. He was an exponent of Egyptian conscience and morals.’262 From the 1940s, turned his attention as a writer more and more towards religious themes and Islamic apologetics; a fact that led Nadav Safran to speak of a ‘reactionary phase’ in career as a writer (Safran 1961:213ff.). Against Safran, I will suggest that works on religious personalities and themes

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should rather be seen as a modernist reappropriation of the Islamic heritage, with a persistent focus on the creative potentials of the religious personality (see discussion in Section 7.5). Bibliographical introduction literary production is overwhelming. It covers a wide range of subjects in the fields of literature, culture, religion, political philosophy and—not least—biography (al-Sakkūt 1983). His biographies about the poet Ibn al-Rūmī (1931) and political Zaghlūl (1936), are counted among his companion, the great Wafdist revolutionary most acclaimed works. From the 1940s, he published a whole series of books about outstanding religious and political personalities—many of them honoured for their religious ‘genius’ covers a wide range of personalities from Islamic history. After His ‘ in 1942, he released a flow of books about the geniuses of the rightly guided caliphs (1942), Abū Bakr ( 1943) and (1943), and of the military commander who conquered Palestine and Syria, Khālid ibn alWalīd (1945). The was also used for his books about Christ ( 1953) and the great modern reformer (1963). His work on the genius of Christ has been widely acclaimed as a ground-breaking Muslim approach to the life of Christ, not least because of its reliance on the New Testament gospels. In the same vein, although not with the explicit heading of he also wrote books on other outstanding personalities from the dawn of Islam.263 In the same year as he published his book about Christ, he released a book on ‘the father of the prophets’, Abraham.264 But his interest in outstanding personalities was not restricted to the history of religions. He praised great Western and Eastern personalities past and present such as Gandhi ( 1948), Bernhard Shaw (1951), Sun Yat Sen (1952) and Benjamin Franklin (1956). also took great interest in the classical Islamic philosophers, and wrote books about Ibn Sīnā (1946), Ibn Rushd (1953) and the philosophy of alGhazālī (1960).265 His book on was criticised by Amīn for not being sufficiently scientific and for overemphasising the virtues of his heroes and neglecting their faults (Ford 2001:34). In the preface to the next book in his about Abū Bakr, responded that these books were not really meant to be historical biographies, but rather a ‘spiritual portrait’ ( nafsiyya) of the person’s character 266 ( 1985/1943:3–7). Whereas the is marked by a narrative, personality-oriented approach, others of his works on religious and political issues are more discursive in nature. The latter are marked by a constant quest for what he terms ‘

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philosophy’ or ‘ anthropology’.267 His approach to philosophy is not, however, exclusivist on Islam’s part. In his works about philosophy, he often refers affirmatively to European philosophers (especially Kant268), and involves himself in critical discussion with them (for instance, the existentialists). Notwithstanding his wide reading and intellectual openness towards other traditions, much of literary production is marked by an apologetic approach. This is most conspicuous when he addresses the genius of the issue of democracy ( 1995/1952), and the historical and contemporary relation between Islam, the Arab world and the West.269 and the notion of In the following, I have no ambition to cover the totality of vast literary production. My clue has been the literary role of in the religiophilosophical part of works. I will first look into a selection of biographical works, concentrating on his spiritual portraits of Gandhi, Christ and which were published between 1942 and 1963. Then, I will investigate his works on the themes of philosophy and democracy from 1947 to 1961. The word as it occurs in works, cannot be assumed in advance to indicate a consistently elaborated concept. But although it may have several different connotations, it still reveals some inner coherence. Already in single attempt at the genre of the novel from 1938—Sāra ( n.d./1938, in English and in quite different Akkad 1978)—there are several references to meanings.270 It may be juxtaposed with heart and thought, in a reference to man’s inner guidance (ibid.: 27/38). It may denote the inner struggle of a reproaching (tabkīt ) or reassured conscience (ibid.: 35, 37/44, 46). But it may also signify the deeper motivations of human actions, as contrasted by actions that are merely guided by convention ( 48/56). As we shall see, all these aspects of or ‘conscience’ will recur in more elaborate form in the religious and philosophical writings of to be analysed in what follows. At the other end of his literary production, in autobiography which was published in the year he died ( 1996/1964), one also finds passages that testify to the centrality of in his anthropology and moral philosophy. In a section entitled ‘My faith’, he speaks of the interrelated worlds of consciences thoughts taste and morals He states that there is no stronger incentive towards the good than one’s striving for perfection, and no stronger curb on evil than one’s sense of shortcoming. Correspondingly in the moral life of a person there will both be times of joy and happiness, and moments of distress and remorse for imperfection (tabkīt ibid.: 124).

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In works from the 1940s to 1961, it will appear that the sense of remorse—epitomised as tabkīt —is only rarely touched upon. In general, I will argue that the notion of in strikes a predominantly optimistic note. As already observed by Olaf Schumann (Schumann 1988/1975), the notion of in also appears to have some intriguing interreligious implications, as it is most strongly expressed in his biography of Christ. himself has in fact made some quite unequivocal statements in this respect. In an essay about (‘Missionary religions’) printed in the otherwise quite apologetic collection (‘What is said about Islam’), he presents belief in human conscience as a unifying element in all missionary religions (al1974/1963:402). By use of an intriguing triad, he depicts them as united in their faith in the doctrine of God, prophethood and human conscience (ibid.: 403). Thus united, all of them express the transition from local doctrines to tenets of human conscience and divine unity (ibid.: 407).

7.2 The genius of

in

‘spiritual portraits’ and his upright conscience

biography of from 1942 ( ‘The genius of ) has received much attention in recent scholarship, and been subject to quite different evaluations as to its function in the modern Egyptian context.271 In the preface, explains how the idea of a book like this emerged during the celebration of the Prophet’s birthday some thirty years before. In a discussion with friends about the nineteenth-century British historian and essayist Thomas Carlyle’s On Heroes and Hero-Worship (Carlyle 1911/1841), Carlyle was cited as a positive exception to other Western scholars who had regularly spoken with disrespect about especially with regard to his marriages and wars.272 As there was no modern Arab exposition of the life of made the decision to write one. When thirty years later had finally fulfilled his intention, a number of biographical approaches to had already been published by outstanding men of letters in Egypt.273 Carlyle’s search for the genius who lives ‘Direct from the Inner Fact of things’ (ibid.: 62) seems to have been a quite decisive inspiration not only for spiritual portrait of but also for his subsequent approach to other outstanding personalities from Islamic, biblical and modern political history. As Louis Awad has

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noted, in a general comment on ‘His religious biographies…are basically psychological studies, or rather studies of heroes and heroworship, demonstrating the profundity of his Carlylean idealism’ (Awad 1986:169). In the preface, makes it clear that his book is not meant as just another sīra (biography) of the Prophet, nor as a merely apologetic effort. What he is after is rather an assessment of the ‘genius of Muhammad’ which everyone, and not only the faithful Muslim, must recognise ( 1985/1942:6). In accordance with stated intention, reflects his general emphasis on the quality of the person when dealing with ethics and religion. The apologetic nature of the book shines through in lengthy chapters that focus on the issues that had previously identified as the most sensitive ones in the life of namely his wars and his marriages—under the headings of ‘military genius’ and ‘husband’.274 In several places, employs the notion of although not as pointedly as we shall see in (‘The genius of Christ’). Generally serve to emphasise his human integrity which so to references to say attracted divine revelation. Alluding to the claims that is sublime not by the mere fact of being chosen, but because he has got a sublime moral character ( ibid.: 6, cf. Q 68:4). By virtue of his innate nature, was inclined towards purity and uprightness of conscience, and his conscience as well as his limbs were bent towards worship (ibid.: 129, 134). responded positively to divine guidance, and he found reassurance from the revelation of his Lord—as did the consciences of previous prophets (ibid.: 22). In this context, daringly claims that conscience received calm and reassurance not only by the revelation or inspiration from his Lord, but also from the inspiration of his heart (min qalbihi) and from his companions (ibid.).275 Focusing on the inner aspects of the divine revelation, taught people that deeds would be judged in accordance with their intentions (bi-l-niyyāt).276 So teaching, he left them in the charge of their consciences and of God (ibid.: 86). He made faith a matter of the hearts (al-qulūb), and his message incited a movement of renewal in perception thinking (al-fikr) and conscience ibid.: 130f). ( also credits the recipients of message with attentive consciences. Those of contemporaries who were prepared to receive the new message, distinguished themselves by seeking the reassurance as well as the restraint of conscience ( min ibid.: 13). Correspondingly suggests that those of his own contemporaries who diminish the value of this great man, must have had a deformed conscience (ibid.: 143).

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In the concluding chapter about in history, repeats his point that when properly understood, has a natural appeal to human conscience. Anyone who recognises the inner greatness behind the outward expressions of mission, professes a truth in the world of conscience. On a distinctively modernist note, adds that those who deny his inner qualities and outward achievements do not only reject the greatness of but the progress of humankind (taqaddum ) towards a perfect balance of inner and outward qualities (ibid.: 145). How does see other traditions, then, in his universalist oriented apologetics? In the chapter about military genius, he discusses the view of politics in Judaism, Christianity and Islam (ibid.: 30). In a way which turned out to be typical also of his later works, combines his interreligious concern for personal integrity with an apologetic defence of Islam as the supreme integration of the personal and political aspects of religion. With reference to the alleged ‘tribal spirit’ of Judaism, he claims that there is no point in comparing Judaism with Islam in this respect. As for Christianity, he claims that this religion has primarily taken interest in morality and ethics Its relation to social matters and politics has proved to be ambivalent. In Islam, there has never been any doubt that the reformation it called for also meant a new ordering of social affairs and a new kind of political system. Therefore, could not dispense with political power, nor with military defence when such defence was forced upon him by his adversaries. As for the modern context of this problematic, he notes that ‘in our time’, there is much talk about Gandhi and his non-violent, passive resistance, which is said to originate either from Tolstoi or from Hindu (‘Brahmanist’) and Buddhist ethics. notes that many have suggested that this is quite different from what Islam teaches. But according to that is not the case: the practice of was in fact a model of diplomacy and of friendly contracts and truces (cf. ibid.: 54–8). does not deny, however, that practised and sanctioned armed resistance, but only in situations in which all laws and every system of rights would sanction it: ‘Islam is a religion and a political order; and in the latter capacity it has, like all political orders, the right to enforce obedience and to prevent revolt’ (ibid.: 32).277 This generalising approach is typical of apologetics on behalf, and of his congenial blend of ‘Islamic’ and ‘human’ concerns. was not only the Prophet of Islam, but a human genius as well, and his political and military strategies may be compared to those of other outstanding leaders in human history.278 main interest was apparently to present as a model that may be measured against other human models of personal character and political leadership—only with the apologetic implication that beats them on their own, universal ground.

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Not everyone has been ready to let get away with this. His sharpest critic, the Jewish-American scholar Nadav Safran, has accused of moral opportunism and reactionary Romanticism in his depiction of and taken as the introduction of a reactionary, almost obscurantist phase in career as a writer (Safran 1961:213).279 Against Safran, I will argue that he fails to recognise the personalist and universalist outlook of this biography. As Louis Awad has noted, approach to was in fact far more controversial among the orthodox than what Safran’s critique would imply. When it appeared, the book was exposed to the charge of heresy by orthodox critics that were not ready to reconcile the concept of the individual genius with the idea of a divine revelation (Awad 1986:169). Between and Christ: Mahatma Gandhi did not restrict his interest in the great human spirits to those of the Islamic or Jewish-Christian tradition. We have seen that paid some attention to 280 Gandhi in his biography of In 1948, in the same year as Gandhi died, published a portrait of him under the heading of al-Mahātmā 281 Ghāndī ( 1981/1948). Although not signalled by the title, the book leaves no doubt that held Gandhi to be a genius.282 As pointed out in Section 3.5, Gandhi contributed to a universal application of the notion of conscience. He linked it with a strong commitment to non-violence, and a keen attentiveness to the inner voice of God. marks a similar universalist approach to the human spirit by frequent use of the notion and connects his humanitarian outlook to a strong concern for the release of human energy and potential for his personal integrity some (ibid.: 275, 333). After having praised years before, now makes it clear that having a sublime character is no exclusive privilege of The life-stories (siyar) of other great personalities reveal an outstanding moral character similar to that of (ibid.: 275). Emphasising the universal importance of Gandhi, presents him as a representative of the truly inclusivist spirit of India. Gandhi did not only draw upon the spiritual resources of Jainism and Brahmanism, but confessed Islam and Christianity as well: he was inspired both by the and the Gospel (ibid.: 290f, 319f.). Apparently, was also deeply impressed by Gandhi’s non-violent commitment. Having six years earlier eagerly tried to soften the image of as a warrior, now praises Gandhi for the discovery of the sublime means of resistance that are found in suffering and civil disobedience (ibid.: 298, 309, 313). pays much attention to Gandhi’s Jainist background in this respect. He notes that Gandhi’s application of the Jainist concept of ahimsa or non-violence characterised

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his entire political orientation as well as his personal, conscience-based behaviour (ibid.: 288). But he also repeats his apologetic claim from that a similar ethos may be found in Islam (ibid.: 346). As for the interrelation of non-violence and the rule of conscience, observes that non-violent resistance confronts the aggressor with the blame of his own conscience (ibid.: 344). Commenting on the concept of spirit, states that Jainism, in contrast to which is not Brahmanism, conceives of the spirit as a personal spirit destined to vanish into some higher, impersonal unity (ibid.: 325). Gandhi taught that the spirit must be trained by constant prayer and meditation, since there can be no peace of conscience without regular prayer (ibid.: 331–3). Only by spiritual exercise, and by abiding with the principle of non-violence, can human conscience stay calm (ibid.: 375, 382). use of the notion in his biography of Gandhi relates both to the quality of the inner person in general and, more specifically, to moral consciousness. A further example of a pointed ethical usage is found in the chapter on Gandhi and women’s rights, where states that real ethics stems from a genuine choice and the inspiration of conscience ( ibid.: 366). What unites all reformers of different creeds, according to is their defence of life But they also share the insight that life should not be defended by any means and at any cost. More important is the integrity of conscience and moral feelings (salāmat wa-l-wijdān), and the respect of convictions rooted in specific religious doctrines such as vegetarianism among the Hindus (ibid.: 385). In conclusion, notes that some Christian leaders in the West have compared Gandhi to Christ (ibid.: 389). For his own part, he emphasises Gandhi’s inspiration from Islam. Both in terms of the chronology of writings, and with respect to the characteristic content of Gandhi’s mission as a reformer, it seems that situates the genius of Gandhi somewhere in between and Christ. Basically, Gandhi was a spiritual reformer, as Christ was. But he had also a deep political impact, as had.283 inclusivist approach to human conscience in his biography of Gandhi prefaces his innovative approach to Christ and ‘the law of love and conscience’ which Christ—as sees him—preached and lived. The genius of Christ, and his law of love and conscience Outside the family of Islamic heroes, Christ is the only figure that is honoured by as a genius by use of the epithet in the book title. (‘The genius of Christ’) was first published in 1953 ( n.d./1953).

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The second edition in 1957 carried a different title: (‘The life of Christ’, 284 1996/1957). In his study Der Christus der Muslime, which was first published in 1975, Olaf Schumann paid much attention to this ground-breaking work (Schumann 1988/1975). More recently, the 1957-version of Christ-biography has been translated into English and discussed by F.Peter Ford (Ford 2001).285 Like many other books in work on Christ has had a wide impact in Egypt, and continued to be reprinted in the 1990s. It soon attracted considerable interest in circles committed to Christian-Muslim understanding, much because of its non-polemical utilisation of the New Testament Gospels which broke with a centuries-long Muslim understanding of the biblical scriptures as fundamentally corrupted.286 Up till the dramatic climax, where takes exception to the historicity of the crucifixion,287 the Gospels are treated as reliable sources of information, allowing anyone to search behind the narrated events in order to identify the personality of Christ and elucidate his genius ( 150/ 146).288 It is significant that depiction of Christ’s personality comes under the general heading of the human genius In the concluding parts of the book, speaks of Christ’s genius in almost generic terms. He summarises the objective of as that of ‘elucidating the genius of Christ (or ‘Christie genius’, ) in a contemporary fashion’, and concludes: ‘We now understand his genius, just as we did when we studied the genius of other leading personalities with respect to each one’s destiny and his innermost aspirations’ (ibid.: 167/159). Christ and the notion of turns out to Much more clearly than in be a pivotal concept in Repeatedly, speaks of ‘the law of love and conscience’ which was preached links his preoccupation with with a stern critique of outward by Christ. forms and appearances and an overriding interest in the internalisation of morals and religion. In a chapter added to the book in the edition, he claims that: [Christ’s] mission taught the people what they needed to learn whenever they sank into the stagnant abyss of lifeless literalism and petrified formalities. It taught them that doctrine is a matter of the mind (fikra) and the conscience not one of literalism and formality. This was the mission of Christ in that era, which was contaminated as much by rigidity as by hypocrisy.289

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seems to have been the first Muslim writer to focus on human conscience when writing about Christ. As noted already by Olaf Schumann, the repeated reference to 290 is in fact one of the most striking features of In his exposition of Christ’s message, relies on and sometimes criticises well-known Western portraits of Jesus such as Emil Ludwig’s Der Menschensohn. Geschichte eines Propheten (1928) and Ernest Renan Vie de Jésus (1863).291 Renan depicted Jesus as delegating the moral judgement of the world ‘to the conscience of the just man, and to the arm of the people’ (Renan 1935:151).292 It was in fact the stated ambition of Renan to ‘represent the Christ of the modern conscience’ (ibid.: 82). According to Renan, when Jesus preached the kingdom of God, what he meant was ‘a new state of humanity’ (ibid.: 150). What he called the kingdom of God was in fact ‘the highest and most poetic expression of human progress’ (ibid.: 151). For the sake of humanity’s progress, Jesus established A pure worship, a religion without priests and external observances, resting entirely on the feelings of the heart, on the imitation of God, on the direct relation of the conscience with the heavenly Father,’ (ibid.: 64f.).293 Renan’s vision of the religious genius who confronts traditional formalism by invoking conscience might in fact have been a major impulse behind depiction of Christ as a defender of human conscience. Apparently, the idea of relating had the essence of Christ’s message and of Christianity to the notion of occurred to an earlier stage of his career as a writer. In his book Allāh from 1947, which deals with the concept of God in the history of religion and philosophy, he presents Christianity as the first religion to base worship on human conscience, and to proclaim the mercy of heaven to humankind ( 1994/1947:109). Adding his favourite point about the internalisation of religion, he claims that Christ transferred worship from manifestations and ceremonies to eternal realities, from the world of the senses to the world of Instead of expecting the kingdom of God to appear in some major or lesser worldly events, Christ taught that ‘the kingdom of God was established in their consciences and present in every age and every place’ (ibid.: 103).294 leaves no doubt, however, that the final role in divine guidance is assigned to Islam. Whereas Christianity may be summarised by the word ‘love’, the perfection of religion is brought by Islam, and epitomised by the word ‘truth’ ( ibid.: 112). In Allāh, he also underlines that in contrast to Christianity, Islam does not allow the association of God with anything created—be it in the world of sensation or in the world of conscience ( 1994/1947:109). At this point, he might be at variance with Kāmil apparently more radical identification of ‘conscience’ with the ‘voice of God itself (see Section 9.5).

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view of the life of Christ and his message as used by Before further expounding and analysing the notion of in it is necessary to give a more general outline of understanding of Christ in this work. exposition of Christ’s message is prefaced by an outline of the historical context of his mission. In the 1957-edition, makes some comments on the discovery of the Dead Sea scrolls. Whereas modern Muslim apologists have often argued that the Jesus movement emerged from the ranks of the Essene community (cf. Youssef 1990), maintains that the legalistic rigour of the Essenes was rather a negative preparation for Christ’s mission, corroborating its historical necessity ( 1996/1957:8ff.). sees the universal outlook of early Christianity not as a later product of Pauline theology, but as an integral aspect of the law of love and conscience that he preached. In contradistinction to traditional Muslims apologetics, he views Paul positively, and regards Jewish Christianity as a deviation from the implicit universalism of Christ’s ministry.295 As a historical parallel to Christ’s universal appeal to human conscience, cites the Stoic philosophers’ concern for self-control and selfrestraint, and their conviction that ‘a person’s well-being was dependent only on himself and his conscience’ ( n.d./1953:46, cf. 1996/1957:56). links his reflections on the universalism of Christ’s message with a theory of the rise and fall of civilisations. When the general focus of a civilisation shifts from the inward to the outward from the soul to the body, both the faculties of the ) are lost, and the civilisation in question soul and conscience (quwwat al-nafs is destined to decline. Christ taught that a civilisation can only be saved when people give priority to the simplicity of conscience rather than deceptive outward appearances, be it obsession with wealth or with the ‘sentences and letters’ of religion (ibid.: 78f./86f.). In his exposition of Christ’s message, places Christ firmly in the prophetteacher tradition, and describes the progress in Christ’s prophetic consciousness when confronted with increasing adversity. Christ launched repeated attacks on legalism and hypocrisy, appealed to the interior of conscience ( ibid.: 81/88), and preached a message of love that far transcended the boundaries of the Jewish law. The essence of his call was: that God is the Lord of the children of Man (banī ) and that he is the Son of Man (ibn ) that love is the best of virtues and that the best kind of love is love for one’s enemy; that generosity means that you give more than you are asked for or that you give without being asked; that the kingdom of heaven is not conquered by riches; that what

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belongs to the emperor [should be given] to the emperor and what belongs to God [should be given] to God, and that the glory vied for by those who desire it does not deserve to be desired, and that the glory that deserves to be desired is not a cause of rivalry. (ibid.: 80/88) Christ’s message implied a complete change of direction, which refers to as nothing less than a new qibla (orientation of prayer). Christ summons every human being to make the right choice of direction and sanctuary: The qibla of the spirit or the body; the qibla of God or the qibla of ‘Mammon’—the possessor of the material and the capital; the sanctuary of the conscience or the sanctuary of stone and wood. This or that. (ibid.: 83/90) universalist application of the Islamic notion of qibla corresponds to a In a chapter spiritualised and equally universalist reinterpretation of the notion of about reveals little trust in the reform of outward laws and regulations, which may in fact bring more harm than good. Linking up with classical concepts from philosophical ethics in Islam, he depicts Christ as concentrating upon the reform of consciences and the refinement of manners and morals ( ibid.: 95/100, 113/115). What he was after was the change of motives and incentives ( al-nafsī, ibid.: 110/112). Only through character formation will the conscience of the individual and the conscience of the community ( al-fard ) be safeguarded (ibid.: 113/115). As reads him, Christ realised that a reform of consciences will achieve far (religious, or more than the reform and reinterpretation of external laws; be it divinely revealed laws) or qawānīn (secular laws). But Christ did not abolish the Jewish al-nāmūs). He rather fulfilled it by applying the law of love Law ( 296

The law of love and conscience, over against the law of outward appearances equates the law of love’ with ‘the law of conscience’, by In several places, expressions such as (ibid.: 101/105).297 The law of love and conscience is contrasted with the law of forms and outward appearances ( ibid.).298 As sees him, Christ consistently emphasised the importance of internalised love over external laws. According to law is but a covenant aimed at settling the obligatory (wājib). Love, in contrast, does not deal with people in terms of legal contracts and witnesses, and is not

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counted in letters and lines. The law of love, as preached by Christ and embraced by far transcends the category of the obligatory: It [love] does what is required of it, and then goes beyond that. It is happy to give, and does not expect recompense. By this —the of love—Christ abrogated every letter in the of forms and outward appearances (ibid.: 101/106) In order to illustrate what the law of love is all about, quotes extensively from the Sermon on the Mount and other Gospel passages. He claims that the law of love and conscience is harder and narrower than the law of forms and outward appearances, since it refers itself to the intentions and thoughts that precede outward actions and events (ibid.: 105/109). With a critical note to self-acclaimed custodians of divine law who violate the integrity of the individual, claims that the ethics taught by Christ leaves no place for moral judges or supervisors. Whereas the law of outward appearances is liable to rigidity and eye-service (al-jumūd ), the law of love leaves the matter to conscience and constant self-examination, and expresses itself in affection and genuine service to others (ibid.: 98/103, 100f./105f.). By his invocation of human conscience and his appeal to inner examination, Christ vigorously opposed those religious leaders who, obsessed with letters and sentences, clung to outward appearances (ibid.: 79/87). By proclaiming the law of love, he tore down all prevailing custom (kull ibid.: 106/110). He transferred religious authority from sheets of paper to consciences and hearts (ibid.), and refuted anything in the traditions of his people that would impede their consciences and delude them into false piety and hypocrisy (ibid.: 162/155). Following Christ’s example, Paul and his supporters also ‘revolted against the system of doctrine and custom’ ( ibid.: 142/139). The modernist sting against traditionalist and custom-oriented religion in these expressions can hardly be overlooked. What is after in the field of ethics is something more than a mere critique of petrified tradition. By repeatedly combining the notions of and in his key expression ‘the law of love and conscience’, seems to imply that the entire concept of Islamic law should be reconsidered and reinterpreted. But neither here nor elsewhere does he clarify what this reinterpretation might imply in concrete terms—as regards the outward aspects of law and ethics. The inward orientation of Christ’s message and in other works, focus on human conscience is In linked with a general concern for the inner dimension of religion. In general, he connects

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to the traditional, distinction between the outer and the inner aspects of Islam. It was this recurring feature of writings that led Amīn to list as a prominent representative of the philosophical position that he termed ‘interiorism’, al-juwwāniyya.299 Relating himself to the tradition of self-accounting, describes the followers of Christ as very skilled in spiritual examination ( ibid.: 142/139). In anthropological terms, and fully in tune with classical Arabic connotations, locates in the innermost recesses of the human soul. This can be ibid.: seen from expressions such as ‘in the secrets of conscience’ (fī 122/173), ‘the interior of conscience’ ( ibid.: 81/88), and ‘the innermost thoughts of his conscience’ (fī ibid.: 159/152f.). His general inward orientation also shines through in his frequent juxtaposition of ‘conscience’ with ‘soul’ and ‘heart’.300 The inward orientation also dominates approach to the personality of Christ. The form of Christ’s mission originated from his innate disposition towards inspiration and suggestive expressions, and from his intuitive spontaneity (ibid.: 133/132). During his temptation in the desert, Christ drew out truth from the depths of his unblemished conscience (ibid.: 158/151f). Leaving the wilderness, he went on to address first the Israelites and then humanity in general, in accordance with the characteristics of his mission that had now been established deep in the deposits of his conscience. The inherent universalism of Christ’s mission Along with the law of love and conscience and the inward orientation of Christ’s message, his mission was characterised by a universalist outlook. Whereas distinction between the inner and outer person and his emphasis on self-examination reveals his influence from ethics, his references to the human, that is, universal dimensions of Christ’s mission reflects his dependence on classical philosophical ethics in Islam. According to the generation of Christ was the first to witness divine guidance becoming truly universal, addressing anyone who would be ready to be guided. A living call arose to the human conscience, ‘one which extended its light as the sun extends its light to everyone who watches for it and anticipates it’ (ibid.: 168/159). As regards Christ’s proclamation of the kingdom of heaven, takes Luke 17:21 as a reference to ‘a kingdom which exists in the human conscience in every age’ (ibid.: 121/122).301 It can be entered only with a pure, unblemished soul (ibid.), and it is meant to be established in human consciences, not in palaces or thrones (ibid.: 79/87, 113/115). However, Christ’s internalising proclamation of the kingdom was not without worldly consequences. Establishing the kingdom in the depths of human feelings (wijdān) and conscience Christ transcended religious exclusivism and

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proclaimed a truly universal message. In this way he also firmly established the politically relevant principle of freedom of conscience (ibid.: 171–3/164f.).302 With regard to the miracles, emphasises that the miracles presuppose faith for a proper reception. The true miracle was neither Christ’s birth nor his works of healing, but rather the fact that the message of love preached by the Galilean son of a carpenter conquered the entire Roman world (ibid.: 151/147). The absolute titles of Jesus—such as ‘the Light of the world’ and ‘the Son of God’— appear to be acceptable to as metaphorical expressions. Also in this respect, outlook is universalist: ‘Everyone who is born of the Spirit is a son of God’ (ibid.: 160/153). The jihād of conscience In the last chapter of the book, reveals his knowledge of modern Western classics and retells Dostoevsky’s scene of the returning Christ and the Grand Inquisitor. He states that if Christ came back to the earth, he would probably repudiate much of what is done today in his name and blame his followers for hypocrisy. Once more, he would teach them that the crucial thing is what is in the conscience, and that living inspiration lies in the innermost thoughts of the human person (fī ), and not in the folds of books and papers (ibid.: 170/163). He would renew his appeal to freedom of conscience, which now as before is nothing but a constant effort, a struggle of conscience (jihād ): the religions are to be measured by the values and incentives they consign to the soul, and by how much they increase the share of man in the freedom of conscience, or the freedom to distinguish between the good and the despicable. The religions have done a lot, and are still capable of doing a lot. But they can never relieve the human being of the struggle of the conscience. (ibid.: 173/165) For the jihād of conscience is in fact what makes creative ijtihād possible (ibid.: 6/22). Obviously, the struggle of conscience and independent reasoning aims at freedom of conscience and thought in society. often adds some romantic or mystical flavour to the notion of freedom of conscience, in expressions such as ‘the freedom of conscience is the secret of all secrets in the life of the human being’ (ibid.: 172/164). But it is quite clear that strong advocacy of freedom of conscience, when read in its historical context, had obvious socio-political implications.

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The implied audience of life of Jesus interest in Christ was apparently not restricted to a historical presentation of Christ as a law reformer in Judaism, neither to a sympathetic exposition of basic Christian tenets. There are many indications that his writings about Christ should also be read as a critique of rigorist attitudes and outwardness in traditionalist interpretations of Islam. When denoting the adversaries of Christ, he often employs traditional Islamic terms for legal and religious offices such as (ibid.: 103/108),303 and (ibid.: 113/115). He also makes an explicit reference to literalist conservatism among Islamic jurists in Egypt (ibid.: 99/104). F.Peter Ford has made the observation that there is no clear indication in as to why wrote this particular book. But he suggests that the implied audience would be Muslim rather than Christian, and that was no less patient with the merely external forms of his own religion than he found Christ to be with his: ‘there is a word from Jesus to the religious elite in Islam who would emphasize rituals and interpretations which only serve to stifle true faith’ (Ford 2001:62). Nevertheless, claims Ford, must certainly have had Christian readers in mind as well. In particular, his utilisation of the Gospels as reliable sources points in this direction. In Ford’s judgement: has endeavored, as a Muslim, to comprehend the founder of Christianity according to Christian sources, and to appropriate for himself the substance of his life and teaching. In the process, he has discovered much which he shares in common with Christian believers. (ibid.) Ford notes that even though parts company with Christians on the historicity of the crucifixion, he affirms many of the elements of Christ’s life and message that are also central to Christians. The question remains, however, whether is able to tackle constructively what is actually different in Muslim and Christian beliefs. Does conscience with only refer to what is common between the two faiths—that which they know together—or can it contain differences as well? a discourse of love and conscience more sensitive to difference? Before leaving

portrait of Christ, I will look briefly at a similar book by (b. 1928), which was first published in 1961.304

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(‘With Christ in the Four Gospels’, 1966/1961) 305 reveals much inspiration from Like relies on the Gospels as historical sources. In his portrait of Christ, he too puts much emphasis on the and links it with a concern for a renewed ijtihād within Islam in order notion of to restore the original dynamism of Like he cites Christ as an example to be emulated in this respect. Christ showed that religious law does not rest on letters, but on conscience, and made everyone ‘his own judge’ under the sole supervision of the hidden God (ibid.: 413). Christianity has greatly enriched humanity by revealing that In the view of ‘God is love, and that’s enough!’ (ibid.). Distinguishing between the nāmūs of legalism of neighbourly love, sees the centre of the Christian message in and the the call for love as well as in the demand for equality and justice. Both modern democracy and socialism may thus be seen as partly foreshadowed by Christianity, which should therefore not be accused of being an individualistic religion (ibid.: 414). emphasises the need to proceed from what As for the notion of conscience, is demanded by the law (al-nāmūs) to ‘what reassures conscience’. Quoting he characterises the law sought for by Christ as a law of love and conscience and of ibid.: 285). As sees it, loyalty to conscience as taught altruism’ by Christ is both a question of being sensitive to the ‘curbing powers of the soul’ ( al-nafs), and a way of transcending the outwardness of religious legislation The latter can only be achieved if law is founded in ‘the depths of the soul’ (ibid.: 413).306 Notwithstanding his search for uniting elements in Christian and Muslim belief and also discusses the difficult issues—such as crucifixion and redemption, ethics, Christ’s nature and the appreciation of In general, he is more sensitive to religious differences than and he approaches Christianity with the conviction that each religion must be interpreted from the vantage point of its own selfasserts that this is more a understanding. As for the event of the crucifixion, question of interpretation than of a (contested) fact (ibid.: 434). has expressed his sensitivity Also at later stages and in different contexts, towards the real differences between Muslims and Christians—not only in terms of ethics and christology but also with a view to majority-minority positions in society.307 In the context of Muslim-Christian dialogue on the international scene, he has argued that Islam recognises religious differences and religious pluralism (Osman 1998).308 By his search for interreligious understanding and his sensitivity to the otherness of the other believer, more clearly than points the way towards a dialogue that may be capable of dealing constructively with differences. Since died in 1964, at a time when a discourse of national unity tending to level religious differences was still predominant, it remains an open question what kind of stance he would have taken in a more conflictual context.

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The genius of the Islamic philosopherreformer in I have so far tried to demonstrate the centrality of the notion of spiritual portraits of Gandhi and Christ. In his praise of a modern Islamic genius, the Egyptian muftī and modernist reformer (1849–1905), references to also plays a certain part, although not as strikingly as in spiritual portrait of was published as late as 1963 ( 1981/1963). With his views of reason and revelation, his modernist confrontation of blind traditionalism (taqlīd) in Islam and his appreciation of Christ as a religious reformer, was probably a major source of inspiration for religious-philosophical writings. Revealing his concern for a practical integration of philosophy and Islamic reformism, states that in every strong religious personality, the ideal proclaimed is always a morally and socially applied ideal. As a reformerphilosopher, embodied this ( al-faylasūf, ibid.: 164ff.). Characterising position, states that was obviously not a literalist who clung to the external aspects of religion, as in the blind traditionalist taqtīd of the the exteriorists. But neither did he belong to the the interiorists who internalised religion to the extent that it was separated from ordinary life. discusses relation to the classical Islamic traditions of and concludes by placing him in the theology, rationalism, philosophy, and reconciling position of al-Ghazālī. Against those who imply that discursive reason and religious revelation are incompatible, invokes Kant’s distinction between the thing itself and the phenomenon, the essential and the accidental.309 He contends that senses, feelings (wijdān) and reason belong to the realm of the ‘Phenomenon’, as distinct from the ‘Nomena’ (sic, ibid.: 168f.). But there is nothing either in reason or in conscience, says that denies the existence of an absolute, divine reality behind the visible phenomena (ibid.: 170).310 Having taken exception both to a rationalism transgressing its borders and a futile sophistry devoid of practical implications, praises the enlightened and well-balanced religious rationalism of He states that in the of supreme idealism and the discharge of moral liberality (sadād ) were perfectly united (ibid.: 164). The tendencies in thinking are characterised by as a kind of intellectual or mental exercise by which the human being may ibid.: 174). By mental train his/her moral feelings (wijdān) and conscience ( training, the human being prepares the freedom of intellect, insight and

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conscience for a life in society. In the view of this freedom was realised by as a thinker and reformer who was both independent and effective. Narrative and discursive approaches to in spiritual portraits of I will conclude my observations on the role of religious geniuses by returning to my distinction in Chapter 4 between prescriptive, discursive and narrative genres in Islamic ethics. Although several influences have been identified from both philosophical and ethics in Islam, narrative approach to the exemplary models of prophets and outstanding religious personalities brings him close to the type of religious ethics associated with the narrative, edifying style of al-Ghazālī.311 In a sum, his biographies may be read as a narrative expression of the keen interest in the human character which is found in both religious, philosophical and ethics. As I see it, most innovative contribution to a modern Islamic notion of (understood as conscience) lies in his narrative, biographical writings, as analysed earlier. In particular, this is true of his biography of Christ, in which he attempts a truly interreligious approach to human conscience. In this context, it also becomes clear that he is extremely critical of any narrowing of Islamic ethics to a prescriptive ethics— which, according to always runs the risk of petrified legalism. 7.3 Conscience, democracy and Islamic authenticity as expressed in the more discursive In this section, I will examine the role of writings of I will first look into his concept of Islamic democracy, and then examine his view of philosophy and Islamic anthropology. book on democracy in Islam, (‘Democracy in Islam’, 1995/1952) was published just prior to Nasser’s July revolution in 1952.312 Against the background of several decades of a liberal, constitutional democracy in Egypt, states that the Muslim nations are in the greatest need at this particular stage of an understanding of freedom that is harmonised with and integrated into their faith. Muslims must realise that freedom is part of the true faith and not simply something useful or borrowed (ibid.: 3). The stated apologetic aim of the book is to demonstrate that ‘democracy’ is not a loan from the West, but rather an authentic, Islamic concept. focus is on the basic idea of democracy, rather than on its elaborate systems. Right from the outset, he relates the question of democracy in Islam to the combined judgement of reason and conscience ( ibid.: 3, 6). Adding the notion of wijdān,he claims that human

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feelings require that questions of personal conviction and faith are also addressed when a socio-political notion such as democracy is discussed (ibid.: 4f., 126). In accordance with the voices of reason, conscience and human feelings, Islam was the first doctrine and community to establish a democracy that was truly ‘humanistic’ As regards Western democracy, polemically suggests that neither its ancient nor modern versions were based on the concept of universal human rights. It arose more as a practical necessity than an ideological or ethical principle (ibid.: 13). also dismisses other candidates that might be put forward as having introduced the idea of democracy. He characterises the ancient system of the Israelites as a mix of theocracy, tribal rule and democracy, and also rejects the idea of a pre-Islamic, ‘Arab’ democracy. Against this polemical background, elaborates the concept of ‘humanistic democracy’ ( ibid.: 29ff.). Contesting Western claims to of Islam was the first to establish a democracy that universalism, he asserts that the was based on the right of human beings to choose their government, and not merely introduced as a tactical measure by the rulers in order to avoid rebellion or facilitate obedience (ibid.: 29). The substance of Islamic democracy, as can be seen from the and from consists of four principles which holds to be common to every democracy that deserves the name: (1) individual responsibility, (2) general rights, (3) rule by consultation or counsel and (4) the solidarity of citizens of various classes and groups. This is truly humanistic democracy (ibid.: 31). Further expounding the principle of humanistic democracy as laid down by the employs the notion of Islamic authenticity and associates it with human conscience. He claims that it would be enough to mention just one of the verses in question to clarify the authenticity of government in the Islamic doctrine: ‘It is revealed to human conscience…and beyond all these rulings there is the rule of God, the wisest and best of rulers’ (ibid.: 38). Making a strong link between ‘humanistic democracy’ (as authenticated by Islam) and human conscience, he continues by asserting that wide-spread references to ‘good government’ serve to ‘entrench in the depth of conscience that there is an inviolability in human beings which raises them above the play of passions and the tyranny of the powerful’ (ibid.).313 Although credits Islam with the first truly humanistic version of democracy, he finds some similarities in Western concepts about social contract such as those of Hobbes, Locke and Rousseau. He takes exception, however, to any doctrine that claims for the ruler any divinely established, absolute authority (ibid.: 40). main interest, however, is to demonstrate how the classical Islamic concepts and practices of (community, ibid.: 44), (consensus, ibid.: 45), (the leader), (the oath of allegiance, ibid.: 47ff.) and šūrā (counsel, ibid.: 55) can be taken as seminal forms of modern democracy. His basic contention is that ‘Islamic ethics’ and ‘democratic ethics’ are in fact identical: ‘Islamic ethics—or you may prefer to say democratic ethics—may be summarised in one word: tolerance’

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( ibid.: 72). He also asserts that and the four rightly guided caliphs embodied the ideals and manners of democracy in an exemplary way. Expounding the concept of šūrā reminds the reader that Moses, Jesus and all met with vehement resistance from their community. Revealing the elitist inclination of his thought, which also shone through in his biographical works, he claims that the question of truth should thus not be confused with the opinion of the majority. The search for truth implies a kind of counselling which is different from ‘the sham democracy of weights and numbers’, and presupposes the ability to distinguish between the amount of utterances and the correctness of what is uttered (ibid.: 59).314 It is hard to escape the impression, then, that notion of democracy—just as his vision of philosophy—is conservative and elitist rather than liberal. Above all, his discussion of democracy and other socio-political issues strikes a distinctively apologetic note. As in (and, as we shall see, in Alfalsafa from 1947), his treatment of disputed issues such as criminal justice, jihād and slavery is aimed at demonstrating Islam’s rational and moderate approach to these issues. With regard to those aspects of classical Islam that are commonly regarded as problematic, however, he neither criticises the prescribed nor questions the validity of the sanction of slavery.315 In Section 7.2, we have seen that Nadav Safran accused of being both opportunistic and reactionary. Safran’s judgement of is also quite unfavourable, and he accuses of apologetic biases and inconsistent argumentation. He cites both books as typical expressions of what he regards as ‘the reactionary phase’ in the 1940s, which in Safran’s taxonomy contrasts the ‘progressive phase’ among liberal intellectuals in Egypt in the 1920s. Safran also accuses of essentialism, by merely focussing on some ideational aspects of democracy and by neglecting the concrete issues of modern, democratic rule such as constitution, electoral laws and parliamentarism. He claims that the attempt of and others ‘to ground the Liberal ideas in Islam resulted only in reinforcing faith in an Islam presumably capable of assuring the best government and the best order, but lacking any guiding principles’ (Safran 1961:226). To some extent, Safran’s critique of the purely apologetic and essentialist approach to the issue of democracy in is justified. fails to discuss exactly what kind of democracy his high ideas would entail. His dismissal of ‘the sham democracy of weights and numbers’ leaves the suspicion that his concept of conscience, when combined with his rather aristocratic notion of democracy, remains an elitist concept which might seem merely to validate the rights of the few enlightened ones. Safran fails to recognise, however, the humanist thrust in approach to the issue of democracy. His equation of ‘humanistic’ and ‘Islamic’ democracy need not be taken as reactionary apologetics. It could just as well be taken as a vigorous expression of ‘contextualist universalism’ from the vantage point of Islam and the Arab cultural heritage: Islamic democracy is a special democracy because it is more universal than any

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other (ibid.: 125).316 Neither should his association of the issue of democracy with that of human conscience be overlooked. His contention that Islamic democracy is the most universal and humanistic democracy is underpinned by the argument that it makes the human being accountable not only to his Lord, but to its own conscience (ibid.). In this way, discourse of democracy is tinged with truly universalist arguments. But he is also critical of what he regarded as Western deviations from true universalism. For instance, he emphasises that the concept of ‘rights’ must be balanced by the obligation of mutual ‘guidance’ between individuals and nations. Only thus can a sound conscience thrive (ibid.: 93). 7.4 Revelation, reason and conscience in philosophy works on philosophy and Islamic anthropology, I will now turn to and the way he employs the notion of in his discursive works on religion and ethics. My focus will be upon Al-falsafa from 1947 ( philosophy’, 1974/1947) and two books published in 1961: Al-tafkīr (‘Thinking—an Islamic duty’, 1974/1961a), and (‘The human being in the 1974/1961b).317 More clearly than in his biographical works, and in tune with his concern for Islamic authenticity in works on Islamic philosophy reveal that his discourse of is a truly Islamic one. His admiration of Christ as a champion of human conscience must be seen in the light of his general conviction that human conscience is best safeguarded by Islam. As early as 1947, in Al-falsafa he claims that the philosophy of the contains the only doctrine that can really make conscience thrive and disperse the clouds that otherwise obscure the light of reason ( 1974/ 1947:206f.). Fourteen years later, in Al-tafkīr he maintains that Islam is the only religion that fully authorises a free and independent relation between the creatures and their Creator, so that humans may approach God by means of their conscience ( 1974/1961a:393). Correspondingly in an essay on (‘The personality’), he claims that ‘the Islamic religion raises human conscience to its highest level’ 1974/1963:511). There are many indications, then, that discourse of human conscience is deeply entrenched in Islamic apologetics. But what he sets out to defend is not a traditionalist or purely prescriptive version of Islam. What he advocates, is rather a religion which appeals more consistently to reason and conscience than any other religion.

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philosophy, new morality and male elitism philosophy from 1947, states that the In the preface to his book on topic of the book is the soundness of the Islamic doctrine and its stimulating effect on human reason. Against those who might see the in opposition to human reason, claims that the holy book of Islam does not interfere with any of the aims of thinking (fikr) and conscience ( 1974/1947:13, cf. 204). Far from suppressing free thought, the defends freedom of conscience (ibid.: 14). Against the materialists, claims that philosophers must recognise religion as an integral part of human existence. Revelation has always appealed to the human intellect and the innermost world of conscience ( ibid.: 15). After having stated his general perspective, presents the view of such societal issues as science ethics authority social class, women and marriage, slavery and criminal justice, and spiritual issues such as God, the human spirit, fate, worship, mysticism and the hereafter. Although he wants to reconcile revelation with reason, is not impressed with those who depict modern scientific accomplishments as foreshadowed in the The should rather be taken as a book of belief that addresses the conscience and incites thinking (tafkīr, ibid.: 20). On the question of ethics, attacks the reductionist views represented by Hobbes and Nietzsche. He claims that there must be some other criterion for ethics than mere power, and maintains that a kind of restraining force in the field of morals is indispensable for human soundness and health. The human being was meant to be the master of his or her soul. As sees it, human soundness cannot be accomplished by society, and should not be interfered with by it. In this context, he employs the notion ‘new social morality’ ( al-jadīda, ibid.: 35), which also occurs in a similar form in Khālid’s writings from the early 1950s.318 Creating a new morality necessitates that the human being rises above the outward dictates of society (ibid.: 34). claims that his view of ethics is corroborated by the which charges the individual with divine obligation (taktīf, ibid.: 36). Against legalistic misunderstandings, maintains that the summons the human personality to ascend in moral beauty (al-jamāl ) by exercising self-examination ( alnafs) and by acquiring virtues such as patience, fairness, justice, benevolence, accountability, hope, mildness and forgiveness (ibid.: 34–40). Expounding the vision of democracy, social class, women and marriage, turns out to be rather elitist and conservative in his approach—as in five years later.319 Against the Marxists, he claims that although riches should be distributed justly, social differences cannot and should not be

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eradicated. He also warns against suppressing the human genius as has been the case ‘in Russia’. The greatest injustice is in fact the levelling of human differences. It must not be overlooked that the of the asserts that although the believers are all brothers, some people rise above others (ibid.: 52f.).320 Also on the issue of criminal justice, takes a rather conservative, apologetic position.321 As for the position of women, reveals his conservative reaction to the emerging emancipation of women which may also be inferred from his novel Sāra.322 He claims that it is vain stubbornness to say that men and women are equal in rights, and maintains that their differences go back to the peculiarities of the male and female soul (ibid.: 55–62).323 Among spiritual issues, discusses at length the question of fate (al-qadar, ibid.: 131–65). With reference to differing views in classical Islamic theology, suggests that both the and positions may be justified by references to the Searching for similarities between Islamic doctrine (as has it) and European philosophy, he cites Kant who distinguished between the laws of necessity in the sphere of experience and the freedom of the will in the moral realm (ibid.: 140). His central claim is that Islam differs from its Abrahamic neighbours on the issue of fate.324 Instead of basing ethics on the arbitrary decisions of a god who is moulded in the image of an absolutist king (Judaism), or complicating the matter by notions of original sin and atonement (Christianity), the speaks straightforwardly of a divine commission (taktīf) placed upon the individual through easily understandable commands and prohibitions (ibid.: 159). notes that according to the human freedom is by no means unrestricted. Nevertheless, since the admonishes the individual to take up his or her responsibility, freedom of conscience is indispensable in the field of ethics and belief (ibid.: 163). Expounding the essentials of Islamic worship, he claims that the addresses both the individual and the society, and presupposes that both are in possession of a conscience. argues that the five pillars in Islam are beneficial for the human soul, and have positive implications for the individual as well as for society (ibid.: 166–9). In a discussion about reform in Islam, states that Islam cannot 325 be wedded to any particular economic system. The does contain, however, some important socio-economic principles that should be applied within any system. In this context, makes the interesting claim that reason alone is too weak to avoid the possibility that one is simply captured by the rules of the prevailing system and its rhetoric. Therefore, reason cannot do without the assistance of ‘the religious al-dīnī), just as conscience cannot dispense with the guidance of conscience’ ( religion. Without divine guidance, one risks that ‘human conscience’ becomes relative to changing social conditions (ibid.: 188, 190). In his final discussions of the hereafter, invokes Kant, who claimed that the reality of the hereafter is in fact a moral-philosophical necessity (ibid.: 177f.). True to

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his rational approach, suggests that the sensual images of the hereafter which can be found in both the Bible and the should be taken as parables that are capable of appealing to emotions as well as to conscience (ibid.: 183). Summing up his general view, he claims that the religion of a community needs the metaphorical language (al-majāz), since it blends eternal, transcendental ideas with the language of conscience (ibid.: 203) exposition of philosophy is marked by a consistent apologetic concern aimed at validating teachings by references to human reason and conscience, carried through in a well-informed discussion with European philosophy. His appeal to reason, his therapeutic concern for human soundness and his emphasis on virtue formation are well in tune with philosophical ethics in Islam. As in al-Ghazālī, however, ethics in is also a religious ethics which—as a philosophy’—cannot do without explicit references to the Together with reason and reflection ( fikr), the notion of serves to designate the anchoring point for revelation in the human personality, and to legitimate call for freedom of thought and conscience. By virtue of his rationalising defence of religion and his persistent stress on the responsibility of the individual, is clearly a moderniser. But he is an elitist moderniser, who seems first of all to be concerned about the freedom of the male genius. He links his call for freedom of conscience to conservative positions on such issues as democracy, social differences and the role of women. As we shall see, in his later writings his approach to socio-political questions becomes less conservative. Conscience under the guardianship of reason In 1961, published two books in which he further elaborated his view of revelation, philosophy and anthropology, and added some discursive precision to his At this stage of his career as a writer, the apologetic tone of his notion of writings is not as dominant as before. Whereas in Al-falsafa he made it clear that reason cannot do without conscience and the guidance of religion, in Al-tafkīr (‘Thinking—an Islamic duty’, 1974/1961a) his main concern is rather the free exercise of reason in religion and ethics. He quotes extensively from the in order to make it clear that thinking is established as a duty in Islam: as Islam speaks of it, is a reason that guards reason conscience, grasps the truths, distinguishes between matters, weighs opposites, reflects and contemplates, and has command of thoughts and opinions. (ibid.: 295)

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According to the enduring task of reason is to challenge the obstacles to the human spirit erected by religious rigidity (jumūd), social custom and political power (ibid.: 295, 298, 303). In this respect, reason is also the supreme guardian of conscience and its freedom. Islam admonishes reason to relieve human consciences of the inward and outward pressures exercised by fear of religious authorities. Clinging to custom and convention is in fact a form of illicit worship of the ancestors.326 As internalised authority, reason controls the human being from within, and competes first of all with other forms of spiritual authority. Thus, religious authority may in fact be more dangerous to human conscience than tyrannical rule in the political realm. Overt tyranny has in fact often proved to be a spur for conscience to resist (ibid.: 303). In a contextual perspective, one might ask whether the implications of such a statement would be that viewed the religious traditionalism of the as more dangerous than the authoritarian cultural policy of Nasser’s regime (cf. 10.1, ‘Islamic discourses and universalist visions under Nasser’). then unfolds his understanding of the combined role of reason and conscience—under the threefold heading of Islamic philosophy, other religions and mysticism. He adds a discussion with recent schools of European philosophy. In the chapter about Islamic philosophy (ibid.: 325–37), he describes how great Islamic philosophers such as al-Fārābī, Ibn Sīnā and Ibn Rushd appropriated the entire Greek philosophy and transformed it into a religious philosophy—as when al-Fārābī rescued Aristotle from the dubious theological consequences of his philosophy, and Ibn Rushd made him a true (monotheist).327 Proceeding to the role of reason in other religions, he notes that the priests of the time set up their snares for Christ and his liberating mission (ibid.: 367). asserts that a Muslim believes in the mission of the prophets altogether, and their common appeal to human reason: The prophethood that the Muslim professes is a prophethood that guides reason by proof and friendly exhortation. It does not dumbfound reason by soothing miracles, or by protecting it from what is unknown. (ibid.: 377) Religions, then, should be evaluated with a view to what they contribute to intellectual and moral progress,328 and their ability to bring conscience to rest. In that respect, takes exception to certain features of the Bible which he does not find to be particularly edifying.329 With a view to intra-Muslim challenges, emphasises the rational duty of a constant ijtihād aimed at reactualisation of Islamic precepts. Again, he points at reason as the guardian of human conscience. The criterion of a sound ijtihād should be whether it keeps the conscience pure, strengthens the role of intention and thereby makes the righteous ones increase in number (ibid.: 383).

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Conscience, Islamic mysticism and European existentialism On the basis of his statements about reason and religion in the first parts of Al-tafkīr proceeds to a discussion of reason and conscience in and in contemporary European philosophy. Apparently, identifies with the stress on individual responsibility which is found in both and modern European existentialism. But he also takes exception to classical exaggerated individualism in both traditions. As regards makes a fundamental distinction between the rational, world-affirming type of mysticism which was oriented towards knowledge, and the hearttype which renounced the world and was wholly dedicated to spiritual exercise (ibid.: 394). True to his overriding concern for the rule of reason, he suggests that the first type is most congenial with Islam. notes that is often seen as the science of the experts of the soul ( al-nafs), who explore the inner consciousness ( ibid.: 390). True ‘Islamic’ or Arab’ however, reconciles the inner and the outer. Striking an apologetic note on the Arabs’ behalf, he claims that Arab’ must be distinguished from the one-sidedness of ‘the of the inner self’ which is influenced by Indian religion and neo-Platonic philosophy (ibid.: 396).330 After having defined what he sees as a true Islamic is ready to enrol mysticism as a co-guardian of conscience, together with reason. It is in this context that makes the above-mentioned claim that Islam is the only religion that fully authorises a free and independent relation between human consciences and the Creator (ibid.: 393). Without mediators or custodians, a true Muslim mystic may freely connect with God on the basis of the law of love and independence of conscience (wa-l-istiqlāl ibid.). As a guardian of the law of love and conscience, true turns out to have the same characteristics as those attributed to Christ in Essentially, ‘genuine is freedom of conscience, and faith in God on the foundation of love and knowledge’ (ibid.: 400). Islamic has liberated the conscience of the individual from the shackles of spiritual tyranny, and allows the human being to take refuge in his or her secret thoughts. Once more emphasising the independence of the individual vis-à-vis his or her community, claims that nobody cannot do without such a refuge—a refuge to resort to and seek shelter in amidst one’s community (ibid.: 400f.). Having presented freedom of conscience as a fundamental principle in Islamic makes some comments on European existentialism, which he al-wujūdiyya (‘the schools of existentialism’). Apparently, he generalises as admires European existentialism for its emphasis on the irreducible responsibility of the individual, and its stress on the unlimited authority of conscience. He is nevertheless

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wary of what he sees as its potential anti-social consequences. He seems to equate modern Western existentialism with the monasticism of ancient times, when ‘the human being with a vigilant conscience became tired of society, and emigrated from it to the hermitage of religion’. notes that in modern Western societies too, many individuals are tired of their societies. Then they reach for the ideologies of existentialism ‘to which the individual resorts whenever the yoke of social convention becomes unbearable’. Alternatively, they resort to licentiousness and the privacy of their feelings ( al-wijdān ibid.: 400f.). According to Islam does offer a hermitage to which the conscience of the individual may resort—in the depth of his or her soul. Existentialism is thus right in exalting the right of the individual to an independent existence, and in confessing the authority of conscience (ibid.: 418). But Islam does not allow for any seclusion of conscience from its communal duties, as one often sees in existentialism and purely internalised versions of ‘individual consciences must not separate their work from participation in social life’ (ibid.: 410). In addition to existentialism, also discusses the ‘social philosophies’ of democracy, socialism and internationalism (ibid.: 411ff.). Somehow differently from the conservative tendency in Al-falsafa which was published five years before Nasser’s revolution, he now underpins these modern doctrines with quotations. He applies the same procedure for a partial defence of the theories of evolution and the survival of the fittest. The general impression left by Al-tafkīr is that of a nuanced estimation of modern European philosophy. evaluation of non-Islamic traditions is based on the conviction that Islam is the best religion to safeguard conscience and human reason. But his claim is not put forward in an exclusivist way. As an Islamic thinker, knows something deep together with personalist and social philosophers of other traditions. The same appears to be true of view of human conscience: although Islam is depicted as the only religion which fully authorises human conscience to communicate directly with God, it is a universal obligation to protect one’s conscience just as much as one respects the sanctity of one’s community. Although it belongs to the soundness of conscience to have the well-being of society in mind, a society can only be healthy when private consciences are respected as sanctuaries which do not divulge anything except what they wish (ibid.: 429). The role of conscience in anthropology We have seen that in Al-falsafa spoke in rather general terms about reason and conscience as the anchoring points for divine relation in the human person. In Al-tafkīr he repeats his call for freedom of thought. He puts

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conscience under the guardianship of reason, and calls upon as an ally in Islamic concerns for freedom of conscience. In his other book from 1961, (‘The human being in the ’, 1974/1961b), elaborates his Islamic view of anthropology. In this context, he also speaks more concretely about the function of Right from the outset, he marks his universalist approach by addressing the human being of the twentieth century with the old Socratic admonition ‘Know yourself!’. According to the question of self-knowledge must be dealt with in an ‘inner’ sense, and with respect to what one knows ‘from the traits of one’s wijdān and the features of one’s (ibid.: 360). But consulting personal feelings and individual conscience is not enough. The insights of ‘religious doctrine’ ( dīniyya) must be added, to ensure that the question of self-knowledge is dealt with not only in its temporary but also in its transcendental, eternal dimension (ibid.: 361). Alluding to the speaks of the human being as a responsible creature, commissioned by God. In tune with the humanist outlook of philosophical ethics, he claims that Islam was the first religion to address humanity in general with a call to responsibility. The prophets of Israel restricted themselves to one single human lineage. Although Christ broadened the scope, there was still the need for a mission that did not rely upon deliverance through expiation, but activated responsibility and nurtured the human spirit (ibid.: 378). Combining his apologetic concerns with a universalist outlook, asserts that this was the truly humanistic mission left to Islam. What does the teach about the human being, then? refers to the classical Greek teachings about the faculties of the soul, but leaves the final word to the (ibid.: 386f). The inner human being consists of spirit reason and soul (nafs), each of which has its separate functions. As regards the role of reason, combines and classical Greek concerns by speaking of reason as a restraint or curb which makes one recognise what divine commissioning refuses one to do (ibid.: 375, 391).331 By reason, one rises above one’s soul and animal-like instincts, and by the spirit, one rises above reason. By the spirit, one is attached to the eternal world, the mystery of everlasting existence and knowledge of God. ‘The right of reason is to grasp what can be grasped within its boundaries, but reason cannot grasp the total or absolute reality other than by faith and inspiration’ (ibid.: 391). In this context, one finds that frequently juxtaposes reason and conscience in expressions such as ‘the guidance of a reflective reason and a faultless conscience’ (ibid.: 377, cf. 378, 529, 530). Whereas gives careful definitions of spirit, soul and reason, the concept of is introduced rather abruptly. His view of conscience, then, must be deduced from what he actually has to say in this context. about the role of

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Differently from Kāmil who sees conscience as a curb and reason as a guide (see Section 9.3), attributes both reason and conscience with a guiding as well as a restraining function. Responding in calm assurance to the moral judgements of reason, conscience cooperates with reason towards what is good (ibid.: 530). joins other modern Muslims such as Fazlur Rahman in relating the function of to the ethical and religious quality of taqwā (piety, fear of God, God-consciousness, cf. Section 4.3). When expounding his view of taqwā, he associates it with the curbing function of conscience: ‘What is taqwā? In one word, it summarises every curbing function that conscience exercises’ (ibid.: 410).332 Apparently, does not see conscience as a separate human faculty. Rather, he speaks of moral consciousness as but one aspect of the basic human faculties (malakāt) of reason, soul and spirit. Just as each of them may be attributed with either inner or outer consciousness the human faculties may express themselves through moral consciousness feelings (wijdān), imagination memory intuition (badīha) or visionary insight ( ibid.: 389). Correspondingly may speak of in conjunction not only with reason, but also with soul (nafs). After having summarised the tripartite notion of the soul that commands what is evil (Q, 12:53), the self-reproaching soul (Q, 75:2) and the soul at peace (Q, 89:27), he states that the power of corresponds to333 that of the self-reproaching soul (al-nafs al-lawwāma), which exercises the function of inward accounting ibid.). 7.5 Preliminary conclusion and outlook Whereas in his earlier works, focus was mostly upon the guiding function of conscience, we can now conclude from his discussion of conscience in that he did not entirely neglect conscience’s function as a curb and a consequent judge. Taken as a whole, speaks of conscience both as a guide—aided by reason, and as a judge—aided by the mystical techniques of selfexamination. In both cases, his focus is on the divinely commissioned and humanly responsible individual who rises above the merely outward claims of society. By his combined concern for internalised obligation, individual autonomy, reason as a guardian of conscience and conscience as an inner judge, notion of comes close to the notion of conscience in Kant—whom he often invokes as an ally in European philosophy. As pointed out in Hegelian critique of Kantian formalism (cf. Section 3.4), in this line of thought it is not clear how the human Other contributes to the moral constitution of the Self. The same can be said of employment of

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the notion of The focus of interest is on the integral Self, rather than on the relation to the Other. Through his interest in personal originality and the human genius, also comes close to authenticity-related and existentialist understandings of human conscience. The close relation he establishes between conscience and ‘love’ points in the same direction, more specifically towards a Romantic notion of conscience. With his strong focus on human reason, however, I would suggest that discourse of conscience leans even more towards Enlightenment notions of autonomy. With a view to the communitarian-universalist problematic, it is clear that does not propound his views on human conscience or human authenticity as insights that are exclusively Islamic. What is at stake is the right understanding of the human personality and the human being as such (huwa 1974/1961b:410). He therefore takes pains to link his view to similar insights in other faiths and philosophies, or in psychology. In he claims that ‘almost all great civilisations’ agree that the human person—as soul, spirit and reason—is a moral creature endowed with a conscience that evaluates deeds as either praiseworthy or reproachable (ibid.: 141). In an essay about psychology and Islamic religion published in he explores the notion of conscience in more explicit dialogue with European psychology ( 1974/1963:574ff). In this context, claims that in the great civilisations of the world, conscience has often proved to be a battlefield between body and soul, this world and the hereafter, and the unresolved expectations of either eternal curse or eternal forgiveness. As sees it, the holistic and well-balanced religion of Islam is the best cure for the split personalities and sickened consciences that result from such antagonisms. In another essay in he argues that the exemplary human personality is that of in whom human conscience is raised to its highest level (ibid.: 511). But as we have seen, interest in the human genius led him to write biographies not only of and other Muslim heroes, but also of Christ and of outstanding personalities in Western and Oriental history. All of them testify to the inviolability of human conscience and its freedom—with Christ as an exemplary model in that respect. notion of conscience— wedded to a modernising or reactionary discourse? preoccupation with the human genius as such reflects a I will suggest that typical modern interest in the rule of reason and conscience, and in the creative potentials of the human person. Furthermore, his apologetic reappropriation of the Arab-Islamic heritage makes good sense in the perspective of modernism: in modern nationalist

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projects, one will often find that interest in the particular nature of the cultural tradition in question plays a formative role, for example, in speculations about national character (cf. Semah 1974:30–6). We have already seen that Nadav Safran pays several critical visits to in his analysis of the intellectual and political evolution of Egypt until 1952 (Safran 1961). In increasing interest in religious questions from the 1940s onward, Safran sees little more than a reactionary return to the Islamic heritage, and a mounting antagonism towards the West.334 Safran’s perceived ‘clash between rationalism and the traditional creed’ (ibid.: 215) seems to imply that anything that deserves to be called progressive or modern must be moulded as a kind of universalist rationalism. There are, however, many modernities. In some versions, modernity takes the shape of communitarian reappropriations of distinctive religious traditions marked by a new emphasis on the creative role of the individual—as one can see in spiritual portraits of Christ and Gandhi. A far more nuanced evaluation of role is found in an essay by Ibrahim Ibrahim on the intellectual role of and Amīn (Ibrahim 1988). Ibrahim analyses existentialist inclination, his advocacy of reason and conscience and his mixed inspiration from European and Islamic sources. In contrast to Safran’s perception of an antagonism between the West and Islam, Ibrahim sees as an Islamic intellectual placing himself ‘between European challenge and Islamic response’. What makes religious discourse vulnerable to reactionary appropriations, is rather its vagueness with respect to social and political implications. Since restricts himself to spiritual portraits and religio-philosophical elaborations of a more general kind, it never becomes clear what he really means by democracy, freedom of thought or the law of love and conscience. He is vague enough to be taken either as a staunch moderniser, or as a reactionary apologetic on Islam’s behalf. A Christian-European, Islamic or universalist notion of conscience? When trying to understand the notion of in a historical question may be raised: what might have been the main impetus behind his focus on human conscience? Olaf Schumann has suggested that and interest in the notion of as revealed in their biographies of Christ, may be due to their being influenced by (Schumann 1988/1975:139).335 Schumann states brought to the fore something which is alien to that by invoking ‘conscience’, the and does not occur frequently in the rest of the Islamic literature either. He suggests that the concept of conscience, if it had been taken up more firmly by followers, might have rendered valuable service to modern Muslims. After the had waned, it could have served their efforts to traditional moral authority of the

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heighten the importance of the independent, responsible individual for the well-being of society. Schumann notes how strange it is to see that only through the encounter with the teachings of Christ does conscience become a central motif among Muslim modernists in Egypt. My exposition of use of the term however, has demonstrated that it also occurs frequently in his other books on outstanding religious personalities, and in his discursive works on philosophy and Islamic anthropology. As for the centrality of in his biography of Christ, I have suggested that a major impulse may have come from Ernest Renan’s view of Jesus as a religious genius who confronted traditional formalism by invoking conscience. But there is clearly more to it than this. We have seen that interest in predates his biography of Christ, and remains a strong focus until his latest works. I will suggest, then, that interest in and the notion of conscience should be seen as the mature result of a truly intertextual process in which both the Christian-European and the Islamic histories of ideas have played a part, supported by a linguistic cross-fertilisation between Christian and Islamic Arabic. I agree with Schumann that Christian impulses may have had a strong influence in this process. But as in other intertextual processes, Christian impulses are transposed (in Kristeva’s sense) by into a different religious universe. They are islamicised. For all his interest in Christ and Christian tradition, one may ask whether at any point allows Christians to play the role of distinctive or even disturbing Others. Is Christ ever allowed to be distinctively ‘Christian’, or is Christ only brought to the fore as an ally in project of presenting Islam as the unsurpassed defender of human conscience? Khālid’s view of human conscience and Before I proceed to Khālid similar questions arising from his seemingly inclusivist application of the notion of I will consider how approach to religion and ethics has been Amīn and viewed by two contemporary Muslim philosophers in Egypt, For both of them, the concept of Islamic authenticity plays a formative role, expressed by the notion of

internalisation and 7.6 authenticity—as seen by Amīn and internalising The Egyptian intellectual who has paid most attention to Amīn (1905–78). Amīn reappropriation of the Islamic heritage is was professor of philosophy at the University of Cairo, and wrote extensively on European idealism and Islamic philosophy.336 He wrote separate studies on 337 and (Amīn 1964:293–315; Amīn 1966).

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Amīn’s philosophical position was essentially idealist, and he credits with his own interest in Kantian philosophy (Amīn 1966:7). To further describe his idealist position, Amīn introduced the term al-juwwāniyya. Al-juwwāniyya literally means ‘interiorism’.338 In tune with Kantian philosophy, he refers to a ‘transcendental consciousness’ ( al-transandantātī) which links the human interior with ‘heaven’ by seeing metaphysical insights as logical presuppositions for moral cognition (Amīn 1964:14, 253). By reference to an alleged Amīn also seeks legitimacy from for his al-juwwāniyya philosophy: ‘who puts his interior (jawwāniyyahu) in order, God will also put his exterior (barrāniyyahu) in order’ (ibid.: 201, 209).339 According to Amīn, an ‘interiorist’ philosophy will always look for the meaning and intention which lies behind (min ) the factual (ibid.: 9). Constantly, it searches for ibid.: 10f., 23), ‘the loftiest similitude’ or ‘the sublime exemplar’ ( 340 which the attributes to God alone. On the human level, it holds thought to be more real than outer reality, and looks for what Hegel termed ‘the order of possibilities’ ( ibid.: 22). Amīn’s concern for the essence and spirit of the human individual corresponds to a similar concern for the interior characteristics of the Arab-Islamic community ( as distinct from qawmiyya). Arab interiorism is mediated by the Arabic language which, Amīn is thus rather according to Amīn, is inherently juwwānī (ibid.: 16f.).341 essentialist on behalf of the Arabic-speaking Interestingly he also refers to the spiritual legacy of Egypt as the most fertile soil for al-juwwāniyya and cites Adolf Erman and James Breasted’s characterisation of ancient Egyptian religion as ‘the dawn of conscience’.342 As in the case of one will find that the notion of also plays a part in Amīn’s philosophical and religious vision. According to Amīn, and (sincerity) belong to the very spirit of religion (ibid.: 54). In terms of ethics, he agrees with Qāsim Amīn that or is the cornerstone of any virtuous act (ibid.: 96). He also speaks of the exercise of reason and conscience as functions of an indispensable human freedom (ibid.: 227f.). Amīn explicitly opposes those Orientalists who claim that Islamic ethics or wijdān (ibid.: 187). For his own part, he suggests has no place for the voice of that modern terms for conscience such as and closely correspond to what was termed as niyya (intention) in classical Islam (ibid.: 198f). Amīn also invokes Imām admonition to self-observation ( al-nafs) and his reference to as ‘the eyes of God’ ( Allāh) in every person.343 In dictum, Amīn finds a classical Islamic equivalent to his own understanding of conscience as ‘the voice of God’ (ibid.: 202f., 208). He also lists al-Ghazālī and his stress on the inward side of ethics as a forerunner for modern concepts of conscience in Islam (ibid.: 281, 285). Among contemporary Muslim thinkers, Amīn singles out as a major representative of the philosophy of al-juwwāniyya.344 Characterising him as ‘an authentic

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interiorist’ (juwwāniyyan Amīn 1966:63), he praises as a searcher of the depths of the soul, an explorer of the hidden folds of conscience, and a believer in the spirit who always looked for the real, inner values behind the outward appearances. In short: was constantly oriented towards ‘authenticity’ ( Amīn 1966:15), and searching for a ‘loftier similitude’ or ‘supreme ideal’ ibid.: 42). In every field of his involvement as a writer, his utmost aim was the alertness of spirit, the awakening of feelings (al-wijdān), and the integrity of conscience ( ibid.: 33). As Amīn sees him, entire ethics rested and the soundness of innate nature’. It was an ethics of upon ‘the integrity of sincerity, fidelity and brotherhood (ibid.: 55). Amīn pays special attention to fascination with Christ, and his portrait of Christ as a genial reformer entirely focused on the inner aspects of ethics and religion.345 Amīn notes how presents Christ as peeling off the outer shells and transcending forms and appearances—in order to awaken the spirit. By this depiction of Christ’s true message, says Amīn, penetrated into the very essence (jawhar) of Christianity. In the opinion of Amīn, the mission of Christ (as characterised by ) was a truly juwwānī mission, which introduced a complete change of orientation in ethics. from individual to social consciousness (b. 1935) is a professor of philosophy at Cairo University, as was Amīn. He received a doctoral degree in European philosophy and theology (phenomenology and exegesis) at the Sorbonne, and has written extensively on European philosophy Islamic philosophy and interreligious dialogue.346 Since the 1970s, he has established himself as an Arab philosopher focusing upon the ‘authenticity’ of the 347 Arab-Islamic heritage He has characterised himself as the representative of a new Islamic Left in philosophy and politics, and presented his life project as one focused wa-l-tajdīd, ‘heritage and renewal’ (Boullata 1990:40–5). upon As Armando Salvatore sees him, represents a trend in late modern Arab thought which focuses on Islamic authenticity as a rational as well as socially viable project. In his works, seeks an ‘authentic’ way to redefine the Arab-Islamic ‘as a tool to relaunch Arabism as an autonomous civilizational project in the modern world’. His project is phenomenological rather than idealist, and aimed at ‘a selective reconstruction of the turāth that is preserved in the consciousness of the masses’ (Salvatore 1995:209). In an essay entitled ‘From individual to social consciousness which was originally presented to Amīn on his seventieth birthday in 1975, sets out to evaluate Amīn’s philosophy of al-juwwāniyya ( 1981). True to his

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inspiration from Hegelian and Marxist philosophy, sees the interiorism of Amīn and in the light of a dialectical theory. Every successor worthy of the name takes the heritage of the forefathers (salaf) a step forward, in a dialectical process which does not negate, but rather confirms the ‘authenticity’ of the heritage in question (ibid.: 350). In tune with Amīn, characterises the effort at authenticity as a distinguishing mark of the philosophy of al-juwwāniyya, which like other philosophies of reform sets out to transcend the mere imitation (taqlīd) of the forefathers (ibid.: 350, 362). turns out to be As regards the actual content of Amīn’s philosophy, however, rather critical. By a dialectical move on his own behalf, he sets out to transcend it. He accuses al-juwwāniyya of coming to a halt at a type of illuminationist emotionalism (wijdāniyya, ibid.: 354). Instead, calls for a more rational approach to reality— which moves from the world of feelings to the world of the real ( ibid.: 355ff.). seems to imply that al-juwwāniyya In a broad historical perspective, represents the second, Christian stage, as reflected in concentration on the example of Christ. Christianity transcended the first stage of Judaism, but was itself bound to be transcended by ‘a third historical expression’. This was, of course, Islam, which in the view of brought the inner and the outer aspects of ethics back not surprisingly opts for the together. With a view to European philosophy, Hegelian synthesis of the inner and the outer, the individual and the national. In contrast, he sees Kierkegaard as a typical juwwāniyya philosopher on European soil (ibid.: 356). Explicating his view, returns to his concept of authenticity, which needs to be rooted in actual reality: is in need of roots and dusty soil.348 Authentication Authenticity was always connected to the earth, and extended in history Thus, authenticity cannot be content with a return to the spirit—for spirit itself gets its authentication from human existence. (ibid.: 362) As for the cultivation of the soul ( al-nafs), continues, there can be no refinement of character without change in society (ibid.: 363). He notes that from whom Amīn received much of his inspiration, also had a restricted view of reform, with his emphasis on educational and religious modernisation. Now, ‘in our generation’, people see religion in a broader perspective, ‘as belief in the people and in general welfare’. Also ethics must therefore move on from individual to social ethics. Here again, Islam unites the essentials of Judaism and Christianity by transcending them in an authentic way (ibid.: 367).

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Relating his concept of Islamic authenticity to that of human conscience, expresses his reservation towards any exclusive concentration upon conscience and feelings— and al-wijdān—in ethics.349 He notes that in the philosophy of aljuwwāniyya, there is a dominant focus on right intention and the uprightness of conscience, linked with a strong concern for personal integrity. In the view of Islamic ethics is rather an ethics based on practice utility the middle way and the duty of enjoining the good and forbidding the wrong. Islamic ethics must therefore transcend the narrowing concepts of refinement of character which dominate ethics in the classical works of Miskawayh and al-Ghazālī, as well as those of the contemporary, ‘interiorist’ philosophies (ibid.: 367–9). Summing up his view of the philosophy of al-juwwāniyya, which Amīn termed ‘a revolutionary philosophy’, sees it as the philosophy of a spiritual revolution which is uprooted from social reality. It obscures rational description and social analysis. claims that apart from Having noted Amīn’s Cartesian and Kantian influence, reflecting certain idealist philosophies of European origin, ‘al-juwwāniyya is a representation of our heritage and the ethics of —rather than a representation of our actual social reality and the questions of its destination’ (ibid.: 370). But does not, as it might seem from the earlier quotations, deny that and Amīn’s interiorist philosophy also has a social dimension to it. For instance, he notes that their philosophy sometimes reflects the rhetoric of Arab socialism. Arab socialism is, however, in the view of marked by an idealist instead of realistic approach to society, and must therefore be transcended on a par with personalist idealism (ibid.: 372). notes that the philosophy of al-juwwāniyya In a contextual perspective, appeared in a period dominated by Egyptian liberalism, in which intellectuals tended to focus exclusively on individual consciousness and democratic liberties: Al-juwwāniyya appeared within the middle class, and expressed an ideology which presented the social and national problem as an individual problem, originating first from the corruption of morals, and then from the slumber of conscience—subsequently trying to formulate the way of individual education as the foundation of national education. (ibid.: 391) With implicit reference to the inherent elitism in philosophy, also notes that this kind of philosophy grew strong in a period when leading intellectuals were regarded as the bright stars of a rising nation—competing for leading positions in the society they sought to reform. Influenced by modes of thought inherited from feudalism, the liberal-elitist intellectuals did not really address the social problems that prevailed after the Egyptian revolution (ibid.: 391f.).

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Universalist or communitarian authenticity? attempt at transcending the confines of al-juwwāniyya involves a concept of ‘authenticity’ which oscillates between the universal and the communitarian. As Armando Salvatore has noted, this corresponds to a general paradox in the way in which late modern Arab intellectuals with reformist pretensions present their case: The necessary consensus of communication unveils the paradox of the ethnocentric character of the universal claim: presented as a framework of universally valid reference, it is in fact referred to a particular ‘nation’ or ummah. (Salvatore 1995:192) In terms of the problematic raised by the present study, philosophy has clearly a communitarian, Arab-Islamic focus. But it is nevertheless dialogical in its scope, reflecting his thorough schooling in European philosophy and his standing commitment to Muslim-Christian dialogue (cf. Hanafi 1977). Its communitarian aspect corresponds to a general sense of crisis and a subsequent Islamic awakening in the Arab world from 1967 onwards, aimed at distinguishing the Arab-Islamic heritage from the cultural patterns and modes of thought imposed on the Arab world by Western colonialism (or Western ‘universalism’). Its dialogical aspect invites to a discussion of authenticity in which Western philosophy is challenged to renounce its universalist claims.

8 Khālid Khālid (1920–96) Conscience, human authenticity and Islamic democracy 8.1 Biographical and bibliographical introduction Differently from and Khālid was educated as a scholar in the religious sciences at al-Azhar University, and may thus formally be counted as an (religious scholar). He did not, however, serve in any official religious position.350 After having been involved with various religious groups during his student days, he dedicated his professional life to writing—from a position which was religiously as well as politically independent.351 in the Sharqiyya province of Egypt, where Khālid was born in the village of he experienced the hard realities of peasant life under the semi-feudal system in Egypt. After attending the village school and learning the by heart in the local school, he was sent to Cairo. From 1931 to 1947, he studied uninterrupted at al-Azhar, and a further specialisation that finally taking a higher degree at the College of qualified him as a teacher. From 1948 onwards, he worked as a civil servant—first in the field of education, then in the ministry of culture. From the mid-1950s, however, he dedicated himself completely to writing. After his first and controversial book in 1950, Min hunā (From Here We Start), he became a well known public figure in Egypt. The main bulk of his literary production stems from the 1950s and 1960s, although he resumed his activity as a writer in the 1980s. During the 1990s, many of his books were republished.352 Khālid was never a member of any political party (Khālid 1985:176), but as a young man he was strongly impressed by the liberal politician Fahmī al-Nuqrāshī.353 At a later stage, he did not conceal his sympathies for the neo-Wafd party and contributed actively to their newspaper (al-Nābulsī 1989:579ff.).354 During his student days he was also involved in various socio-political organisations.355 Khālid was in touch with the Muslim Brotherhood, but never became a member. In the 1930s and 1940s, the Brotherhood was evolving from a religious association into a political movement which included a clandestine apparatus for political assassination. During the 1940s, Khālid became increasingly apprehensive and critical of their secret apparatus,

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their violence, their vision of a religious government based on a traditional understanding and their lack of a democratic conscience (Khālid 1993:276).356 of During his student days, he was also deeply influenced by In his autobiography he vividly describes the period of spiritual awakening and mystical experiences that followed after his initial social and political awakening.357 After what he characterised as his ‘seven years in paradise’ with the Subkiyya movement, he left the rites, but retained the essence of (Khālid 1993:263, 266). Having lost nothing of his deep commitment to spirituality, the ageing Khālid defines as the art of the spirit, the essence of conscience, and the light of reason. He praises its contribution to the joy of the spirit, the brightness of heart, the happiness of days, and the tranquillity of conscience (Khālid 1993:244, 249). Khālid points to ‘Western thought’ as a major source of Along with inspiration in the formative years of his life, especially from 1945.358 In his books from the 1950s and 1960s, Khālid reveals a broad knowledge of other religious traditions and of European philosophy. In retrospect, Khālid deplored the fact that foreign languages were not studied at al-Azhar at the time when he acquired his degree, so that he had to base himself ‘on translations that reported into arabic, human thought in general and the European one in particular’.359 He read the world histories of H.G.Wells360 and Will Durant,361 and was impressed by Enlightenment and Romantic writers such as Voltaire and Rousseau.362 He acquainted himself with the history of liberal thought in the West,363 and was impressed by the freedom fighters of America (in particular, Tom Paine).364 He also read translations of works about Western psychology, philosophical anthropology and social theory.365 He educated himself in ancient Greek philosophy and in the classical Arab philosophers who merged the Greek with the Islamic, and acquainted himself with the legacy of modern Islamic reformers.366 According to his autobiography, what really preoccupied him during his reading of Western authors, was the ‘emotional participation’ (mušāraka wijdāniyya) in the events of his community and ‘the progress of reality’ (sulūk ). The task he took upon himself as an intellectual was to study ‘the movement of history, the advance of humankind and the evolution of life’. Emphasising his analytical ambition, he claims that whereas the recognition of ‘reality itself may break forth spontaneously ‘in the hearts of the prophets, the geniuses and the inspired ones’, the understanding of ‘the progress of reality’ requires the distancing devices of scrutiny and dialogue (Khālid 1993:334). As a modern thinker, Khālid strongly advocated reconciliation between religion and science. In the beginning of the 1980s, he even stated that he did not make ‘any distinction between the religious and the scientific conception of human problems’ (Branca 1984:2). The personal development of Khālid is of special interest with regard to the tension between liberal Islam and moderate Islamism among many Egyptian intellectuals. Whereas initially, his interest as a writer was upon ‘human’ values in a universalist sense, we shall see that his focus gradually moved towards a stronger concern for ‘Islamic’ authenticity (Shepard 1995:413).

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Bibliographical introduction Most of Khālid’s writings may be characterised as political and religious essays. Right from the beginning of his career as a writer in 1950, Khālid’s modernising project brought him into controversy with traditionalist religion as well as with those who sympathised with the Muslim Brotherhood. In his first and controversial book, Min hunā (From Here We Start), Khālid advocated the separation of state and religion and vehemently attacked the political ambitions of the Islamic ‘clerics’. Between 1950 and 1955, he produced a series of books propounding secular and universalist values such as ‘moderate socialism’,367 freedom of thought and liberal democracy, 368 new morality and civic ethics.369 His vision is universalist rather than communitarian, as can also be seen from the inclusive notion of ‘humanity’ brought forward in two books from 1959, (‘This is the human being’) and al-bašar (‘We, the human race’). As in the case of Khālid’s focus on humanity is paralleled with a strong interest in the formation of the individual personality, with and his outstanding human qualities as the supreme model to be emulated (cf. his human qualities’ from 1960).370 In Khālid’s books from the early 1950s, the style is argumentative and discursive, in contrast to the demonstrative or narrative style of his books from the 1960s. His narrative approach to universal values was marked by a strong inter-religious concern, and and Christ from 1958 introduced by his much acclaimed book on ( wa-l-Masīh, ‘Together on the road, and Christ’). In a book from 1963 ( masīrihi ‘With human conscience on its journey towards its destiny’), he rallied the entire history of religions and ideas in a narrative exposition of humanity’s moral evolution. During the 1960s, however, Khālid turned more and more to the Islamic heritage. Along with his interreligious writings, he published several books on ‘the men around him’ (Rijāl al-rasūl, 1964, one of his most famous books), and the rightly guided caliphs of the idealised Islamic beginning.371 It should be noted, however, that his books on the Islamic heritage are also distinctively ‘modern’ in their approach, and marked by a keen interest in the greatness of the human personalities in question. 372 373 In the 1970s, after a book on and another on Khālid ceased publishing for several years. During this period, he began to revise his secularism. This can be seen from the book he published in 1981, (‘The state in Islam’), in which he made a critical reassessment of the secularist ideas he had been advocating in the 1950s.374 Linking his previous and persistently strong defence of democracy with the idea of an Islamic state, he now stood forth as a moderate Islamist—or rather, as an ‘Islamic democrat’. Also in the latter part of his writing career (under Sadat and Mubarak), he strongly maintained his advocacy of the democratic liberty rights for which he fought under Nasser.

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Khālid’s books and Muslim-Christian relations in Egypt From the beginning of his public career, Khālid was regarded as an advocate of warmhearted and respectful Christian-Muslim coexistence. His secularist nationalism in Min hunā was much appreciated by Christian intellectuals. On the personal level, he had many Coptic friends. Notwithstanding his turning to (moderate) Islamism, Coptic leaders continued to regard him as a friendly and highly esteemed Muslim thinker.375 In his books from the 1950s and the beginning of the 1960s, he often quoted the Bible and the side by side when dealing with general issues such as democracy, human rights and social justice.376 Some of his books from this period have a particular focus on Christian-Muslim or interreligious understanding, as most eloquently expressed and Christ ‘together on the road’ and on ‘human in his books on conscience on its journey towards its destiny’.377 In the later phases of his career, there are fewer references to Christian tradition, and a less manifest concern for Christian-Muslim relations.378 Khālid and the notion of With regard to the notion of in remarks made by Olaf Schumann drew my attention to its possible centrality in his religious and philosophical writings.379 As regards Khālid, however, it was totally unclear at the beginning of my investigation whether the notion of would have any central place in his works at all.380 As this chapter will demonstrate, did indeed turn out to be a most central concept in Khālid too. In Khālid’s books from the 1950s and early 1960s, the notion of is linked with a number of notions and conceptions which connote modernism and universalism.381 Even more conspicuously than in the case of Khālid’s notion of is also wedded to a concern for interreligious understanding. As noted earlier, in 1963 Khālid dedicated an entire book to the notion of under the heading of fī masīrihi (‘With human conscience on its journey towards its destiny’). But already in his works about secularism, new morality and civic ethics between 1950 and 1955, Khālid had revealed a strong interest in the issue of human conscience. Apparently, much of the inspiration came from Western psychology and political thought. Also in his books about and Christ and about human qualities from 1958 and 1960 respectively, references to human conscience play a central part. In this part of his writings, Khālid’s notion of was strongly marked by a universalist concern for the authentic human being and for humanity in general—as it can also be seen from his books about true humanity from 1959. To some extent, Khālid’s interest in the notion of persisted in the books he wrote in the 1960s about the Islamic heritage and the outstanding personalities of Islamic

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history, although not as conspicuously. In the works from his ‘moderate Islamist’ phase, however, the issue of human conscience disappears almost completely. Those who have analysed Khālid’s works have hardly paid any attention to the notion of and its role in Khālid’s political and religious discourses.382 In the following, I will try to redress previous neglect by exposing and analysing the role of in Khālid’s religious and political writings. My presentation will be mainly chronological, but balanced by a thematic organisation which will elucidate the general ideas to which his notion of is wedded. Since Khālid’s works are less researched in the West than those of aland most of them are relevant to the issues of conscience, humanism and authenticity, the present chapter will be somewhat lengthier than the previous. Since Khālid’s works (with one exception: From Here We Start, Khālid 1953)383 have not been translated into Western languages and are therefore not well known to a Western public, I have decided to summarise the works I have selected for analysis rather thoroughly. In my summary of the relevant content, I have also tried to reflect some of the literary flavour of his works. 8.2 Secularism and European impulses Modernist, secularist beginnings: ‘From Here We Start’ When Khālid published his first book Min hunā (Khālid 1950), he soon became famous throughout the Arab world. This book is also the only one of his works that has been translated into English (From Here We Start, Khālid 1953). The book brought upon establishment in Egypt, and provoked a very critical him the wrath of the response from his friend al-Ghazālī, whose line of thought was close to the moderate tendencies within the Muslim Brotherhood.384 Based on the judgement of the Committee for Religious Advice at al-Azhar, a censure was initially put upon Khālid’s book. But reflecting the dominant secularism of the time, the verdict was later lifted by a civil court.385 Many found his sharp distinction between religion and state and his vehement attack on the idea of religious government reminiscent of the controversial call for a secular al-Rāziq in the 1920s.386 Khālid criticised religious government by Shaykh government for threatening freedom of thought, and traditionalist religion for distracting people’s minds from the issue of social justice. His negative view of ‘priesthood’ as a threat to human liberty seems to be indebted to the popular works on world history by H.G.Wells (Khālid 1953:33/Khālid 1950:35). Read in context, the main targets of Khālid’s attack seem to have been the social and political ambitions of the traditional (referred to as ‘priesthood’, kahāna),387 and the rapid growth of the secret organisation of the Muslim Brothers.388 In positive terms, Khālid invited his fellow Egyptians to join the process of human awakening with ‘an ever greater consciousness He called for an all-embracing nationalism, a just socialism (ištirākiyya), a mature and sane

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consciousness and a prosperous peace (ibid.: 28f./29–31). Other of his writings from the early 1950s corroborate that his nationalist commitment was marked by a strong concern ).389 In this respect, Khālid differs from for ‘ordinary people’ (al-rajul elitism. As Khālid sees it, the ideals of nationalism, socialism and peace all presuppose an ‘enlightened’ and ‘progressive’ religious life (ibid.: 63/73). Revealing his inspiration from Western thought, he invokes Rousseau’s dictum ‘It is our belief in God and faith in humanity which stir within us a will to mould the stupid, servile animal into an enlightened human person’ (ibid.: 30/31).390 In his call for social and political renewal, Khālid repeatedly refers to and the conscience of the citizen, and admonishes his fellow citizens ‘to consult our consciences anew’ (ibid.: 88–90/105–7). He expresses the hope that even ‘our rulers’ will listen to their consciences and respect the absolute rights granted by God (ibid.: 106/130). In this work, Khālid’s discourse of conscience is predominantly a socio-political one. But conscience is also referred to as the addressee of religion: ‘Religion alone, without being a state, is the force capable of awakening our consciences, of changing our hearts and of fulfilling our spiritual needs’ (ibid.: 125/157). Hence religion and politics must not be mixed up. Whenever ‘religious government’ ( al-dīniyyd) has been established, it has always been at the cost of the freedom of the individual, and of society. Advocating a liberal interpretation of Islam, he criticises Muslim clerics for suppressing the fact that the ‘as said’, is susceptible to many interpretations—‘and so is the Sunnah’ (ibid.: 130/162). Khālid emphasises that the task of religion and religious leaders is not to rule people, but to guide them. Focusing on the religious leader’s duty to aid people in the task of personal reform and self-purification, he cites an alleged which was also invoked by al-Ghazālī (al-Ghazālī 1995b:30): Acquire the character of God and be on the road of righteousness as He is’ (ibid.: 143/180).391 Khālid also reveals a strong concern for women’s rights. In this respect, he differs markedly from and his conservative attitudes, and he calls upon Egypt to follow the example of numerous other countries that have already recognised the full political rights of women. In a chapter that received much attention, entitled ‘the inactive lung’ he forcefully defends the right of women to a position of liberty and dignity and to higher public offices such as judge (ibid.: 147ff./185ff.).392 In tune with his general, modernist agenda, he maintains that ‘Progress is the will of God, the spirit of God in man and nature’, whereas ‘Traditions (al-taqālīd)…are but the social appearance of the nation’ (ibid.: 156/198). Countering the traditional restrictions on women’s public life, he states that chastity cannot be protected by the wall of a house, but only ‘by those walls of the spirit and by the woman’s free immunity which culture, experience and self-respect build in her’. Opting for an ethics of virtue that makes no difference between men and women, he claims that a woman’s chastity can only be assured through those qualities which the exercise of her rights develops in her. ‘Such practice of her rights makes of a woman, as Emerson has pointed out, a model of legal, social and political virtue’ (ibid.: 159/202).393

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Khālid ends his book by summoning human conscience to religious, social and political renewal: It is indispensable that we change our mental set-up…discard our ignorance…[and] load the conscience of the individual, of society, and of state, with the heroism necessary for the facing and solution of problems. (ibid.: 165/211) Together with whom did Khālid know all this, and call for it? In Min hunā positive references to Western models abound, with a focus on democracy, women’s rights and ‘moderate socialism’. Interestingly from a Muslim-Christian perspective, Khālid appreciates the general tendency of the churches in the West to work with society, not against it. He accuses the average Muslim preacher in Egypt of propagating a negative and destructive programme, and praises the churches of the West for their glorification of progress (ibid.: 54f./62f.). Conscience, new morality and civic ethics Khālid’s early discourse of conscience was markedly anti-authoritarian and political. It was also linked with the vision of an emancipating ‘new morality’ and a new civic ethics. This is clearly demonstrated in two books from 1953 and 1955. (‘This, or the deluge’, Khālid 1954/1953) presents itself as a search for a new morality ( al-jadīdd) that should replace the prevailing reactionary and superstitious ideas and practices in his country, and any morality based on fear as the motivating force. It also testifies to Khālid’s moral concern for economic and social questions, and his preoccupation with the situation of women in Egypt. Here again, he strongly defends the rights of women to education and work, and advocates the mixing of the sexes in social life (ibid.: 34f., 117ff., 181ff.). In Li-kay lā (‘Lest you plough the sea’, Khālid 1955), he pursues his attack on a morality motivated by fear and obsessed with human shortcomings. True to his anti-authoritarian concern, he calls for democracy as a moral necessity, and rallies a wide range of authorities in his support. Referring to Confucius, he claims that tyranny ruins the human spirit, distorts the conscience, obstructs the will and paralyses all exemplary models (Khālid 1955:21). He contrasts the submissive traditions of Egypt as ‘a country of hearing and obeying’ with the rule of conscience. And he is confident that the human community will always be able to resuscitate ‘in the conscience of society’ a sense of dignity—‘the sense from which all the virtues of the human being and its privileges proceed’ (ibid.: 16). New morality Khālid’s notion of a ‘new morality’, as unfolded in was apparently borrowed from Western psychology, with which Khālid had acquainted himself by

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reading a translation of James A.Hadfield’s Psychology and Morals.394 When expounding his view, Khālid also tunes in with the classical philosophical moralists in Islam and their Greek models. In particular, he refers to Socrates and his admonition ‘know yourself’ and Epicure’s fight against fear as a motivating force in morals (Khālid 1954/1953:11–13).395 His invocation of Socrates and Epicure corresponds to the primary concerns of to reconcile the idealism of religion (dīn) with the realism of science and to release morals from the shackles of a religiosity dominated by subordination to fate and fear of Satan. As a metaphor of reconciliation between science and religion in ethics, he refers to the words of Jesus Christ about the necessity of being born of both water and spirit (John 3:5, ibid.: 14). As Khālid sees it, religion should help to develop a virtuous personality. He notes that both Jesus and links virtue ethics with a theological ethics, since they admonish their followers to imitate God and to take on the characteristics of God (ibid.: 14f.).396 Khālid also notes that the speaks of the ultimate aim of ethics as conforming to the divine ‘supreme ideal’ Seeking to reconcile anthropological and theological ethics, he adds that the supreme ideal need not to be seen as something external to the human being, but may just as well be taken as a reference to our deepest will (ibid.: 197).397 Khālid emphasises that true morality must be in tune with our scientific knowledge of human nature, its strengths and weaknesses. Sound morals presuppose that one understands how human nature works. Therefore, both human morality and the function of conscience should be subject to scientific scrutiny, and moral error ought to be treated as a disease with the aim of healing (ibid.: 22, 162ff.). One of Khālid’s main concerns in this respect is that piety (taqwā) should not leave human happiness in chains (ibid.: 50ff.). Introducing a theme to which he would often return, he warns against excessive obsession with sin and a sense of guilt which constantly torments the human conscience (ibid.: 55, cf. 69ff.). Instead of the moral method that has often prevailed ‘both in Christianity and Islam’, namely the attempt to admonish the human soul by insulting it, self-respect should be fostered. Human instincts (e.g. sexual instincts) should not be banned, but treated in understanding and respect of human nature. Only thus can true virtues be nurtured. In retrospect, Khālid recognises that his preoccupation with human nature and the issue of happiness in led him to exaggerate his naturalism somewhat, because he was ‘affected by some European readings that exalted human instincts’ as a counter to religious suppression (Branca 1984:10). Conscience, will and moral example (‘Lest you plough the sea’, Khālid 1955) Khālid elaborates In Li-kay lā on the triad of conscience, will and moral example. The triad was apparently borrowed from J.A.Hadfield’s Psychology and Morals, which Khālid follows closely in his exposition.398

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After claiming that human intuition, science and religion all testify to the importance of conscience, will and moral example (qudwa), Khālid now sets out to define conscience. First, he gives a description of conscience as he immediately understands it: By an expression that is far from scientific complexity it is the protest that rings inside our selves when evil attracts us and vice leads us. Therefore, the need of a very vicious person (al-širrīr) for conscience outweighs the need of the very kind one for it; granted that the latter has already trained his soul and straightened his ways and his conduct does not fall back to what necessitates protest and warning. That [protest and warning] is the task of conscience and the manifestation of its vigour. (Khālid 1955:23) Underpinning his intuitive argument, Khālid claims that this is also how the learned men of ethics define conscience. He takes Hadfield’s definition of conscience as his authority: conscience is the voice of the suppressed good when evil is dominant… It is only if we are evil that we can be conscience-stricken.399 (

‘Exposed to the pangs of remorse’, ibid.: 24)

It should be sufficiently clear, then, that much of Khālid’s early interest in and understanding of conscience—referred to as —came from his acquaintance with Western psychology. Pursuing his point, Khālid also comes close to an existentialist understanding of conscience. He states that conscience is not an organ but rather a perennial function to be carried out: ‘In this manner, it lives by continuous exercise, and dissolves and dies if it remains silent’ (ibid.). But for Khālid, there is far more to conscience than its psychological and existentialist aspects. He emphasises that the restraining function of individual conscience must be expanded by a collective conscience capable of both guiding the individual and protesting against unacceptable conditions in society. True to his social and political outlook in Min Khālid maintains that a society prone to evil is just as much in need of a hunā ‘social conscience’ to admonish and rebuke it, as is the evil individual.400 He also argues that it is hard for individuals to succeed in virtues if these are not part of the ‘spirit of the community’ The individuals should therefore lend their ears to the voice of the ‘public conscience’ and let their personal consciences be awakened by it (ibid.: 24f.). Reiterating his anti-authoritarian warnings, Khālid emphasises that a public conscience cannot be taken for granted. Political tyranny crushes the power of protest and obstructs the task of conscience, and it is hard for conscience to function properly under a tyranny that prohibits critique and inhibits its freedom.

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His elaboration on conscience is followed by a similar discussion of Hadfield’s two other key notions, will and moral example. Khālid emphasises the need for a supreme ideal and a moral example (qudwa) which may symbolise the unity of life’s values. Such a moral example may be embodied by ‘a great man’ or by ‘lofty souls’, who often arise in reaction to tyranny and subjugation.401 As a positive model to be emulated, Khālid cites the English-American writer Tom Paine (1737–1809) who became famous for his anti-colonial, republican activism and for his anti-traditionalist, deist critique of religion.402 In his discussions of new morality, conscience and moral example, Khālid never makes a secret of his ‘progressive’ stand. What he is searching for is nothing less than the success of human progress (al-taqaddum ).403 He also emphasises that sound morals cannot dispense with an enlightened human reason. Occasionally, he may underpin his argument with references to Islamic sources, but always along with other traditions that testify to the general insights that he is propounding. Duties versus force, the ethics of civilisation versus religious ethics presents a strong argument for ethical duty rather In general, Li-kay lā than enforced morality, and for an ethics of civilisation vs. a religious ethics. Under the heading ‘duty not force’ (al-wājib, lā al-quwwa), Khālid disclaims the negative ‘do not’-orientation of what he terms ‘education by means of force’, and the ‘inner colonisation’ of reason, sentiment and behaviour which prevails in the areas of home, school and society (ibid.: 88, 92). As a caption, he cites Ezekiel 33:11 which he erroneously attributes to Christ: ‘says the Lord God, I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but that the wicked turn from their ways and live’.404 Critical of prevailing patterns of control and punishment, he strongly advocates a different kind of upbringing based on confidence in the moral capacity of the person and the enlightened public al-mustanīr, ibid.: 150). His alternative to force is duty (wājib), which can only be chosen freely and must spring from the innermost capacity of every person: ‘Duty is that which springs from a conviction deep within us (min la-nā), without any external force’ (ibid.: 161). For Khālid, duty ethics and virtue ethics are not rivals. Both may find their support in true religion (ibid.: 187). Both are commendable alternatives to a morality based merely on external obligation and social control. The common enemy to duty and virtue ethics is the power of control, which may materialise either in popular traditions, political authoritarianism or religious supervision (al-haymana al-dīniyya, ibid.: 166). Against this background, Khālid underlines his modernising agenda by pointing to civic ethics or the ethics of civilisation ( al-madaniyya) as a better guide than what he terms ‘religious morality’ ( al-dīniyya, ibid.: 166f.). The word used for civilisation, al-madaniyya, carries the connotation of a civic life in urban surroundings. It is defined as ‘civilisation and progress’ ( ibid.: 166), and contrasted with the backwardness of rural life in Egypt (ibid.: 226).

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Explicating his view on religious ethics, he makes a fine distinction between ‘religious morality’ ( al-dīniyya) and ‘ethics as laid down by religion’ ( fi-l-din, ibid.: 186).405 He contends that there is no such thing as ‘religious morality’ or ‘religious laws’, just as there can be no ‘religious electricity’. For Khālid, the notion of religious (dīniyya) morals is equal to blind traditionalism and petrified stagnation. In contrast, the ethics or morals laid down by true religion (dīn) are linked with reason and progress, always in search for the new human being. He claims that the ethics of true religion is situational, and that the itself testifies to the fact that God with a change in the situation substituted one divine prescription for another.406 Following convention in philosophical as well as religious ethics in Islam, Khālid maintains that the kind of ethics called for by true religion aims at the formation of virtues and noble character traits (makārim ) He cites the classical philosophical virtues of truthfulness, courage, temperance and liberality which can also be found among people without religion (ibid.: 184f.).407 Reiterating his concern for women’s rights, he maintains that true virtues can best be fostered when the sexes mix freely in society.408 Khālid seems to identify merely prescriptive conceptions of ethics with an inferior ‘religious morality’, and emphasises that true ethics must be oriented towards ‘the good’ and ‘values’ in a more general sense (ibid.: 170f.). He claims that civilising progress is in fact a value in itself, since it links moral behaviour with a scientific understanding of reason, emotion and will. What Khālid is propounding, is a new ethics which is related to science, civilisation and a modern understanding of human nature (ibid.: 189f.). That must necessarily be an ethics of freedom (ibid.: 202), which abandons intimidation as a method of upbringing and is also careful with excessive use of prohibitions.409 Khālid is not only concerned with the freedom of the individual. He emphasises that although civilisation has an individual dimension to it (in terms of character formation), the essential role of any civilisation is to turn individualism (al-fardiyya) into altruism and personal pleasure into a collective, emotional consciousness (wijdān ibid.: 174f.). In hermeneutical terms, Khālid holds the view that concrete moral prescriptions in the revealed text should always be read in the light of historical circumstances and a higher interpretative principle. Relating his argument to Islamic jurisprudence, he highlights the formative principle of (public interest) which was eventually subdued in classical fiqh (ibid.: 189f.). Religious indusivism In Khālid’s early works it is already clear that his modernising agenda is also an interreligious agenda. In Li-kay he links his ‘progressive’ view of ethics with an inclusive view of religion. Judaism, Christianity and Islam are all cited as great examples of civilisational renewal (ibid.: 185ff.). Moses confronted the tyrant and liberated his people from slavery; Christ emancipated religion from an oppressive priesthood (although they drove him to suffering and death); and liberated

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human reason by his notion of God as ‘One’ and ‘Light’. Some aspects of their message, however, reflected the specific conditions of their times, and were not meant to be repeated in a more developed society. The harsh ethics of war in the Torah can no longer be tolerated by human conscience ( bašar, ibid.: 181). As for the stern ethics of the Sermon on the Mount, Khālid argues that it could not possibly be meant for everyone nor for the future of humanity on this earth. The Sermon on the Mount rather pointed to the Kingdom of God, and reflected the uniqueness of Christ (ibid.: 182f.). Khālid’s basic perspective, however, is inclusive, at least as regards Christianity and Islam. He repeatedly quotes the Bible and the side by side, in order to single out the basic ethical values of religion.410 Also when pinpointing a potential problem related to traditional concepts of religion, both biblical and examples are cited.411 there will be no He reiterates the orthodox Islamic belief that after more messengers. But he gives it a rather innovative interpretation: with the time has come for human reason and civilisation. Leaning himself towards another key concept of philosophical ethics in Islam, that of ‘humanity’, he suggests that after the final messenger morality should no longer be referred to as ‘religious’, but as ‘human morality’ ( ibid.: 184). In tune with joint Christian-Muslim efforts at modernisation in Egypt (Chapter 10), Khālid sees the universal ‘ethics of civilisation’ as anticipated by both Christ and (ibid.: 211). The ethics of civilisation emancipates the human being from submission to fate (qadar) and superstitious traditions, and points towards a promised future. It is inextricably linked with the movement of history towards a better destiny ( ibid.: 220). According to Khālid, civilisation itself may be defined as ‘a conscious development towards the better’ (ibid.: 221). It is self-correcting, and it releases the human energies and potentials (imkāniyyāt) for excellence (tafawwuq) and perfection (kamāl, ibid.: 222). By this cluster of future-oriented and evolutionary terms, Khālid testifies to his selfacclaimed ‘hijra towards the future’ (Khālid 1993:331ff.), and sets the scene for his later elaborations of human conscience ‘on its journey towards its destiny’ (Khālid 1963). With his elaborations on new morality and the ethics of civilisation, he also laid the ground for an approach to Christ and Gandhi which in his later books turned out to be truly universalist in its outlook. as the uniting factor in all moral In fact, Khālid seems to regard the appeal to teachings based on genuine religion. 8.3 Visions of true humanity Before analysing Khālid’s narrative books about great personalities in the history of religion and philosophy, I will pay some attention to his vision of true humanity as laid out discursively in two books from 1959: al-bašar (‘We, the human race’) and (‘This is the human being’). I will also throw a glance at Khālid’s outline of a ‘progressive’ virtue ethics in (‘The ten commandments’)

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from 1961. The books in question reveal a strong affinity with the classical conceptions of virtue formation and a shared humanity in philosophical Islam, but may also have been inspired by modern Western works on the notion of global humanity and true humanness.412 A vision of united nations al-bašar (‘We, the human race’, Khālid 1969/1959) testifies to a more particular inspiration, namely from the United Nations’ effort to establish a binding contract which is truly humanistic and international in character. Addressing those who love the human race and wish for its freedom, peace and justice, Khālid claims that we are now faced with the ‘historic human necessity’ to see the world as essentially one (ibid.: 22f). As the main menaces to humanity, he lists capitalism, the parochialism of political and military alliances based on selfish interest, and the dominance of the superpowers which threatens to undermine the good intentions behind the United Nations (ibid.: 85, 113).413 The inner dimension of these gloomy global realities is a ‘political conscience’ ( al-siyāsī) which is fundamentally distorted. Khālid claims that the political conscience has deviated from the human principles it was supposed to protect, and fallen prey to particularistic interests (ibid.: 3). It is therefore not able to take on the role of a true ‘international political conscience’ committed to the defence of freedom, justice and human rights (ibid.: 99ff.). ibid.: 108f), Contrasting ‘political’ with ‘human’ conscience ( Khālid expresses the hope that the United Nations may eventually become a true ‘human contract’ ( al-insān, ibid.: 154) which will efficiently safeguard human rights, curb any armed particularistic ambition, and bring justice to the entire human community (ibid.: 160ff.). Such a truly international contract would deserve even more loyalty than what we grant our homelands and nation states: ‘the United Nations is—us’ (ibid.: 160). Despite its anti-colonial realism and sting, al-bašar clearly expresses an idealist and progressivist universalism: ‘we believe in the progress of humanity’ (ibid.: ibid.: 123). 99), on the road towards ‘the human destiny’ ( A vision of the human being In his second book from 1959, Inna-hu al-insān (‘This is the human being’, Khālid 1997/1959), Khālid unfolds his idealist understanding of the notions of ‘the human being’ and of ‘humanity’. In this book, the key notion is not ‘the human race’ (al-bašar), but ‘the human being’ According to Khālid, the notion of designates something more than ‘the human race’ in its actuality: it represents ‘the absolute’ element in its world. Essentially, is the ‘hidden consciousness’ ( al-kāmin) of its species— like the ‘ideal’ in Plato—and ‘the law’ (al-qānūn) that guides the human race. It is destined to be discovered and realised step by step, towards its final perfection (ibid.: 75f). Although its final nature remains hidden (ibid.: 15, 77), humanity is summoned by

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God to master the world as well as its own soul, and to choose its destiny in freedom (ibid.: 159f, 164f). Khālid links his notion of true humanity with an evolutionary and self-declared optimistic view of human development along a steadily ascending road (ibid.: 113). On the human community’s journey towards perfection, prophets and geniuses have always taken the lead.414 Like he emphasises that the progress of humanity leaves a 415 broad space for the innovating activities of the genius As in a major task of the genius is to rise above blind imitation of tradition (ibid.: 143). For this to happen, freedom of thought and of choice must be unrestricted. Khālid emphasises, however, that the role of the geniuses in human history does not aim at individualism, but at the release of human potentials to the benefit of the entire community. The geniuses can only fulfil their role when they are sensitive to their historic function, by contributing to the innovation of culture in general, and the improvement of the condition of the masses in particular. To ensure that his elevation of the human does not in any way belittle God, Khālid invokes the words of Christ and ‘Verily he is the son of God (ibn Allāh), as Christ expressed it, and the vice-regent of God ( Allāh), as said’ (ibid.: 77). Khālid’s listing of human geniuses who have exercised their right of innovative thinking is very generous and truly interreligious. Ancient Greek, classical Islamic and modern European philosophers or scientific innovators are cited side by side, as are Buddha and Gandhi.416 The crosses of Christ Abraham and Moses, Jesus, and of are referred to as symbols of how evil can be turned into something good (ibid.: 69, 73f.). are few. Khālid prefers to speak of the guidance In contrast, references to the of religion (dīn) in general, and its interrelatedness with science and philosophy (falsqfa). As for religion, he argues that one should always seek for its inner core behind the outer shells (ibid.: 95). Somehow surprisingly in the light of his books from the early 1950s, in Khālid only once employs the notion of to designate the anchoring point of true religious and spiritual preoccupations (ibid.: 32). As we shall see from his and Christ from 1958 and 1960 and from his broad exposition of books on that human conscience on its journey towards its destiny from 1963, it was came to be the dominant notion in his other inclusive, ‘humanistic’ writings. In however, it is wijdān rather than that is used to denote the seat of freedom, responsibility, spiritual inclination and religion.417 Khālid seems thus to have tried out a wide array of notions to express the inner seat of morals and religion and the anchoring ground of human authenticity.418

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A vision of ‘progressive’ virtue ethics Khālid’s universalist visions of humanity and his idealist concept of the human person are wedded to a virtue ethics which is moulded in the same ‘progressive’ fashion as his deliberations on humanity. In a voluminous and didactic book from 1961 about ‘the ten commandments for those who want to live’ Khālid moves freely between the Islamic heritage and other religious and philosophical traditions when expressing his concern for humanity and unfolding his philosophy of the person.419 In this book too, his outlook is distinctively universalist: ‘the entire universe is one family, and human life has one heart’ (Khālid 1990/1961:134). His concern for the cultivation of the human personality makes him interpret alFārābī’s famous concept of the virtuous city (al-madīna ) not as a society surrounded by authoritarian commands, but as an admonition to erect a virtuous city in the soul, and for oneself (ibid.: 8f.). Whereas Khālid in 1953 (in ) stated that the vicious person is more in need of a conscience than the good person, he now speaks of conscience on a far more positive note as the stronghold of the virtuous person: You are like a sovereign state. Reject any hostility, any intrusion into your secrets and your course of action, and any reduction of your rights, and defend by utmost determination the sanctity of your conscience and your spirit! (ibid.: 51f.) I will suggest that the authenticity-oriented understanding of expressed above is more typical of the mature Khālid’s understanding of conscience than his earlier elaborations on conscience as a curb—which were mainly inspired by Western psychology. As we shall see from his works on human conscience in the history of religions, his mature notion of conscience mainly strikes a positive note and is closely linked with a concern for human authenticity. But apparently, Khālid saw no contradiction between the search for human authenticity and the need for a curbing function in the human being. Although he consistently focuses upon the positive aspects of divine guidance, he also speaks of God as the one who bridles us. Fear of God’s punishment is reflected in human conscience: ‘If we turn away from [the moral practices, ] the torment of conscience will shatter us, as will the fear of God’s punishment’ (ibid.: 242). In tune with his hermeneutical reflections on Islamic jurisprudence in Li-kay lā (Khālid 1955:189f.), Khālid marks the modern nature of his virtue ethics by a distinction between unchangeable values and virtues that change with time (Khālid 1990/1961:76ff.). Realising that society must progress, one should respect the consensus of those who are capable of formulating ‘the virtues of this age’ ( ibid.: 80). Still sensitive to the interests of women in this respect,

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he gives as examples the differing views of female inheritance rights and of young women’s participation in public life. As a virtue ethicist, Khālid claims that morality has to do with developing right attitudes (mawāqif) and having them transformed into habit It is a question of personal growth (ibid.: 98, 106). His fourth commandment calls the individual to have the mind of the explorer, who seeks the paths not trodden by others. Together with Christ, (the second caliph) and Abraham Lincoln, he or she should rise above a modest social background or suppression and search for ‘a new humanity, a new history’ (ibid.: 123f., cf. 228).420 Khālid asserts that the lasting pleasure of a virtuous life will leave joy in the soul, and (ibid.: 81). He cites the about virtue or righteousness humble prayer in (birr) that brings reassurance to the soul, whereas sin makes it uneasy and apprehensive of other people’s judgement (ibid.: 82).421 But Khālid also repeats his favourite point that remorse (nadam) and self-rebuke should not be exaggerated, and a troubled conscience should never be given free rein (ibid.). In the main, confirms the overall impression that Khālid’s vision of the human being is basically optimistic and consoling towards the sinner. Evil can be avoided, but not sin. Any excess of remorse should therefore be avoided: ‘don’t ever whip yourself with lashes of remorse, and never torture your conscience with excessive rebuke’ (ibid.: 94).422 Although Khālid’s warning against excessive remorse might be taken as an implicit critique of Christianity he takes the words of Christ about the necessity of being born again as a statement about the human being’s responsibility of being morally and spiritually re-educated and remoulded (ibid.: 96f.).423 Khālid’s inclusive, interreligious approach to ethics dominates his entire discussion, as well as his God-talk.424 He asserts that Christianity, Islam and other religions are all liable to superstitious deviation, but are also capable of development and progress (ibid.: 252). If there is anything in the religious texts ( al-dīn) that hampers sound human progress, it should be interpreted in the light of their times of origin and not be taken as a proof of religion’s backwardness (ibid.: 255). With this progressive view of religion, it should be no surprise that Khālid in the end defines faith in God as an energy from which the believer can take what he or she wants—from a repository which originates in the divine power of justice (ibid.: 270f.). In this perspective, it was only natural that Khālid chose the evolutionary notions of as the heading of his grand ‘journey’ (masīr) and ‘destination’ or ‘destiny’ narrative of human conscience in the history of religions, as laid out in (1963).

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8.4 in the history of religions: a continuous quest for human authenticity Thematically Khālid’s broad exposition of the moral and religious quest of the human being in was preluded by his book about and Christ ‘together on the road’ from 1958, and a summary of the ‘summit thoughts’ of In the following, I will first discuss his outstanding personalities from 1959 and Christ from 1958, and then his biography of portrait of from 1960 which carries the ‘humanistic’ title (‘The human qualities of ) Differently from Khālid does not set out to write Christ and other outstanding personalities. What a ‘spiritual portrait’ of he is after is their joint defence of life, and their shared conscience-based appeal to the authentic human being. and Christ, together on the road In Khālid’s writings from the 1950s and the early 1960s, parallel references to the and the Bible, and Christ are recurring features.425 But his positive references to Christ do not imply that he is equally positive towards Christianity, or indeed the Christian West. Although he may admire certain Western ideals, he is often harsh in his condemnation of Western imperialism. But he attacks the Christian West not in the name of Islam, but with the words of Christ as recorded in the Gospels.426 His positive use of Christ’s teachings is fully unfolded in (‘Together on the road, and Christ’). The book, which was first published in 1958, has received much attention for its innovative approach to Christian-Muslim dialogue.427 Like biography of Christ, Khālid’s book treats the New Testament Gospels as reliable sources for the understanding of Christ’s message.428 Even more daringly than Khālid portrays and Christ as ‘The prophets are companions on the road. The front cover cites a well-known brothers; their mothers are different, but their religion is one.’429 Khālid presents the book as written in a spirit of dialogue, and for the sake of the human being and life:

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That is exactly what I want to say to those who believe in Christ and those who believe in If you are sincere, the proof of your faith is that today, one and all of you embark upon the task of protecting the human being…protecting life! (Khālid 1986/1958:7) His brotherly approach to and Christ is prefaced by a summary of some other decisive stages in the history of philosophy and religion, which he would later elaborate on in As in he pays special attention to Socrates, to whom he dedicates a separate chapter and praises both for his appeal to reason and for his apprehension of a divine voice within.430 Khālid proceeds with the ancient Egyptians, Buddha, Confucius and the biblical prophets, with an emphasis on the vigorous social criticism of the last: ‘The prophetic task has always been, and still is, to develop the human mind and to disseminate visions of goodness, courage and righteousness in the human conscience’ ( al-bašarī, ibid.: 33). Khālid sees prophethood, then, as intimately linked with the rule of reason and conscience, and The main characters of the book, Christ and are consistently depicted as models and brothers in genuine prophethood. In the preamble, Khālid characterises Christ as a man with a lofty soul and an upright or honest ibid.: 8). Similarly, is characterised by conscience (mustaqīm 431 uprightness and honesty of conscience (istiqāmat ). Khālid emphasises that both messengers were but humans, although with extraordinary energies (a reference to the miracles of Christ) and qualities. As Khālid sees them, they both had a special concern for common people (al-rajul ). Both of them vigorously defended the rights of the human being—the right of subsistence, as well as the right of conscience (ibid.: 78, 91). But their missions had distinguishing marks as well. Christ came to light the candle of ibid.: 35). mercy, and to summarise the entire philosophy of love ( announced the doctrine of divine unity. He liberated people’s minds from superstition, their emotions (wijdānahum) from falsehood and their entire existence (wujūdahum) from destruction (ibid.: 115). Khālid paints the background of the two messengers’ coming as pitch black. He depicts Judaism at the time of Christ in much the same way as It was characterised by blind adherence to tradition (taqālīd), hypocrisy (nifāq), self-interest formalistic rites ( šakliyya) lack of spirit, and ignorance of the ibid.: 40f.). Apart from innermost cores of the law (lubāb attacking the Pharisees for lack of humaneness in their application of the law, he also claims that Judaism tended to regard itself as higher than the rest of humanity.432

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Christ as a defender of conscience—and of human authenticity Khālid makes the notion of conscience the focal point when Like and at the time of Christ, he writes about Christ. Both at the time of human conscience was in urgent need of defence—against those who distorted the religious law and enslaved the human being (ibid.: 84), and against the religious intimidation ( al-dīnī) of those who considered themselves to be the custodians of traditions and rites (taqālīd, ibid.: 97f.).433 In particular, Christ is depicted as a forerunner of the liberation of human conscience from inner obscurities and outward ordinances such as the Sabbath regulations (ibid.: 96). Khālid gives a definition that appears to refer to Expounding his notion of human authenticity rather than to ethics in the strict sense. Repeatedly, Khālid defines conscience as a reference to ‘the human being in its true existence’—al-insān fi wujūdihi I don’t mean by conscience here the spiritual function which makes the human being regret the evil he/she has committed, or incites the good which he/she otherwise would have failed to do. Rather, I mean by human conscience in this context, a more distant goal, a much broader meaning… In one concise expression, we mean by it ‘the human being in its true existence’. (Khālid 1986/1958:96, cf. 108 and 133) Later, he defines this to mean the full expression of the human being’s energies and potentials ( ibid.: 108). For human potentials to be released, exaggerated self-reproach must be avoided. Reiterating his concern from and Li-kay lā he depicts Christ as liberating human conscience from being humiliated by the constant feeling of guilt (ibid.: 99). We have seen from his earlier works that Khālid’s discourse on conscience strikes a distinctively anti-authoritarian note. The same is true of his description of Christ’s defence of human conscience. Khālid pays much attention to the story in John 8:1–11 about Christ and the adulteress who was about to be stoned, and he praises Christ for his rescue of the woman from those with hardened consciences (ibid.: 99ff.). As Khālid sees him, Christ also defended the right of conscience to act in opposition: ‘Christ called the imprisoned conscience to legitimate disobedience.’ By his assertion, ‘you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free’ (John 8:32), Christ pointed out a sure method of liberating human conscience (ibid.: 104). If human conscience is liberated, it will be able to challenge and oppose authority—strong in truth like Christ (ibid.: 106).434 Marking his universalist concern, Khālid also praises Christ for having liberated human conscience from its imprisonment by racial or nationalist prejudice His brothers are those who know the will of the Lord, regardless of their nationality and origin. ‘In brief, this is the position of Christ regarding human conscience’ (ibid.: 114).

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joins hands with Christ, in defence of human conscience As for he joins Christ in his call for respect of conscience, and invites respected the humanity to realise its true existence. Emphasising that which shows that inner integrity of the human being, Khālid cites a did not want anyone to ‘cleave people’s hearts’ in order to reveal their innermost thoughts.435 According to Khālid, it is here we can see ‘the point of departure for conscience in the religious law of (ibid.: 116), and how he ‘safeguards freedom of conscience and announces its right’. He also defends ‘freedom of thought—since thinking is the most prominent work of the mind’ (ibid.: 120). This is in keeping with the which places all responsibility for moral action and social change firmly in the hand of conscience (ibid.: 122).436 Khālid even claims that established ‘the freedom to doubt’ (šakk) as a fundamental human right (ibid.: 136).437 also did away with any notion of mediators between God and the people. Enlarging the range of personal responsibility, he foresaw a new kind of existence ‘in which human conscience may energetically exercise its freedom, fully and effectively’ (ibid.: 123). Like Christ, also liberated conscience from fear and ‘the civil war’ inside us instigated by the constant feeling of sin.438 He taught that by asking for forgiveness, human beings may recover their souls and eventually reach a deep peace of mind. It is interesting to see how Khālid, in his depiction of the tolerant and forgiving makes a reference to Christ’s warning against throwing the that all the sons of Adam have first stone—side by side with a saying of and Christ are companions on sinned (ibid.: 125). In this respect too, the road. Christ and together with Khālid in the defence of conscience Even though the missions of Christ and were in some respects different, their roles in defending human conscience were—according to Khālid—almost identical. Together they introduced an approach to ethics (minhāj) which was both firm and flexible—in the name of human conscience, and for the sake of human progress (ibid.: 139f.). Considering the fact that the notion of conscience is found neither in the Gospels nor in the Islamic tradition, the nearly identical features of Christ’s and defence of conscience reflect even more strongly Khālid’s own concern for human conscience and its freedom. In that sense, and Christ are companions of Khālid, in his modern advocacy of the rule of conscience. Repeating his definition of conscience as a designation of ‘the human being in its true existence’, Khālid notes that even today human authenticity is constantly threatened by external intimidation. The ‘terrorism of conscience’ is in fact more dangerous than that

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which damages the body. It attacks the very seat of life—defined as ‘reason and conscience’—and makes all expressions hypocritical. As for this ‘terrorism of conscience’, he gives the example of hampering the education of girls. This he characterises a false jihād—nothing but a result of the ‘deviation of conscience’ (ibid.: 133–6). and When expounding such values as love and truthfulness, Khālid quotes the the Bible side by side. As in Khālid’s notion of conscience shows a strong affinity with the notion of love. He sees love as a ‘gravitating force’ which is in fact a human ‘law’ (qānūn), and always victorious (ibid.: 154). It melts away sins by warmth, and is capable even of the expiation of sins.439 Although Khālid had initially singled out loving affection as the distinguishing mark of Christ’s message, he emphasises that both in the Gospel and in the (Q, 10:62), love is spoken of as too preached the message of mutual stronger than fear. He claims that affection, and raised love far above the level of utility and purpose (ibid.: 159). Christ,

and Khālid on violence and peace

Besides ‘conscience’ and ‘love’, ‘peace’ also emerges as a central notion in Khālid’s description of the essential content of Christ’s as well as messages.440 which demonstrate their commitment to Khālid cites words of Christ and non-retaliation and reconciliation, including several passages from the Sermon on the Mount (ibid.: 166–73). Although Khālid cites Christ far more extensively than at this point, he takes pains to show that they are brothers in their commitment to non-violence. carry a sword? Khālid answers this ‘fair question’ by Why then, did introducing the Hegelian-Marxist flavoured notion of ‘the will of history’ (ibid.: 174). embodied the will of history. It was his enemies that resisted this will and to take up arms. teaching thus—in the end—forced about war, however, contains severe restrictions on how warfare may be conducted. Khālid underlines that peace is a value that expresses itself in the positive (as an affirmation of the will of history) rather than in the negative (as mere abstention from confrontation, ibid.: 175).441 Whereas Khālid depicts Christ as one who (by crucifixion, which Khālid seems to as affirm as a matter of fact) was victimised by the sword, he portrays carrying the sword for the sake of peace, with the ambition to set a limit for the enemies of man and truth: ‘In Christ’s behaviour, peace expressed itself in mercy. In behaviour, peace expressed itself injustice’ (ibid.: 179). In a final chapter entitled ‘Christ or Barabbas?’, Khālid states that now—in the atomic age—the fundamental choice between peace and war is first of all put before the Christian West. He uses the concept of crucifixion (which Kāmil put at the centre of his novel about the drama of conscience, see Section 9.2) to characterise the

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ultimate threat to humanity. Whenever Barabbas is chosen, Christ is crucified, peace is crucified, love is crucified (ibid.: 189). Khālid relates his reflections on the contemporary situation to a modern reading of the traditional Muslim belief in the second coming of Christ.442 The traditional Muslim teaching about Christ’s return is understood by Khālid as a future realisation of Christ’s himself, by referring to the return of Christ, message. He implies that confirms the ultimate character of the way of love (ibid.: 187). Exposing his modern interpretation of classical imagery, Khālid states that Christ will but by the fulfilment not be recognised by his physical appearances depicted in of his message. For Christ is his message, he is the supreme ideal that he left and gave… He is the love which knows no hatred, he is the peace that knows no disquiet (qalaq), he is the salvation that does not perish. And when all this is realised on earth, then at the same time, the return of Christ is realised. This is the Christ who will return, and whose return the Messenger prophesied: peace, love, truth, the good and beauty. With the truthful Messenger, we declare: ‘Christ, not Barabbas, the true not the false, love not hatred, peace not war, life not destruction’. (ibid.: 187f.) Agonised as we may be by the fear that war will once more be the choice, Khālid writes, is comforting us by announcing the return of Christ which means that the values embodied by Christ in the end will be victorious. Awaiting this end, we shall be guided by a sharp-sighted consciousness and the necessities of our age (ibid.: 188). And our way towards the goal shall be strong truth and wakeful love (ibid.: 190).443 For all Khālid’s admiration of Christ and his conscience-based, entirely non-violent ethics, it is obvious that the well-balanced perfection of the divine message is left to Kenneth Cragg has made the comment that Khālid’s remarkable admiration of Christ and his message of love for most Muslims must be balanced with his ‘Muhammad supplies the historical recognition of the practical realism of realism which is wanting in Jesus and precluded by his context… The Gospel may have right in the ultimate; the has its right in the concrete’ (Cragg 1985a:53). The human qualities of After Khālid had presented the prophetic mission of and Christ under the general heading of humanity and the integrity of conscience, his view of personality was further expounded in his short biography of from 1960, (‘The human qualities of In this book too, he displays a strong interest in the theme of human conscience.

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As Khālid sees it, prophetic mission was rooted in the inner authority of his conscience. On the first page of this book, Khālid makes the remarkable claim that: had not been a messenger of God he would surely If have been a human being on the same level as a messenger of God! And if he had not received the command from his Lord: ‘Oh messenger, proclaim what is revealed to you’ he would surely have received it from his very nature (min nqfsihi): ‘Oh human being, proclaim what is at work in your conscience!’ (Khālid 1994/1960:9)444 God had prepared a moral, intellectual and spiritual superiority for his prophet, so that he might be the master and leader of his community (ibid.: 59). His righteous comportment was a realisation of his personality and his natural disposition ( ibid.: 61f.).445 Khālid’s praise of is characterised by romantic descriptions such as ‘a son of natural dispositions’ (ibn ) and ‘a product of nature and intuition’ (ibid.: 132). emotional conscience (wijdān) was splendidly furnished, and in his soul was warmth and righteousness (ibid.: 101). nature was his capacity According to Khālid, the foremost feature of Here again, Khālid reveals his distaste for religious for compassion and mercy— gave far more impe-tus to the motives of intimidation, claiming that divine mercy and love than to that of divine punishment. Referring to as well portrayed God as a merciful and as biblical imagery, he states that compassionate God who abrogates offences, accepts repentance, forgives debts and rejoices in the return of his servants to him—‘like the loving father rejoices in the return of the lost son’ (ibid.: 41). As Khālid had earlier praised Christ for rescuing the woman caught in adultery against those with hardened consciences, he now depicts as denouncing the hardness of conscience (qaswat ) of those who spread distress and fear. But Khālid does not forget to emphasise that combined compassion with justice and made justice his law ibid.: 57ff.). ( for True to his concern for human potentials, Khālid commends always looking for what was good in people, and encouraging that which sprang from a peaceful heart and from good and righteous intentions (ibid.: 41–3). Mindful of the potentials for goodness in all human beings and wary of the danger of ruining one’s best dispositions, warned all people against wronging themselves ( al-nafs, ibid.: 84).446 We have seen that in Khālid did not want to associate conscience with the spiritual function of consequent regret. Instead, he connected it with human potentials for authentic being. corroborates the impression that the mature Khālid’s interest in human conscience is strongly linked with a concern for

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personal integrity, authenticity and human potentials. But it also shows that Khālid has not completely set aside his image of conscience as an antecedent warner and curb, as Towards the end of expressed five years earlier in Li-kay lā Khālid speaks of antecedent warning as one of the functions of human conscience. Whereas virtuous piety (birr) reassures the heart, sin brings inner uneasiness:447 Verily, in every human conscience there is something which resembles the ‘motion of the radar’ ( al-rādār), which trembles and quivers when our behaviour is on the verge of getting involved in evil, or deviating and going astray. And when this warner becomes clear to us, it is up to us to desist, to change direction and not wait until the collision happens, and we find our¬ selves battling with error. (ibid.: 123)448 When speaking of conscience as a curb, Khālid, like connects it with the notion of taqwā, pious God-consciousness. Emphasising that self-criticism (al) is important but should not be exaggerated, Khālid suggests that the virtue naqd of taqwā must be not only austere, but also glad.449 Human conscience on its journey towards its destiny Khālid invoked a wide array We have seen that in the first part of of spiritual authorities in his call for human authenticity, freedom of conscience and progress. One can see the same interreligious tendency in fī-l-qimma (‘Summit thoughts’, from 1959), in which Khālid summons a number of ancient and modern ‘geniuses’ in order to express the eminence of ‘humanistic thought’ (al-fikr (Khālid 1994/1959:7). The book mainly contains lengthy quotations from books by or about historical giants such as Confucius and Lao Tse, Buddha, the sages Iqbāl, Sigmund of the ancient Egyptians, and modern thinkers such as Freud, Ralph Emerson, Gorky and Tolstoi. Including conscience as a pivotal summit theme, Khālid praises the American herald of freedom, Tom Paine, as a wonder of the human genius and of human conscience (ibid.: 9, 76). The culmination of Khālid’s evolutionary outlook on the spiritual history of the human alfamily is found in his work on human conscience from 1963, entitled (‘With human conscience on its journey towards its insānī fī-masīrihi destiny’, Khālid 1963). It is here that Khālid presents his broadest exposition of the history of human conscience throughout the ages. The paired keywords of ‘journey’ (masīr) and ‘destiny’ reveal his evolutionary perspective as expressed in his earlier books, but now with an even more pointed reference to human conscience,

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451

Employing the term Khālid adds an eschatological dimension to his discourse on human conscience: there is a divinely willed and final goal for conscience.452 Thematically Khālid repeats several of the concerns that he had previously expressed in the works analysed earlier. But in this grand narrative of human progress, he adds a number of new actors ranging from the ancient Egyptians to Gandhi. Together with prophets and philosophers, they join hands in a great chain of champions in the progressive rule of human conscience. From the list of sources that prefaces the book, one can see the amalgam of reading that contributed to Khālid’s most comprehensive presentation of the history of human conscience. Western books about the history of civilisation, human rights and true humanity figure prominently.453 and the continuous quest for human authenticity Both the title and the content of the book leave no doubt that the notion of gradually became the most central expression to Khālid’s concern for human freedom and authenticity. In the preface, he presents his work as ‘an examination that attempts to clarify the special characteristics by which conscience is guided’. Judging from the different definitions of human conscience in Khālid’s earlier works, it seems that he worked with two different approaches to human conscience. One is focused upon the warning aspect of human conscience, and related to Western psychology (Khālid 1955:24) as well as the Islamic concept of taqwā (Khālid 1994/1960:123–5). Another strikes a far more optimistic note, and comes close to defining human conscience as the seat of human authenticity and potentials (Khālid 1986/1958:96, 108, 133). In tune with his authenticity-related definition of human conscience in Khālid now speaks of conscience as: which God granted to the human race—with all its that insight individuals, geniuses and visions. We mean by it the will to excel (tafawwuq) which by means of noble and earnest aspirations and true intuition leads the entire human family to embrace its glorious and magnificent destiny. ( Khālid 1963:5f.) Expounding his authenticity-related approach, Khālid states his supposition that conscience is ‘a living will that operates in us’. By the supremacy that was given to it, conscience preceded reason Right from the beginning, conscience was rightly guided and attentive (rašīdan wa-wā’iyan)—‘as if accompanied by a light from God’.454 But conscience was not born complete. It makes progress through the ages, until—in our age—it reaches a state of unprecedented integrity (ibid.: 6). From this vantage point, Khālid traces the development of human conscience and its struggle to retain its innate

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integrity (rušd) through the subsequent ages of vision, prophethood and reason up to the contemporary ‘age of Gandhi, the atomic age’. Ancient Egypt: the cradle of conscience? is Khālid’s reference to ancient Egypt as the An intriguing aspect of cradle of monotheism and moral consciousness—that is of conscience. In 1959, in fī-l-qimma (‘Summit thoughts’), Khālid had already employed the notion of to characterise the ethical thought of the ancient Egyptians (Khālid 1994/1959:62). When he unfolds his point four years later, it becomes clear that he had been much inspired by James Henry Breasted’s book The Dawn of Conscience (Breasted treats 1934). Breasted’s book, which had been translated into Arabic as Fajr ancient Egyptian religion under the perspective of ‘the Age of Conscience and Character’.455 As Khālid takes the ancient Egyptians as the starting point of his broad narrative of human conscience, it could be that Breasted’s book was also a major impulse behind Khālid’s general project to put the notion of conscience at the centre of his exposition of the entire history of ideas and religions.456 With (justice) as a key concept, Khālid depicts the emergence of a social conscience and the development towards monotheism in the religions of ancient Egypt and other ancient civilisations, including the insights of Greek philosophy which are all ‘the age of vision’. Instead of distancing subsumed under the heading of himself from the initial ‘fumbling’ in human worship of the cosmic powers, Khālid states that right from its dawn (fajr, cf. Breasted), conscience established a friendship between the human race and the universe altogether. In Khālid’s view, the work of thinking must always be illuminated by the visions and values of conscience (ibid.: 22), although its completion in due time was left to reason (ibid.: 15f.). Conscience and the heavenly ascent of philosophy Khālid seems to imply that the fundamental insights of human conscience predated established religions and their laws. Only gradually, conscience discovered the reality of divine oneness, and how to live as ‘a good citizen’ within a monotheistic universe (ibid.: 39). Proceeding from ancient Egypt to Asian religions, Khālid cites Buddha as well as Confucius and Lao Tse as heralds of the liberation of individual conscience, calling people to become innovators not imitators ( lā muqallidīn, ibid.: 61).457 As for Greek philosophy, Khālid once more displays his fascination with Socrates, whom human conscience chose as its devoted son (ibnuhu al-bārr) in the age of vision (ibid.: 80).458 With Socrates, conscience expressed itself as ‘independent philosophy’, in an endeavour to ‘know yourself’ and ‘how you are knowing’. Attempts to attain are, according to Khālid, more in the domain of knowledge in this sense conscience than of reason (ibid.: 67f.). Khālid does not forget Plato and Aristotle, and also emphasises the socio-political orientation of Greek philosophy.459 But his primary interest seems to lie in Socrates’ insistent and controversial ‘knowing by himself’.

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Expounding conscience’s steady progress in seeking knowledge, Khālid uses the metaphor of heavenly ascent which is normally associated with mystical journey into the heavens: ‘Conscience’s welcoming of knowledge of all kinds is a welcoming of the heavenly journey of ethics itself which conscience commends to the human being’ (ibid.: 70). Applying the image of to Socrates’ death, Khālid seems to enrol the arche-typical philosopher in the ranks of those who experience friendship with the divine, rise to heaven and die for the sake of the good (ibid.: 78). Conscience guided by revelation al-nubūwa), the innate In the subsequent ‘companionship with prophethood’ (fī integrity of conscience is aided by divine revelation. In the age of visions, human al-tawfīq). It was therefore conscience only ‘happened by chance to be right’ ( in need of what God’s prophets could bring of guidance and security: ‘there is no doubt that their role in the growth of conscience (tanmiyat ) was great and dazzling’ (ibid.: 82). Although Khālid gives the prophets a decisive role, they are only part of a greater process marked by a continuous growth in the insights of human conscience. Thus, the journey of human conscience does not end with prophetic revelation. It continues with the subsequent age of reason (philosophy), and culminates in the atomic age with the witness of Gandhi. As for the prophets, Khālid begins with the stories of Noah, Abraham and Moses; referring both to their and biblical versions. Like Abraham,460 Moses is invoked as a champion in fighting idolatry rather than as a lawgiver. Khālid’s interest lies not in the prescriptive injunctions of the Torah, but rather in the exemplary way in which Moses connected humanistic qualities and moral values to human responsibilities that were obligated by faith in God. This is of human ascendancy what makes values and morals—once more—a heavenly (ibid.: 96, 138). After having highlighted the message of social justice with the biblical prophets (especially Isaiah, who is not mentioned in the ) Khālid focuses his attention on Expounding the supreme guidance they offer to human Christ and conscience, Khālid adds some new features to the image he gave of them in In his portrait of the two prophets is subordinated to the dominant evolutionary outlook of the book. The role of Christ and his exemplary nonviolence Khālid emphasises Christ’s radical ethics of love, In forgiveness and non-retaliation, and makes even more out of Christ’s non-violence than In a general note, he claims that as humanity proceeds he did in

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towards its destined perfection, its proof of perfection will be the gradual abandonment of aversion, hardness and fighting. In this process, Christ played a decisive role—not on the political scene, but in terms of ideas and exemplary behaviour. Christ did not come to solve national matters, but rather to disclose to humanity some of its eternal truths—and then go away. With references to the Sermon on the Mount and other Gospel passages, Khālid exemplifies Christ’s admonition to fight evil with good and drive back aversion with love (ibid.: 104ff.). The human being that Christ calls to act like this, is ‘the outstanding, devoted human al-bārr albeing’ who rises above the prevailing patterns of action ( mutafawwiq, ibid.: 108). In Christ’s apparent weakness, Khālid sees a supreme strength. By telling his disciple to put away his sword, and by his ‘blessed cry’ that all who take the sword will perish by the sword (Matthew 26:51f.), Christ disclosed an eternal truth— is more powerful and more lasting, and that opposing ‘that loving affection evil with good is not only possible, but destined for victory and success’ (ibid.: 109).461 Living by love, and for the sake of love, unarmed with any weapon, destitute of any capital, discarding any rank of power, Christ showed that ‘Loving affection is capable of producing unparalleled miracles—if evil is met with good, sword with calm (sakīna), and aversion with love’ (ibid.: 111).462 Love being his religion, commandment and life, ‘Christ gave to the human race one of its greatest truths, namely that human beings are capable of melting away all their problems by warmth and love and compassion’ (ibid.: 117). It should be sufficiently clear, then, that Khālid credited Christ with a unique role in conscience’s progress towards its recognition of non-violent, loving affection as the supreme means of resolving human problems. The role of conscience was now to transmit to generations to come ‘the imprints of this victorious truth which it had witnessed in its soul and lived together with its great hero’ (ibid.). to fortify The role of consciences by communal virtues and laws The Christian church, however, was not true to the teachings of Christ. The lofty examples disappeared and left no trace in the souls and life of its followers, other than in that celebrated Christ’s certain forms and outward appearances sacrifice as a cleansing in his blood (ibid.). With a familiar depiction of Christianity’s decay in the Byzantine age, Khālid leads the reader to realise the evolutionary need for True to the concept of as the another and final prophet, seal of the prophets, Khālid states that his days on earth will be the last tour of prophethood and revelation in the history of peoples. Differently from Christ, he came not only to establish the Kingdom of God in the hearts of the pious (as a lofty ideal), but in the ranks of the masses and the general populace—with all their goodnesses and weaknesses. Khālid seems to imply that Christ’s focus on moral intentions (al-nawāyā) was not enough to give human conscience a solid foundation. The seeds of good intentions needed to be implanted ‘in the depths of human nature and in the nature of society as

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well’ (ibid.: 123, 137). This was the role left to who implanted divine unity, brotherhood, justice and freedom in human consciences as well as in the constitution of society. Although shared many of the moral convictions of Christ, he was more political in his approach, and saw the need to reinforce the good intentions of individuals by communal virtues and social, even international laws. Seeing this was a firm step forward in human history, reflecting a supreme consciousness The virtue of brotherhood needed a law (qānūn) and codified human rights to support it. This was what Islam produced (ibid.: 136–9). Christ’s message of non-violence was not, then, the last to be revealed to the human race. Khālid notes that in the one will find the admonition to ‘repel [evil] with ), but also the legitimisation of rightful retaliation.463 what is better’ (Q, 41:34, Yūsuf 464 It was this double admonition of the that was realised by What human conscience received from the and the Prophet of Islam in this respect, was the following principle: peace to all people, and no hostility except to the evildoers (ibid.: 147). Expounding Islam’s vision of the good, Khālid notes that every society has got some moral practices that are protected by custom and law (qānūn). However, the important thing in a society’s development is that virtue becomes a personal matter, integral to the person’s soul and life. As for penal codes and other social regulations, says Khālid, they only add to personal virtue a social dimension. Basically, it is the connection of virtue to God who really makes us lead a virtuous life, whereas the law only makes us live together in virtue (ibid.: 149f.). Anticipating his reflections on conscience in the age of reason, Khālid states that the revelation of the incites in human conscience a longing for the hidden, and invites the human intellect to break through the wall to the unknown. A division of labour between conscience and reason should thus be sought for: ‘It is the responsibility of human conscience to look out for things, and the responsibility of human intellect to reflect upon them’ (ibid.: 157). By endowing human conscience with full responsibility, Islam increases and supports freedom of conscience—not as a benefaction, but as a divinely established necessity. This was in fact the last word that conscience received from religion—calling both conscience and reason to take their place in steering the human caravan under the guidance of God’s word (ibid.: 162). Conscience in the age of reason: enlightened doubt and freedom of conscience Proceeding to ‘The age of reason’, Khālid makes the general claim that ‘conscience calls reason to the leading position when it feels humanity’s need for its word and its skill’ (ibid.: 165). Khālid dedicates some space to the classical Islamic philosophers, and states that the age of reason began with them and not with the European Enlightenment. He takes pride in their scientific accomplishments in fields such as medicine and mathematics, their creative wrestling with the Greek legacy, and their dismissal of blind

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imitation in religion.465 The major part of the chapter, however, deals with the legacy of European Enlightenment thought (ibid.: 168–90). As Khālid sees it, the European age of reason started off as a revolution not against ‘religion’ (dīn) as such, but against certain forms of Christian ‘religiosity’ (tadayyun, ) had attributed the virtue of ibid.: 169).466 While Khālid earlier (in doubt to he now speaks of ‘enlightened doubt’ (al-šakk al-mustanīr) as a major accomplishment of European philosophy as exemplified in Descartes, Galileo and Spinoza. But he retains his claim that the virtue of doubt predated the European All of them Enlightenment and was preached by Socrates, Christ and found certainty only after they had ventured to doubt the lies and superstitious beliefs of the religious leaders of their times (ibid.: 170–4). Although doubting reason, in its search for proof, was often accused of heresy and apostasy and of subverting the traditions (taqālīd), Khālid maintains that it was fundamentally in concord with conscience’s divinely inspired quest for human progress. Khālid and Rousseau’s concept of the social contract After having cited heralds of freedom from different contexts and centuries such as Montaigne, Bergson, Milton, Jefferson and Voltaire, Khālid turns his attention to Rousseau with explicit reference to his concept of the social contract (ibid.: 185–90). Khālid notes that according to Rousseau, a social contract must be based on free choice. In his case for freedom, Rousseau spoke in the name of conscience, making it clear that renouncing freedom means renouncing the human quality itself. Khālid does not, however, refer to Rousseau’s emotional praise of conscience as expressed in Émile. His sole reference is to Du contrat social. What Khālid is after in this particular context is the transformation of conscience’s insights into social laws. He credits Rousseau with having—like —‘transferred human freedom to jurisprudence and law’ ( fiqh wa-qānūn, ibid.: 185). As Rousseau (and ) saw it, the values of freedom and equality could not be safeguarded by generosity and affection only. They had to be systematised by contract and guarded by law—in a co-operation on equal footing between the people and their freely elected government. In tune with his contemporary commitment to democracy and freedom rights in postrevolutionary Egypt, Khālid proceeds by specifying the elements of a social contract in Rousseau’s sense. These are: free election of political representatives, separation of legislative and executive power, and a continuous defence of the people by the law (ibid.: 187). In this way, Khālid is far more concrete in his exposition of the modern democratic ideal than Khālid also pays attention to American heroes such as Tom Paine and his fight for independence and Harriet Beecher Stowe and her commitment to the abolition of slavery and racial discrimination.467 Having commented on the spirit of revolution in Europe and in the Middle East, as inspired by Marx and Engels and al-Afghānī respectively, Khālid is ready to summarise the age of reason. Leaving the issue of social revolution aside, he returns to his concern for individual rights ( al-fard) and individual freedom

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( al-fardiyya): ‘liberty would have had no meaning, had it overstepped the primary unit in humanity’s constitution, which is embodied in the individual’ (ibid.: 211). In what might be taken as an oblique critique of Islamic socialism and Nasserite policies (cf. Section 10.1), he argues that Marxism is in need of a herald that may correct its position towards freedom of thought, speech and conscience (ibid.: 212). Conscience and non-violence, with its devoted son Gandhi After the age of reason, Khālid sees human conscience reaching its peak of integrity in his own age, which he (writing in the 1960s) characterises as ‘the age of Gandhi and the atom’ It seems that Gandhi must have been a major source of inspiration behind Khālid’s and interest in conscience-based non-violence. Khālid ends his survey of conscience in human history with Gandhi, wrote an entire biography of him.468 Whereas Khālid’s admiration of Christ’s pacifism was balanced by his commendation of political realism, at journey’s end his admiration for non-violence once more gets the upper hand. Khālid emphasises, however, that with Gandhi nonviolence was not merely preached as an ideal, but practised as an efficient method of political change. Khālid seems to regard the intentionalism of Christ and the more political orientation of as being merged in the practice of Gandhi, a practice which shook the world and had tangible political consequences: ‘Human conscience now reached the peak of its integrity, and it moved across the stage of the major events in our age, materialising in the person of its devoted son (ibnuhu al-bārr) Mahatma Gandhi’ (ibid.: 222). According to Khālid, Mahatma Gandhi received his respect for religion from the age of prophethood, and his respect for conviction from the age of reason (ibid.: 236). Khālid depicts how Gandhi through his non-violent experiment (tajriba) managed to ‘set free the energy of love’ —a greater miracle than the atom itself (ibid.: 219f.). He exclaims: ‘Indeed, Gandhi is the conscience of our age. He is the true representative of human conscience in our generation and in our modern world!’ (ibid.: 220). As Khālid sees it, Gandhi’s experiment (tajriba)469 was not of his own making. It was the practice of human conscience itself, identical with that of the prophets and the messengers. In fact, it was the practice of the spirit. It was divine destiny that Gandhi came in an age that would not believe in anything unless it could be grasped by the senses—proclaiming justice and non-violence to people who believed in exploitation as a way to power, in the bomb as a solution to disputes, and in destruction as a way to life. Instead, Gandhi called for belief in a God beyond perception, a truth above power and domination, and a principle of non-violence beyond the destructive logic of retaliation (ibid.: 224). Gandhi held on to the principle of non-violence, although his people broke with it. He did not come to walk the well-trodden paths, but to explore the unknown heights of human achievement (tqfawwuq), in accordance with the demands of conscience (ibid.: 231).

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Although Khālid estimates highly the social and political achievements of Gandhi, his emphasis seems to be on the moral endeavour of the individual and the liberation of the human spirit. For Gandhi, faith and worship meant the emancipation of the human spirit and human destiny from all obstacles, and the revival of the individual who rises above his desires and works in the service of the human race, on the principles of truth and love (ibid.: 237). In the name of human conscience Gandhi taught not only the Indians, but all humanity that the means are more important than the ends. Violence has only a bad destiny in store for humanity. The only way towards the true destiny of humankind is the way of life set out and safeguarded by human conscience. We have the atom in our left hand, but Gandhi in our right (ibid.: 244). Khālid’s treatment of the history of human conscience is intriguing. He combines a broad interreligious outlook with an outspoken loyalty to the decisiveness of the revelation. He links the finality of prophetic revelation to a concept of human development, tracing the completion of conscience through the various stages of history towards its destiny. He combines his concern for personal integrity with a social outlook. His main emphasis, however, is upon the duty to develop one’s individual conscience, and the duty of the community (be it religious or political) to ensure its unrestricted freedom.

8.5 and the Islamic heritage: narrative, thematic and mystical approaches Khālid’s writings from the 1950s on social justice, democracy, new morality and human authenticity are framed with an inclusive notion of divine guidance. His inclusive approach persisted until his great exposition of human conscience on its journey towards its destiny from 1963, as summarised and analysed earlier. From the early 1960s, however, Khālid turned more and more of his attention to the Islamic heritage. In terms of genres, his writings on Islamic issues came in the form of both edifying narratives and more discursive, thematic investigations. To some extent, he also employed the form of mystical reflection. Narrative approaches to distinguished Muslim personalities Following his book from 1959 on human qualities Khālid set out to write about the rightly guided caliphs in books that were published between 1961 and 1969.470 Khālid’s books about the caliphs were later collected in one volume as al-rasūl (Khālid 1974). As Khālid later revealed in an interview, his approach to successors was also marked by an interest in their great personalities: ‘I was fascinated by the history of Islam and by the field of biographies for the extraordinary greatness they hold.

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That greatness conquered me, and for this reason I wrote all these books’ (Branca 1984:10).471 al-rasūl shows that in the 1960s, Khālid’s interest in outstanding personalities and their sensitivity to the voice of conscience is persistent.472 It also shines through in his more ‘communitarian’ works on the great men of Islam and the Islamic heritage. When the first caliph Abū Bakr saw the need for a renewal of the religion of Abraham, Khālid depicts him as responding to ‘the crisis that preoccupied the human conscience in his community’ (Khālid 1974:40). Khālid summarises Abū Bakr’s exemplary, ‘democratic’ government in Medina as far transcending his mere duties towards his people—‘in conformity with the divine things (al-rabbāniyya) that God had lodged in his heart and in his conscience’ (ibid.: 135). Although his focus in these books is on Muslim personalities, Khālid is emphatic that the example of the rightly guided caliphs transcends its communitarian dimension. Their example is not only important to the Muslim community—it has universal significance. The greatness of and his model responsibility which originated from his ‘pure and active conscience’ (ibid.: 204) will not only be remembered by the Muslims, but will be kept ‘in the memory of history and in the conscience of the human race’ (ibid.: 146). In a book about ‘the men around ’ (Rijāl al-rasūl, Khālid 1994/1964), which became one of Khālid’s most famous books, Khālid portrays no less than sixty personalities from the dawn of Islam. In the preface, he praises them for their contribution to the formation and success of Islam. He connects the outstanding historical success of Islam with the unique personalities of companions, their supremacy and perfection. The real success of Islam took place on the inner scene of human conscience: How could they, as if with the speed of light, enlighten human conscience with the truth of divine unity, and forever sweep away centuries-old paganism?… We shall see the splendid role they played in the liberation of the entire human race from conscience’s paganism and lost destiny. (

Khālid 1994/1964:8f.)

The black Abyssinian slave Bilāl, who after being freed by Abū Bakr became the first (caller to prayer) in Medina, resisted the attempts of his former master to torture him into denouncing his firm faith in divine unity. Khālid praises him as an honour to all humanity and a master at the art of respecting conscience and defending its freedom and sovereignty (ibid.: 83f). and his Summarising the essence of the method followed by companions and the values established by them, Khālid concludes that the men around ‘filled human conscience with vigour, light and integrity’ (ibid.: 630). But the means by which this was accomplished was something more particular and ‘communitarian’: the means of their success was the and Muslim prayer.

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Thanks to the men around the verses of the are now broadcast in every corner of the world (also ‘among the Christian peoples’), and the call to prayer is heard everywhere (ibid.: 630f). al-rasūl may indicate that Khālid’s persistent interest in This final note in Rijāl personal integrity gradually becomes subordinated to his proclamation of Islam as the best guidance for the human race on its journey towards its destiny. Thematic approach to the humanist message of the al-insānī appeared, Khālid In the same period as his universalist published two books about the basic messages of the and the collections, respectively: Ka-mā (‘Thus spoke the Khālid 1994/1962), and Ka-mā al-rasūl (‘Thus spoke the Messenger’, Khālid 1994/1963). His discursive approach to the in Ka-mā breaks with the traditional exegetical (tofsīr) format of commentaries on the In tune with an overriding interest in general values rather than specific injunctions in ethics, his approach is thematic rather a traditional (taqlīdī) verse by verse commentary.473 Khālid’s preoccupation with the theme of human conscience is also easy to detect in his discursive elaborations on major themes of the The completed the insights of human reason as well as of human conscience, and shook off from human conscience ‘the dust of ignorance, the burden of superstition and the pressure of submission’ (Khālid 1994/1962:10). According to the even ‘had no authority over the consciences of the people’: ‘You are not supposed to dominate them’ (ibid.: 33).474 Expounding the notion of the human being as God’s viceregent on earth, Khālid states that the primary task of the human being on this planet is ‘to realise the lofty goals that in the conscience of eternity are linked with the very reasons for human existence, and determined to be realised’ (ibid.: 45).475 Khālid’s thematic exposition of the message of the shows that he is true to his universalist concerns from the 1950s, such as political anti-authoritarianism and a social concern for the ‘simple, hard-working people’.476 In general, he demonstrates how strongly the speaks of ‘humanitarian concerns’ ( ihtimāmātihi al-insāniyya, ibid.: 54–65), and how it always responds to the urgencies of the situation. It takes the pain of people seriously. With its all-comprehensive concern for human matters, even those that might seem to be peripheral, the ‘laid the foundation for a new homeland of reason, spirit and conscience’ (ibid.: 63). Unfolding how the speaks of the unity of religion ( al-dīn, ibid.: 67–81), he demonstrates how the holy book of Islam

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completed and sealed the mission of religions. Khālid explains that although the message of the was fresh and new, it originated from the conscience of the first guidance ( al-rušd alawwal). It carried the banner of Abraham and Moses and Jesus. In clear Arabic, it conveyed the same strong argument [in a tune] that was played before by the Torah and the Gospel. (ibid.: 69) As in Khālid’s other works, his interest lies in what unites the religions rather than what separates them. Since this is such a dominant approach, it is in fact hard to see how Khālid could possibly associate something positive with religious difference. By the same token, he underlines the superiority of Islam as a name of true religion itself, and not as the designation of one specific group of people. The makes it clear that there is but one religion, and that one should make no divisions in religion (ibid.).477 It completes the religion of Abraham, and opposes the claim made by some Jews and Christians that God’s mercy is for them only. What united all God’s prophets, according to Khālid’s reading of the was that ‘all of them, without exception, came to liberate human conscience from falling down in servitude to graven images and idols, and to connect conscience to the true God who has no similitude’ (ibid.: 81). Khālid claims that only the notion of divine unity can efficiently smash the shackles that bind the human will. Far from restricting human conscience, however, its divine anchoring clears the road for a full-fledged ‘freedom of conscience’ (ibid.: 109). Without the then, the universal goal of a true freedom of conscience could not have been achieved. perspectives on human conscience provides revelational underpinning Whereas Khālid’s thematic reading of the for several of his favourite humanitarian and socio-political concerns from the 1950s, the first essay of the sequel Ka-mā al-rasūl (‘Thus spoke ’, from 1963) turns the eye inwards. Elaborating the mystical dimension of message, he expounds how spoke of ‘the innermost soul’ (al-nafs ). Drawing upon his youthful inspiration from Khālid now unfolds the inner dimension of his otherwise outward-directed commitment to human rights and social justice (Khālid 1994/1963:15–48). Once more revealing his preference for general themes over detailed prescriptions, Khālid states that he will not approach the collections with a view to jurisprudence (fiqh), but in search of its essence (jawhar), its human content, and its relevance for human rights and human values—‘as if it were written today’ (ibid.: 10).478

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In tune with the tendency of his earlier writings on Khālid depicts as one who came to look for people that were able and ready to overcome passions and rise above human weakness by virtue not of their social standing, but of their richness of spirit and the strength of their innermost soul. Conscience, intention and the absolute good Khālid defines the innermost soul as the will to goodness, which he sees as a question of the uprightness of conscience (istiqāmat ). Alluding to al-Bukhārī’s that deeds should be judged according to their intentions, Khālid identifies intention with conscience and asserts that: Deeds do not derive their value from their external form, but from the hidden conscience (min )! Indeed, for every deed there is a conscience, and the conscience of the deed is the intention (niyya), the inner will that incites this specific deed. (ibid.: 17)479 Also in other essays in Ka-mā al-rasūl and in later works in the mystical vein, with niyya, and with the secret thoughts of the one finds that Khālid identifies heart (al-sarīra) in general.480 Like Khālid contrasts intention and conscience with the social temptations of eye-service hypocrisy (nifāq) and arrogance (kibr) which all threaten the integrity of the innermost soul (ibid.: 40ff.). But in this mystical context, it is obvious that conscience in Khālid is far more than mere internalisation of morals. It has a metaphysical dimension to it. In tune with his reference to ‘the conscience of the first guidance’, he argues that purification of intentions and virtuous acts aims at nothing less than becoming part of ‘the conscience of life itself’ ( Khālid 1994/1963:48). Marking the ultimate aim of ethics as truly theological, Khālid relates the integrity of human conscience to the admonition to ‘desire God’s countenance’ ( wajh Allāh), which is found both in the and in ‘“The desire for God’s countenance” is the proper measure of the motives of the soul and the intentions of conscience’ (ibid.: 22).481 For Khālid, desiring God’s countenance means seeking ‘the absolute good’ ( ibid.). and philosophical ethics shine In these passages, strong influences from both through. By his combination of philosophical, mystical and narrative elements (here: material), Khālid is clearly within the genre of a religious ethics typical of al-Ghazālī (cf. Section 4.6).

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Conscience, remorse and the remembrance of God In a book from 1971, Allāh (‘And the promise is God’), Khālid expounds more fully his inspiration from and his view of the inner person. Here, he elaborates on his view of the spiritual function of remorse, as related to the function of conscience. As in his early elaborations on new morality (cf. Section 8.2), he relates the notion of to the sense of remorse (nadam) and the ‘philosophy of repentance’ (tawba). Khālid sees ‘the uprightness of intentions and consciences’ (istiqāmat al-nawāyā ) and ‘the wakefulness of conscience’ as indispensable for maintaining the sense of good and bad which is presupposed in any sincere feeling of remorse or repentance (Khālid 1985/1971:37–9). Ultimately, uprightness of conscience expresses itself in a constant remembrance of and prayer (ibid.: 154). By virtue of their inner integrity and their complete God in dedication to God, it is in fact the real —known as ‘the people of God’ or ‘the friends of God’—who are the light and honour and conscience of life itself (ibid.: 158).482 Although the dominant orientation in Khālid’s elaborations on is inward and metaphysical, he never loses sight of the outward dimensions of faith. Khālid also argues strongly in Allāh that does not mean total seclusion from worldly affairs, but rather a free mind, dedicated to God.483 8.6 From human to Islamic authenticity? The works analysed earlier—from the early 1950s into the early 1970s—show that in Khālid can mean anything from the metaphysical or theological anchoring ground of ethics via the innermost dimensions of the human being to a social conscience in search of justice in society. The multifaceted dimension of the concept corresponds to links its centrality in almost all of Khālid’s works from the 1950s and 1960s. his mystical concern with a political claim for freedom of conscience, and his progressivist vision of individual authenticity with a concern for interreligious understanding. From the 1980s onwards, we shall see that the notion of lost much of its centrality in Khālid’s writings. In the same process, the focus of his interest shifted from ‘human’ to ‘Islamic’ authenticity. But many of his other concerns retain their importance—not least his call for true democracy which was a persistent concern from the secularist beginning of his career right into his moderate Islamist phase to be analysed in what follows.

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From universalist liberalism to Islamic democracy In Khālid’s works from the early 1950s, his strong concern for democracy and liberal rights is reflected in his books Min hunā (analysed in Section 8.2), …lā (‘Citizens, not subjects’, 1951) and (‘Democracy forever’, 1953). His strong concern for true democracy in Egypt also shines through in several books and essays from the 1960s onwards, such as his manifest for freedom of expression in kāna al-kalima (‘In the beginning was the word’) from 1961. (‘In defence of democracy’) from 1985 and Law šahidtu la-qultu (‘If I had been in on their conversation, I would have said’) from 1994 testify to the enduring centrality of the theme of true democracy in Khālid. Freedom of conscience as a universal right and political demand In several of his writings, Khālid strongly advocated the liberal right of freedom of expression against any kind of political restriction. In kāna al-kalima, Khālid speaks of freedom of thought as an absolute social right and the indispensable foundation of any democratic society. Relating his point to the issue of conscience, he claims that the conscience of a community can only be based on the convictions of individuals, not on state decrees (Khālid 1994/1961:64). When later in he summarised his critique of absolute rule, Khālid called upon the sovereignty of ) in choosing its way (masīrahā) and shaping its destiny conscience (siyādat —as the supreme principle in both the spiritual and political realms (Khālid 1985:95). By their attack on authoritarian thought and absolute rule, many of Khālid’s books can easily be read in a universalist, anti-tyrannous tradition.484 But although his outlook was universal, his denunciation of tyranny and his commitment to liberal rights were also highly contextualised and put forward as a political claim in the Egyptian context.485 In his first book after the revolution of 1952, in he was already calling upon Nasser’s Revolutionary Council not to tamper with the democratic, multiparty tradition from 1924. He advised the army officers behind the revolution to go back to their barracks and leave the government of the country to civilians.486 Immediately after the promulgation of the constitution of 1956, Khālid attacked the idea of a ‘National Union’ as embodying a one party system.487 contains his famous dispute with Nasser on the range of political freedom in Egypt. During the work of the Preparatory Committee for the Charter for National Action in 1961–63, Khālid adamantly called for the reintroduction of a multi-party system, a parliament with opposition, and a constitution.488 Looking back at his critical dialogues with Nasser, Khālid asserts that democracy is the power of the people to change its leaders and its laws by means of ‘free election’, mediated by its representatives, who should only be in

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parliament as the fruit of free and blameless elections (Khālid 1985:22). Khālid’s strong and critical advocacy of free elections also persisted under the rule of Mubarak.489 Although Khālid repeatedly confronted authoritarian tendencies in Egyptian politics, his approach to the issue of political freedom was not primarily defensive. In tune with his optimistic outlook on human authenticity, Khālid time and again emphasised that there is always a dynamic dimension to freedom, which enables the human being to change his or her conditions in a positive direction. Democratic freedom is, essentially, the freedom to change (Khālid 1994:41). ‘The state in Islam’: a farewell to secularism—and indusivism? In 1981, after a lapse of almost ten years, Khālid released a new book which must be considered as a turning point in his career as a writer: Al-dawla (‘The state in Islam’, Khālid 1989/1981). Here, Khālid unfolds his view of democracy as a truly Islamic vision. The book shows that Khālid had retracted nothing of his commitment to political freedom. What had changed was rather his frame of reference, which now turned out to be communitarian rather than universalist, with emphasis on the specifically Islamic legitimacy of democracy. At this stage, in addition the notion of seems to have lost much of its previous centrality in Khālid. In Al-dawla the word occurs only once—tellingly not with reference to human conscience, but to the spiritual characteristics of the Muslim community (ibid.: 115).490 Neither are there any positive references to Christian or Western models. His frame of reference is now solely Islamic. The most conspicuous feature of Al-dawla is Khālid’s programmatic revision of his secularism from the early 1950s. Then, Khālid was criticised by his friend al-Ghazālī for confusing ‘Islamic rule’ with ‘religious rule’.491 Al-dawla shows that Khālid had now accepted this critique. On the first pages of the book, he explains what he had come to regard as mistaken perceptions of the Islamic state in Min hunā His main fault was to identify the notion of religious rule ( dīnī) with that of Islamic government He gives two reasons for his misperception: he was too preoccupied with the reading of European history and the maladies of religious rule in medieval Christianity, and he mixed up the principle of the Islamic state with the violent ideology of the Muslim Brothers. Having done away with his previous misperceptions, Khālid now asserts that Islam aims at general and complete change, on the personal as well as the socio-political levels. Speaking of Islam as a system or method (minhaj) to be applied in the affairs of the world, he claims that one will probably not find any other religion or ideology that by its very nature necessitates the establishment of a state, like Islam. ‘For Islam is a religion of order’ (ibid.: 25). Khālid relates his ideas of the Islamic state both to general ideas of social contract and distinctively modern concepts of democracy. But his main frame of reference is no longer the European Enlightenment, but the great political theorists in classical and medieval Islam such as al-Māwardī, Ibn Taymiyya492 and Ibn Khaldūn.

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The traditional references do not imply, however, that Khālid now denies the innovative contribution of modern theories of democracy. On the contrary, he argues that Islam may freely add to its political heritage elements of contemporary political systems, and thus islamicise those elements (ibid.: 63). Although he speaks of the the Sunna and the consensus of the Muslim as the constitution (dustūr) of the Islamic state, he explicitly endorses such modern democratic institutions as general elections, the parliamentary system, the forming of a political opposition, and free press (ibid.: 57). According to Khālid, all these elements must be included in a modern version of Islamic democracy which cannot be merely based on simplistic Islamist slogans such as ‘The is our constitution’.493 In modern Muslim discourses on democracy, as we have also seen in much attention has been paid to the notion of šūrā (‘counsel’). The implication is often that Islam predates modern visions of democracy by admonitions to mutual counsel instead of autocratic rule.494 In tune with this tendency, Khālid dedicates a major part of Al-dawla to the notion of šūrā (ibid.: 52ff.).495 He also elaborates on the conceptions of wise judgement and rightful (ibid.: 34ff.). He government, as associated with words derived from the root argues that right judgement is a matter for God, and that human government must be in accordance with what God has sent down in revelation ( Allāh, Q 60:10) and with what is reported of judgements in (ibid.: 39). Khālid’s interest, however, lies in how classical notions can be reinterpreted as religious underpinnings for modern democracy. Precluding any theocratic interpretation, he parallels references to God’s will with references to the will of the people ( ibid.: 70f.).496 Khālid also reiterates his previous concern for women’s rights, which he lists as one of the essentials of true democracy but still—as he emphasises in this context—as originating from the On the question of violence, Khālid maintains his vision of Islam as a religion of peace which nevertheless allows for just wars. But differently from his previous commendation of the non-violent examples of Christ and Gandhi, he now states that human nature has not (yet?) risen to the ideal of turning the other cheek, and Islam will therefore not call its people to stand with their hands tied when attacked (ibid.: 86).497 With regard to the issue of non-Muslims in an Islamic state, which had increasingly been brought to the fore in public debates during the 1970s, Khālid assures the reader that Islam protects the rights of all citizens ‘whether they are Muslims, Jews or Christians’ (ibid.: 91). In conclusion, he summarises his still modernist vision of Islam as a religion of civilisation ‘that does not know backwardness or stagnation’ (ibid.: 96). Seeing the unique greatness of Islam as represented by the fact that it proceeds in material and spiritual progress along the same way, Khālid makes the ‘contextually universalist’ claim that the future of Islam is a future for all humanity. In contrast, the West is taken to task for letting its ‘material progress go rumbling and fast, whereas its spiritual progress is very backward and slow’ (ibid.: 109).

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Khālid’s concluding remarks are probably symptomatic of a general shift in the way he approaches the West—not so much as a source of philosophical inspiration as in his earlier works, but rather as a negative contrast to his ideal Islamic civilisation.498 Although Khālid may refer positively to democratic institutions first developed in the West, the general thrust of Al-dawla is to present Islam as an all-comprehensive and self-sufficient system. As Khālid sees it, Islam must now take the lead in human progress towards the future and the final goal of divine homecoming, In general, the book provokes the question of whether Khālid, in tune with more particularistic discourses on both the Muslim and the Christian side from the 1970s onwards (cf. Chapter 10), had now moved from a concern for the authentic human being towards an overriding interest in Islamic authenticity. Correspondingly, in this phase of is no more referred to as ‘human’ but rather as a ‘Muslim’ Khālid’s career conscience, denoting the inner characteristics of the Islamic state. Introducing the book’s II, Khālid speaks of how appendix about the exemplary model of caliph revealed the ‘spirit’ of the Muslim state and its ‘conscience’ (ibid.: 115).499 In Khālid similarly invokes the of Islam’ and the ’ to support his democratic understanding of (Khālid 1985:189). ‘essence of And in his autobiography from 1993, he claims that Islamic government derives its (Khālid existence, organic structure, idea ‘and conscience’ from the Islamic 1993:370). But although Khālid’s discourse became more Islamic in a communitarian sense, freedom of conscience and political liberty rights remained truly universal values for him. In Khālid still speaks of ‘the humanity of humankind’ the utmost aim of democracy (Khālid 1985:187). But more than before, Khālid calls on his audience to realise that only Islam can truly meet human needs. His general shift of emphasis also affected the way he spoke of in the later phase of his career as a writer. The final call: Islam invites the human race to accept and his message, his approach was In Khālid’s early books about universalist and oriented towards the exemplary ‘human’ qualities of the Prophet and his defence of human conscience. He also retains his universalist concern for the integrity of 500 But already in his early phase, Khālid conscience in later books about as best fit to fulfil the had made it clear that he saw the followers of destiny of the human race. When in Ka-mā al-rasūl he speaks of ‘the revival of spirit, reason and conscience’ as the aim of human development, he asserts that this was ‘nowhere as successful as in the shadow of the Muslim community, which is the best community brought forth to mankind’ (Khālid 1994/1963:506). Khālid published a collection of In 1996, posthumously, Khālid’s son his father’s essays about which had originally been commissioned by the

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Saudi Arabian newspaper in 1985. The collection was given the telling title of al-bašar al-rasūl (‘Islam calls upon the human race to [accept] this Messenger’). His main preoccupation in these essays is not with universalist issues of true humanity, but rather to call the human race to give up all religious distortions and accept the truth of Islam (Khālid 1996:21). In this context, his pure and upright conscience (ibid.: 95, 100) reaches praise of unprecedented heights: ‘a radiant conscience, producing a sensation never known, a sensation of a light never seen that was enlightening his reason, his heart, and his vision!’ (ibid.: 104). In an apologetic mode, Khālid refers to the fact that the sublime human qualities of have also been recognised by prominent non-Muslims.501 Khālid even reproduces classical Muslim ideas of how was in fact foretold in the Bible, and by Christ himself (ibid.: 63–83).502 Other references to Christianity in this book also show that Khālid’s main errand is now apologetic rather than inclusive.503 The combined effect of purely apologetic references to the Bible and merely critical references to Christianity gives this late work about a flavour quite different from that of his earlier presentation of and Christ as companions on the road. Rather than calling Christians and Muslims alike to walk in the truly human paths of Christ and Khālid—together with the Muslim community—now calls the human race to become followers of the Prophet

This one is really the perfect man ( al-kāmil), whom God has presented to his servants, and to whom Islam calls the human race, that they may contemplate his greatness, read his message, understand his true nature, so that they by him may become believers and his followers. (ibid.: 161) 8.7 Preliminary conclusion and outlook In the earlier analysis of Khālid’s writings, I have demonstrated a general shift in his orientation from an interreligious concern for true humanity towards a gradually overriding interest in Islamic authenticity. A religious ethics concerned with true humanity A striking feature of Khālid’s discursive and narrative writings from the 1950s and early 1960s is the close relation between the notions of ‘conscience’ and ‘humanity’ His employment of the notion of reflects a deep conviction that

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the entire history of religion and ideas may be read as a persistent search for human authenticity But although in this period, Khālid’s approach to conscience was universalist and humanistic, it was nevertheless part of an ethics which must be characterised as a religious ethics. We have seen from his early works that Khālid himself eschewed the term ‘religious ethics/morality’, which he sharply distinguished from ‘ethics as laid down by true religion’. He identified the latter with ‘civic ethics’ or ‘ethics of civilisation’. Viewed in their totality, however, Khālid’s writings on religion and ethics fit well with the typos of ‘religious ethics’ commonly associated with al-Ghazālī—in which elements of philosophical reasoning, tradition-oriented narratives and mystical references are blended into a larger whole (cf. Section 4.6). A predominantly optimistic notion of In his narrative works, the notion of serves to underline the unique moral integrity and the supreme spiritual insights of prophets and philosophers, and to unite them across historical distance and religious affiliation. As for more discursive I have noted that Khālid gives two different approaches to the notion of definitions of human conscience. One focuses on the curbing aspect of human conscience as an antecedent warner. The other definition is far more optimistic in its outlook and oriented towards human authenticity. The optimistic definition converges with Christian notions of conscience as an antecedent guide, and modern European interpretations that speak of conscience as the seat of either autonomy or authenticity. I have argued that the second, more optimistic definition is more congenial with the general evolutionary thrust of Khālid’s works—as reflected in his recurrent linking of the rule of with human progress and (the final goal of humanity). Apart from conscience’s function as an antecedent warner and guide, Khālid also validates the emotional function of remorse (nadam, ) which corresponds to Christian and European notions of conscience as a consequent judge. However, his main interest when speaking of remorse seems to be warning against exaggerated selfreproach. This corroborates the overall impression that Khālid’s notion of conscience is predominantly an optimistic one, related to the human being’s capacity for divine guidance and the quest for authenticity. Khālid,

and Muslim-Christian dialogue

Khālid’s innovative approach to as a uniting bond between Muslims and Christians was formulated as a call for a joint defence of shared human values. His contribution in this respect has rightly been much appreciated both in Egypt and internationally. But there are also some limitations in Khālid’s approach to interfaith questions. His interest in the notion of conscience is dominated by a search for common

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values which remains on the general and ideational level. Contemporary Christian concerns in the Egyptian context were hardly ever addressed in his books. When Khālid addresses perceived differences between Christianity and Islam in general, he tends to fall back on Islamic apologetics. In the latter phase of his career as a writer, Islamic apologetics becomes a dominant concern, and references to the uniting to bond of human conscience disappear. Instead, he may now use the term designate Islamic authenticity.504 How should Khālid’s religious position be characterised? What changed? Many of those who have analysed or commented on the works of Khālid, have focused upon his role as ‘a hero of the lost freedom’ (Chartier 1973).505 Paolo Branca (Branca 1986) puts his main emphasis on Khālid’s preoccupation with the challenges of modernity. In an overall evaluation of Khālid’s works, he characterises his position as ‘Islamic reformist’—different both from a traditionalist position which contends that Islam contains the answer to every possible problem, and a modernist one opting for rationalism as a general alternative to religious outlooks on life. Branca emphasises that Khālid’s Islamic reformism is marked by a strong sensitivity to the social challenges of the Arab world. But his response to the pressing social and political challenges of his time was moulded in religious terms, and expressed as a new reading of the Islamic heritage. With his focus on Khālid’s concern for Islamic modernisation, Branca bridges the gap between Khālid’s apparent secularism in the early 1950s and his moderate Islamism twenty or thirty years later. Khālid was never a secularist in the sense of disclaiming the role of religion in public life, only in his early demand for separation between religious and political authority. Al-Nābulsī’s taxonomy of alternative, intellectual positions among Egyptian Muslims resembles that of Branca (al-Nābulsī 1989:110–31). Within the broader category of modernisers, al-Nābulsī distinguishes between salqfī (tradition-oriented), (secularist) and tawfīqī (mediating) positions. He puts in the traditionoriented category of reformists, together with the Muslim Brothers and their sympathisers such as Khālid’s friend and critic al-Ghazālī. Khālid, however, is placed al-Rāziq who called for the in the mediating tawfīqī category—together with separation of religion and state in the 1920s, liberal writers such as and Tawfīq and idealist philosophers such as Amīn and Amīn. Al-Nābulsī analyses the different groups’ views of democracy, social justice, state and religion, as well as their differing views of either Arab or Islamic authenticity According to al-Nābulsī, a typical feature of the mediators’ position is that in their advocacy of socio-political, cultural and religious reform, they initially mixed Islamic and European impulses. But they were also characterised by a certain wavering: they tended to move gradually towards a more distinctively Islamic discourse.

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Did Khālid change his positions, then? In my presentation of Khālid’s works, I have aimed at exposing both persistent concerns and a shift of perspective. I would agree with his son Usāma Khālid that although Khālid’s discourse changed into a more ‘Islamic’ one, his call for a modern, Western-type democracy and freedom of expression remained unabated with and after the publication of Al-dawla (Usāma Khālid 1994:77ff.). It is also true (as Usāma Khālid points out) that he remained highly critical of the kind of theocracy advocated by Muslim Brothers and other theocrats ( 506 ), who claim that God should rule directly through the application of his and without any critical intervention of the human mind. For that reason, Usāma Khālid would not call his father an ‘Islamist’, but might be ready to accept my proposal of referring to him as an ‘Islamic democrat’.507 What really changed, however, was the frame of reference of Khālid’s writings. In the evolution of his thinking, Khālid illustrates the shift among many Egyptian Muslim intellectuals from the strong emphasis on social justice and reform, or even revolution, of the 1950s to the greater concern for Islamic authenticity in the 1980s (cf. Shepard 1995:413). 8.8 Excursus: conscience and Islamic authenticity in Sayyid In my work on Khālid, it has been elucidating to read his elaborations on conscience, authenticity and democracy in the light of the writings of Sayyid (1906–66), who was the leading theorist of the Muslim Brotherhood in the 1950s and the early 1960s.508 A reading of sheds further light on the fundamental difference between militant Islamism in Egypt on the one hand and the Islamic authenticity and democracy called for by Khālid as an ‘Islamic democrat’ on the other. In the works of there are also some clues as to what might be a more typical Islamist understanding of human conscience.509 In what has become standard usage, the term ‘Islamism’ refers to politicised, revivalist movements which propound Islam as an all-encompassing and self-sufficient alternative to the present order of things. Islamism may come in different versions: either as a programme for democratic change, or as a call for violent revolt against the institutions of the standing order. As can be seen from his programmatic work ( 1993/1964=Milestones, 1989), Islamism was marked by a total rejection of any loyalty to regimes or institutions that he viewed as part of the prevailing jāhiliyya (i.e. non-Islamic) societies. Highly critical of both the secularist tendency of Nasser’s socialist-flavoured nationalism and what he regarded as typical Western decadence, advocated a militant, Islamic authenticity and called for jihād bi-l-sayf (armed struggle) against all institutions which he saw as obstacles to the realisation of true Islam. Becoming more and more antagonistic also in his confrontation of Nasserism and

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Egyptian authorities, he was eventually executed by Nasser’s regime in 1966 after having spent most of the time since 1954 in jail. The following comments will not do justice to the overall content of writings. I will limit myself to some reflections on his conception of Islamic authenticity and his notion of ‘conscience’—focusing mainly on his books Social Justice in Islam and Milestones. Islamic authenticity in Alongside his intellectual warfare on the domestic front, targeted Christianity for having separated state and religion, and for divorcing the individual from his/her collective frameworks. This does not imply that neglected the individual anchoring of religion. On the contrary: before a truly Islamic society can be established, the individual has to be awakened to the vision of Islam ( 1989:145). Both individuals and society must reflect the divine principle of unity and not succumb to the division of life in separate compartments typical of Western modernity. By means of those whose hearts and minds are purified, a movement and a new kind of leadership must be formed as the vanguard of true Islam (ibid.: 16f., 84). notion of a vanguard representing the rule of God marks the abyss between Khālid’s liberal visions of democracy (which he retained also in his ‘moderate Islamist’ phase) and the theocratic position of militant Islamists in Egypt. According to the aim of the Islamic vanguard is world leadership, with the ultimate goal of establishing the Islamic system (minhaj) as a universal alternative to the present, corrupted societies and regimes. Propounding his universal vision, makes 510 frequent use of expressions like ‘the humanity of man’ But differently from the early Khālid, insists that true humanity is found only in Islam. Although he borrows the philosophical notion of ‘humanity’, he speaks of the as the sole source of guidance and criticises those in the past who mixed precepts and the worldview with conceptions taken from other sources such as Greek philosophy (ibid.: 26). He also differs from Khālid in asserting that there is no similarity between Islamic humanism and other social and political systems such as Western-style democracy and socialism (ibid.: 251). When then, reminiscent of human rights language speaks of Islam as ‘a universal declaration of the freedom of man on the earth from every authority except God’s authority’ (ibid.: 125), he is not implying any inclusive kind of universalism. His particularistic (or ‘contextually universalist’) claim is that only Islam can provide humanity with true freedom. And draws the illiberal conclusion from his reasoning that global jihād against unbelievers is indispensable for true freedom to be established.

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Emotional consciousness and conscience in may occasionally Unfolding his view of the role of the individual in this process, or wijdān, but in quite different ways from what we have seen in employ the terms and Khālid. In the context of writings, I am not sure whether ) should and wijdān should always be translated as ‘conscience’, or (in the case of rather be taken in the classical sense of non-divulged thoughts. Whatever the case may be, two recurrent features may be identified in employment of and wijdān. Reminiscent of Thomas Hobbes’ reservations against private consciences, he seems to he may speak of it in a more positive regard wijdān as a potential problem. As for way, when referring to the necessary anchoring of Islamic law in the individual. In his early work (in English: Social Justice in Islam), which was published in 1949, four years before he joined the Muslim Brotherhood in 1953, dedicates a sub-chapter to what was termed in the English translation ‘freedom of conscience’ ( al-wijdānī).511 A more proper translation would probably be ‘the emancipation of consciousness’, or even—bearing in mind the strong emotional connotations of wijdān—‘the emancipation of (moral) feelings’. In this context, he lists emancipation of consciousness/feelings as one of three fundamental principles in the social ethics of Islam, on a par with human equality and mutual responsibility in society. As sees it, human consciousness and feelings are weak. They are in need of emancipation from outward appearances and socially established values, as well as from personal desires and longings (Kotb 1953:41f., cf. 1980/1945:5 1f.). To be sure, emancipation of feelings in has little to do with liberal values. Essentially, it means emancipation ‘from servitude to any one except Allah’ (ibid.: 32/45). Seeing as a theorist of authenticity, Robert Lee notes that has a strong notion of human potentials awaiting to be released from tradition or modern forms of external pressure (Lee 1997:85f.). But vision of how human potentials should be released is much more communitarian (or ‘contextually universalist’) on Islam’s behalf than Khālid’s vision in the 1950s and 1960s. Differently from Khālid, does not take human integrity for granted in the field of emotions and morals. foresees that those who assert themselves as individuals become Muslims to overcome their alienation, and that ‘Islam calls upon human beings to realize their potential by living a particular kind of life’ (ibid.: 94). concern, then, is to liberate human feelings from their inherent vicissitudes, This and to inscribe on human consciousness the moral obligations laid out by in his later writings. becomes clear from his employment of the terms wijdān and al-dīn, translated into English as The Religion of the Future, he uses In Mustaqbal the term wijdān to criticise Western attempts to confine the divine system to al-wijdāniyya), ethical rules and ritualistic ‘conscientious feelings (

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worship’.512 He employs the term more positively, to express the necessary correspondence between personal conviction and the divine laws of Islamic revelation. In this context, I believe the translation ‘conscience’ is justified: Man longs for a compromise between the laws adopted by his conscience and the laws ruling his activities in life, between the rhythm of his personal reality and that of the cosmos. He yearns for one God who will give him his moral and social laws alike.513 When consolidated by revelation, human conscience may overcome its weakness and become an efficient agent of Islamic law, as an internal supervisor that cannot be dispensed with. In describes how the consciences were established as supervisors among followers in Mecca long before Islam was established as a socio-political system in Medina: now conscience was the law-enforcer…those who established this religion in the form of a state, a system and laws and regulations had first established it in their hearts and lives in the form of faith, character, worship and human relationships.514 Only when God’s sovereignty alone was established in their hearts and consciences could the Muslims become true guardians of a new political authority. In accordance with the general thrust of Islamism, consistently speaks of Islam as a moral-political method and system (minhaj, ). For this means that questions of individual belief can only be of secondary importance. In some intriguing passages in he employs the terms and wijdān to distinguish between Islam as a system on the one hand and matters of personal belief on the other. He takes modern Muslim scholars to task for having adopted the Western notion of religion as a mental concept only (mujarrad ), having little to do with the practical affairs of the world. Because of this misconception, they imagine that struggling for religion (jihād li-l-dīn) implies imposing certain creedal doctrines on conscience According to this is not the case. Struggling for religion has to do with the establishment of God’s system (minhaj) on earth. This system is politically obligating, but does not inquire about emotions or personal convictions of individuals in matters of faith: Thus, wherever an Islamic community exists which is a concrete example of the Divinely-ordained system of life, it has a God-given right to step forward and take control of the political authority, so that it may establish the Divine system on earth, while it leaves the matter of belief to individual conscience (al-wijdān).515

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Although these passages should not be overinterpreted, they indicate that made a distinction between anchoring Islamic law in the inner depths of human consciousness (referred to as ) and matters of individual beliefs associated with human feelings (al-wijdān). Differently from and Khālid, attributes no independent integrity to human conscience or feelings. But he does consider harmony between the inner and outer aspects of human integrity to be of utmost importance. In a chapter of about ‘The universal law’ ( kawniyya), he asserts that the law of God aims at complete harmony—not only between the laws governing human life and the laws of the universe, but also between the internal and the external aspects of human life. God has a law that harmonises the external behaviour revealed a law to humankind, the with the hidden nature of the human being.516 always comes first, epistemologically as Again one can see how the revealed or of the human being serves only to well as ontologically. The innermost internalise the externally revealed divine law. defines the human values that are once and for all established by Islam and are therefore not ‘progressive or changeable’ in any way ( 1989:180–2). Once the Islamic law is internalised, the Muslim believer is superior to fellow human beings in every respect: ‘He is most superior in his conscience and understanding, in his morals and manners, as he believes in God Who has excellent names and attributes’ (ibid.: 270, cf. 1993/1964:181). Particularistic claims of supremacy, and non-recognised borrowing By his urge to internalise divine obligation, shares a common, modernist concern with and Khālid. As we have seen, he may even use the notion of to underline the indispensable anchoring of divine law in the individual. But he distinguishes himself from more liberal modernists by regarding individual consciences more as a problem than as a potential. Because of its emotional instability, wijdān is in need of being liberated by divine intervention, and the inner convictions of cannot be trusted unless they have been bridled by Islamic law. However, when enlightened by revelation and restored from the influences of jāhiliyya, a Muslim believer is ‘superior in his conscience’ to all non-Muslims. Differently from what we have seen in Khālid, view of true humanity does not refer itself to a multiplicity of inspirations, or to any inclusive notion of true humanity. Authenticity with is unambiguously Islamic authenticity, and his particularistic view of human authenticity is joined with antagonistic references to Judaism, Christianity and ‘the West’.517 In spite of his exclusiveness and antagonism against the West, a critical analysis of Islamist discourse reveals much unrecognised intertextuality with other sources than the and the Islamic tradition. For instance, his notions of social justice and

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human progress seem to be indebted to Western thought.518 In this respect, differs significantly from and Khālid, who both stated their partial inspiration from Western tradition openly and advocated a cross-fertilisation between Western philosophy and Islam. Even in Khālid’s call for Islamic authenticity in Al-dawla he did not conceal his partial inspiration from Western philosophy, as can be seen from his treatment of the concept of democracy.

M.Kāmil

9

(1901–77)

Conscience as the law of inhibition and the voice of God 9.1 Biographical and bibliographical introduction was born in a village in the Manūfiyya province of Egypt, as the son M.Kāmil of an Arabic teacher and small farmer, and was brought up as a devout Muslim.519 Maturing, he received impulses from the religious rationalism of through an uncle who was a disciple of Studying medicine in France and England, he was also exposed to Western rationalism and scientific thinking.520 He became a surgeon by profession, and served both as a professor of orthopaedic surgery at the University of Cairo and as the Rector of Ain al-Shams University in Cairo. His interests and writings, however, extended far beyond medical expertise. He wrote extensively on Arabic language and poetry, the cultural history of Egypt, Islamic history and philosophy of religion. His accomplishment as a writer and scientist has been highly appreciated by other Egyptian intellectuals,521 and also by the Egyptian state. In 1957, he was awarded the Egyptian State Prize for literature for his novel Qarya Earning a second state prize in the field of science in 1967, he became the first Egyptian ever to receive both awards. had Christian friends, both Egyptian Copts and Western Christians, and he was committed to Christian-Muslim dialogue. He was also actively involved in international peace movements, and addressed the United Nations in a special session on world peace in 1965.522 In the Western context, Kenneth Cragg has made known internationally through the translation of his novel Qarya as The City of Wrong. A Friday in 523 Jerusalem and of philosophical meditation Al-wādī al-muqaddas as The Hallowed Valley. A Muslim Philosophy of Religion. Cragg has also published several essays on the importance of works for Christian-Muslim dialogue (e.g. in Cragg 1985b). In his most famous work, the novel Qarya which was published in 1954, interprets the events of Good Friday as a drama of human conscience. The book received a wide readership among the cultured public in Egypt,524 and retains its importance as a point of reference in Arab discussions about religion and politics.525

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Through Cragg’s and other translations,526 it was made accessible in wider circles committed to Christian-Muslim dialogue in the West. In general, it has been much acclaimed for its daring approach to the dramatic events of Good Friday, which interpreted as a drama of human conscience.527 Focal points in works: religion, humanism and science The works of Kāmil have been researched by Harold Vogelaar, who has examined the works of in the wider perspective of religion and science. He sees as searching for ‘a physiological basis for morality and a psychological basis for religion’ (Vogelaar 1978:1), and using his love for medicine ‘to evolve a therapeutic synthesis between religion and science’ (Vogelaar 1995:411). As for the general scope of his writings, Vogelaar notes that is no apologist on behalf of Islam or of religion in general. Being an ‘Egyptian humanist’, outlook is genuinely universal and his concern is humanist.528 Vogelaar also pays some attention to notion of conscience as expressed in the works mentioned earlier and in his book from 1958. In his analyses, Vogelaar emphasises the acute sense of a crisis of civilisation that underlies works. saw the world wars of his century as moments of truth for both East and West, revealing both good and evil in more than one civilisation (Vogelaar 1978:21). In particular, he perceived the Second World War as a sinister sign of the times, ‘with much of humanity caught up in the ravages of malice and enmity’ (ibid.: 27). In his comments on works, Kenneth Cragg has emphasised his strong commitment to non-violence and his preoccupation with the issues of war and peace (Cragg 1985b, 1992). But in this respect, was an idealist rather than a politician. As Cragg has noted, strong focus on spiritual therapy corresponded with a distanced attitude towards the real world of politics: ‘His distance from politics stemmed…from his commitment to personal healing and the progress of souls’ (Cragg 1985b:126f.). Religion and science Similarly to classical Muslim philosophers, argued that religion and science could be blended into a rational whole. Being fascinated by scientific methods as a way of approaching all aspects of reality, for him the true miracle of science was ‘not breaking the sound barrier or reaching the moon but rather participation in things formerly forbidden such as the human psyche, morals and conscience’.529 Vogelaar, who has examined diaries and unpublished papers, notes the young strong ‘desire to understand religious experience as something natural,

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as the expression of an innate potentiality within man rather than something supernatural based on God’s revelation and authority’ (Vogelaar 1978:41). Responding positively to the theory of evolution, the mature expressed the view that ‘the whole of history is a biological process with a definite evolutionary growth pattern, each culture forming an integral part of and contributing to the totality’ (ibid.: 12).530 criticised the modern apologetic tendency to ‘prove’ that modern scientific insights had been revealed in advance by the Instead, he focused on the symbolic dimension of the seemingly factual accounts of the for example, of the creation of Adam and Eve and their subsequent rebellion against God.531 The most comprehensive expression of view of the correlation between religion and science is found in (‘Unity of knowledge’, 532 1958). In this book, attempts to demonstrate a hierarchy of laws in nature and human existence as well as an order in the universe which ‘begins with the electron and ends with the mind and progresses from ‘light to God’ (ibid.: 155, 164).533 characterised his approach to religion as a ‘science of the transcendental’,534 proceeding not from God to the human being, but from the human being to God (Vogelaar 1978:208). His transcendental approach is not, however, wedded to idealism as Amīn’s Kantian-like juwwānī philosophy. It has its starting point in the in natural sciences, not in a moral law conceived of as separate from nature.535 The notion of

in

works that focus In the following, I will mainly restrict myself to those of upon the theme of human conscience. The present chapter will be shorter than the preceding ones. This does not imply that the notion of is less significant in than in Khālid and The reasons for the shorter format of this chapter are threefold: the relevant part of literary production is less extensive; his writings on interreligious issues are better known in the West through Cragg’s translations; and they have also been well researched. My task will be to investigate notion of as developed in the books mentioned earlier. Among the works of the Egyptian authors in focus, besides Khālid’s story of human conscience it is didactic novel that gives the most pointed discussion of the theme of human conscience. Qarya also elaborated on the theme of conscience in his reflections on religion and science in and in the context of his mystical-philosophical meditations in Al-wādī al-muqaddas from 1968. Previous to Qarya which appeared in 1954, the term rarely occurred in writings (Vogelaar 1978:74). In the prologue of Qarya which functions as a reader’s guide, explicitly presents his novel as a drama of ( 1954:1–3). Correspondingly in the annexes to the English translation

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he speaks of conscience as the leitmotif of the whole book (Hussein 1994/1959:230). all those involved in the process against Christ murdered their According to own conscience, by their very intention to crucify Christ. When Vogelaar asked why he made a term the central theme of his book, he replied that: the word had come to him almost immediately and that, though not in the it has a definite cadence…he intended it to have this connotation and it should not be forced into the mold of any particular philosophical concept. (Vogelaar 1978:108) narrative fiction of how conscience was killed on Good Friday is followed by a conclusion to the book in which more discursively presents his concept of conscience.536 In the annexes to the English translation, he further elaborates his view of human conscience—stressing its curbing function. Differently from and Khālid’s visions of the creative potentials of human conscience, sees conscience mainly as ‘inhibitive and prohibitive’ (ibid.: 231), and as oriented towards ‘the hidden or passive virtues’.537 In pursued his investigation of conscience in a way that he described as more scientific than his moral 538 In this context, he develops his view of and literary approach in Qarya conscience as the law of inhibition ( 1958:63).539 In the following, I will first present and discuss view of human conscience as expressed in Qarya (9.2). I will then take a closer look at his view of the curbing function of conscience, and the relation between reason and conscience. My references in this respect will be to Qarya the annexes of City of Wrongs and (9.3). After that, I will examine view of conscience as the voice of God and his inclusivist view of religious guidance, mostly as expressed in Alwādī al-muqaddas (9.4–9.5). 9.2 The events of Good Friday as a drama of human conscience In his book (‘The Wise Mentor’, 1971), presents his general view of the message as well as of the Jewish and Christian scriptures.540 He expresses the conventional Islamic view that the original tawrāh (the Torah) and (the Gospel) must be understood as scriptures revealed directly to Moses and Jesus. notes that that the Jewish-Christian concept of revealed scriptures is different, and that the Bible as it stands today must be seen as records made by inspired saints rather as divine revelation in the strict sense. He nevertheless suggests

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that Muslims should read the Bible—but not as revelation in its present form, only as inspired writings. According to the four New Testament gospels contain portions of the original revealed to Jesus, portions that would have to be ‘extracted’ in order to identify the actual words of Jesus.541 In Qarya did not set out to identify the authentic words of Jesus. Instead, he chose to write about the events of Good Friday in the form of suggestive fiction. As noted earlier, the book was received by many in the West as a courageous and ground-breaking contribution to Christian-Muslim dialogue—although some commentators observed that was quite selective in his positive appreciation of Christian tradition.542 However, as himself explained, the book was not designed as a rapprochement between Christianity and Islam: ‘The original aim of the book was to study the forces which make men go wrong. And is there any more glaring wrong than the decision to crucify Christ for blasphemy!’ (Vogelaar 1978:76).543 As Vogelaar sees it, the novel reveals deep suspicion of religious and political communities and their inherent potential for wrongdoing, which ‘either forces or allows men to perpetrate crimes otherwise condemned by their conscience’ (ibid.: 79f.). The novel is constructed as a kind of moral-philosophical reflection on the trial of Christ, and the events leading towards Good Friday. Christ himself is more in the shadows of the story. The author’s focus is on the decision of his adversaries to crucify him: On that day the Jewish people conspired together to require from the Romans the crucifixion of Christ, so that they might destroy his message. Yet what was the mission of Christ save to have men governed by their conscience in all they did and thought? (Hussein 1994/1959:

1954:2)

Being faithful to the reluctance (most often understood as a denial) as to the actual crucifixion of Christ, focuses on the intention to crucify: ‘From the point of view of the human involvement, the crime was accomplished when Christ was condemned to death’ (ibid.: 87/84). Since the mission of Christ was to have people be governed by conscience in all they did and thought, the intention to crucify did in fact imply the killing of conscience When they resolved to crucify him it was a decision to crucify544 the human conscience and extinguish its light. They considered that reason and religion alike laid upon them obligations that transcended the dictates of conscience. (ibid.: 2) As sees it, conscience is ‘a torch of the light of God’. With the loss of conscience, nothing can replace it, and there is no other guidance for humanity. Without

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it, ‘every virtue collapses, every good turns to evil and all intelligence is crazed’. In this al-madīna ibid.: 30/2).545 state, people resemble a dark city ( Correspondingly, the darkness on Golgotha is referred to as ‘a sign from God to show that God has forbidden them the light of faith and the guidance of conscience’ (ibid.: 193/230). An important aspect of this darkened state is that when individual consciences are silenced, human responsibility is pulverised, and collective evil may be perpetrated without anyone feeling personally responsible for it (ibid.: 87/85). outlook is not, however, totally pessimistic on the part of conscience: through repentance, it can be resuscitated like Lazarus (ibid.: 61/49). Emphasising the universal importance of the drama of conscience as unfolded on Good Friday, states: There is no evil afflicting humanity which does not derive from this besetting desire to ignore the dictates of conscience. The events of that day…are disasters renewed daily in the life of every individual… Men and women to the end of time will be contemporaries of that memorable day… The same darkness will be theirs until they are resolute not to transgress the bounds of conscience. (ibid.: 30/3)546 Human conscience in Qarya tells the dramatic events of Good Friday as an inward drama. The In the novel, narrative section is structured as a presentation of what took place among representatives of the Jews, the disciples and the Romans. invites the reader to meditate on the motives of those who became part of the process against Christ and plotted to have him crucified, as well as the painful deliberations of his disciples who in the end decided not to resist the plot. The first section of the novel deals with the argument between the Jews, focusing upon the conflict between idealism, personal ambition, business-like pragmatism and political realism. It should be noted that does not in any way single out ‘Judaism’ as the culprit.547 The Jews in general are characterised as people of integrity, sincere in their religious practice. The Jewish characters in the drama recognise that the condemnation of Christ to death may be utterly wrong. But for various reasons, they decide not to follow their inner voice. Illustrating how personal responsibility is often watered down by business-like attitudes, constructs a dialogue between the merchant who ordered the nails for the cross, and a blacksmith who objects to making them (ibid.: 41ff./19ff.). The Jewish prosecutor, who belonged to a family of learned men in religion is presented as having ‘fortified himself with the hedge of his old arguments where he would be immune from the pricks of conscience’ ( ibid.: 40/18). However, he could not totally suppress the nagging question of whether he too might be

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‘among those who participated in great sin by partial sharing so that no one, not even the God of Israel Himself, would know whose was the due retribution?’ (ibid.: 44/23). The muftī who gave the legal advice that Jesus should be crucified, for the sake of the Jewish nation’s interest, knew by himself that his conscience could not approve of it (ibid.: 55/40). Also Caiaphas, who is presented as a Jewish philosopher, realised that the authority he had taken on really disturbed his conscience (ibid.: 66/56). Torn between his duty to conscience and his duty to politics (ibid.: 73/65), Caiaphas eventually retained no confidence in himself or in human counsels (šūrā) as a means of developing a conscience in the community (ibid.: 76/70). He had realised, however, that the guidance that religion could give was only of a general kind, and that conscience should be given the authority both in the individual and in society. Whereas the prosecutor had found Christ’s insistence on love alone to be a dangerous violation of the divine law (ibid.: 37/12), Caiaphas was convinced that ‘to love and safeguard humanity as a whole is a more appropriate thing for any nation than mere patriotism’. He also realised that ‘Only humanitarian love548 can properly supersede nationalism, being a form of moral progress that is more worthy’ (ibid.: 84f./81f.). In this way didactic narrative displays a deep distrust of deceptive communitarianism, to the benefit of a philosophical and universalist humanism. In the section about the disciples, shows how closely his concept of conscience is linked with a commitment to non-violence. The ‘Woman of Magdal’ teaches a soldier that conscience can never justify the killing which loyalty expects him to perpetrate (ibid.: 97f./97f.). Confronted with Christ, the soldier’s conscience finally responded to the religion of the new prophet (ibid.: 106/111). He was eventually executed in the most gruesome manner for treachery against Rome. Despite his tragic fate, the soldier symbolises the victory of conscience over the established order (ibid.: 107/112). Despising glory and everything that did not come from conscience: his spirit was at rest ( nqfsuhu) in the conviction that he would never kill anyone, friend or foe, and that he would never permit the rule of authority to tyrannise over his conscience. (ibid.: 109/115) In the perspective of the novel’s general humanism, the story of the Christian soldier serves to underline the universality of the questions of authority, conscientious objection and non-violence. As for the other disciples’ part, the central issue in their perplexed discussions was whether or not to use violence in an attempt to free their Lord and Master. describes their struggle in trying to be true to their consciences. The Lord was both their reason and conscience, and he had convinced them that to use violence would be a plain rebellion against his word (ibid.: 124f./138f.). However, a wise man (a learned magus) challenges them by noting how short they had fallen of having the Sermon on the Mount penetrating their innermost souls and purifying their consciences (ibid.: 130/147).549 Giving them a truly theological lesson, the wise man explains that those who believe that

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society’s gain can rightly be had by ignoring individual consciences, are in fact worshipping an idol (ibid.: 208/250). Admonished by the wise man to be true to their Master’s non-violent message of love and to take upon them the burden of the Gospel, the disciples eventually agreed not to resist evil by the use of violence. By this decision, sees the disciples as expressing what he regards as the most impressive Christian tenet, namely forgiveness and redemption. The other side of the coin, however, was sadness. The disciples are overcome by grief al-nafs) for not being able to as well as an ensuing and all-pervading self-reproach ( block the evil schemes of Christ’s adversaries (ibid.: 135/153). When a community abstains from its obligations towards what is good, individuals may still see themselves as individually responsible, and find themselves exposed to remorse and the pangs of conscience (al-nadam ibid.: 139/158). seems to value self-reproach as the emotional expression of a living conscience. But he is wary of its unhealthy consequences. Acutely aware of the paralysing effect that excessive self-reproach may have, the doyen between the disciples realises that ‘We can be troubled in soul to such a point that we have no strength left when our conscience summons us to serious action’ (ibid.: 119/131). As notes in a narrator’s comment, ‘Faithful Christians are more eager to avoid wrongdoing than to promote good’ (ibid.: 138/157).550 In the annexes to the novel, he suggests that this mood of potentially paralysing selfreproach lies at the very heart of the Christian religion: ‘The best Christian in his or her most sublime moments is a sad person’ (ibid.: 233). even implies that if the Muslims had let their prophet die at the hands of Quraysh without striking a blow for his safety, the history of Islam would probably have been more similar to that of Christianity. In that case, Islam too would have been growing ‘through submission, humility and heroic resistance to persecution’ (ibid.: 234).551 In the section ‘Among the Romans’, deals with the issues of power, authority and discipline, as well as the insufficiency of the Greek philosophical tradition. As Pilate sees it: ‘Philosophy in its own realm is a fine thing, but when matters drive us hard we derive no guidance or direction from it’ (ibid.: 182/217). Among the Roman representatives of brute power, has left less traces of a conscience-related drama than with the Jews. One of the soldiers who watched the execution of the Christian soldier notes, however, that he was after all only obeying his conscience (ibid.: 178/213). In a final narrative-didactic section, constructs a dialogue between an array of characters standing at the foot of the cross, including a Greek philosopher and the wise man (the learned magus) who realise that what they witnessed was really the total eclipse of the light of faith and the guidance of human conscience (ibid.: 193/230). This was how made the drama of Good Friday an inward drama of all those either involved in the process against Christ, or (as his followers) committed to be faithful to his message. Before attempting a further analysis of notion of conscience as expressed also elsewhere in his writings, I will raise the question of what might have been the contextual impetus for writing this didactic novel.

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Contextual interpretations of Qarya As we have seen, the novel is strictly speaking not about the passion of Christ. It neither denies nor affirms that Jesus was actually crucified. But although is faithful to Islamic restrictions, his book implies that the symbol of crucifixion can be dealt with constructively by a Muslim author. As a factual event, the crucifixion is shrouded in the darkness of evil intents. But for all times and places, the intention of the evildoers expresses ‘the greatest of the crimes in history’ (ibid.: 86/84). In an Easter meditation on Qarya which was originally published in Al-Ahrām in 1960, a teacher of Arabic literature, refers to a correspondence between a student of hers and regarding the question of the seeming victory of evil in his novel. In response, he expressed the view that: what seems to be a victory for evil, in the condemnation of the Lord Christ to crucifixion, was not in historical truth or observed reality anything but a decisive end to evil and a real victory for the message of Christ. It does not degrade that victory that a prophet gave his life as the cost of his message. Rather, this is real glory. ( 1961:149f.) Again in the annexes to Cragg’s translation of City of Wrong, confirms his open approach to the symbol of the cross and the reality of crucifixion, as well as his critical stance towards traditional Muslim explanations: The idea of a substitute for Christ is a very crude way of explaining the Quranic text. They had to explain a lot to the masses. No cultured Muslim believes in this nowadays. The text is taken to mean that the Jews thought they killed Christ but God raised him unto Him in a way we can leave unexplained among the several mysteries which we have taken for granted on faith alone. (Hussein 1994/1959:231) In a contextual perspective, what could have been the contemporary impetus for making the killing or crucifixion of conscience such a crucial theme, and for dealing with it so daringly in the fictional context of Good Friday? According to Vogelaar, novel should first of all be read in the light of the shattering experience of the Second World War, as ‘an emotional, literary reaction to that catastrophic event’, movingly depicting ‘the utter failure of traditional religion to prevent it’ (Vogelaar 1995:414f.). Vogelaar’s interpretation is in tune with general ‘humanist’ outlook. Kenneth Cragg, on the other hand, focuses on the fact that relates his concept of conscience to central teachings of the and to a contemporary context which is just as much Muslim as Christian. In his introduction to City of Wrong, he states:

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‘Indeed it is just the depth of implicit Muslim self-criticism within the themes of this work, which makes Dr Muhammad Kamel Hussein so moving and eloquent a writer’ (Cragg in Hussein 1994/1959:17). In the novel, several examples can be cited of oblique Muslim self-criticism. frequently alludes to expressions, such as the concept of (wrong, iniquity) which underlies the title of the book.552 Sometimes his allusions are made in astonishing ways, by self-critical references to how concepts may be misused for suppression in the name of religion or society.553 For instance, there are several hints at Muslim offices and legal concepts. As we have seen, tells that the Jewish prosecutor was of a family who had produced a large number of doctors of law— (ibid.: 35/19). Correspondingly, he names the chief lawyer among the Jews— the one responsible for issuing religious fatwas—a muftī (ibid.: 51/33). He also alludes to controversial issues related to the interpretation of such as imposing lashes for sanction drunkenness (ibid.: 150/173f.), and the question of the death penalty as a for adultery or alleged blasphemy/apostasy (ibid.: 107/111f., 125/139). He even exposes the ambiguity of the Islamic concepts of šūrā (counsel, consultation) and (the consensus of the religio-political community). By exercise of political rationality, communal counsel and the search for consensus will often stifle individual consciences.554 Ample evidence can thus be cited in support for Cragg’s suggestion that the novel could be read as a profound Muslim self-critique. Vogelaar is probably right, however, that the contextual scope of the novel is broader: it meditates on the utter failure of all religion to prevent catastrophes such as the Second World War. 9.3 Conscience as a curb and the law of inhibition explains more about his understanding of In the ‘Conclusion’ to City of Wrong conscience’s function in an anthropological perspective. Reason and conscience and his Both in the didactic-narrative parts of the novel and in the conclusion, characters discuss the relation between reason and conscience. In the conclusion to the novel, speaks unambiguously about reason as a ‘guide’ (datīlan hādiyan) and ibid.: 217/262). But his vocabulary is not conscience as a ‘curb’ ( consistent. In the opening chapter, he speaks of conscience as a torch of the light of God, without which there is no guidance (hudā) for humankind (ibid.: 30/2). Also elsewhere in the novel, refers to conscience as ‘a guide (hādiyan) and a mentor to be followed’ (ibid.: 144/166). The guidance given by conscience, however, seems mainly to be of a restrictive kind, urging us to keep our doings within the bounds of conscience (ibid.: 146/168).

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In an intriguing passage about the ruminations of the Jewish prosecutor, the prosecutor recognises that ‘the individual conscience is the most potent factor inducing us towards the good. It is in fact the sole means of guidance (hudā)’. But he holds that conscience, when faced with the concrete issues of life, often errs and becomes bewildered (ibid.: 45/25). In an ensuing dialogue with a friend, the prosecutor’s friend advises him still to let conscience be his sole court of appeal: ‘It is your conscience which is to guide you.’ In his reply, the prosecutor appeals to reason as a better guide in the concrete case of Christ’s fate: ‘It is not a matter for conscience alone. It depends more largely on reason. And my reason gives me the feeling that there is real danger to Jewry in his message’ (ibid.: 47/27). The Jewish muftī viewed the matter in a similar way, but with a more self-critical sting. In a dialogue with his son, the muftī warns him always to keep himself within the bounds of conscience: ‘Certainly conscience can find no rest in this man’s being crucified. Reason in us might, alone, approve it’ (ibid.: 55/39). Realising that only political rationality can justify the death of Christ, the muftī—accused by his wife of having the same malady of doubt and vacillation as his father—decides that he will give no more fatwas from now on (ibid.). Balancing the powers of the soul seems thus to have been fully aware of the devastating propensity of human reason—especially when it expresses itself in political rationality—to transgress the bounds of conscience. nevertheless concludes that in the division of labour between the faculties of the soul, the function of reason is to guide and direct, whereas the role assigned to conscience is to curb and restrain. The wise man gives the advice that ‘you should be guided by reason so long as it keeps within the limits of conscience’ (ibid.: 133/150). explicit conclusion corresponds to the wise man’s view: Reason is constituted by its nature to direct (dalīlan hādiyan). The 555 nature of conscience is to restrain and warn If each only adhered to its natural role the good effects of both would prevail. But to expect conscience to be a guide (hādiyan) and reason a curb is to ask what is not within the nature of either. (ibid.: 217/262) What is after in the conclusion to the novel, is apparently the classical philosophical aim of balancing the faculties (or powers) of the soul. Contrary to who in mainly speaks of reason as a curb attributes the curbing function to conscience.556 Searching for a balance between reason and conscience, there is also a third factor which must be taken into consideration. Besides the power of reason and the faculty of conscience (quwwat ), speaks also of ‘the vital

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force’ (al-quwwa ).557 None of these forces can be given free rein, since each of them has potential for both good and evil. Reason must not transgress its bounds, but neither should conscience be allowed to stifle the vital force or to decry reason (ibid.: 214f./258f.). How can harmony be achieved between these contrary powers? As sees it, an interaction is indispensable: Only in moderation will these three be held together truly. The pulse of life will then be the matrix of activity, the rational faculty will guide, while conscience will act as a curb upon both, against extremes. (ibid.: 217/263) In the annexes to the English edition, was invited by Cragg to further elaborate on his view of conscience. Here, he claims that although it is possible to be positively guided by conscience, the main power of conscience is inhibitive and prohibitive. It ‘is mainly a guide to us in avoiding wrong’, and functions in us like a ‘law of inhibition’ (ibid.: 230f.). In a wider perspective, it seems that considered curb and inhibition as the main function not only of conscience, but of religion as such. By the words of a disciple of Christ who opposed the use of force to rescue his master, suggests that religion itself ‘has to do with limits and prohibitions rather than with right guidance and positive commands’ (ibid.: 124/138). Correspondingly the wise man explains in a comment on the Sermon on the Mount that restraint along with faith and love, belongs to the fundamentals of religion (ibid.: 210/253). The law of inhibition also indicates that his notion of conscience may be different In the annexes, from that of the theologians, the philosophers and the moralists. For conscience is in fact functioning like a natural law ‘because it is an extension into the human psychic field of a law which is universal in all living creatures and which has been demonstrated beyond doubt in physiology, i.e. the law of inhibition’ (ibid.: 230). In 1958, released his book (‘Unity of knowledge’) in which he elaborated his naturalist view of conscience in tune with the indications he gave in the annexes to City of Wrong.558 Here, approach to conscience is more ‘scientific’ than what he later characterised as the ‘purely literary’ treatment of conscience in Qarya (Vogelaar 1978:107).559 In unfolds his view of the hierarchy of laws governing human existence. Among these laws, considers conscience to be the highest: ‘Conscience it is the highest law to which the human being submits. But it is purely human and there is no need for some lofty law external to the human being in order to justify our obedience to it’ ( 1958:151).560 Seeing in human actions a tension or a pulse (heart-beat) between active

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desire and inhibition, he views conscience as analogous with the physical law of inhibition. In fact, he defines conscience as ‘the law of inhibition’ ( ibid.: 63, 151, cf. 147f.). As the law of inhibition, conscience is a natural action of the brain from which comes the power to abstain from sin and everything that is prohibited by religion. However, it comes into function only after all else has occurred, as a check on all the faculties of the soul and a reaction to knowledge.561 As sees it, conscience is also related to humanity’s ability to accept abstract values, and—by virtue formation—to structure the mind accordingly (ibid.: 63, 71). In a consistently naturalist approach to morality, even conceives of the immaterial values to which conscience is connected as being located in the system of the brain (ibid.: 137ff.).562 As Vogelaar has rightly noted, naturalist approach in begs the question of whether he is really dealing with ethics—which presupposes a distinction between an empirical ‘is’ and a moral ‘ought’ (Vogelaar 1978:188). Taken as a whole, however, works leave no doubt that although conscience functions as a power in the soul and a psychological law, it is the moral responsibility of the individual not to allow any suspension of the law of conscience. For, as warns conscience can in fact be killed. in Qarya 9.4 The passive virtues of resistance, and the individual’s right to say no distinction between reason as a guide and conscience as a curb—acting as the law of inhibition—corresponds to some extent to the distinction he makes between active and passive virtues. the philosopher-like Caiaphas meditates on the question of hidden In Qarya (mustatira) and passive (salbiyya) virtues. In a narrator’s comment, identifies the active virtues with the classical philosophical virtues of generosity, courage and beneficence, which all have an open reward in them. As for hidden virtues, he lists patience, abstention from evil doing, compassion for the weak, fidelity and kindness to the poor. By definition, hidden virtues cannot necessarily await an open recompense. Even less recompense can be expected for merely passive virtues like ‘humility longsuffering, the renunciation of evil even when there is advantage to be had in doing it’. But, as ensures the reader: ‘Every worthy trait, however hidden, constitutes a stone in the building of the personality’.563 In his translations of both Qarya and Al-wādī al-muqaddas, Cragg characterises notion of the passive virtues as ‘virtues of resistance’.564 Cragg’s translation tunes in with general tendency to focus on the individual’s right and duty to say no when his or her community commands what is wrong. According to Cragg, the implicit argument of Qarya is that:

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the only check, frail as it must be, to the wrongdoing of states and parties and institutions is the resistance of individual conscience. The private person must refuse to do, in the name of some collective loyalty, what he would refrain from doing in his individual capacity. (Cragg 1985b:138) The deliberations made by the various characters in Qarya display how sees conscience and virtue formation as constantly threatened by political rationality.565 Throughout the novel, insists that conscience in the proper sense of the word only exists in the individual (Hussein 1994/1959:44, cf. 1954:23).566 is adamant that the only way religion may affect society in a positive way is by nurturing virtuous individuals who are loyal to the curbing voice of their conscience. Because it addresses conscience, religion always relates to the individual, and only indirectly to society: ‘religion has to do with conscience, and society as such has no conscience. Religion can only influence the social and political order indirectly. It influences communities insofar as it influences individuals’ (ibid.: 212/256). As for communities, they ‘readily do the wrong because the individuals composing them share out the weight of guilt and none of them feels personally implicated’ (ibid.: 138/158). Because of this, the decision to have Christ crucified—‘the greatest of the crimes of history’—was perpetrated ‘without anybody in Jerusalem knowing who it was who wanted his death nor upon whom the guilt of this foul deed really fell’ (ibid.: 86/84). Differently from the individual who is created by God, community is a human invention and often stifles the conscience of the individual. Since conscience is a torch of the light of God, extinction of individual consciences is tantamount to denying God. As one Roman soldier realised: ‘To sacrifice the individual in the name of society is blasphemy against God and His holy law’ (ibid.: 178/213). In 1968, published his book Al-wādī al-muqaddas which was translated by Kenneth Cragg as The Hallowed Valley with the additional subtitle of A Muslim Philosophy of Religion. The metaphor of ‘the hallowed valley’ refers to the description of the sacred ground where Moses took off his shoes.567 Again in this context, voices his concern for ‘the hidden and passive virtues of resistance’ resulting from true inner guidance. In this mystical context, he emphasises that inward virtues have no other reward than peace with yourself and a soul at rest, abiding in its hallowed valley (Husain 1977: 1968:166). But he also defends the individual’s right to say yes or no to the claims of community. He asserts that ‘the conscience of every private man within the community is a better clue to guidance than the collective will’ (ibid.: 55/96f.). Pursuing his point, he states unambiguously that loyalty and community must in the last resort be chosen freely: ‘The one community to which it is right for you to bring an entire allegiance is the one where the bonds of loyalty are those which you have chosen for yourself and which your conscience approves’ (ibid.: 60/106). The bounds of conscience must never be transgressed—‘For loyalty determined by conscience has the paramount claim’ (ibid.: 63/110). Christ warned his followers that his call for purity of soul might in fact lead to

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the rupture of communal relations and even of family bonds: ‘what gain will it be to have the world, if you have forfeited your conscience?’ (ibid.: 75/138).568 Does the right to say no imply pacifism? More than anything, saw the right to say no to society’s claim as the right and duty of each person to abstain from violence. loyalty to conscience means non-violence. Expounding the Sermon In Qarya on the Mount, the wise man gives a clearly pacifist interpretation of the teachings of Jesus by reminding his disciples that ‘We have no right to bring about the death or suffering of anyone on any ground whatsoever’ (Hussein 1994/1959:205, cf. 1954:246). By a verbatim allusion to the (2:191), has a disciple claiming that ‘Sedition (fitna) is a worse evil than killing’. He is rebutted, however, by another disciple who is convinced that ‘there are no two ways about killing and violence. They are incontrovertibly evil’ (ibid.: 125/139). The Roman soldier who became a Christian, was taught by the woman of Magdal that ‘human conscience can in no sense justify…killing in war or any other way. It’s all the same’ (ibid.: 97/98). In Al-wādī al-muqaddas, the virtue of turning the other cheek is referred to as the typical Christian way, ‘familiar enough but sustained only by the few’ (Husain 1977: 1968:93). It is quite clear, however, that saw non-violence as a universal virtue. In his diary meditations during the Second World War, he writes that: Our modern conception of history convinces us that the world is inevitably growing towards pacifism. The need for ever-increasing lies, for deceit and false ideas to bring about war is in itself a sign of the impending collapse of the falsehood.569 It is not clear from his writings whether was a pacifist in the absolute sense.570 There is no doubt, however, that he saw abstention from killing as an essential expression of the voice of conscience—whether it is conceived of as the human law of inhibition or as the voice of God. As the Christian soldier in Qarya realised, his soul can only be at rest with itself and with God (as al-nafs Q 89:27) when abstaining from taking the life of the other.571 With the lines he draws between the voice of God, the rule of conscience, the passive virtues of resistance and the way of non-violence, comes even closer to the 572 views of Mahatma Gandhi than and Khālid. In an essay about ‘pacificism’ (peace-making), Kenneth Cragg credits with the insight that ‘the independence of will, over against the tyranny of vested interests, which the pacifist attains, has much to do with peace-making and peace-guarding in the complex world’ (Cragg 1992:218). In that way, insistence on the right to say no may also have been an integral part of his reasoning about peace-making in the constructive sense (‘pacificism’, as Cragg has it).573

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9.5 Conscience as the voice of God, and one’s rightly guided self works as a whole, it seems that he did not make any firm Judging from distinction between religion and science. But his approaches were different in the various genres he employed to unfold his ideas. naturalist approach to religion in was balanced ten years later by his more mystical-philosophical approach in Al-wādī al-muqaddas (The Hallowed Valley). Apart from the metaphor alluded to in the title, actual quotations from the are rare. Universalising the concept of the hallowed valley, states that: The hallowed valley is the place on earth, the point in time, the state of mind, where you reach upward beyond the form of external things, beyond your own nature and the necessities of life, and even beyond the bounds of the intellect. (Husain 1977:

1968:5)

Whereas ‘conscience’ was the keyword in Qarya the cue of Al-wādī al-muqaddas is rather ‘purity’ or ‘purification’ According to purity of heart can be achieved by way of religion, beauty or science (ibid.: 59/104). But it can only be completed by faith in the transcendental (ibid.: 85/158).574 But also in Al-wādī al-muqaddas, there are strong and pointed references to conscience.575 For instance, reiterates the point he made in Qarya that the main function of conscience is to keep the human being within the bounds that must not be transgressed (ibid.: 61/106). Marking also a modern concern for autonomy and authenticity, speaks of the need of believers as well as of ‘many many unbelievers these days’ to seek a more reliable source for right and wrong than the traditional commands and prohibitions of the forefathers (ibid.: 20/21). Searching for purity of heart, the human being ‘only has a conscience by which to recognise what is legitimate for him and what is forbidden’ (ibid.: 27/35). A more distinctive aspect of discourse of conscience in Al-wādī almuqaddas is the way he develops his view of the divine nature of conscience. In Qarya conscience was spoken of ‘as a torch of the light of God’ (Hussein 1994/1959: 1954:2), and even as ‘a spirit from Thee’ (ibid.: 146/169).576 In Al-wādī al-muqaddas, takes a further step by speaking of conscience ‘as if’ it were the very voice of God. With rather strong connotations, he says that:

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In the hallowed valley you hear the voice of conscience, clear and plain, enjoining upon you unconfusedly the obligations of the good, and leading you undeviatingly towards the truth—conscience as the very voice of God. (

Allāh, Husain 1977:

1968:6)577

Whereas theologically, speaks of conscience ‘as if it were the voice of God’, in anthropological terms he conceives of it as ‘your rightly guided self’ (ibid.: 56/98). seems to regard a rightly guided self and the right orientation towards God as two sides of the same coin. It is also clear that focus is upon the dynamics of personal faith rather than on God as the transcendent Other. Like speaks of the guiding force to which the soul orients itself as a qibla—a focal point inside which is simultaneously ‘the final good’ and ‘the polar pull of God’ (ibid.: 29f./41).578 For God seems preferably to be regarded as ‘the “pole” of the good to which man is inwardly and cosmically attracted, within what might be likened to a magnetic field of awareness’ (Cragg 1985b:129). Correspondingly he defines ‘faith’ as ‘a power latent in the normal soul deriving from the very nature of its constitution. It is the source of the link between God and the self, between the pole and the soul that is drawn to it’ (Husain 1977: 1968:54). 9.6 The guidance of religion: an inclusivist view By their orientation towards the eternal realities, faith and conscience are in constant search for the divine guidance that revealed religions can give. notion of conscience, as expressed in Qarya and Al-wādī al-muqaddas, is linked with an inclusive view of religious guidance. Every human being has an innate capacity for being guided (ibid.: 21/22), and every true religion has something to teach. In Al-wādī al-muqaddas, refers expressly to Islam, Judaism, Christianity and Buddhism (ibid.: 25/30f., 79/147). Suggesting that one’s attitude towards God is an attitude of fear, love or hope, associates these qualities with Moses, Jesus and respectively. But in a very inclusivist mode, he argues that every religious person has within him/herself elements of all three. A disciple of Moses is motivated by fear of God and goes in awe of His justice; a disciple of Jesus by a love for God which impels one to refrain from by a doing wrong to others who are also loved by God; and a disciple of hope in God which inspires one to well-doing. According to one’s personal disposition, one may thus be a disciple of Moses, Jesus or even though one may actually profess one of the other religions: ‘There are Jesus men, too, in the ranks of the

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Muslims, by the very nature of their temperament’ (ibid.: 25/32). The for example, are Jesus men by virtue of their belief in the martyr figure that died on their behalf. As for the perception of the highest ideal in different religions, Christians conceive of it as ‘the loving soul’. Among the followers of Moses, it is seen at ‘the just spirit’. Among the Buddhists, the highest ideal is conceived of as a soul freed from desire. As sees it, the Muslim concept of ‘the soul at rest’ (al-nafs Q 89:27) can be seen as the fusion of these ideals: ‘It finds its peace in justice when justice is tempered by the emotion of love’ (ibid.: 79f./147). then, clearly sees Islam as the best or most holistic guidance for humankind. He is, however, more sensitive towards religious differences than and Khālid. In view, religions supplement each other by the diversity of their guidance. Correspondingly, the adherents of different religions must also share responsibility for not having properly fulfilled the mission of their founders. Despite their religions’ capacity for guidance, Jews, Christians and Muslims have often gone astray, and have in no way succeeded in purifying their communities (ibid.: 54f./96).579 is careful not to blame Christianity for the negative aspects of European history. He rather underlines the general point that ‘The greatest evil of mass religiousness is the emergence of communities, especially when armed with worldly authority and sinews of power’ (ibid.: 40/63). 9.7 Preliminary conclusion and outlook We have seen that like and Khālid, may speak of conscience as the human anchoring point of divine guidance. But differently from his two colleagues, he sees conscience’s function as mainly inhibitive. More strongly than and Khālid, speaks of conscience as an antecedent curb, and highlights the right and duty of conscience to say no. But like and Khālid, he envisages a cooperation between conscience and reason. According to the role of reason is to guide the human being in the concrete affairs of daily life, whereas conscience must make sure that reason does not transgress its bounds. Like Khālid, is critical of excessive self-reproach, which he sees as a potential fallacy of Christianity Differently from Khālid, does not speak of a social conscience. He is adamant that conscience as a curb can only occur in individuals. More directly than both and Khālid, speaks of conscience as the voice of God. view of divine guidance is very inclusive. He seems to be less apologetic on behalf of Islam than and Khālid, even though that may be debatable (discussed later). In any case, he speaks more clearly than the others about religious plurality and difference as a positive resource.

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As for his image of Christ, parallels and Khālid in his admiration of Christ’s non-violence. Coming close to a pacifist stand, he makes even more out of Christ’s teachings in this respect. Unresolved tensions and sources of inspiration explained his choice of to express his concerns in Qarya as ‘the best I could find’ even if ‘inadequate to contain all that morality entails’ (Vogelaar 1978:106). Several of those commenting on notion of have raised critical questions as to the coherence of his concept of conscience (ibid.: 105f.). In my own presentation, I have observed some tensions in the way he speaks of reason and conscience as guide and curb. Vogelaar found in works an unresolved tension between his view of conscience as the voice of God and his scientific-naturalist definition of conscience as the law of inhibition (Vogelaar 1978:105ff.). In my view, the tension observed by Vogelaar reflects what was apparently the double source of inspiration for creative employment of the notion of mysticism and the natural sciences. Islamic or universal conscience? As expressed most clearly in Al-wādī al-muqaddas, mystical approach to conscience is wedded to an inclusivist view of religious guidance, according to which all world religions would seem to have something distinctive to contribute. But makes no secret of the fact that he regards the religions’ differing images of the ideal state of the soul as merged and completed by Islam. From we have seen that among the Holy Scriptures as they stand today, he only regards the as divine revelation in the strict sense. As for his scientific view of the inhibitive function of conscience, Vogelaar raises the intriguing question of whether conscience for was simply another word for ‘Islam’. He refers to the view of J.Bouman that conception of conscience is in reality purely Muslim—by his consistent focus on what God permits and what he forbids (Vogelaar 1978:114f.).580 In conjunction with observations made by Albert Hourani (Hourani 1995:352), Vogelaar also suggests that insistence on the inhibitive function of conscience comes close to view of Islam as a envisaged Islam functioning as ‘a principle of restraint’ religion of restraint. which would enable Muslims to distinguish the good from the bad among all the suggested directions of change in modernity.581 To Vogelaar’s suggestion, one might add the observation that attributes to reason and conscience functions that in the are associated with the Prophet — and hādin.

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But if Vogelaar’s suggestion is right, sees not as a distinct religious community, but rather in a more general way as ‘a realised personal responsiveness to the divine “pull” of transcendent obligation’ (Cragg 1985b:133). As Hourani has observed, communitarian concern for Islamic there is a great deal of difference between reform and more universalising approach to religion and morality (Hourani 1995:352). Radical universalism Another sign of inclusivism is his use of the terms ‘Christianism’ and ‘NeoChristianism’ in his diaries, as Vogelaar refers to them. One the one hand, held the view that ‘Christianism’ had failed completely as a reforming power in history, ‘as evidenced not only by its vain attempt to prevent the Second World War, but in many ways by actually precipitating it’.582 On the other hand, he used the term ‘NeoChristianism’ to express his hope for a new, humanist phase in the pilgrimage of humankind: Christianity attempted to bring Divinity nearer man by humanizing the Divine in Jesus Christ. As a reforming power of society this never succeeded. Divinizing the mere man is the next step, the treatment of man as a creature capable of rising by his own intrinsic powers of good to the divine state. This in Neo-Christianism, the creed of the future!583 In his analysis of works, Vogelaar raises the question of whether equates religion with ‘faith’, and conceives of faith as a human capacity for transcendence rather than as a system of belief (Vogelaar 1978:119ff., 128f.). Instead of regarding faith as a communal or confessional phenomenon, perceived it as something deeply personal and universal: ‘Whatever you believe in, let your faith in it be strong’ (Husain 1977: 1968:56). He even stated: ‘Every aspect of reality in which you believe with sincere soul-belief, rooted in the affinity it has with your psychic make-up, that is eternal reality for you’ (ibid.: 73/132). Such expressions corroborate the general impression that notion of faith and religion is mainly person-oriented. Clearly enough, it is also universalist rather than communitarian.584 The implication of this may be that interfaith dialogue in the confessional or communal sense lies outside the perspective of What remains, is a strong urge for personal dialogue (Vogelaar 1978:247). Questions arising from critical Muslim responses to views of human conscience have proved to be controversial in the Muslim community. Some Muslim intellectuals have criticised what they see as exaggerated

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individualism, neglect of the bonds of religious community and a negative view of political power on part (Vogelaar 1978:226f.). In The Final Imperative. An Islamic Theology of Liberation, the British Muslim Shabbir Akhtar launches heavy attacks on and Kenneth Cragg. The primary target of Akhtar’s attack are Cragg’s books on Jesus and the Muslim (1985) and Muhammad and the Christian (1984). Commenting on the role of ‘individual conscience’ in religion and politics, Akhtar argues that conscience must be framed by a religious principle, a community of believers and political power. Whereas ‘Christian thinkers typically tend to put the emphasis firmly on the need to reform the heart and conscience’ (Akhtar 1991:61), ‘Muslims always, characteristically, insist on setting the varied tensions and inner stresses of the individual conscience fairly and squarely within the social context of allegiance to the community of faith’ (ibid.: 86). In his book, Akhtar also makes a polemical reference to the ‘obscure Egyptian writer Muhammad Kamil Husayn’, about whom Cragg writes in approval, and who contrasts the exigencies of public causes and the restraints of individual conscience (ibid.: 38). As an alternative to Cragg’s and views, Akhtar points to ‘Muhammad’s decision to alter not merely recalcitrant individual consciences but rather also to come to terms with the entire power-structure that had resisted his preachings’ (ibid.). did not, however, in any way neglect the personal aspect of morality. An Islamic, political programme, says Akhtar, must also always work ‘with and within individual consciences, never upon, let alone against, the prompting of the individual conscientious office’ (ibid.). However, Akhtar argues (like ) that Islam does not give priority to individual consciences over issues of communal concern. Akhtar suggests that Cragg’s dispute with Islamic verdicts on the relationship between social power and individual conscience is part of a larger debate. Whereas Christians (with the exception of Christian liberation theologians) put their emphasis firmly upon reform of the individual and always point at the risk that any political programme of reform eventually ends up in the abuse of power, ‘Muslims teach that the religious soul is capable of struggling against injustice without being fatally tempted by the darker possibilities of power’ (ibid.: 62). Akhtar also refers polemically to the obsession of ‘the Christian conscience’ with pacifism (ibid.: 45). For Akhtar, the pacifist Christian conscience is currently opposed by ‘the contemporary Muslim conscience’ (ibid.: 94) which is justly provoked by the West and their Muslim accomplices, and inspired by the ‘Islamic conscience’ and sincere militancy of Sayyid (ibid.: 88). It should be clear, then, that the theme of conscience entails some fundamental questions in Christian-Muslim dialogue. What can Christians and Muslims know together, in ‘con-science’, in the fields of individual and social ethics, and in the deeper questions pertaining to human authenticity? What is the relation between individual and communal approaches to conscience? Can Christians and Muslims know something together—something essential that does not eradicate differences, but makes respected difference an integral part of mutual obligation? Or will a dialogue on human conscience unavoidably end up in confrontational, communitarian discourses—as in Akhtar’s references to ‘Christian’ and ‘Muslim’ consciences? The questions raised will be pursued in my discussions in Chapters 12 and 13.

10 Christians and Muslims in Egypt United or separated by modernity? In Chapters 6–9, I have given some indications of the cultural-religious and sociopolitical context in which Khālid’s and contributions to a modern Muslim notion of took shape. In this chapter, I will look more closely into the context of their writings from the 1950s and the 1960s, in the light of subsequent developments from the 1970s onwards. My particular focus will be shifts in Muslim and Christian identity discourses, and changes in Muslim-Christian relations in Egypt that can be identified during and after the period in focus. My investigation of the context of these authors will thus allow for some reflections on what difference their writings made on Christian-Muslim relations, if any. I will first look into different types of Muslim identity discourses in modern Egypt (Section 10.1). Following an outline of some modern developments in Muslim-Christian relations in the country (Section 10.2), I will approach the question of shifting identity perceptions in Coptic Christianity, and the role of body discourses in this connection (Section 10.3). I will also make some observations on the notion of as used by two Coptic writers, one controversial lay person and one mainstream bishop. Having identified some modern notions of ‘Coptic authenticity’, I will conclude this chapter by returning to the notion of ‘Islamic authenticity’ and its function in the late modern Egyptian context (Section 10.4). 10.1 Modern Muslim identity in Egypt The conscience-oriented discourses of Khālid and can easily be related to modern shifts in the understanding of authority. The secularising aspect of modernity has implied that religious institutions and traditional religious leadership lost much of their grip on the identity formation of the individual (cf. Watt 1989:24ff.). Breakdown of traditional authority has given way to new approaches to ethics and religion which put more emphasis on the responsibility of the individual. In Egypt, the responsible individual has been called upon both in modernising projects with a secularist orientation, and in competing Islamist projects of modernisation. From the modern breakthrough in Egypt, secularising tendencies have been expressed either as a person-oriented Muslim humanism, or as collective visions for the Arab nation which were further developed by Nasser and his socialist-flavoured nationalism. The individual and collective approaches have often merged, but they also entail potential conflict.

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From the 1930s, the main intellectual and political challenge to both liberal humanism and Arab nationalism has come from the Muslim Brotherhood. The Islamism of the Muslim Brothers has defied the secularising aspect of modernity, and questioned what they have perceived as a biased and typically Western preoccupation with the individual. But Islamism is also profoundly marked by the modern stress on individual responsibility. Islamists typically see personal and political revival as two sides of the same coin. They represent, so to say, ‘the pious road to freedom and modernity’ (Utvik 2000:431). Recurrent ‘crises of orientation’, or a continuum of ‘modified Islamic discourses’? (b. 1921) and his role in competing In a study of the Muslim author Muslim identity discourses in Egypt, Stephan Conermann distinguishes between traditionalist, modernist and reformist tendencies among religious leaders and intellectuals (Conermann 1996:49ff.). Representatives of all tendencies hold the view that modern challenges require an updated reappropriation of Islam. All of them may thus be said to represent variations of a ‘modified Islamic discourse’ (modifizierte islamische Diskurs) in Egypt. I find Conermann’s approach more elucidating than the conventional stereotypes of ‘modernism’ versus ‘fundamentalism’, which tend to identify modernism with secularising rationalism and fail to recognise the modernising potential in religious reform. Even the radical Islamist reformist Sayyid was in many respects a moderniser. For instance, linked the Islamic idea of successive prophetic missions with a more general idea of human potentials and human progress (Lee 1997:101). As for the liberal modernists of generation, we have seen that Nadav Safran speaks of a gradual decline from ‘the progressive phase’ of the 1920s through a ‘crisis of orientation’ in the 1930s towards what he sees as ‘the reactionary phase’ of the 1940s (Safran 1961). Safran makes no secret of his sympathies, and seems to regard any preoccupation with the socio-political aspects of the Islamic heritage as a sign of the imminent collapse of liberal nationalism. As both Conermann and Shimon Shamir have correctly noted, Safran thereby fails to note that many liberal intellectuals in generation sought some kind of synthesis between European and Islamic impulses, in a truly modern reappropriation of the Islamic heritage: ‘They promoted essentially Western-inspired secular ideas, but elaborated them in an Islamic context…they were Muslim liberal thinkers rather than liberal Islamic thinkers’ (Shamir 1995:197, cf. Conermann 1996:75f.). Implying that only European-style, secularist discourses of progress are truly modern, can hardly be taken as anything but arrogant disavowal of Islam’s potential for modernisation. There should be nothing anti-modern, then—indicative of a ‘crisis in orientation’—in turning to Islamic subjects or rewriting the life story of as a model of personal and political inspiration, as many Egyptian intellectuals did in the 1930s.585

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works on Islamic democracy and philosophy, and Khālid’s books on the Islamic heritage, testify to a continuous preoccupation with Islamic themes among Muslim intellectuals who did not turn ‘Islamic’ all of a sudden in the 1970s. With Conermann, I would suggest that they rather represent a continuum of ‘modified Islamic discourses’ in Egypt—discourses that may strike either a self-sufficient or a more dialogical note. With a view to interreligious relations, the critical question to any modified Islamic discourse would be how it views the ‘religiously Other’. Are Christians respected as equal partners with Muslims in the Egyptian nation? Is the Christian tradition recognised as a source of valuable insights? With regard to both questions, the Egyptian authors focused upon in this study stand out as indusivist Islamic modernisers. If inclusivism wanes somehow in the later works of Khālid, this must be seen in the light of general developments in Egyptian identity discourses, in which both Muslims and Christians have played their part. Islamic discourses and universalist visions under Nasser Khālid and had their most active period as writers under Nasser’s regime (1952–70). Many of writings on religious and philosophical subjects were also published in the first part of this epoch. Nasser’s era is characterised by a number of crucial events and developments—such as the decisive break with the remnants of British colonial domination; a shift from liberal democracy to a one party system; large-scale nationalisation and collectivisation of the economy; a socialist vision of the welfare state; and the introduction of mass education on higher levels.586 In the field of culture, Nasser’s regime actively sought to involve writers and other intellectuals in its socialist-nationalist project. Conermann speaks of a ‘crisis of moderate intellectuals’ in the 1960s, when they were torn between the regime’s expectations of socially and politically committed intellectuals on the one hand and intellectual freedom on the other (Conermann 1996:101ff.). But as Sayyid and the Muslim Brothers increasingly dissociated themselves from state supported discourses in this period, there was also the question of how to navigate as liberals between Nasserism and radical Islamist reformism. The press was nationalised as part of the general nationalisation measures in 1960–61. As for religion, several religious institutions were brought under state control during the first years of the new regime (Ibrahim 1987:123). The steps taken in this field were actually much in tune with the secularist proposals put-forward by Khālid in 1950, in Min hunā The Nasserite regime also took firm steps to block any activism on the part of the Muslim Brothers, who had initially supported the revolution but were ruthlessly suppressed by Nasser in 1954. In comparison with the Islamisation associated with Sadat’s regime in the 1970s, the cultural climate under Nasser was rather secularist.587 But Nasser too might occasionally appeal to Islam, in order to underpin his authority (Philipp 1995:145). Nasser’s socialistflavoured nationalism is in fact hard to classify by alternative characteristics such as

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‘secularist’ or ‘Islamic’. In the Constitution which was adopted by parliament in 1964, Islam was declared to be the religion of the state (Vatikiotis 1991:404). But before that, the National Charter which was put forward by Nasser and accepted by the parliament in 1962, had endorsed ‘the freedom of religious belief not merely as a right but as something that ‘must be sacred in our new free life’ (Makari 2000:94f.). How do Khālid’s and discourses of fit into this overall cultural and political pattern? It should be clear from the previous chapters that their conscience-based critique of authority was first of all directed against traditionalist, stagnant religious authority. Part of their attack was also levelled against what they perceived as Islamic extremism (cf. Shamir 1995:202f.). Their preoccupation with the integrity of the individual might be taken also as an implicit critique of the all-pervasive collectivism of Nasserism. But the opposite interpretation is just as probable: since secular nationalism presupposes the idea of equal citizenship between individuals (regardless of their religious affiliation), the authors’ focus on the individual could in fact be seen as an endorsement of the Arab nationalist, non-sectarian vision of community. Their universalist concern for ‘humanity’ also went together well with the internationalist orientation of Nasser’s regime, as expressed through Egypt’s active role in the movement of non-aligned states. Neither was Khālid’s and call for progress in the name of religion at variance with what was regarded as politically correct in Nasserism. On the contrary: the section in the National Charter of 1962 which deals with freedom of religion comes astonishingly close to Khālid’s inclusive, humanist and progressive outlook on religion: All religions contain a message of progress… The essence of all religions is to assert man’s right to life and to freedom’ (Makari 2000:95). But there were still tensions between the authors’ emphasis on personal freedom and the authoritarian aspects of Nasser’s rule. Khālid was in tune with the regime in his progressivist view of religion, as well as in his concern for ‘the ordinary man’ and social justice. But in his defence of a multi-party system, Khālid felt himself compelled to challenge the regime. Although Nasser did not allow competing political organisations, he seems to have accepted that individual intellectuals expressed their dissident views. Khālid was therefore able to state his position freely, even in frank face-to-face confrontations with Nasser during the preparatory work for the National Charter. Khālid recalls that Nasser had also earlier defended his freedom of expression on issues of democratic liberty rights (Khālid 1985:76). As for warning against the crucifixion of conscience by loyalty to communal interest, it was obviously not taken as a critique of Nasserite collectivism. On the contrary, he was awarded the State Prize for Literature for Qarya Obviously, the regime read his novel as a drama of universal relevance rather than as an oblique critique of national politics. What, then, about Khālid’s and role in Muslim-Christian relations? I have noted that in their writings there are hardly any direct references to Muslim-Christian coexistence and cross-fertilisation on Egyptian soil. There are several indications that their concern for Muslim-Christian relations should rather be read in a universalist perspective. As we have seen, their combined interest in Christian tradition and European philosophy was linked with a more general interest in the shared spiritual

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heritage of humanity. But although their writings lacked concrete references to MuslimChristian relations in Egypt, they may still have been taken as supportive of an inclusivist vision of Egyptian or Arab nationalism. This was in fact how their writings were interpreted by many Christians in Egypt (cf. Qilāda 1994:346). 10.2 Christianity and Islam in modern Egypt This is not the place to attempt anything like a full or detailed overview of ChristianMuslim relations in Egypt. I will restrict myself to some major trajectories—from the early beginnings until the Nasserite era and subsequent developments under Sadat and Mubarak.588 The word ‘Copt’ is the European form of the Arabic which is derived from the Greek aígyptos. From the time of the Arab-Islamic conquest in 639–42, it was initially used to denote the entire indigenous population of Egypt, which was at that time entirely Christian and used the Coptic language (tot Sevenaer 1997:23). In the course of some centuries, the majority of the population became Muslim, and the Coptic language receded to the benefit of Arabic. In this process, Coptic Christians also became arabicised in terms of language. With time, ‘Copts’ came to designate Christians of Egyptian stock, thus distinguishing them from both Muslims and Christians of non-Egyptian origin.589 Under Muslim rule, Copts have enjoyed but also sometimes suffered from the status of a protected minority. During the modern breakthrough in Egypt in the nineteenth century, more inclusive visions of national identity were formulated—much in tune with European nationalism. It is common to date the modern period in Egypt from the regime of (1805–48). Under his reign, Christians took a central role in the nationalist, modernising project and came to occupy important positions in both economy and politics. In 1855, the jizya tax imposed on Christians and Jews was abolished, and Christians were accepted into the army. Pressure from European powers played a certain role in this process. But there were also more exclusivist Islamic tendencies in Egyptian nationalism. In 1910, parts of the Coptic community organised a Coptic congress in to protect their interests, in fear of pan-Islamic tendencies in the nationalist movement. The congress demanded specific guarantees for Coptic interests, such as the recognition of Sunday as an official holiday and religious instruction for Coptic pupils in elementary schools (Vatikiotis 1991:209). In the following year, some Muslim leaders responded with a congress of their own in Heliopolis before a sort of communal truce was eventually achieved. In the years to come, the dominant trend came to be common Muslim-Christian involvement in the nationalist project, and joint resistance to British occupation. In general, Christian participation in modern nationalist movements in Arab countries has been strong, and contributed much to the secularist or rather non-confessional orientation of Arab nationalism. In particular, this was true in what is commonly referred to as the ‘liberal age’, from the nineteenth towards the middle of the twentieth century (Hourani 1995:245ff.). In Egypt, legendary expression of the joint Muslim-Christian

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project was seen during the uprising against the British in 1919, and in its aftermath. The Zaghlūl formed one of the peaks of national communion and of Wafd party led by shared citizenship. Its slogan was ‘Religion for God, and the motherland for everyone’, and one of its symbols was the combination of the crescent and the cross. In this period, the Coptic priest Sargiyūs preached in the al-Azhar mosque, and Muslim sheikhs preached in the churches (tot Sevenaer 1997:25, cf. Atiya 1991, vol. 7:2097). But there were also other political tendencies which competed with the inclusivism of the Wafd. In 1921, the press of the Liberal Constitutional Party (the main political rival of Wafd) attacked the Wafd for harbouring a Coptic conspiracy against the Muslim character of the Egyptian nation. Similar claims were later repeated by both religious and political leaders.590 Political leaders among the Copts, however, firmly asserted the common citizenship of all Egyptians, irrespective of faith. In the process of constitutional formation in the 1920s, Coptic politicians resolutely resisted the British proposal of a separate representation in parliament: ‘The Copts wanted to be able to enter parliament as citizens, not as members of a minority’ (tot Sevenaer 1997:26, cf. Philipp 1995:144f.). During what is commonly called the liberal period of modern Egyptian history, from the constitution of 1923 to the revolution in 1952, secularist visions of a shared Egyptian identity struck the dominant note in public discourses. There were also often references to a shared, Pharaonic past.591 Since the early 1920s, however, secular nationalism has competed with the Muslim Brotherhood’s call for an Islamic state with one religion. The Brothers’ call was felt by most Copts as a threat to their religious identity, as well as to their legal and political status in Egyptian society. In 1952, a rather marginal and short-lived group called alUmma (‘Coptic nation’) was formed as a counter to the Muslim Brothers. It was banned by Nasser in 1954 together with the Muslim Brotherhood (Vogt 1986:51; Philipp 1995:145). In the 1950s, several changes occurred in the situation of the Copts—not because of a new kind of religious policy, but as the indirect result of general measures taken by the Nasserite revolution. Nasser’s agrarian reforms and other projects of nationalisation struck hard against the economic interest of Coptic landowners and businessmen, who had come to hold a share of the Egyptian wealth and economy far out of proportion to their numerical strength (Vogt 1986:50). It was in this period that some wealthy Copts initiated what would gradually become a considerable wave of emigration. After Nasser’s abolition of Muslim and Christian religious courts in 1955, judges trained in were integrated into the civil court system whereas the judges of the Christian courts were rendered non-functional. In the wake of this process, many Copts found themselves victims of legal discrimination in cases involving Copts and Muslims together. In the field of education, Coptic schools were affected by the general politics of nationalisation (ibid.: 56–8; tot Sevenaer 1997:27). Despite of these developments and the fact that Nasser’s ‘Arab’ nationalism sometimes acquired ‘Islamic’ overtones, Christian leaders still felt there was a place for them in the national project. Between 1964 and 1979, however, no Copt was elected to the Majlis On the other hand, a new law was enacted which empowered the government to appoint up to ten members of the Parliament. But as Thomas Philipp has noted, this meant that Coptic representation in Parliament now depended exclusively on

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the goodwill of the ruler: ‘The Copts had once again become more of a traditional minority’ (Philipp 1995:145). During the same period, the Coptic Church experienced a strong revitalisation. From the 1930s, a reform movement of great importance—the so-called Sunday School movement—had already gained momentum. Although this movement continued to express a critical attitude towards the clergy (typical of Coptic lay movements in the nineteenth century), in practice it led to a great number of men becoming monks and priests. From the 1950s, both monasticism and theological education were strengthened. There was also a general growth in Coptic institutions and social services (Vogt 1986:51ff; tot Sevenaer 1997:28). A dramatic event with long-term consequences for Christian-Muslim relations was Egypt’s humiliating defeat by Israel in 1967. Through its repercussions on Egyptian politics, the defeat dealt a fatal blow to Arab nationalism of the more secular kind (Ibrahim 1987:125). The combination of all these factors led to a certain withdrawal of the Copts from public and above all political life in this period (tot Sevenaer 1997:28). After 1967, Egypt also experienced the combined effect of religious revival among Muslims and Christians. A symbolic expression was the reported apparition of the Virgin Mary above churches in poor suburbs of Cairo in 1968, which was taken by many as a divine message of consolation. Since the Virgin is highly revered by Egyptian Muslims, the apparition also attracted much interest on the Muslim side.592 In the main, however, the religious revival has found distinct Christian or Muslim expressions. Since 1971, social and religious activism on the Coptic side has been associated with the strong and charismatic leadership of Pope Shenouda III. In the same period, parallel processes took place in the Muslim community, through religious revival and social networking headed by activists representing a socio-religious mobilisation typical of the Muslim Brothers. The religious revival of the 1970s materialised not only through the emergence of new social and religious institutions, but also through changed patterns of behaviour and reconstructed body discourses on both sides. On the Muslim side, donning the ‘new veil’ and growing a beard were typical expressions of the revival (Macleod 1992; Conermann 1996:110f.). The Copts took up a stricter practice of fasting, and contrasting Coptic with Muslim ways of life became a salient feature of Christian identity discourses (cf. Section 10.3, ‘The discourse of Coptic revival: national unity challenged by the religious body?’). Under Sadat, the relation between state and religion was also changed. In tune with Sadat’s general attempt to co-opt moderate Islamists and project Islam as a symbol of national unity, the Muslim Brothers were allowed to reappear in public life (although not as a political party). In his breakaway from the socialist policies of Nasser, Sadat turned to the official religious leaders for support (Ibrahim 1987:126f.; Conermann 1996:115ff.). Islam was given increased visibility in the national media, and a gradual Islamisation of Egyptian law took place, at least on the symbolic level. was pronounced as a major source of civil law in 1971, and as the major source in 1980 (Vogt 1986:55f.; Philipp 1995:144). On the social level, Sadat’s open door policy led to increased economic disparities. At the same time, a population explosion and massive rural migration led to dramatic changes in the cities, especially in Cairo. Many observers would speak of a loss of national cohesion in this period, caused by a profound disturbance of social structures

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and a crisis of cultural models. Internationally, Sadat’s retreat from previous pan-Arab commitments, notably on the Palestine question, undermined Egypt’s position in the Arab world. In this period, religious allegiance increasingly became the principal means of defining oneself, that is, it became something that divided rather than united the citizens (Ibrahim 1987:29). Both Christians and Muslims suffered the effects of aggressive activism by new radical Islamist groups, who initially directed their protest against the regime.593 Communal strife in the name of religion is often said to have begun with the burning of the al-Khankā church in Alexandria in 1970. It became most widespread in Upper Egypt, and gradually a matter of national concern (McDermott 1988:189f.). In the latter part of his presidency, Sadat became increasingly apprehensive of the religious activism for which he had in a sense opened the way.594 In 1981, shortly before he was assassinated by Islamist militants, Sadat clamped down on both Muslim and Christian leaders, who were detained in separate prisons for some months. Pope Shenouda, whom Sadat accused of religious separatism, was held under until 1985.595 Prior to Sadat’s house arrest or protection in a monastery in Wādī reaction, Shenouda had called on Christians on several occasions to fast and pray in order to improve their situation (Makari 2000:95).596 Under Mubarak (from 1981), relations between the Coptic Church and the political authorities relaxed somewhat. Some would argue, however, that the more relaxed pattern of interaction was achieved on the basis of a ‘Mubarak-Shenouda Millet Partnership’, in which Pope Shenouda would adopt a low profile and cooperate with the regime— ‘embrace the rhetoric of national unity, negotiate with the government behind the scenes, avoid public confrontation at all costs, and consolidate his power within the church’ (Sedra 1999:227). From the 1980s, many Coptic intellectuals have become wary of a gradual reintroduction of the system as called for by radical Islamists (and perhaps complied with in a moderate version by Shenouda). Increasingly, they have felt compelled to raise the banner of equal citizenship in discussions with leading Muslim intellectuals.597 There has also been a widespread concern among Copts for what many would perceive as de facto discrimination in social and political life (Sedra 1999:222). Violent incidents between groups of Muslims and Christians have also continued and found new and dramatic expressions in the 1990s. In considering the previous inclusive discourses, one may ask whether differences in religious identity were in fact neglected in the period of Arab nationalism, only to return with a vengeance in late modernity. In the following, I will take a closer look at competing discourses of national unity and religious revival among the Copts, before I return to the parallel conflict between secularist liberalism and the discourse of Islamic authenticity on the Muslim side.

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10.3 Modern Coptic identity The discourse of national unity: mere secularism, or Christian recognition of Islam? During the 1980s and the 1990s, the discourse of national unity was still prevailing in the public messages of Pope Shenouda, who frequently voiced Coptic support for governmental policies. As a token of Christian-Muslim unity, Shenouda has regularly appeared together with the Shaykh al-Azhar at festive national and religious occasions and after outbursts of violent, communal strife. On the Palestine question, he has even banned Coptic pilgrimages to Jerusalem (Thorbjørnsrud 1999:70f.). Also, among distinguished Coptic lay people such as Milād and William Sulaymān Qilāda, the discourse of national unity has been unabated. In a historical review of Christian-Muslim relationship in Egypt, Qilāda speaks of Coptic Christianity, Christian-Muslim coexistence and plurality of religions as constituent factors of ‘the Qilāda 1994:252).598 Commenting on clashes Egyptian essence’ (al-kiyān between Christians and Muslims in the early modern period in Egypt, he blames colonialism and the foreign Western missionaries, and focuses his interest on how the conflicts were gradually overcome by joint Christian-Muslim resistance to colonial rule (ibid.: 322, 328). Turning to the modern Muslim authors focused upon by the present study, Qilāda presents the works about Christ by and Khālid as expressions of a profound unity of Egyptian society—moulded as ‘humanistic religiosity’ (ibid.: 346). Qilāda criticises Nadav Safran’s view of the modern Egyptian identity as fundamentally unstable (Safran 1961), and calls for a resumed ‘national jurisprudence’ as well as a renewed ijtihād that may consolidate the unique Christian-Muslim unity of Egypt, against internal and external forces that point in a different direction (ibid.: 362). speaks of In a book about ‘the seven pillars of the Egyptian identity’, Milād the Pharaonic, Graeco-Roman, Coptic and Islamic pillars that uphold Egypt’s historical identity, and the geographical pillars that make Egypt Arab, Mediterranean/European as well as African.599 He claims that the multi-layered identity indicated by these labels is internalised by every Egyptian in some way or other, although with different personal and group-specific emphases. Basically, the seven pillars make for an Egyptian feeling of belonging which is ‘complementary and harmonious’ (Hanna 1994:32). As for the Islamic pillar of Egyptian identity, focuses on the particular (Fatimid) elements. He also features of Egyptian Islam with its blend of Sunnī and points to the unique cross-fertilisation between Christianity and Islam in Egypt, which has even been expressed in similar religious practices such as the veneration of Mary. seems to regard the religious revival which occurred from 1967 onwards as a potential threat to the national project: ‘The more intense Islamic and Coptic religious activities in Egypt become, the stronger is the possibility of conflict and strife’ (ibid.: 188). Critically aware of mounting sectarian strife, he calls upon the state to get involved

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in unifying efforts ‘through instilling national awareness and socialization to shape the national conscience and soul’ (ibid.: 191f.). How should this discourse of national unity, which still prevails in parts of the Coptic leadership, be interpreted? As a kind of political secularism which relativises religious difference, or as a positive evaluation of the Muslim Other? In the writings of and Qilāda, one can find a positive affirmation of Islam as a formative element in the Egyptian identity. But one will hardly find any appreciation of and the spiritual values of Islam parallel to Khālid’s and appraisal of the person of Christ and his message. Was the appraisal of Christ by these Muslim authors f rom the Coptic side? ever reciprocated by a similar appreciation of Christ and conscience: the Lūqā marginal voice of One of the few examples that can be cited of an explicit appreciation of the spiritual values of and Islam comes from a Coptic intellectual who is notably not representative of a larger tendency, but rather a highly controversial exception. The only in Egypt is Christian writer who has produced a biography of Lūqā. In 1959, Lūqā published the book al-risāla wa-l-rāsūl (‘ —the message and the messenger’, Lūqā 1959) which is basically behalf. Lūqā also wrote other books on Islamic apologetic on personalities, and on religion and philosophy in general.600 By fellow Christians, he was generally regarded as a marginal and almost heretical voice. When his biography of was published in 1959, it caused a great turmoil. Although Egyptian authorities seem to have valued the book,601 Coptic leaders dissociated themselves from Lūqā’s views. Pressure from Copts eventually led to the confiscation of the book (Wessels 1972:31f.).602 The general impression left by Lūqā’s controversial book is that of a universalist, evolutionist and rationalist interpretation of Islam.603 As in and Khālid’s works, Lūqā’s biography of recurrently refers to human intellect as an authority. Interestingly, references to human conscience —understood as the innermost anchoring of true faith and morals—also play a central part in Lūqā’s book. In almost every respect, his conscience-based, liberal interpretation of religion and ethics comes astoundingly close to that of Khālid.604 Marking his concern as a deeply personal one, Lūqā gives a lengthy description of his childhood experiences in a mosque in his birthplace Suez. Like Khālid, he invokes human reason and human conscience against fanaticism and party spirit in religion. Lūqā does not want, however, to obliterate differences. He speaks of Christians and Muslims as ‘different in loving affection’, and ‘separated for the purpose of mutual approximation’ (ibid.: 27). Lūqā also resembles Khālid in his truly evolutionary perspective on the successive stages of revelation, which he speaks of as ‘requirements of the human development’

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(ibid.: 49, 51). He presents Judaism as the religion of a people Christianity as a religion of the heart (dīn qalb) and Islam as a religion of humanity (dīn al-bašar). He claims that human spirit and conscience—which knows neither race nor homeland— could not be content with what he perceives as the narrowing legalism of Judaism (ibid.: 55, 57). In conformity with the supreme ideal Christ therefore came with a religion of the human heart which contained no rites and no legislation (ibid.: 57f.). According to Lūqā, this bias in Christ’s message was necessary for historical reasons. But the consequence was that Christianity became an individualistic religion which could only be seriously appropriated by a minority of people. There thus remained a need for a religion that could more easily be practised by the majority. This was the mission left to Islam, which appealed both to heart and reason, and purged previous religion of its disregard for worldly affairs.605 As a religion for all, Islam proclaimed that the truth is one—as reflected in every human mind and conscience which seeks true guidance (ibid.: 62). and Islam with a liberal, Lūqā combines his evolutionary appraisal of rational interpretation of Christianity in which he tends to leave out everything that has been regarded as a stumbling block by Muslims.606 This means that Lūqā’s image of Christ comes close to that of and Khālid. Like them, Lūqā portrays Christ as waging war against the outward forms and ceremonies of Judaism. Calling for a worship based on ‘the pure conscience’, Jesus attacked priesthood which did not approve of conscience’s direct approach to God. The temple he erected was one of conscience and faith (ibid.: 149).607 In tune with his moral and rationalist interpretation of religion, Lūqā extols for being the first messenger to call upon people without resorting to miracles, and appealing only to human reason and conscience (ibid.: 86f.).608 Both Lūqā’s view of Islam as a rational, progressive religion and his ‘non-mysterious’ interpretation of Christ could easily be seen as an oblique critique of salient features of Coptic Christianity which Lūqā probably perceived as overly spiritual and worlddenying. His book testifies to the existence of marginal voices among lay Coptic thinkers in the 1950s and 1960s who went far in the direction of a full recognition of Islam’s spiritual values. As we have seen, Lūqā did so by universalist references to the testimony of reason and conscience.609 Through his evolutionist outlook, Lūqā comes dangerously close (in the view of his opponents) to recognising the finality of the Islamic revelation, as well as supersessionist claims from the Islamic side (cf. ibid.: 92).610 And he can only retain a Christian loyalty by applying a typically liberal distinction between the simplicity of Christ’s message and the non-rational doctrine of the church. Lūqā is a far cry from mainstream tendencies As a distant and marginal voice, in Coptic theology, as articulated by the bishops during the last decades of the twentieth century In contrast to Lūqā’s liberal outlook, their theology is traditional in the sense of being oriented towards the sacramental mysteries of the church. Marked by revivalism, mainstream Coptic moral theologies are also communitarian and particularistic on Christianity’s behalf, but—as we shall see—no less modern than Lūqā’s.

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Coptic conscience Since the 1970s, the discourse of national unity has vied with a Coptic revivalist theology which has often been characterised as a ‘persecution discourse’ (Sedra 1999:221–3, 231f.). It is natural to see the persecution discourse as a reconstruction of Coptic identity in response to mounting Islamic activism in Egypt (Zeidan 1999). It is, however, deeply rooted in a traditional Coptic self-understanding as a church of martyrs and a lonely minority. Tales about the golden age emphasise the church fathers’ readiness to sacrifice their life for Christ, either through asceticism or violent death (Thorbjørnsrud 1999:67ff.). In references to the asceticism of the first martyrs, one will sometimes find the concept of a so-called ‘martyrdom of conscience’. In the biography of St Anthony, the fourthcentury father of Coptic monasticism, St Anthony is said to have been ‘daily a martyr to his conscience’ in his desert cell (Athanasius 1987:209). Correspondingly, St Cyprian the Martyr speaks of the white or green martyrdom that occurred in periods of peace (Malaty 1986:4). In general, the martyrdom of conscience was conceived of as being suffered voluntarily by those who did not have to lay down their lives for the sake of faith, but rather fled to the desert as if it was an arena of martyrdom, subjecting themselves to a daily mortification and self-denial (Malaty 1986:3). In Coptic theology (both classical and modern), one will thus find a notion of conscience which is thoroughly religious and indeed distinctively Christian. It is linked with the notion of the church as a community of exemplary martyrs, who were either killed or voluntarily subjected themselves to ascetic mortification. In both cases, the decision for martyrdom was seen as an authentically Christian decision, although sometimes inflicted by the enemies of the church. But what about references to conscience in moral theology, among modern Coptic leaders? In 1972, the influential theologian and bishop Gregorius published a mimeographed exposition of conscience meant for use in theological education, under the heading of (Gregorius 1972). In two volumes, Gregorius discusses conscience in its triple relation to God, oneself and the other (ibid., 1:15). He has also discussed the role of in a later exposition of moral theology (Gregorius n.d.: 52ff.). The general impression left by his discussions of conscience is that of a philosophically reflected, but thoroughly christianised notion of conscience. More specifically, Gregorius comes close to a scholastic understanding of conscience, with numerous overt and oblique references to Thomas Aquinas, Thomistic theology, casuistry and the modalities of erroneous consciences.611 The function of conscience is connected to what can be recognised as essentially good, prior to the revelation of the divine law of the Bible (ibid., 1:11f., 58). By its intuitive judgements about good and bad, conscience reflects the natural law in all human beings (ibid. 1:10 and passim). Also Socrates and the Stoics, who had no revealed law, were guided by an inner voice or even an ‘inner deity’ (ibid. 1:18, 24f., 29). Similarly to Thomistic theology, however, Gregorius distinguishes between the naturally imbued first-level judgements of conscience as synderesis,612 the second-level judgements of a socially mediated moral knowledge, and a third level of moral application by conscience as conscientia (ibid., 1:7f., cf. 1:82ff.). In its concrete judgements, conscience is liable to failure and corruption

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and must therefore—as casuistry has always claimed—be guided by the religious law which is taught by the church and applied to the individual in spiritual counselling (ibid. 1:66f.). In other terms, conscience needs spiritual nourishment (ibid., 1:35). As for New Testament references Gregorius cites at length passages from the Epistle to the Hebrews. As we have seen in Section 3.2, in this part of the New Testament conscience stands out as a religiously qualified notion.613 Gregorius points to the difference between those with or without a divine moral law ( ibid., 1:68), and states that in the light of Christ, the divine law is elucidated and radicalised (ibid., 1:69). Gregorius also emphasises that a Christian conscience cannot do without the sacraments, such as confession/repentance and the continuous spiritual counselling that comes with it.614 Through baptism and confirmation, which in the Coptic Church are given simultaneously,615 the believer receives the sign of the cross and the gift of the Holy Spirit. By the teachings of Christ and by the infusion of the Holy Spirit, the conscience of the believer is sharpened (ibid., 1:70ff.). It is clear, then, that Gregorius’ concept of conscience refers to theology just as much as to ethics. The ultimate aim of a rightly guided conscience is the transformation of the ibid, 1:103).616 human being into its supreme, divine ideal ( Although Gregorius points at conscience’s need for guidance by the church, by his emphasis on moral internalisation he still appears as moderniser.617 Sensitive to the integrity of the individual, Gregorius is adamant that the spiritual counsellor (the priest) can only succeed when he respects the moral integrity of the individual believer and shows understanding towards his or her specific circumstances of life (ibid, 1:87f., 2:4). Correspondingly, he states that upbringing and education can do nothing but polish (by refinement) what is already there, in conscience (ibid, 2:15). Gregorius speaks of conscience as a moral law written in human hearts, supplementing the law that was given on tablets of stone. Repeatedly, he refers to conscience as a caller ibid.: 13). As an authoritative voice within, is in fact from within (hātif ‘the inner Sinai’ which reflects the universal, natural law (ibid, 1:16).618 As an inner law, it testifies to the value of the individual (ibid, 1:63), and grants every person a fundamental freedom vis-à-vis tradition ( taqlīd, ibid, 1:61, 75). In fact, it is often traditions and customs that make conscience deviate from the right path (ibid, 1:73). Somehow reminiscent of Khālid’s evolutionist perspective, Gregorius describes the gradual universalisation of conscience towards the all-embracing perspective of humanity, (ibid., 1:52). In tune with his universalist outlook, Gregorius claims The languages of that all languages have a word corresponding to conscience or the world thus reflect a consensus that there is something ontologically ‘good’ which can be distinguished from ‘evil’. However, Gregorius is critically aware of the fact that judgements of conscience may vary from person to person, from people to people, from generation to generation, and even within the life span of a single individual. Explaining the differences, he speaks of the rational affectionate and voluntary ‘components’ of conscience, and the influences of personal experience and social environment in this respect (ibid., 1:33f., 2:23ff.). The differences have to do with ‘form’ however. In ‘essence’ (jawhar), there is no difference in the operations of conscience (ibid., 1:54).

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Gregorius unfolds his notion of conscience in dialogue with European philosophy. Elaborating on what he perceives as different components in conscience, Gregorius notes three different approaches to conscience in early modern European philosophy: the intellectual approach represented by Kant, the emotional approach of Rousseau619 and the moral sense-approach typical of English philosophers (ibid., 2:6ff.). In contrast to his keen interest in European philosophy, Islam is not a dialogue partner in Gregorius’ discussions of conscience. His sole explicit reference to Islam is a rather negative one. Under the heading of ‘straying conscience’, he states that different from those ‘in the middle of Africa’ who are ignorant of the law of Christ, a similar excuse cannot be applied to ‘the Jewish or Muslim world’ who are cognisant of ‘the religion of Christ and his law’ but often dispute and refute it (Gregorius n.d.: 54). Content-wise, however, it is possible to detect some affinities between Gregorius’ elaborations on conscience and certain elements of Islamic tradition. Emphasising that conscience must actively be kept alive, he recommends the practice of inward accounting through (Gregorius 1972, 1:100, 106). Like (cf. Section 4.6), he distinguishes between the accounting of the soul before, during and after the act. But similar concepts and distinctions can also be found in the Christian and European tradition, and need not be taken as oblique references to the moral techniques of Summing up, there can be no doubt that Gregorius’ concept of conscience is truly a Christian one—in the communitarian sense. Quotations from the Bible abound, and the question of morally binding knowledge across religious boundaries does not appear to be an important concern. The discourse of Coptic revival: national unity challenged by the religious body? The communitarian character of Bishop Gregorius’ approach to conscience corresponds to parallel developments in Coptic ‘body language’. In her study Controlling the Body to Liberate the Soul, anthropologist Berit Thorbjørnsrud has studied body discourses and strategies to control the religious body typical of the Coptic revival as expressed in a Cairene parish in the 1980s and 1990s (Thorbjørnsrud 1999). Although her findings can probably not be generalised as valid for the entire Coptic community, her study yields valuable insights in the gradual shift towards ‘communitarian’ discourses and practices among the Copts. The period studied by Thorbjørnsrud corresponds to the moderate Islamist phase of Khālid’s career as a writer. In Thorbjørnsrud’s perspective, modernisation involves a reorganisation of boundaries—between the public and the private, between communal conventions and personal convictions, between concepts of femininity and masculinity, between social classes, and between religious communities. In modernity, many of the most significant boundaries in relation to people’s identity seem to be floating, with an ensuing need for boundary control:

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In my view, this represents one of the main reasons for the present revival among both Copts and Muslims, but…even more so with the Copts who, as a minority, may experience themselves as more unbounded than the Muslims. Consequently, the Coptic revival seems to center around a restrengthening of boundaries both in social and spiritual terms. (ibid.: 433f.) Thorbjørnsrud shows how Copts have increasingly contrasted their own identity with what they see as typical of the Muslim majority: Copts fast while Muslims feast; Copts are monogamous whereas Muslims can change their wives; Copts know how to interact decently between brothers and sisters whereas Islamists only think about keeping men and women apart. With reference to a perceived Muslim inability to internalise control of desire, Thorbjørnsrud’s Coptic informants present the difference as an issue of selfcontrol—which is considered a distinctive Coptic quality (ibid.: 445f.). The call for self-control has come from a church which increasingly understands itself as ‘modern’ and appeals to the moral competence of the individual. But church revival has also strengthened the social bonds between Christians. In urban contexts, they have come to spend an increasing amount of time in church activities, which have expanded with the general growth of Coptic institutions. ‘Being close to the church’ has emerged as an ideal of an all-comprising involvement with the church which leaves little time and space for other kinds of socialising. In particular, church activities have provided a space for young Coptic women in the public sphere.620 With a view to the question raised in the heading of this chapter—‘Christians and Muslims in Egypt: united or separated by modernity?’—Thorbjørnsrud notes that: In Egypt, the revival movements among Copts and Muslims have…the undesirable side-effect of creating an increasing dichotomization between the two groups. This creates a tension which may potentially threaten national unity. (ibid.: 29f.) Thorbjørnsrud’s study shows how this tendency has materialised on the bodily everyday level. Coptic revivalism has put much stress upon fasting and food regulations (ibid.: 211ff.). As the Coptic fast—when taken in full—is far more extensive than the Muslim one, shared meals and social interaction between Christian and Muslim neighbours in their homes have become more difficult than before. Making control of eating a marker of religious identity Copts often express the view that the Muslim fast is not really a true one. Other bodily measures have no traditional basis, but serve to mark off Copts as more modern than their Muslim neighbours. From the 1970s—parallel to the Muslim call for donning the veil and wearing the so-called Islamic dress—Coptic leaders have discouraged Christian women from wearing anything that may be associated with so that leggings and tight skirts have come to be accepted (ibid.: 334ff.).

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With a view to the aforementioned ‘persecution discourse’, Thorbjørnsrud notes that during the period of revival, Coptic children have increasingly been named after traditional martyrs (ibid.: 98). The practice of tattooing a cross on the inside of the wrist, which in the 1960s was in decline, gained increasing importance from the 1980s. As a bodily sign, the tattoo marks the Copt as a person who cannot easily be converted to Islam (ibid.: 303ff.). In the perspective of minority discourses, Thorbjørnsrud suggests that the modern Coptic emphasis on self-control and inner-centred spirituality may reflect the sociopolitical fact that Copts increasingly—under the influence of the mounting Islamisation of media and public discourses—experience themselves as an invisible group in Egyptian society. She notes that public invisibility may serve a spiritual purpose, when taken as a proof of the Copts’ inner-centred spirituality. By marking them off from other Egyptians, public invisibility serves to make Copts more visible to each other (ibid.: 446). As Thorbjørnsrud has demonstrated, revivalism on both the Muslim and Christian sides has found bodily expressions that in daily practices challenge the discourse of national unity—which still prevails on the official level. Although it must be kept in mind that the kind of religious revival referred to above has not affected every segment of the Christian or Muslim population, it can be argued that late modern revivalism has separated Christians and Muslims in Egypt, rather than united them. Renewed emphasis on Coptic authenticity has not only affected mental concepts such as that of conscience, but also found clear bodily expressions. 10.4 Late modern identity discourses among Muslims, and the notion of Islamic authenticity The religious revival among both Muslims and Copts from the 1970s onwards has been summarised by observers as a ‘return to the authenticity of one’s own sources’.621 Thorbjørnsrud emphasises the modern nature of this process, and shows how increased stress on personal responsibility and control of the body has also been referred to by Coptic leaders as a modernising project—although imbued with traditional values. Parallel Muslim developments can also be seen as a selective amalgam of traditional and modern impulses. In her study of the so-called ‘new veiling’ of working women in Cairo in the 1980s, Arlene Elowe Macleod sees their donning of as a compromise between (lower-class) traditional standards which they only partially wish to abandon, and (upper-class) Westernised standards they only partially wish to emulate (Macleod 1992: xv). Instead of taking the new veil as a symbol of a reactionary fundamentalism in the Middle East, Macleod views it as a means of ‘accommodating protest’. These women’s protest is directed against both traditional patriarchy and the loss of traditional values associated with Western licentiousness. In their search for a more active and independent role in society, women take advantage of the traditional symbol of the veil

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to select the aspects of their eroding tradition that they consider useful and necessary elements for a widened future identity…the veiling recalls the past, but with a selective vision, recreating certain values while neglecting to resurrect others. (ibid.: 137) It is precisely the selective nature of these body discourses, as well as the fact that women have become visible as independent religious agents, which reveal the modern nature of the current quest for authenticity. On both the Muslim and the Coptic sides, the selective kind of modernity makes the quest for authenticity much more communitarian than previous, Western-type modernising projects in Egypt. As for the historical aspects of the problematic, Robert Lee has seen the late modern quest for Islamic authenticity as a reaction to the nationalist and socialist regimes of the 1960s. The nationalist regimes were the focus of the greatest hopes of the modernisers, but turned out to be the biggest disappointments in both social and national terms. Noting the fact that Arab-Islamic authenticity discourses have often been sharply formulated as ‘non-Western’, Lee also sees them as a reaction to development theories propounded by Western universalists (Lee 1997:10f.). In Sections 2.1, 7.6 and 8.8, I have already introduced and discussed the Arab-Islamic notion of authenticity— —as it has emerged in late modernity. Connoting roots, presents itself as a comprehensive, cultural-religious concept. Both in mass culture and nationalist discourses, it may refer to the entire Arab heritage In many cases, it denotes an effort to balance the radical changes of modernity with some kind of ‘authentic’ link to the past. We have seen that in the 1950s, might apply the notion of to underline the ‘authenticity’ of Islamic democracy. But he also spoke of Islamic government as a truly ‘humanistic democracy’ 1995/1952:29, 38). He thus revealed a tension between Islamic-communitarian and humanist-universalist approaches to authenticity typical of Muslim intellectuals in the 1950s and 1960s. From the 1970s, and have increasingly been used to mark off the cultural heritage as the terms Islamic. In an interreligious perspective, the critical question to any given reference to would obviously be how the cultural heritage is defined and to whom it is supposed to belong. As for the Coptic part of the Egyptian heritage, both Muslims and Christians may view it as either a separate cultural heritage (not really Arab, according to many Copts), or as an integral part of the Egyptian identity In the Middle East in general, it is radical Islamists that have come to dominate the conversation about authenticity, in a revolt against both modernity and tradition, and with demarcation lines drawn against both Arab Christians and the Western world (Lee for all practical purposes is 1997:14, 16). Al-Azmeh notes that the notion of communitarian, since it marks off specific social and political groups and ‘forges and reconstitutes historical identities’ (al-Azmeh 1993:41). He also claims that its discourse is fundamentally an essentialist one, inspired by romantic versions of European nationalism (ibid.: 42f.).622 The others—Westerners, Christians—are often conceived of as ‘absolute

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in their otherness’, in that they are an antitheses to an irreducible historical subject which is conceived of as essentially ‘Islamic’. Questioning the substance of Islamist discourses of authenticity, al-Azmeh suggests that they are little more than modern political programmes translated into Islamic terminology—‘in order to authenticate and thus authorize them’ (ibid.: 55). Bjørn Olav Utvik has a similar but far more sympathetic view of the discourse of ‘Islamic economy’ among modern Egyptian Islamists, which he reads as a ‘pious’ version of modernising projects of economic independence and development (Utvik 2000). merely embodies ‘the taken Armando Salvatore also suggests that the notion of for granted character of an authentic cultural asset’ (Salvatore 1995:195). But differently from al-Azmeh, Salvatore emphasises the progressive function of the terms and —as clues to the shaping of ‘an Arab-Islamic framework of universal reference’ (ibid.: 198f.). Like the new veil, the discourse of Islamic authenticity may also thus be seen as a forward-looking way of ‘accommodating protest’. notion of Arab-Islamic authenticity as a cultural Commenting on heritage preserved in the consciousness of the masses, Salvatore also notes that the notion of authenticity may well be developed into an analytical term that avoids Arab-Islamic the classical heritage of Islam needs to be essentialism. According to dialectically renewed, in a constant process of authentication ( 1981, cf. Section 7.6). Salvatore notes that in hermeneutics of authenticity, the notion of authenticity is even stretched to include the cross-fertilising dimension of transcultural exchange between the Arab-Islamic Self and the culturally and religiously Other (Salvatore 1995:212). In their quest for authenticity, both Muslims and Christians, in Egypt and elsewhere, will therefore have to account for the role they attribute to the religiously Other. In Chapter 13, I will pursue this problematic in the larger perspective of a philosophy of dialogue.

11 Conclusions to Part IV Before proceeding to the concluding analyses of Part V, I will summarise some of the most important findings in Part IV from the 1 In Section 6.1, I have given some examples of how the notion of beginning of the twentieth century, sifts in among modern Egyptian reformists and writers of a liberal inclination. For a period, seems to have competed with wijdān as the most appropriate word to render ‘conscience’. After having demonstrated in Chapter 5 how Christian and Islamic-Arabic interacted in coining as the modern Arabic word for conscience, in Section 6.2, I added some indications of the role that transmission of French thought and European philosophy may have played in this semantic process. 2 My primary target of investigation has been the notion of in the works of Khālid and in particular those written in the 1950s and 1960s. Sidelong glances have been thrown at (in Section 7.2623), Amīn and (Section 7.6), Sayyid (Section 8.8), and at two from the Coptic context ( Lūqā and markedly different notions of Bishop Gregorius, Section 10.3). The notion of has emerged as quite central in Khālid’s and works about Christ and the history of religions and ideas, and the Islamic heritage. Considering the fact that has no central place in classical Islamic terminology and only a short history as a term for conscience in Islamic-Arabic, I would say that the notion of is strikingly central in the works of these authors. It calls for ideational as well as contextual analysis. In Part IV, I have translated as ‘conscience’. I reckon that my investigation of the works in question has justified my choice. I will once more stress the point, however, that in modern Islamic discourses is a somehow different concept from conscience in Christian and European tradition. Whereas conscience is constituted by the interplay of knowing by oneself and knowing with the other (as argued in Chapter 3), the etymology of consistently turns the eye inwards. In addition, resounds not only with Christian and European impulses, but with person-oriented ethics and a mystical heritage in Islam. 3 I have identified some distinguishing features in how Khālid and respectively employ the notion of (as indicated also in the headings of the Chapters 7, 8 and 9). But there are also many common features in their consciencerelated discourses.

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• Internalisation of morals and religion In all three authors, invocation of is linked with a modern concern for internalisation of morals and religion. Most strikingly in but also in Khālid, the rule of conscience is contrasted with adherence to outward forms and appearances. Their invocation of appears to play a central role in their overall critique of externalised obligation and blind traditionalism in religion and ethics. What makes these authors’ concern for internalisation modern, is the line they draw between individual integrity and freedom of conscience, and human progress. • Ethics and human progress Khālid, and to some extent join their interest with an optimistic vision of human progress, as epitomised by Khālid’s in paired notions of masīr (journey) and (destined goal) and a whole cluster of other future-oriented concepts which surround his elaborations on human conscience. is less optimistic about the future, although he shares the modernist view that science and religion should and can be reconciled. • Democracy, freedom of conscience and the right to say no Most clearly in Khālid and freedom of conscience and anti-authoritarianism (in both religious and political realms) are twinned concerns. With Khālid, and to some extent also with the more conservative preoccupation with conscience is wedded to a strong endorsement of liberal democracy. With the rule of conscience expresses itself most clearly in the right and duty to say no, when the political or religious community commands what is wrong. • Exemplary models for a moral formation of the individual In all three authors, connotes integrity, personal disposition for divine guidance and the need to cultivate one’s personality by virtue ethics. Most conspicuously in but also in Khālid, their discourse of conscience reveals a strong interest in outstanding individuals or geniuses—as privileged innovators and exemplary models to be emulated. • Individual autonomy and authenticity In their conscience-related discourses, both and Khālid tune in with modern Enlightenment and Romantic concerns for human autonomy and authenticity, respectively. Both authors call for a co-operation between conscience and reason, and value European philosophy’s appeal to rational autonomy. But both of them also reflect Romantic and modern existentialist tendencies to link conscience with human authenticity. Their discourses of reveal an overriding concern for being true to oneself, and not wronging oneself by al-nafs. The latter is a particularly strong concern in In Chapter 12, I will discuss the authors’ notion of authenticity in the light of more other-directed moral philosophies, under the heading of wronging oneself/wronging the other. • Conscience, love and non-violence Both Khālid and link the Self-oriented notion of with the more Other-directed notion of love a quality that all authors hold to be a central feature of Christ’s teachings.

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In Section 12.4, I will discuss the role of emotions and the range of love understood as empathy, in light of the Golden Rule and the so-called ethics of proximity. In all three authors, the rule of conscience and non-violence are two sides of the same coin. All hold non-violence to be a typically Christ-related virtue. But and Khālid also point to Gandhi as an exemplary model in this respect. They seem to posit the political activist Gandhi somewhere in between the pacifism of Christ and the political realism of which they also hold out as exemplary. In nonviolence or pacifism seems to be a more principled stand. • Conscience as an antecedent warner and guide With a view to the classical functions associated with conscience in Christian and European tradition, all authors speak of as an antecedent warner, occasionally with reference to the classical Islamic notion of taqwā. But conscience in aland Khālid is mostly referred to as an antecedent guide, aided by human reason as well as by divine revelation. is reluctant to speak of conscience as a guide in the concrete, and leaves that function to reason. Instead, he focuses on conscience’s function as a curb, as related to the law of inhibition. • Conscience as a consequent judge? Although they do not neglect the moral necessity of self-reproach (al-nafs al-lawwāma in Islamic tradition), all three authors are reluctant to link too closely with the judging function of conscience (as developed in Christian and European tradition). Instead, they repeatedly warn against excessive selfreproach, which Khālid and seem to reckon as a typical error of Christianity. In a sum, they are more interested in good conscience than in bad. In Section 12.6, I will discuss the question of ‘bad conscience’ in moral philosophy and interfaith relations. At • Conscience as the voice of God All three authors are in part inspired by least some of their writings reveal a mystical sensitivity to the (divine) voice within, which is also an important aspect of Christian mystical discourses of conscience. Only identifies conscience expressis verbis with the voice of God, although Khālid had not received guidance from his comes close to it in his contention that Lord, he would have found it in his conscience. • Conscience and religious ethics In all three authors, combined influences from philosophical, mystical and religious ethics (al-Ghazālī) in Islam have been identified. By their employment of interreligious, edifying narratives, they represent a modern and inclusive form of religious ethics. But parts of their elaborations are also philosophical and mystical in nature. 4 Finally I have demonstrated that their invocation of is also part of a wider, identity-related discourse, and wedded to a concern for Christian-Muslim dialogue. In all three authors, their notion of is strongly connected to their admiration for Christ, as they see him. In many ways, they seem to have regarded the Christ of the Gospels as an ally in their efforts to modernise Islam. They may also invoke other outstanding personalities from outside the Islamic tradition, such as Socrates and Gandhi. is just as central to their modern reappropriation of the Islamic But the notion of heritage.

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In my summaries and outlooks, I have repeatedly raised the question of whether the message of Christ (as they selectively see it) is only invoked as ‘more of the same’ from a Muslim point of view, or whether they really appreciate Christian ethics and spirituality as something distinctive and different. In order to understand the nature of the intertextuality they represent, I find Kristeva’s notion of transposition (Kristeva 1984:59f., cf. Section 2.3) to be useful: by a creative rupture in the signifying process, elements from Christian tradition are transposed to serve a different purpose in another religious universe. In this sense, Christian elements are transposed to become more of the same from a Muslim point of view. in these authors stands out It is nevertheless true that in the 1950s and 1960s, as an inclusive notion. Although it is sometimes marked with apologetic overtones on behalf of Islam, it is wedded to a universalist concern for a shared humanity. Khālid personalises the widespread turn to Islamic subjects among Egyptian intellectuals from the 1970s onwards. Although he retains his democratic concerns from his more universalist phase, his interest in ‘human’ authenticity seems gradually to be substituted for a commitment to ‘Islamic’ authenticity. In comparison with however, he remains a liberal and inclusive voice within Islam. Summing up my contextual elaborations in Chapter 10, it seems warranted to claim that Christians and Muslims in Egypt have both been united and separated by modernity. They have been united in a nationalist project which even allowed for some spiritual recognition of each other’s tradition—as expressed in humanist, conscience-oriented discourses typical of the 1950s and the 1960s. But they have also been separated—by post-1967 revivalism, and by body discourses and perceptions of authenticity that have been ‘Islamic’ and ‘Coptic’ rather than ‘human’ and ‘Egyptian’. As indicated in Sections 8.6 (Khālid) and 10.3 (Gregorius), the latter process has also affected the notion of conscience. From the 1970s onwards, conscience seems increasingly to be conceived of as either ‘Muslim’ or ‘Christian’ rather than ‘human’. 5 Maybe Khālid’s and discourses of conscience can be seen as standing at the precise turning point between inclusivist and exclusivist visions of identity in the Egyptian context. If so, their concept of corroborates Koselleck’s general view of how a new concept is shaped—when ‘the plenitude of a politicosocial context of meaning and experience in and for which a word is used can be condensed into one word’ (Koselleck 1985:84). In the present case, it was condensed into the fragile concept of a dialogical The concept of as elaborated by and Khālid did indeed prove to be fragile. The inclusivist vision of shared moral values that it expressed was overrun, although not eradicated by subsequent developments on both the Muslim and the Christian sides, as identified in Chapter 10.

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The innovative notion of as expressed by the authors in focus, as well as the history of Christian-Muslim relations in modern Egypt in general, offers itself as a stimulating resource for general reflections—on national and religious identity; universalist and communitarian visions of shared humanity; and the relation between the Self and the Other in interreligious dialogue. In the following Part V, I will use the material presented and analysed in Part IV to reflect more systematically on the relation between the Self and the Other in ethical and interreligious dialogue.

Part V Concluding discussions

12 Wronging the Self, wronging the Other Conscience and ethics in modernity In this chapter, I will discuss some moral-philosophical questions arising from al-cAqqād’s, Khālid’s and modern use of the term I will relate their to contemporary ethical debates in the Western discourses of context—focused on the ethics of authenticity and the relation between Self and Other in ethical theory The questions that will be raised in Chapters 12–14 link up with debates of considerable width and depth in contemporary ethics, philosophy and theology I have no ambition to provide anything like a full discussion of the moral or philosophical questions touched upon. I will restrict myself to the following questions: How can the modern Egyptian material be related to these debates? And how does the question of conscience relate to modern discussions of selfhood and otherness? In Chapter 12, the horizon will be mainly the moral formation of the person. In Chapter 13, I will also address the communal dimensions of selfhood and otherness, and discuss how the notion of conscience may be connected to the wider question of a philosophy of interfaith dialogue. In both chapters, I hope to demonstrate that Christianity and Islam can engage in a meaningful dialogue about ethics in modernity, just as they were perfectly able to communicate about ethics in the classical period of Islam. In Chapter 14, I will conclude my discussions with a theological reflection on what difference it makes to know something ‘together with God’. 12.1 Conscience and the inward turn forwards In the Egyptian authors in focus, I have identified several features which are typical of a modern approach to ethics. Both the strengths and weaknesses of these authors’ approach to human conscience should be easily recognisable for Christian theologians or Western philosophers who are familiar with recent discussions about ethics and modernity. Before addressing the critical questions I have selected for discussion, I will summarise what I see as the typical modern problematic in Khālid’s and employment of the notion of

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Perhaps the most striking feature of their discourses of conscience is the turn inwards. This corresponds to the etymology of the word with its implied reference to the innermost soul. To be sure, the inward turn does not in itself signal a modern concern. What makes the Egyptian authors’ call for internalisation modern, is rather their conviction that in their particular historical situation, turning inwards is simultaneously turning forwards. Both and Khālid contrast the enlightened rule of conscience with blind adherence to tradition and the outward expressions of religion. Together with they also contrast it with the seductive and intimidating rule of religious and political authority. Critically aware of the fact that external authority is insufficient and potentially destructive for moral formation, they call for refinement of character and personal integrity. But there is more to this than a concern for morality. Khālid in particular comes close to an ethics of authenticity, by his definition of conscience as ‘the human being in its true existence’ ( fi wujūdihi ). The combined motifs of internalised control, anti-authoritarianism, human authenticity and future optimism contribute to an understanding of conscience which is distinctively modern. In modern approaches to conscience in the West, one sees that the inward turn forwards always implies a redefinition of community. The Egyptian authors clearly differ in their understanding of the relation between the individual and society. With his focus on the curbing aspect of conscience, is adamant in his insistence that conscience can only be found in the individual, and he tends to see society as nothing but a permanent threat to the moral integrity of the person. notion of conscience strikes a more optimistic note, but he too mostly refers to conscience as an individual property which must be guarded against external control. Khālid shares and deepens focus on personal integrity and authenticity. But in tune with his strong concern for social justice and true democracy, he also speaks of a social conscience. Like he makes it clear that he sees Islam as more balanced than Christianity in this respect. As both and Khālid explain, the process of personal formation (which is embodied by geniuses in an exemplary way) aims ultimately at the release of human potentials to the benefit of the entire community. This presupposes, however, an unfettered freedom of thinking and choice—expressed not merely as the right of the individual to say no, but also as the right to organised opposition.624 Only when freedom of conscience is respected can the ‘new morality’ called for by and Khālid bring the Muslim as well as the universal community a firm step forwards. By their ‘inward turn forwards’ and their keen interest in ‘new morality’, both and Khālid stand out as typical modernisers in the field of ethics. In the perspective of an ethical dialogue between Islam and Christianity, the ‘inward turn forwards’ provides some openings, but also imposes some limitations.

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12.2 The Christian-Muslim quest for self-improvement: a shared but insufficient moral concern In classical traditions, the question of conscience (and of Islamic notions such as taqwā and birr) was often part of a person-oriented ethics in which character formation and the acquisition of virtues was seen as the overarching aim. In modern Christian and Muslim discourses of conscience, personal originality or authenticity has become an additional concern. Classical and modern concerns may however, merge. Searching for the roots of the modern self, Charles Taylor points at Rousseau’s thought as a point of departure for a great deal of contemporary culture—not only the philosophies of self-exploration, but also ‘the creeds which make selfdetermining freedom the key to virtue’ (Taylor 1994b:362f.). In that sense, the modern quest for authenticity and self-determination may in fact be conceived of as an ally for virtue ethics, with a ‘democratised’ emphasis on the moral competence of the individual. As demonstrated in Chapter 4, Islam has a rich tradition of techniques aimed at ‘disciplining of the soul’ ( al-nafs) and ‘refining the character’ —in particular as developed in philosophical and mystical ethics. But the same can be said of narrative ethics that focus upon the Prophet and other holy men and women as moral models to be emulated. In several of these Islamic traditions, the example of Jesus is cited side by side with that of in a chain of prophets and wise men who deserve to be imitated. The modern Egyptian authors link up with the Islamic tradition of appreciating Jesus as an ethical role model, and take it a firm step further in their books about Christ. In stating ideals and techniques of personal formation, Islam and Christianity often came strikingly close to each other in the classical periods. ethics, both in its more ascetic versions and in its language of love, has probably been inspired by contact with Christian monasticism in the East (cf. Section 4.6). As for philosophical ethics, we have seen that Miskawayh’s masterpiece (‘The Refinement of Character’) was much inspired by a work with the same title by the Syrian Jacobite Christian ibn (cf. Section 4.5). Conversely, ethics and Muslim philosophical ethics inspired the ethical thought of Christian theologians, philosophers and mystics. Both Christians and Muslims were, to be sure, in the first place influenced by Aristotelian and neo-Platonic ethics. They learnt from Greek teachings about how the faculties of the soul should be balanced, vices avoided and virtues achieved—with a view both to human good in this world and to immortality. In this process, Plato, Aristotle, Jesus and have de facto been companions on the road. The works of and Khālid can be seen as new links in this great chain of mysticalphilosophical, Christian-Muslim intertextuality and cross-fertilisation. Both Christianity and Islam have profited from Greek-inspired, therapeutic approaches to ethics, and deepened them by religious insights. In both traditions, one finds a fundamental trust that the sickness of the human heart can be healed, and that the vicissitudes of the soul can be disciplined and balanced. In modern alternative religiosity,

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similar insights may be borrowed from both Buddhism, Orthodox spirituality and Western mysticism—in a general shift from battering moralism towards a more optimistic prospect of self-improvement. As I will argue later, however, optimistic ideas of how the Self may be disciplined and healed must be balanced by the realistic insight that a harmonious Self does not necessarily meet the need of the Other. 12.3 Conscience, reason and emotion in the modern Self In modernity ethical theories and projects of reform have often been marked by a rationalist bias. Rationalism has been balanced, however, by the more emotional voice of modern Romanticism. Modern discourses of conscience incline either towards reason or towards emotion. In Rousseau’s notion of conscience, there is a place for emotion as well as for reason. Rousseau claims that reason can indicate the good to us, but cannot provide us with the motivation to act on the recognition of the good. As Alessandro Ferrara has noted, ‘That requires instead a sentiment as strong as the passions which lead man toward evil, and to this sentiment Rousseau gives the name of conscience’ (Ferrara 1993:77). and Khālid seem to represent a similar view, in which the guidance of reason is supplemented by the motivating force of conscience. In tune with the inward oriented etymology of the word they assign to conscience a guiding function which is anchored not just in the articulate intellect, but in innermost moral intuitions as well. shares the view that reason may guide the human being towards the good. But he is more critically aware of reason’s potentials for moral error. Only when heeding conscience as a curb and restraint, can reason guide us towards the good. By his critique of unbridled reason and his call for restraint, is in tune Jewish-Western recognitions of the devastating potentials of rational modernity, as experienced during the Second World War.625 In and Khālid, reason and conscience are not contrasted as in but typically referred to in parallel. The role of emotions in ethical formation is more rarely referred to by these authors, but is not entirely neglected. I will argue that in a conscience-based ethics, emotions must be allowed to play a part—not primarily as ‘feelings’,626 but rather in the sense of other-directed empathy. Only through empathy can the destructive potential of human reason be curbed, and possibly overcome. Empathy is clearly within the horizon of Khālid’s discourses of conscience, as expressed by their preoccupation with the notion of ‘love’. Their interest in the notion of love is most conspicuous in what they write about Christ, but it also shines through in their exposition of teachings.627 According to Taylor, the theme of love is a most central aspect of the modern ethics of authenticity (Taylor 1995:50). The notion of love signals something more than a quest for Self-identify: it indicates the role of empathy in moral formation. When empathy enters

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the picture, the Other comes in. As the moral philosopher Arne Johan Vetlesen points out: ‘Empathy sets up, indeed helps produce and sustain, a relation, a between…involving one subject’s relating to another; its locus is the interpersonal as distinct from the intrapersona’ (Vetlesen 1994:8). Distinguishing between distanced respect and involved concern, Vetlesen notes that empathy means something more than the general respect for others called for by rationalist ethics. Empathy presupposes emotional concern for the particular situation of the individual Other (ibid.: 1–4). The modern tension between rationality and emotion in ethics may be related to the classical conflict between a deontological ethics asking ‘what ought one to do‘and a value ethics asking ‘what is good for me or us’. Vetlesen notes that in modern interpretations, value ethics is most often approached in the perspective of authenticity. This means that all questions concerning the good life are addressed existentially. They are ‘settled not in terms of their normative rightness but in terms of their authenticity’ and ‘bound up with that particular person’s quest for identity and self-understanding’ (Vetlesen 1997:1f.). But value ethics wedded to a concern for individual authenticity need not entail selfish seclusion. Charles Taylor has emphasised that an ethics of authenticity is always formulated within the ‘inescapable framework’ of a social community, and that it implies some ‘strong evaluations’ of good and bad which underpin our notions of a full life and also underlie our sense of respect for others (Taylor 1994b:14). The question, then, in both a Christian and an Islamic ethics of authenticity, is how the relation to the Other contributes to the moral formation of a person or a community. Must authenticity always be thought of as self-centred, as a question of being true to Oneself? Or could authenticity also be thought of as being true to the Other? In that case, how? 12.4 Being true to the Other—guided by the golden rule, or by the ethics of closeness? With regard to the Egyptian authors, it may seem that a typically modern preoccupation with personal autonomy and authenticity blurred the role of the Other in their discourses of conscience. The inward orientation of the modern Arabic word selected for conscience— —may have worked in the same direction. If one seeks for some kind of conceptual merge between being true to Oneself and being true to the Other, the 628 word ‘conscience’ may prove to be more adequate than the word The real question, however, is what is put into these words in a given ethicoreligious discourse. In that respect, many Western discourses of conscience have proved to be just as preoccupied with the integrity of the Self as one might expect (on etymological grounds) of a discourse of Trying to understand exactly what the other-directed aspect of conscience may imply, I will briefly discuss the relation between the reciprocal principle of the golden rule, and the more asymmetrical principle implied in the so-called ethics of proximity.

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The golden rule and the principle of reciprocity Almost universal in its dissemination, the golden rule is found in most religious traditions and expressed either in the negative or positive: ‘always treat (not) others as you would (not) like them to treat you’.629 In Jewish-Christian tradition, it has often been seen in the light of the empathetic injunction to ‘love your neighbour (Greek: plēsíon) as yourself’.630 By the intention of conforming to a principle of universalisation and reciprocity the golden rule links the interest of the Self with that of the Other. As for the relation between reason and emotion in ethics, the golden rule could either be thought of as a different formulation of Kant’s categorical imperative (i.e. as a rational obligation), or as something more ‘sensitive’ that presupposes empathy and emotional solidarity. In its negative formulation, one could say that the golden rule merely calls for respect for the Other. When formulated in the positive—and elucidated by the injunction to love one’s neighbour as oneself—an element of empathetic concern for the Other is added. None of Khālid or invokes the golden rule explicitly, although it 631 As noted in Section 4.4, can be attributed not only to Christ, but also to the classical Muslim expression of the golden rule is found in the collection of (‘The Book of Faith’): ‘No one of you will become al-Bukhārī, in Kitāb faithful/be a believer till he wishes for his brother what he likes for himself.’632 If the Egyptian authors seem to be more interested in the Self-oriented principle of personal autonomy and authenticity than in the Other-directed principle of the golden rule, it is obviously not because that dimension is lacking in the Islamic tradition. As I have suggested, the Self-oriented nature of their discourses of conscience should rather be taken as a Muslim expression of a typical modern concern for the integrity of the individual. What difference would it make, then, if the golden rule had been specifically invoked by the Egyptian authors? The most critical question concerning any invocation of the golden rule would probably be its range of application. Should the ‘brother’ referred to by al-Bukhārī be conceived of solely as Muslim and brother (as indicated by some commentators), or as a universalist principle of reciprocity which transcends the borders of faith and gender? As noted in Section 4.4, standard English translations of the collections tend to add the narrowing parenthesis (Muslim).633 Some Muslim thinkers would be ready for radical reinterpretations of Islamic ethics and law in the light of a universalising interpretation of the golden rule. In his outline of an ‘Islamic reformation’, the human rights lawyer and reform thinker Abdullahi Ahmed refers to the golden rule as ‘the universal principle of reciprocity’ ( 1990:1, 162–5). In the questions of both women’s rights and the status of religious minorities, invokes the principle of reciprocity and argues for a revision of šarīca. In his view, a universal application of the golden rule challenges all kinds of discrimination against the Other—be it a representative of the other sex, or of another faith community. In the light of the principle of reciprocity, what men have claimed as their rights (rights that they also hold according to classical šarīca) must now unreservedly be accepted as the equal rights of women. Equally, what Muslims—or Christians—would like to claim as their rights in society, must unreservedly be

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recognised as the right of the religiously Other. Only thus can the golden rule gain who calls for a radical ijtihād as regards the rights universal validity argues of women and religious minorities. If the golden rule had been more actively employed by the Egyptian authors, it might have challenged them to state more clearly the practical implications of their notion of a of love and their call for a renewed ijtihād in the name of conscience. Although Khālid in particular calls for a greater recognition of the rights of women, both he and are often vague in the application of their visions—in particular when it comes to recognising the difference of the religiously Other. Asymmetrical relations and the ethics of proximity The golden rule challenges the Self to wish for the Other the same as one wishes for oneself. But what if the Other demands something different from oneself? In the question of minority rights, the religiously Other often claims that the right to be different must be unreservedly recognised. In interreligious relations, the question of unequal distribution of power should never be overlooked. To what extent can the principle of reciprocity be applied in situations with glaring inequality in social, cultural and political power? In such contexts, the Other may wish for a self-critical recognition of the asymmetrical relation on the part of the majority, rather than (unrealistic) reciprocity. In what has been termed the ethics of ‘closeness’ in recent ethical debates in the West, ethics is turned around from the intentions of the Self to the articulate or silent demand of the Other (Jodalen and Vetlesen 1997). The ethics of closeness or proximity, as represented by the Jewish French philosopher Emmanuel Levinas or the Christian Danish theologian Knud E.Løgstrup, has been formulated as a critique of those lines of thought in modern ethics that have been preoccupied with the rational autonomy of the Self. But the ethics of closeness also transcends the ideal of reciprocity. In an ethics of proximity, the moral subject is not conceived of as being constituted by the deliberations of the Self, be they rational or empathetic in character. Instead, morality is seen as the response to an outward call from the Other: ‘The core of being-for is neither right nor rights, neither the happiness nor the good of those concerned. Its core is responsibility… as originating from what is exterior not interior to the agent’ (Vetlesen 1997:9). For Levinas, ‘proximity’ is a cue for what takes place in a truly dialogical encounter. In a meditation on Buber’s concept of I-Thou, Levinas speaks paradoxically of ‘the distance of proximity, the marvel of the social relation. In that relation, the difference between the I and the other remains’ (Levinas 1999:93). A crucial point in Levinas’ deliberations on proximity is his emphasis on the asymmetrical nature of human relations. Although he links up with Buber’s concept of I-You, he challenges the idea of reciprocity which seems to be implied in Buber’s philosophy. Levinas is at pains to emphasise that in a relation, there is always some kind of asymmetry or imbalance: ‘The other whom I address—is he not initially the one with whom I stand in the relationship one has with one who is weaker?’ (Levinas 1999:100).634

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Levinas does not, however, obliterate any notion of reciprocity in ethics. As he sees it, reciprocity recurs as a question of social justice at the very moment a third person or party enters the stage (ibid.: 101f.). But he insists that the primary ethical—and dialogical—relation is one of asymmetry. Rather than reciprocity, it entails responsibility for the Other. I am not suggesting that the recognition of asymmetrical relations and the ethics of proximity can solve each and every problem inherent in modern understandings of conscience. But the ethics of proximity challenges the Self to respond rationally as well as emotionally to the difference of the Other—who cannot be reduced to another version of the Self. 12.5 Wronging Oneself or wronging the Other? When trying to elucidate the question of selfhood and otherness in moral formation (and in conscience), the question may also be raised in the negative: should moral violation— or ‘sin’—be conceived of as wronging Oneself, or as wronging the Other? Even more than the ideal of reciprocity, the actual failure to comply with the demand of the Other reveals the asymmetrical nature of interpersonal relations. In what follows, I will reflect on the question of selfhood and otherness in ethics in conjunction with the conception al-nafs—‘wronging oneself. I have noted that the title of didactic novel about human conscience, Qarya 635 alludes to the expression al-nafs (‘to wrong oneself’) in the The verbal expression was later conceptualised as al-nafs, ‘wronging oneself (cf. Section 4.3). By its repeated references to al-nafs, it might seem that the conceives of wrongdoing essentially as wronging oneself, or maybe more pointedly: ‘wronging one’s self/soul’. In a separate essay, Kāmil has elaborated his understanding of the meaning of in the ( and Cragg 1959). He argues that in the or has either the sense of doing injustice to others, or wronging oneself in the sense of injuring oneself. As for the first possibility, there are hardly any references in the to or in the sense of doing wrong to other human beings. Much of the wrongdoing hinted at—such as rebellious idolatry—is related to God. But according to the by their idolatry or refusal to accept God’s signs, people ‘did not wrong Us, but they wronged themselves’ (Q 2:57). Correspondingly when human beings will eventually have to pay for their wrongdoing, it will become clear that God did not wrong them, but they wronged themselves (Q, 3:117 and passim). In the concept of self-wronging finds ‘something of great Islamic significance, a way of moral thinking peculiar to Islam’ (ibid.: 200). discards systems of ethical motivation based upon fear and intimidation, promises of reward, pure obligation or mere utility. Instead, he finds in the concept of al-nafs the

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foundation of an ethics that offers ‘a greater incentive and a more powerful restraint’ (ibid.: 204). The concept of wronging oneself may be interpreted in at least two different ways. Wronging oneself may simply be seen as an expression of the dual consciousness which is presupposed in conscience as ‘knowing by oneself. But in modern interpretations, it may also be associated with the overriding concern to protect one’s integrity and authenticity.636 As in any ethics of authenticity a modern understanding of the concept of al-nafs begs the question of how the relation between the Self and the Other should be conceived of—also in the understanding of ‘sin’. Is sin merely a relation between God and the Self? Should not fear of wronging the human Other, rather than that of wronging oneself, be the most ‘powerful restraint’? If sin is essentially wronging oneself and not wronging God, would that also imply that wronging the human Other is not a constitutive aspect of sin? As Kenneth Cragg has noted in his response to essay, the Gospels too may speak of sin as wronging oneself or even losing one’s soul.637 Cragg’s critical discussion with raises the question of how profoundly the human capacity of self-wronging is thought of: is it something that can be avoided, or a reflection of an inescapable and essential sin that calls for salvation rather than correction? In the following, I will pursue Cragg’s question in one particular direction. Utilising the insights of Levinas, I will suggest that the notion of essential sin may be interpreted as reflecting the inescapable experience of not being able to respond adequately to the boundless call of the Other, be it the human other, or—in a move towards infinity—God. According to Levinas, sinning is first, and last, wronging the Other. In Levinas, ethics is not constituted by the subjectivity of the Self. Instead, the Self is always thought of as ‘in the accusative’, that is, as addressed and in a sense accused by the Other. As noted, Levinas understands this relation as asymmetrical rather than reciprocal. He also claims that any ethics worthy of the name is oriented towards the face of the Other, which ‘forces itself on me’.638 and begs: ‘Thou shalt not kill’ (Levinas 1991:198f, Levinas 1999:104). As Levinas sees it, ‘bad conscience’ is basically the sense of wronging the Other, originating from a ‘fear of all that my existing, despite its intentional and conscious innocence, can accomplish of violence and murder’ (Levinas 1986:38, Levinas 1998:175). In conjunction with his meditation on the face which commands ‘Thou shalt not kill’, he notes that the prohibition against killing does not render murder impossible. But ‘the authority of the prohibition is maintained in the bad conscience about the accomplished evil—malignancy of evil’ (Levinas 1985:87). It is not difficult to see in Levinas the reflection of a major trajectory in JewishChristian ethics. Biblical ethics takes as its negative starting point the broken relation between Adam and Eve, and the subsequent story of Cain who kills his brother Abel. In both stories, the relation between wronging the human Other and disobeying God is complex. In biblical contexts, the one aspect cannot be separated from or subordinated to the other. In the Sermon on the Mount, when Jesus radicalises the injunction not to kill, the Other literally stands between the Self and God (Matthew 5:21–6). In the judgement scene of Matthew 25:31ff., people are judged in accordance with their response to or

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ignorance of the silent call of vulnerable others such as the hungry, the thirsty, the foreigner, the naked, the ill and the prisoner. As the author of 1. John sees it: if a person does not love his brother whom he has seen, it cannot be that he loves God whom he has not seen (1. John 4:21). What is the role of the human Other, then, in Islamic ethics? Obviously, the selfrelated concept of al-nafs is not all that Islam can offer in this respect. Both in the and in one may find passages in which the human Other seems to stand between oneself and God, thus accusing the Self (putting it in the accusative) on God’s behalf. In the judgement scene of sūra 81, the female infant who was buried alive is questioned—presumably in the presence of the accused perpetrators—for which crime Qudsī about the merit of visiting the she was killed (Q 81:8f.). According to a sick, reported by Muslim in his Kitāb al-birr (The Book of Piety), God will say on the Day of Resurrection: ‘O son of Adam, I was sick but you did not visit Me.’ When the accused exclaims: ‘O my Lord; how could I visit Thee whereas Thou art the Lord of the worlds?’, God will say (in a way strongly reminiscent of Matthew 25): ‘Didn’t you know that such and such servant of Mine was sick but you did not visit him and were you not aware of this that if you had visited him, you would have found Me by him?’639 Also in more prescriptive and discursive versions of Islamic ethics, the Other certainly has a role to play in the moral formation of the Self. Classical Islamic law can be seen as an applied communal ethics, in which the individual must find his/her place without violating the divinely instituted rights of others. As for philosophical virtue ethics, Miskawayh agrees with Aristotle that the human being is by nature a civic being, that virtues can be achieved only by association, and that justice as a virtue causes one to be fair to others just as much as to oneself.640 As for understanding of the Self and the Other, we have seen that in Qarya Christ as a disturbing Other is rather in the shadows of the novel. We are not—as in the Gospels—directly confronted with the face of Christ as the mutilated victim of other people’s violence. Instead, chose to interpret the events of Good Friday as an inner drama about wronging oneself by killing one’s own conscience. Is Islamic ethics in version ultimately a ‘selfish’ ethics, then? With reference to strong focus on abstention from killing as the most crucial religious injunction (cf. Section 9.4), I would answer no. Pointing to non-violence as the most prominent expression of the voice of conscience, comes close to the views of Levinas—and Gandhi. Although and Khālid may not be counted as pacifists in an absolute sense, they too reveal a strong concern for non-violence, in particular when writing about Christ and Gandhi. Historical Christianity has little to boast of with regard to non-violence, and historically, Islam has also had an ambivalent approach to the question of violence. I will suggest that both Christianity and Islam have much to learn from an ethics of the face, as formulated by Levinas in a post-holocaust recognition of the boundless nature of evil. Levinas suggests that ‘In the access to the face there is certainly also an access to the idea of God’ (Levinas 1985:92)—a God who has left his trace of infinity in the face of the vulnerable Other. He may even claim: ‘The face is the locus of the word of God’ (Levinas 1999:104).

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In the perspective of an ethics of the face, it would be more proper to conceive of crucifixion of conscience as the extinction of the Other’s face than as a denial of the integral Self. If Levinas is right, the crucifixion of Christ—and of any other human being—must ultimately be conceived of as a blow against God. As shown in Section 3.4, Feuerbach also sees conscience as a painful knowing with others, in which the suffering of the neglected or wounded Other leaves its indelible stamp on the Self. Differently from Feuerbach, who propounds his recognition as an atheist insight, Levinas sees the trace of ‘Him’—the infinite third one—in the Other’s face.641 Both Feuerbach and Levinas call for a meditation on conscience which is not ‘selfish’, but oriented towards the face of the Other. Bad conscience is the awareness of something broken in the relation to others, which needs to be healed. In order to be healed, the broken relation must first be recognised—by a reproaching soul. 12.6 Bad conscience and ‘the reproaching soul’ In Christian discourses of human conscience, the capacity of self-reproach and its emotional equivalent remorse has often been focused upon. According to both and Khālid, it has been overemphasised, with the effect that human potentials for good have been neglected. The reproaching or judging function of conscience is in fact not the most striking aspect of New Testament references to conscience (cf. Section 3.2), although it was later thought to have found its classical formulation by Paul in Romans 2:15. Later Christian understanding of self-reproach was much influenced by the Jewish-Stoic philosopher Philo, who defined conscience precisely by its reproaching (élenchos) function (Section 3.2). In early modernity, Luther radicalised the judging aspect of conscience as expressed by Paul and made it the foundation of his idea of a conscience truly liberated by grace (Section 3.3). On a more optimistic note, Kant defined Gewissen as the human being’s autonomous inner court in which one is either convicted or acquitted for one’s actions (Section 3.4). In Protestant theology as well as in idealist philosophy, the reproaching function of conscience has often been seen as a solitary affair of the individual—coram Deo, or (in modern reinterpretations) expressing human autonomy. This is where Feuerbach, in his critique of theology as well as of idealist philosophy, insists on the interpersonal and social dimension of the self-reproaching conscience. He claims that the phenomena of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ conscience make no sense without the recognition of ‘oneself as another’: bad conscience is essentially the internalised pain of the wounded Other (Section 3.4). Even more radically, Levinas speaks of bad conscience as a pre-reflective moral consciousness—a fear that comes to me from the face of the Other (Levinas 1986:37f, Levinas 1999:175).642 We have seen that in the Egyptian authors in focus, the reproaching function of conscience is not at the centre of their interest when they employ the term They do not entirely neglect it, but their main focus is on ‘good’ rather than on ‘bad’

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conscience. may incidentally speak of the self-reproaching soul (al-nafs al-lawwāma, 75:2) in connection with conscience, but only in passing, and his main point is that conscience reflects the human condition of being enjoined and 1974/1961b:389). When the mature Khālid defines conscience accountable ( as ‘the human being in his true existence’, he makes it clear that his definition is different from those who see in conscience primarily ‘the spiritual function which makes the human being regret the evil he has committed’ (Khālid 1986/1958:96). In both Khālid and conscience is primarily conceived of in terms of its creative potentials— as the seat of human responsibility; as the anchoring ground of moral judgements; as the faculty of formulating new moral insights in the light of divine revelation; and as the warrant of human integrity and authenticity. With there is clearly more negativity and pain in his discourse of conscience. He sees conscience not only as subject to suppression by external tyrants, but often enough liable to crucifixion and extinction by its own bearer. But too finds the typical Christian sense of self-reproach a little obsessive, as shown by his ironic remark in the annexes to his novel of conscience: ‘The best Christian in his or her most sublime moments is a sad person’ (Hussein 1994/1959:233). The Egyptian authors’ critique of exaggerated self-reproach in Christian traditions parallels similar critiques of a Christian preoccupation with ‘bad conscience’ by humanist philosophers in the West. Although the sense of bad conscience can be pathologically misused, I will argue that it cannot be dispensed with in an other-directed view of ethics. The same applies to interreligious relations. In Christian-Muslim dialogue, it is often hard to reach beyond the affirmation of shared values that can be positively known together by Christians and Muslims. One seldom reaches as far as addressing inflicted suffering and pain. In most contexts, both Christians and Muslims would have ample reasons to recognise that the integrity and anxiety of the Other has been wounded or neglected. Maybe a Christian-Muslim dialogue about conscience focused on the pain of the other might lead to a more honest sharing of experiences than idealist endeavours alone may engender? Going into Oneself in this sense may open a new road towards the Other.

13 Conscience in interreligious dialogue Telling the story of Oneself as Another Whereas in Chapter 12, I mostly discussed selfhood and otherness in relation to the moral formation of individuals, in this chapter I will also look into the communal dimensions of Self and Other. I will argue that Paul Ricoeur’s notion of ‘oneself as another’ seems very appropriate to reconcile the external and internal dimensions of the moral call. In my view, it may also function as a bridge between communal identity and universal obligation. In Chapter 3, I have argued that the Christian or Western notion of ‘conscience’ is essentially relational. Knowing by oneself always implies some kind of obligating knowledge with others. I have suggested that this applies both to individual relationships and to the relation between communities. As Charles Taylor has argued, the notion of ‘authenticity’ is also necessarily relational. It can only be conceived of in the inescapable frameworks of significant others, with whom one identifies or from whom one distances oneself. In Chapter 12, I have discussed the insights of ‘the ethics of closeness’, according to which true morality presupposes an empathetic concern for the Other. If conscience is recognised as relational and empathetic, how should the others included in conscience be conceived of? Only as an extension of myself, like me and my community, or as others with a potentially painful difference? In Chapters 7 and 8, we have seen that both and Khālid’s notions of conscience are inclusivist. They nourish themselves not only from Islamic sources, but from the teachings of Christ as reflected in the Bible, from European philosophy and from the insights of other great traditions. But neither Khālid nor addresses the painful experiences in Christian-Muslim coexistence. When differences are identified, both authors are apologetic on behalf of Islam. To what extent does their outlook allow for differences with a permanent challenge? In Section 10.3, we have seen that modern Coptic discussions of the theme of conscience are also marked by strong communitarian concerns. In Bishop Gregorius’ approach to the issue of human conscience, the Muslim Other seems not even to be within the horizon. In apologetic and communitarian concerns are less visible. His approach to conscience is marked by the shattering insight that the human being almost unavoidably tends to crucify conscience, by succumbing to communal interest of a religious or political kind. So interpreted, the drama of Good Friday leaves Christians and Muslims

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alike naked and bare. I have also shown that is more sensitive to the distinctive virtues of different religions, and claims that these virtues can be appropriated by the individual regardless of his or her formal religious affiliation. But only addresses the question of religious difference in its personal dimension. The question remains of how one can relate meaningfully to the religiously Other in a communal sense too, in an interfaith dialogue between individuals who are conscious of belonging to particular communities. 13.1 The turn to the Other ‘For almost 300 years, we have been looking forwards and put our faith in the future. It is on time to look sidewards: there stands our neighbour, having waited for us for nearly 300 years’ (Aarnes 1999:1).643 This is how the Norwegian thinker Asbjørn Aarnes (in conjunction with the insights of Levinas) has formulated the breakdown of future optimism and the autonomous Self, and the ensuing turn to the Other. The turn to the Other has often been termed as an ethical turn in philosophy (ibid.: 8). It does not come by itself. It takes conversion to respond to the difference of the Other with respect and concern. In interreligious relations, there has often been a tendency either to demonise the Other, or to obliterate differences by way of a rationalising future optimism. If one decides to leave aside both demonising enemy images and harmonising approaches which fail to take differences seriously—how can the others who belong to a different religious community be thought of? As neighbours with whom you will have to cope in respect? As members of an extended spiritual family (e.g. Abrahamic) with whom you can identify in spite of differences? As members of the human race for whom you can have a deep concern, irrespective of faith? As companions on the road in an interreligious solidarity against injustice? In recent philosophies of dialogue, especially between representatives of the Abrahamic family, ‘the turn to the Other’ has become an established topos. Much of the inspiration has come from the Jewish philosophers Martin Buber and Emmanuel Levinas, and from Christian philosophers and theologians such as Paul Ricoeur and David Tracy. On the Muslim side, I would point to the Indian-British writer Hasan Askari and the South African activist and writer Farid Esack as examples of a similar turn to the Other (cf. Sections 13.2 and 13.4). Many of these thinkers make no sharp distinction between the individual and communal levels of selfhood and otherness. After all, inter-communal relations are made up of persons, and interpersonal relations are often deeply affected by intercommunal conditions. Part of the background of the turn to the Other in recent philosophy and theology in the Abrahamic family is in fact communal in nature. It refers itself to dramatic or even traumatic experiences of a collective kind. More than anyone else, Levinas and his philosophy of the Other’s face epitomise the turn to the Other in late modern philosophy. As already noted, Levinas’ radical ethics of the face—which commands ‘thou shalt not kill’—must be read in light of the traumatic experiences of the twentieth century, culminating in the attempt to extinguish the Jewish Other in holocaust. In a more general perspective, it can be read as a counter to

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modernity’s obsession with subjectivity and self-interest. According to Levinas, morality consists of taking upon oneself a responsibility which originates not from the Self but from the Other’s demand. Being morally responsible implies divesting oneself of one’s freedom, in the recognition that I can only be ‘in myself through the others (Levinas 1981:112). Levinas radicalises his insights by speaking of the substitution of the Self for the Other ‘as a hostage’, in an ethical relationship which transcends not only egoism but also self-originating altruism.644 David Tracy is one of many Christian theologians who have argued that in an age of religious pluralism, theology cannot be done except ‘in serious conversation with the other great ways’ (Tracy 1990:xi). Tracy connects his interreligious concerns to insights from liberation theology. When he reflects upon the ‘the Divine Other of Liberation’ as ‘the Hidden God’, he speaks of the disturbing difference of the Other who is not only religiously different, but also marginalised by global social injustice: ‘History will now be seen as the focus of God’s self-disclosure in the survival, struggle, and conflict of oppressed and forgotten people, living and dead: in otherness, difference, marginality’ (Tracy 1996:14). Paul Ricoeur addresses the question of selfhood and otherness in a less dramatic and more general perspective. When investigating the conditions of moral formation, his key concept is that of ‘oneself as another’ (Ricoeur 1994, cf. Section 13.3). Not only traumas, but ordinary everyday experience also gives impetus to reflections on how Self and Other, sameness and difference, are interrelated in the moral constitution of the person. Approaching the question of a similar turn to the Other in Islamic theology, the communal and more dramatic perspectives on selfhood and otherness must still be kept in mind. The turn to the Other in Christian theology and Western philosophy can for a great part be read as a self-critique on Christianity’s behalf. Much of it has to do with interreligious relations—reflecting the fact that religious identity is often formulated by way of contrast. For many, religious difference increases the sense of the other person as fundamentally different. Such recognitions do not necessarily foster respect, and religiously defined enemy images have proved to find a fertile ground even among the close relatives of the Abrahamic family. In general, Christian tradition has no glorious history of respect for the religiously Other. Christian theology carries a heavy legacy of anti-Judaism. In Christian responses to Islam, from John of Damascus right into the Lutheran Confessio Augustana, Islam has been conceived of as a Christian heresy rather than as a distinct religion in its own right.645 In periods of social and political conflict, Christianity has supplied ideological fuel to the persecution of Jews and the fighting of Muslims with the sword. When there has been a real concern for the Other, it has often been linked with the stated wish to change the Other’s religious identity—as in missionary efforts of a more traditional kind.646 13.2 Islam and the religiously Other The lack of respect for the Other’s religious identity is, however, not merely a Christian problem. It is rather a shared one in the Abrahamic family. Historically, competing

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interests on the political level have always jeopardised the many examples that may rightfully be cited of peaceful coexistence between Jews, Christians and Muslims on the neighbourly level. In modern contexts of imperialism, nationalism and religiously motivated resistance, Christianity, Islam as well as Judaism have sanctioned identityforming violence. In Chapter 10, we have seen that dominant identity discourses in late modern Egypt have separated Christians and Muslims rather than united them, both on the national and neighbourly level. In many places, simplistic identity propaganda in the name of religion has also proved to be lethal—as demonstrated in Palestine/Israel, Lebanon and the Balkans. It is such experience that has led Amin Maalouf to speak of ‘murderous identities’ (Maalouf 1999).647 Modern theories of communal formation shed fresh light on the dynamics of this dark history, which cannot easily be moralised away. As Edward Said has noted in his critical studies of Western Orientalism, the very construction of identity ‘involves establishing opposites and “others” whose actuality is always subject to the continuous interpretation and reinterpretation of their differences from “us.” Each age and society recreates its “others”’ (Said 1995:3). What has Islam contributed in this process, politically and conceptually? On the ideological level, modern Muslim popular literature on Christianity is often very polemical in its approach, and links up with classical attempts to refute the integrity of Christianity.648 In these polemic traditions within Islam, there is no more respect to be found for the religiously Other than in dominant trajectories of Christian theology. In terms of political history, Islamic tradition may certainly boast some early examples or millet systems). As an icon of of minority protection (as practised in the peaceful coexistence, Muslim Spain is often cited as a tolerant exception in the European medieval context. But although Christian and Jewish minorities have in many cases been respected and protected in Muslim majority societies, they have always been circumscribed by restrictions that were defined by Islamic law and corresponded to Muslim majority interest. In ancient Byzantine lands, where Islam, still in its formative period, replaced Christian hegemony, the remnant Christian minorities have been rapidly dwindling in the twentieth century. The reasons behind the increasing pressure on Christian minority groups in the modern period are complex. But although there are often social or ethnic factors involved, it cannot be overlooked that part of the explanation lies in a mounting Muslim self-assertion on the communal level and a corresponding socio-political concern for Islamic authenticity. If historical Islam, then, shares with Judaism and Christianity the problem of disrespect for the religious Other, can self-critical tendencies—parallel to the turn to the Other identified in Christian and Jewish philosophy—be observed in contemporary Islamic thought? In an analysis of prevailing discourses of the Other in the modern Arab context, distinguishes between Islamic, liberal-rationalist, nationalist-secularist and 1997). He notes that in all these discourses, Marxist concepts of the Other ( the Other is thought of as the Western rather than as the Christian Arab Other. (As we have seen, the interest in Christianity among the modern Egyptian authors focused on by the present study was also oriented towards Western tradition rather than towards Coptic

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thought.) Although Western colonialism is often attacked, also finds strong elements of cultural self-critique. In the divergent discourses of the Arab renaissance Muslim culture and Islamic tradition were always seen as a problem that needed to be tackled first if the Arab world was ever to cope with the West (ibid.: 95.) The drive behind this kind of Arab-Muslim self-critique, however, was not concern for the religiously Other. The dominant question was how to break with stagnant tradition, when faced with the dynamism of Western modernity. The horizon was determined by a selfcritical look backwards and a self-assertive, modernising orientation forwards. If one turns to Muslims committed to interreligious dialogue on the international scene, the picture is different. Here one finds that questions of religious difference are addressed directly and constructively. The Egyptian-American emphasises what he perceives as a fundamental recognition of religious pluralism in the (Osman 1998, cf. Section 7.2649). The Lebanese-American Mahmoud Ayoub employs allusions when he speaks of Christians as the ‘nearest in amity’ (Q 5:82). However, after having examined the commentaries on Q 5:82 and 2:62/5:69 by exegetes from the latter half of the twentieth century, he influential Sunnī and concludes that most of the influential commentaries on the in the contemporary context reject its pluralistic world-view in favour of a confrontational approach to other religions (Ayoub 1997). Turning to a non-Muslim scholar, we have noted in Section 4.3 that Jane Dammen McAuliffe suggests that apparent inclusivism may have the underlying premise that ‘good’ Christians are not really recognised in their religious difference, but only as implicit Muslims. Her study Christians (McAuliffe 1991) is carried out in the light of classical and modern exegesis.650 From the exegetical literature, it may seem that those Christians who are referred to as balanced people on the right course were in fact regarded as Muslims: ‘These are the Christians whose persistence in the truth allowed the proper response to the historical appearance of prophethood’ (ibid.: 287). Those Christians whom the commends, then, are not the living community of people who call themselves Christians, but rather a conceptual idealisation: Christians…are Christians who either accepted the prophethood of and the revelation entrusted to him or would have done so had their historical circumstances permitted’ (ibid.). McAuliffe notes that in Islamic tradition, paradigmatic conversion stories (such as those of Salmān al-Fārisī and the Abyssinian king) serve to underpin the same point (ibid.). In a similar vein, Francis Peters (Peters 1997) has raised the question of whether the recognises the ‘good’ Christians as really different (alius), or merely conceives of them as more of the same (alter). McAuliffe’s analysis corresponds to the dominant tendency in Islamic apologetics to see ‘authentic Christianity’ as something different from biblical as well as contemporary Christianity—which is thought of as having seriously deviated from the right course. As I have argued earlier, this may also be the implication of the inclusive discourses of

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and Khālid, who both tend to become apologetic and supersessionist in their argument when religious difference is addressed directly. Hasan Askari and the soothing yet painful encounter with the Other Against all too inclusivist theologies of either a Muslim or Christian kind, it can be argued that only when the Other is recognised as a challenge to one’s own identity, is the Other taken seriously as willed by God in his or her difference. Parts of the may serve to underpin the idea that religious difference is in fact willed by God (cf. Q 5:48). Among Muslims who have addressed the question of the religiously Other in the late modern context, I find this recognition in an Indian-British Muslim of background, Hasan Askari (b. 1932).651 Long before it became common in interreligious dialogue to speak of the Other with a capital O, Askari wrote an essay about the dialogical relationship between Christianity and Islam which is much in tune with what I have referred to earlier as the turn to the Other in Jewish and Christian philosophy (Askari 1972). The double context of Askari’s writings is his background from multi-religious India and his commitment to Muslim-Christian dialogue on the international scene. For Askari, the discovery of the Other is both a soothing and a painful experience. By formulations that converge with Feuerbach’s notion of internalised pain, he speaks of the Other not as external to the Self, but as ‘a pain in our very being’: ‘The discovery of the other, of our own being, is both soothing and painful, more the latter. The other is pain, a sting, a bite, but a pain in our very being, of it’ (ibid.: 486). Maybe indicative of a typical sensitivity towards the religious significance of suffering, he adds: ‘It is right in the middle of this pain that a Divine sign is known’ (ibid.). Askari warns against prevailing monological tendencies in the world of religions. As he sees it, monological speech reduces everything to issues, and tends to annihilate the living Other. In contrast, dialogue means inter-existence: ‘Each man becomes a neighbour’ (ibid.: 481). Askari also sees divine revelation as essentially dialogical. Reading the revealed signs of God is different from objectifying the Word of God in a book (the potential Muslim fallacy), or in a particular Person (the corresponding Christian one). Convinced that Christianity and Islam constitute ‘a dialogical whole’, Askari speaks of Christ as a common sign of God for Christians and Muslims. Reminiscent of interpretation of Good Friday, he states that the fate of Christ reveals ‘how deeply man can deceive himself in the name of God, how truth can be used to destroy truth, how the most elaborate and confident theologies could become a wall between God and man’ (ibid.: 482). He also speaks of Christ as a sign which liberates man from the dead circle of monological religion and restores unto him his genuine dialogical existence’ (ibid.: 483). Askari does not neglect the painful differences in how the sign of Christ—or that of the —has been interpreted by Christians and Muslims. But according to Askari, the fact of conflicting interpretations of divine signs should not be regarded as a threat, but rather as a reflection of what a sign implies: ‘It is the very ambiguity, richness, of the

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religious sign that gives rise to different and even opposed interpretations and understandings’ (ibid.: 485). He concludes that Christianity and Islam constitute in fact ‘one complex of faith’—one starting with the Person, the other with the Word: ‘Their separateness does not denote two areas of conflicting truths, but a dialogical necessity’ (ibid.: 485).652 It is in this context that Askari speaks of the discovery of the Other as both soothing and painful, as a sting in our Selfhood. According to Askari, then, one can truly speak of Christians and Muslims as being ‘oneself as another’—in a dialogical relationship which seeks to integrate even the pain of difference. 13.3 Conscience=knowing Oneself as Another? I have already indicated that Paul Ricoeur’s Oneself as Another caught my interest as a possible conceptual bridge between selfhood and otherness, and the internal and external nature of the moral call. Interestingly in the perspective of the present investigation, Ricoeur concludes his reflections on the formation of selfhood with a discussion of the notion of conscience (Ricoeur 1994:341–56). Ricoeur is critical of purely existentialist notions of conscience which tend to blur the constitutive role of others in the formation of human conscience. Like Levinas in Otherwise than Being, he takes Martin Heidegger’s conception of Self and Other to task—in particular Heidegger’s one-sided view that listening to conscience necessitates a radical distancing from the multitude of the others. Against Heidegger, Ricoeur recalls the insight of Hegel that conscience is ‘the voice of the Other in the sense of others’ (ibid.: 353). He agrees with Levinas’ argument that the external call from the Other is constitutive of the formation of self-consciousness and conscience. But Ricoeur’s notion of the Other is different from that of Levinas. Ricoeur is not content with Levinas’ insistence on the pure externality of the Other, and his substitution of the Self for the Other ‘as a hostage’. Instead, Ricoeur looks for a notion of the Self and the Other that integrates Selfhood and Otherness. This is where Ricoeur points to the notion of conscience. Under the final heading of ‘conscience’, Ricoeur proclaims that: To these alternatives—either Heidegger’s strange(r)ness or Lévinas’ externality—I shall stubbornly oppose the original and originary character of what appears to me to constitute the third modality of otherness, namely being enjoined as the structure of selfhood. (ibid.: 354) Explicating his view, Ricoeur criticises Levinas for not having paid due attention to the role of emotions or ‘affection’ in the relation of Self and Other (cf. Section 12.3). Rewrites: if the injunction coming from the other is not part and parcel of selfattestation, it loses its character of injunction…If one eliminates this

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dimension of auto-affection, one ultimately renders the metacategory of conscience superfluous; the category of the other suffices. (ibid.: 355) To Ricoeur’s meditations on oneself as another, one may add the insights of Kristeva that we are in many ways ‘strangers to ourselves’ (Kristeva 1991, cf. Section 2.1). By recognising a strangeness within and becoming reconciled with one’s own ‘othernessforeignness’, one can better avoid stereotypes of the Other and identify with others as if they were ourselves.653 I find Ricoeur’s approach to conscience elucidating, and conducive to an understanding of the role that conscience may play in interreligious relations. I nevertheless believe that Levinas’ insistence on the difference between an internalised Other and the real Other in the external world is indispensable for a right understanding of what it means to be oneself as another. In an essay about ‘Dialogue’, Levinas explains that the relationship of Self and Other in dialogue is paradoxical. He writes that the extraordinary and immediate relation of a ‘dia-logue’ transcends the distance between the Self and the Other, but ‘without suppressing it or recuperating it’ (Levinas 1998:144). In that insight lies also the ethical dimension of dialogue—one could say: the dimension that makes it a question of conscience. A recognition of oneself as another must always resist the temptation to suppress the Other by forcing him or her into the conceptual frameworks of the Self: ‘It is precisely because the You is absolutely other than the I that there is, between the one and the other, dialogue’ (ibid.: 146). As Levinas sees it, the real Other points to an infinite Other, by carrying the trace of God. As we shall see in Chapter 14, Ricoeur is more reluctant than Levinas to give a theological interpretation of human otherness. But he too recognises the difference between the internalised and the real Other. In his discussion of identity, Ricoeur distinguishes between what he terms idem- and ipse-identities. Whereas he associates idem with ‘sameness’, he links ipse with ‘selfhood’. For Ricoeur, true selfhood implies that the Self accepts and integrates difference and otherness: ‘ipse-identity involves a dialectic complementary to that of selfhood and sameness, namely the dialectic of Self and other than Self’ (Ricoeur 1994:3).654 Elaborating his view (ibid.: 115ff.), Ricoeur claims that the difference between the two versions of identity becomes most evident when related to the question of permanence in time, Idem-identity presupposes that in spite of change of time, a person remains essentially the same. Ipse-identity conceives of continuity in a different way, in relational categories that survive the change of time. Ricoeur exemplifies the difference by distinguishing between a person’s allegedly permanent ‘character’, and the virtue of ‘keeping one’s word’ in a time-transcending commitment (ibid.: 118). Ricoeur contends that a person only remains himself or herself by virtue of the hermeneutical question ‘who’—that is, by asking ‘who am I’ instead of ‘what am I’ (ibid.: 16, 118). That question can only be answered in a narrative which tells something about myself in relation to others—for instance with regard to whether a promise has been kept or not.

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Along with being relational, ipse-identity is therefore essentially narrative in character. Only by telling a story which involves others, can the continuity of our lives be maintained. The question is always: who is invited into the life story of a person or a community—as parts of one’s conscience? 13.4 Telling the story of Oneself as Another—in diapractice In the modern Egyptian context, the bond between Christians and Muslims has been related to a grand narrative of the nationalist kind. After 1967, the nationalist narratives have lost much of their uniting effect in Arab societies. Parallel to this development, kindling of small narratives of Christian-Muslim coexistence at the neighbourly level has been obstructed by a religious revival which has tended to separate Christians and Muslims rather than uniting them (Chapter 10). Since conscience presupposes an emotional bond between the Self and the Other (as argued in Chapter 12), it cannot do without the small narratives of people who care for each other across religious boundaries. Grand narratives may support such small stories, but cannot substitute for them. Neither can an inclusive concept—such as in the writings Khālid and —substitute for the living, everyday experience of oneself as another. The Egyptian authors’ inclusive notion of testifies to the open attitude towards Christian/Western tradition which still prevailed among Muslim intellectuals in the 1950s and 1960s. It probably also reflects the great nationalist narrative in Egypt and the history of joint modernising efforts by Muslims and Christians under the banners of freedom and democracy. But did it reflect or nourish the small narratives of Muslims and Christians who were deeply concerned about the well-being of their neighbour? Did it enhance respect for religious difference in Muslim-Christian coexistence? As indicated in Part IV, I this was probably the weak point in Khālid’s and universalist elaborations on conscience. Their efforts were restricted to the literary, intellectual level, and seem not to have interacted with popular processes. Maybe their efforts were also too much tied up with forward-looking modernism to incite concern for the real Other by one’s side. In any case, their inclusive efforts in the name of conscience turned out to be very vulnerable to the weakening of nationalist narratives in Egypt, and the increasing concern for Islamic and Christian ‘authenticity’. Conceptual ‘dialogue’ and narrative ‘diapractice’ In a cultural climate more oriented towards knowing by oneself as a separate, religious community (either in Egypt or elsewhere), the inclusive discourses of Khālid and deserve to be remembered in spite of their shortcomings. They have contributed creatively to a Muslim-Christian dialogue about conscience and human values. But their writings lack the sense of a real diapractice between Muslim and Christian neighbours. The notion of diapractice has been used by the Danish theologian

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Lissi Rasmussen to describe a dialogue rooted in shared experiences and actions (Rasmussen 1997). In the way she employs the concept, diapractice can be anything from joint social and political action to inter-religious prayer and meditation (ibid.: 35f.). Diapractice is characterised by actions carried out when turned towards one another, actions that can be related and reflected upon jointly (ibid.: 94f.). Similar perspectives on dialogue as diapractice can be found in a recent book from the Norwegian context, which tells the story of Christian and Muslim women in dialogue ‘with and without veil’ (Grung and Larsen 2000). The book unveils a dialogue nourished by joyful as well as painful diapractice—in a group of women who became involved in each other’s lives and convictions. From other European contexts too, similar examples can be cited of a deep sharing between Christians and Muslims who have committed themselves to dialogue and diapractice and experienced an ‘encounter in the Spirit’ (Wingate 1988). Relating his reflections to the South African context, Farid Esack comes close to Rasmussen’s notion of diapractice in his book Liberation and Pluralism (Esack 1997). Esack reflects theologically on the shared experience of Christians and Muslims in confronting apartheid. His book contains insights which I hold to be most elucidating both for the notion of diapractice and for a narrative, inter-religious concept of conscience. Confronting apartheid not only united Muslims and Christians in South Africa. Muslims and Christians were also divided within their own camps—between those who benefited from apartheid or silently complied with it (the majority of white Christians and many Asian’ Muslims), and those who decided to combat it. The dividing lines did not coincide with those of the religious communities. Rather, they cut painfully amidst and across them. As Esack sees it, this fundamental experience of interreligious solidarity against oppression necessitates a critical reassessment of the notion of the Other. He argues that polemics against Jewish and Christian groups must be read in the light of their seventh-century Arabian context, in which some Jewish and Christian groups were regarded as social and political adversaries of the divine project of liberation Other groups of Jews and Christians which was launched under the catchword of were seen as faithfully muslim, that is, as being in tune with the divine will which was now reaffirmed. As indicated in Section 4.3, Esack argues that the notions of (faith) can be taken in an inclusive sense, denoting surrender to divine justice and and faithful resistance to oppression rather than a particular belief and a separate religious community. In twentieth-century South Africa, resistance to the oppressive system of apartheid has cut right across the boundaries of religious communities. Against the background of this historical experience, Esack argues, Muslims will have to reconsider their notions of Self and Other—in a hermeneutical effort kindled by experiences that are different in nature from those of seventh-century Arabian Muslims. In late modernity, there is probably no return to the unitary, universalist discourses typical of modern programmes for religious reform. Particularism and distinctive identities have returned to stay. But the South African experiences related by Esack add the decisive insight that shaping of particular identities will not necessarily follow the boundaries of traditional religious communities. Fresh and controversial alliances, maybe

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even new kinds of religious communities, may be shaped right across religious boundaries. Stories of Esack’s kind, which are nourished by an open-ended diapractice, can contribute to a conscience which knows something deep, dear and obligating with the religiously Other. My own experience from Christian-Muslim dialogue in the Norwegian context points in the same direction. Through face-to-face communication in long-term dialogues, confidence has been built between groups of Christians and Muslims. New bonds that transcend the confines of religious affiliation have been created, personal bonds between believers who learn to tell the story of oneself as another. A number of people have become part of each other’s consciences, and are ready to uphold some shared values—also against other groups within their own religious communities. In such processes, minority concerns of Muslims may become part of a Christian conscience—as good or bad conscience for having either taken in or neglected Muslim apprehensions. Conversely, the precarious situation of many Christian minorities in Muslim societies may also become a Muslim concern—in a shared sensitivity towards the real lives of religious minorities and their often endangered rights. When the process goes both ways, stories of interreligious solidarity are kindled. Such stories may enlarge the sense of personal and communal identity, so as to include identification with others of a different faith. But interreligious storytelling is seldom uncontroversial. It creates new space, but also incites resistance from groups that stick to a narrower definition of binding community. 13.5 Conscience and community In Section 2.2 I have suggested that the communitarian/universalist debate in ethics boils down to the question of how broadly ‘community’ is defined in a given ethical discourse. Although universalism implies a strong concern for the freedom and integrity of the individual, there are actually very few or none among the universalists who advocate absolute individualism in ethics. Human rights thought, for instance, presupposes that individual liberties are safeguarded by state communities which take this obligation upon themselves. Neither need universalist concerns be wedded to a merely rationalist conception of ethics. The first article of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights refers not only to reason, but to conscience and the emotive notion of brotherhood as well. Even a seemingly individualistic ‘ethics of authenticity’ cannot escape the communal frameworks and horizons of values affirmed or denied. Although all of the Egyptian authors focused on by the present study have a strong concern for the integrity of the individual, none of them neglects the obligating bond of brother-/sisterhood, or the morally supportive framework of a religious community. From one perspective, they enlarge the sense of community by invoking Christian and Western philosophical tradition on a par with the Islamic heritage—when presenting their vision of human values safeguarded by human conscience. Christ as well as Socrates, Kant and Rousseau are called upon as allies in their advocacy of moral internalisation, a greater space for the individual vis-à-vis the dictates of the religious community, and freedom of conscience in the political realm. By their stated ‘personalist’ and

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‘humanist’ (Khālid and ) concern, they are all universalists in their approach to ethics. From a different perspective, however, and Khālid can also be labelled as communitarian thinkers. They direct themselves primarily to an Islamic audience, whose ethical consciousness they seek to stimulate and enrich by modernising and enlarging the concept of Islamic ethics. Although their outlook is dialogical and oriented towards ‘humanity’, their ethico-religious language is distinctively Islamic and draws upon the conceptual as well as narrative resources in that tradition. More precisely, I have suggested that their position can be characterised as ‘contextualist universalism’ (Ferrara 1990:28). The apologetic parts of their writings advocate a modernised, progressive version of traditional Islamic supersessionist claims, which leaves Islam with the ‘last trump card’ in the history of religions (Winter 1999). They put forward a rivalling universalist claim to that of modern Western philosophy, by arguing that Islam best safeguards the integrity of human conscience in its forward movement towards its destiny. In general terms, I would argue that there is no ‘universalism’ which is value-neutral or independent of a communitarian world-view, be it religious or secular humanist. This does not mean that all that is left is particularistic outlook and interest. In any serious conversation between representatives of the great ways, the questions addressed are universal in nature: human rights; the precarious situation of marginalised individuals and groups; the dignity of the human being; gender relations; oppression and justice; violence and peace; ultimate concerns and the reality of God. The questions are universal, but the answers will often differ. Some will be content to live by their own standards, without bothering or being bothered by others who hold different views (e.g. on the question of women’s rights). Others will propound different views as rivalling claims to universal validity. In some cases, only the motivations will differ, whereas the practical conclusions converge. In the practical realm, the best one can hope for is probably an ‘overlapping consensus’ about values and principles that can be subscribed to interreligiously while every party renounces the claim to have the best underlying argument. In this perspective, any universalism is ‘contextualist’, and can only live peacefully with other universalisms in a search for overlapping consensus. In the late modern world, cultural and religious identities are increasingly intertwined—being both ecumenical and (to borrow a culinary metaphor) crossover in nature (cf. Maalouf 1999). To be sure, this is not a uniquely modern phenomenon. My exposition of Islamic ethics in Chapter 4 has exposed a vibrant Islamic, Christian and Greek-philosophical intertexuality in the medieval context. Modern globalisation has only accelerated intertextuality and mutual influence between the religions. In the search for human authenticity, many believers realise that they share a set of strong evaluations of good and bad, right and wrong, with people who belong to a different cultural or religious group. In some crucial issues, they may also find that they disagree fundamentally with the majority of their own group. When conceptual recognition of common values turns into community-transcending diapractice, shared experience across religious boundaries may entail new conceptions of community. Such novel senses of community may be less ‘pure’ than traditional ones, but no less committed and obligating.

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The Egyptian authors’ interreligious invocation of ‘human’ instead of ‘Muslim’ or ‘Christian’ conscience was representative of a liberal, Muslim-Christian sharing of identities which later turned out to be both controversial and vulnerable in the Egyptian context. Farid Esack’s stories of a Muslim-Christian alliance against apartheid in South Africa point to a kind of interreligious community which was also highly controversial, and will probably prove to be no less vulnerable to the change of time and conditions. But what kind of communities can count on stability, in late modernity? If the values of individual authenticity and personal commitment have come to stay, will not any kind of religious or political community have to be constantly redefined or renegotiated? This is where the moral-philosophical problematic must eventually turn into a discussion of community formation. However, the sense of belonging to large, imagined communities of a religious or political kind can merely support or hamper a conscience which internalises the concern of the religious neighbour and wishes for the Other the same as one wants for oneself. Conscience itself must be nourished by experiences and convictions of a smaller yet deeper kind than large-scale communities can sustain. Smaller—and deeper. Instead of pursuing the political problematic, I will therefore conclude my discussion with some theological reflections on what difference a ‘knowing with God’ makes.

14 Knowing with God Face to face with the Other? In both Christian-European and Islamic contexts, distinctions have been made between ‘religious’ and ‘philosophical’ ethics. Although the Egyptian authors focused on in Part IV are in part inspired by philosophical ethics in Islam, there is no doubt that their discourses of conscience belong to an ethics which is thoroughly religious and theological. The religious nature of their ethics shines through both in their ambition to reformulate ethics and in their interest in the exemplary models of prophets and religious reformers. Their ethics is also a theological ethics. They draw upon and reformulate classical notions and conceptions such as divine commissioning (taktīf), ethics’ orientation towards a divine ideal and ‘seeking the countenance of God’ ( wajh Allāh) as the ultimate aim of ethics. In their strong concern for moral internalisation, they also come close to understanding as the divine voice within—although only expressly speaks of it as such. goes so far as to say that sacrificing the conscience of the individual is tantamount to ‘blasphemy against God and His holy law’ (Hussein 1994/1959:178). In both Khālid and the discourse of conscience transcends the ethical by a wider concern for human authenticity, which can only be accomplished when divine guidance and the integrity of the Self become two sides of the same coin. In Christian and European tradition too, discourses of conscience have often transcended the ethical realm—by a concern for human authenticity, or by a ‘transmoral’ orientation in which conscience is conceived of as the meeting point between the human person and God. As explained in Section 3.3, transmoral conscience can either be understood in the mystical sense of a divine voice within, or in the Lutheran sense of standing naked and bare in front of God (coram Deo). A theological reflection on conscience may either lead to a further reflection on what it means to know something by Oneself (in this case: enlightened by the divine voice within), or to a more profound understanding of what it implies to know something with the Other (here: confronted with the divine Other). As Luther saw it, the Self-righteous conscience must give up its claims to integrity and risk a total breakdown when faced with the divine Other (coram Deo) before it can be recreated and set free to serve the human Other in an unselfish way (Section 3.3). In modern existentialist interpretations (Section 3.5), the integrity of conscience has also been seriously questioned, although on quite different grounds than in Luther. In Heidegger’s non-theological interpretation, the conscience of the individual is challenged not by God’s radical demand, but by the false reassurance of the anonymous Man.

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Contrary to notions of conscience focused on the moral autonomy or existential authenticity of the Self, many modern thinkers (from Hegel and Feuerbach to Ricoeur and Levinas) have insisted on conscience’s social dimension and seen the presence of Others as a constituent factor in conscience. Feuerbach’s interpretation of conscience as the internalised voice of the wounded Other was put forward as a demythologising, atheist interpretation. But does an other-directed understanding of conscience—in which conscience is seen as the external or internalised voice of the human Other—necessarily need to be an atheist or non-theological understanding? Obviously not. However, the question is delicate. In a retrospect discussion of the relation between religion and philosophy, Paul Ricoeur characterised his philosophical deliberations on conscience in Oneself as Another as an agnostic approach: when I say that moral conscience speaks to me from farther away than myself; I cannot say then if it is the voice of my ancestors, the testament of a dead god, or that of a living god. In this case, I am agnostic on the plane of philosophy. (Ricoeur 1998:150) Levinas is less reluctant to draw a line from the human Other to a divine infinity beyond the visible face. In the collection of essays entitled Of God Who Comes to Mind, his pivotal claim is that: the idea-of-the-Infinite-in-me—or my relation to God—comes to me in the concreteness of my relation to the other man, in the sociality which is my responsibility for the neighbor. (Levinas 1998: xiv) Levinas was inspired by Buber’s understanding of God as the Eternal Thou who cannot be objectified, and the Jewish notion of a God who rather than showing himself ‘loves the stranger’ (ibid.: xv, 144). But as both Levinas and Buber see it, ‘The very movement that leads to another leads to God’ (ibid.: 148). This is also how Levinas understands fear of God, when fearing God turns into the fear of violating one’s neighbour and for the Other’s death (ibid.: 120, 149). In Alterity and Transcendence, Levinas even claims that ‘The face is the locus of the word of God. There is the word of God in the other, a non-thematized word’ (Levinas 1999:104). Can such recognitions be held together by Jews, Christians and Muslims? Approaching the divine Other through the vulnerable face of the human Other might be more controversial theologically within Islam than in Jewish-Christian contexts. Maybe one should stick to ethics, then, and see where that will eventually take dialogue. Only dialogue and diapractice in concrete circumstances can show whether Christians and Muslims can jointly approach God through the face of the Other. What difference does it make, then, to know something together with God? As indicated already from the outset, it might be that the expression ‘knowing with’ is a misleading clue altogether. In dialogue, says Levinas, there is a way of acceding to the

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Other which is ‘different from that of knowing him: to approach the neighbour’ (ibid.: 144, cf. 151). Levinas’ concern is that moral knowledge must not be objectified, since that leads to the disappearance of the relational aspect of ethics. Therefore, he restricts himself to ‘approaching’ the Other and renounces the ambition to ‘know’ the neighbour. But the element of ‘knowing’ in conscience need not be taken as a knowledge that objectifies or takes hold of the Other. In relations of proximity that neither force the Other into the frameworks of the Self nor obliterate difference, getting to know someone means exactly to ‘approach’ the Other in careful respect. Maybe ‘conscience’, then, is better explained as ‘knowing someone’ than as ‘knowing something’, be it by Oneself or with the Other. I am not suggesting that conscience can do without moral insights, or common standards subscribed to interreligiously by human reason. But conscience’s moral insights are of little worth if they are not linked with and challenged by the obligating bond of a living relation—just as both Christian and Muslim believers would say that beliefs about God are of little interest if they are not nourished and challenged by a living faith in God. The modern Egyptian authors focused on by this study have pointed to what Muslims and Christians have known together in the history of religions, and what they may still ‘know together’ in a shared concern for individual integrity and human dignity. The weak points in their approach were, I have suggested, the lack of a diapractical anchoring of their literary efforts, and the reluctance to approach religious difference as a relational fact which cannot be harmonised away. How much difference can conscience carry? The Egyptian authors have shown that in its innermost capacity, as it carries a lot of moral insights that are common to Muslims and Christians. But as long as the focus remains on the contents of knowledge, conscience tends always in the end to be Christianised or Islamicised. Differences in religious interpretations of the moral call cannot be explained away. But they can be balanced by an understanding of conscience that is relational rather than conceptual. To carry the weight of relations, conscience must respect the difference of the external Other. The difference of the Other is often more acutely felt when religious conviction is touched upon, at the border between different communities. But approaching the religiously Other resembles experiences of other fundamental differences, such as those related to class and gender. Beyond all differences that are more or less strongly felt, the believer may recognise the infinite Other—as a trace of God. Standing coram Deo is not identical with, but resembles the experience of facing the human Other. In all kinds of relationships, knowing oneself as another requires that moral insights held by reason must be supplemented by the readiness to approach and get to know the Other in face-to-face encounters. If such relations are given time and allowed to mature, it could be that some Christians and some Muslims will come to ‘think together’ that facing the Other is ultimately seeking the countenance of a God who is greater.

Notes 1 Horizon and focus 1 Concerning F.Peter Ford’s dissertation on (including a full translation, Ford 2001) was produced partly parallel in time to my work. I appreciate the communication that we were able to establish, and the valuable insights yielded by Ford’s study writings are the ones best known in the West, 2 Of the works focused on by this thesis, through Kenneth Cragg’s annotated translations of City of Wrong (Hussein 1994/1959) and The Hallowed Valley (Husain 1977). In a doctoral dissertation, Harold Vogelaar has researched and discussed the religious and philosophical thought of as an ‘Egyptian humanist’ (Vogelaar 1978). 3 The Lebanese scholar Shākir al-Nābulsī has written an overall analysis of Khālid’s works, but with no particular emphasis on his notion of conscience or his contribution to Christian-Muslim dialogue (al-Nābulsī 1989). 4 As for the general theme of Islamic ethics, I refer to my book in Norwegian Islamsk etikk—ei idéhistoris (‘Islamic ethics—a history of ideas’, Leirvik 2002b).

2 Terms, concepts and methods 5 This is the case both with the Norwegian-Nynorsk samvit, the Swedish samvete, the NorwegianBokmål samvittighet and the Danish samvittighed. In their etymological dictionary of the Norwegian-Bokmål and Danish languages from 1903 to 1906, Falk and Torp point to the fact that other Germanic languages have parallel constructs, in which a noun for ‘knowledge’ is prefixed by a word meaning ‘with’, such as in German Gewissen. 6 ‘medviden med andre og sig selv, bevidsthed, samvittighed’; Falk and Torp 1994/1903–6:683. Falk and Torp’s explanation coincides with Murray’s historical English dictionary from 1893, which defines the Latin conscientia as ‘privity of knowledge (with another), knowledge within oneself, consciousness, conscience’ (Murray 1893, vol. II:845). 7 Cf. Webster’s New Twentieth Century Dictionary: ‘a joint knowledge, feeling; from conscire; from com-, together with, and scire, to know’ (Webster 1983, see conscience). 8 The New Shorter English Dictionary on Historical Principles: ‘One’s inmost thought… (An) inward knowledge or consciousness; (an) internal conviction… A moral sense of right or wrong’ (Brown 1993, vol. I:483). 9 I am aware that the expression ‘knowing with’ may be considered as a linguistic construct which does not necessarily correspond to normal English usage. I believe, however, that the expression of ‘knowing by oneself, knowing with the other’ is perfectly understandable. Since I find this paired construct useful for my purposes, I will employ it rather extensively.

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10 In the case of the English language, this distinction goes back to the seventeenth century (cf. Section 3.4). In Norwegian-Nynorsk, ‘consciousness’ as medvit is distinguished from ‘conscience’ as samvit. Both words contain prefixes denoting ‘with’, although perhaps with a stronger emphasis on the collective aspect in sam-vit. 11 Cf. the French linguist Julia Kristeva’s psychoanalytically inspired notion of ‘strangers to ourselves’, by which she elucidates the role of difference and otherness in the constitution of the Self (Kristeva 1991). 12 Liddell and Scott 1996:275 and Murray 1893, see ‘Authentic’. Both Trilling and Lee note the violent meanings in the Greek ancestry of the word authéntēs, which might also imply the full authority to commit a murder or suicide (Trilling 1972:131; Lee 1997:34). 13 Some would trace ‘authentic’ back to auto+hentēs, in the sense of ‘one who does a thing himself, a principal, a master, an autocrat’, possibly in contrast to the fellowworker synéntēs (Murray 1893, see ‘Authentic’). 14 See Taylor 1995:27f., 48, 68 (The Ethics of Authenticity), and Taylor 1994b:355–63 (The Sources of the Self). 15 Taylor 1994a:31, cf. Taylor 1994b:376. 16 Criticising the rational quest for universal rules and standards, communitarians raise such questions as ‘whose justice?’ and ‘which rationality?’ (cf. Alasdair MacIntyre’s Whose Justice? Which Rationality? from 1988), and suggest that different ‘spheres of justice’ may have different sets of logic (cf. Michael Walzer: Spheres of Justice, 1983). 17 Cf. Alasdair MacIntyre’s After Virtue, 1981. It should be kept in mind, however, that universalism need not be identified with a duty-oriented, rationalist or merely procedural approach to ethics. Universalist ethics may just as well be formulated as a virtue ethics—as one finds it in classical, philosophical ethics in Islam (Section 4.5), and in modern thinkers of different religious affiliations Khālid (Chapter 8). such as Gandhi (Section 3.5) and Khālid 18 The proponents of Begriffsgeschichte are eager to point out its open-ended approach to concepts, by stating ‘daß Begriffsgeschichte die Aufgabe hat, Bedeutungen festzustellen, nicht: sie festzusetzen’ (Hilger 1978:123). In the English translation of Koselleck’s essays on Begriffsgeschichte, which were first collected in a German edition in 1979 (Koselleck 1989), the German word is retained in the text itself. A footnote, however, indicates that it can be translated either as ‘conceptual history’ or the ‘history of concepts’ (Koselleck 1985:xvi). 19 The work was initiated by Koselleck, co-edited by Koselleck, Otto Brunner and Werner Conze, and published from 1972 onwards as Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe with the subtitle ‘Historisches Lexicon zur politisch-sozialen Sprache in Deutschland’. Keith Tribe gives a background to the project in his introduction to Koselleck 1985. 20 The Norwegian Germanist Helge Jordheim has discussed the relation between Koselleck’s Begriffsgeschichte and Foucault’s notion of ‘discourse’. Although Foucault may view a text and its inherent ‘discourse’ as an event that makes a discontinuous difference, his focus is synchronic and he is reluctant to read the text in relation to anything external to it, be it ‘social history’ or ‘intention’ (Jordheim 2001). 21 Kristeva defines the ‘thetic’ as a break in the signifying process which produces ‘the positing of signification’. Sensitive to the practice-related nature of language (Kristeva 1984:193ff.), she states that All enunciation, whether of a word of or a sentence, is thetic’ (ibid.: 43).

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3 The Self and the Other in Christian and European discourses of conscience 22 As mentioned in Section 1.2, in my doctoral thesis Knowing by Oneself, Knowing with the Other: Al-damir, Human Conscience and Christian-Muslim Relations (Leirvik 2002a: ch. 3), one will find a much longer discussion of the history of ideas behind the notion of conscience in Christian and European tradition.

Among the attempts to write a conscience-related history of ideas, the following works and expositions deserve special mention. The five articles on Gewissen in Band 13 of Theologische Realenzyklopädie (Blühdorn et al. 1984) give a comprehensive overview of the notion of conscience from ancient to modern times. Stelzenberger’s Syneidesis, conscientia, Gewissen (Stelzenberger 1963) is a very comprehensive work of reference, covering a great number of authors from ancient to modern times. Bojesen and Lindhardt’s Samvittigheden (Bojesen and Lindhardt 1979) gives a broad and pointed presentation (in 209 pages) of the history of conscience—from Graeco-Roman philosophy through the New Testament to the history of theology, philosophy and psychology in Europe. Mokrosch’ Das religiöse Gewissen (Mokrosch 1979) combines an exposition of medieval, Lutheran, Reformed, early modern and contemporary notions of conscience with empirical material and a discussion of Gewissensbildung among teenagers. He contrasts the view of conscience as a moral capacity of the individual with relational, transmoral and existential understandings of conscience. 23 ‘Nullum theatrum virtuti conscientia maius est’. Cicero: Tusculan Disputations II, 26.64, quoted from LCB Cicero XVIII. 24 Apology 24b, quoted from LCB, Plato I. 25 Apology 31d, quoted from ibid. Cf. Kāmil view of conscience as a curb and a source of the virtues of resistance, see Section 9.3. 26 See Khālid 1963:71ff. and Khālid 1986/1958:11ff. 27 For conscience in Philo, see Stelzenberger 1989:201–5. 28 On the virtues 206, LCB Philo VII, cf. Flaccus 7, LCB Philo IX. 29 The Decalogue 87, LCB PhiloVII. 30 On the confusion of Tongues 121, LCB PhiloVII. For the reproaching and judging function of conscience, cf. On the Creation 128, On the Posterity and Exile of Cain 59, On Joseph 48 and 262, The Special Laws I.235 (‘convicted inwardly by conscience’) and III.5, and Every Good Man is Free 149.

In the New Testament, syneídēsis is used in conjunction with the participle elenchómenoi in the variant reading of John 8:9. John also connects elénchein with the parákletos (John 16:8).

Notes

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31 ‘Good’ (agathós) Acts 23:1, 1. Tim. 1:5 and 1:19, 1. Peter 3:16 and 21; ‘good’ (kalós) Hebr. 13:18; ‘pure’ (katharós) 1. Tim. 3:9, 2. Tim. 1:3, cf. Hebr. 9:14; ‘bad’ (ponērós) Hebr. 10:22. 32 It is required that deacons have ‘a clear conscience’ like Paul (1. Tim. 3:9, cf. 2. Tim. 1:3), and that they are thus clearly distinguishable from the adherents of subversive doctrines ‘whose consciences are seared with a hot iron’ (1. Tim. 4:2). 33 Paul Tillich has noted that in this part of the New Testament, doctrinal and moral deviation are regarded as two sides of the same coin: ‘Heresy is not an error in judgment or a difference in experience but a demonic possession, splitting the moral self and producing a bad conscience’ (Tillich 1957/45:140). 34 The sign of faith—baptism—is referred to as the decisive ‘appeal to God for [or: a pledge to God from] a good conscience’ (1. Peter 3:21). Christ-believing slaves are assured that it is good to be bound to God by conscience (or bound by God-consciousness, ‘being aware of God’) in the midst of undeserved suffering (2:19). This is the only case in which syneídēsis occurs with God in the genitive, dià syneídēsin theoû (cf. Pierce 1955:105–7). from 1972, he often refers to the 35 In the Coptic Bishop Gregorius’ book on conscience christianised notion of conscience in Hebrews (Gregorius 1972, I:70–2). Cf. Section 10.3, ‘Coptic conscience’. 36 In the context of Jesus confronting the elders wanting to stone the woman caught in adultery, a number of Greek manuscripts associated with the so-called textus receptus (which was the basis of most printed Bible editions until the end of the nineteenth century) read that ‘they which heard [it], being convicted by [their own] conscience (hypò tês syneídēseōs elenchómenoi), went out one by one, beginning at the eldest’ (King James Version). This single Gospel evidence, which is also found in some Coptic Bohairic manuscripts, attests to a concept of ‘the blaming conscience’ that might come close to the notion of ‘the self-reproaching soul’ (al-nafs al-lawwāma, 75:2). 37 In chapter 1 of his Commentary on Ezekiel, Hieronymus used the term synteresis to designate ‘that spark of conscience (scintilla conscientiae) which was not even extinguished in the breast of Cain after he was turned out of Paradise’ (English translation from Potts 1980:79). 38 Aquinas nevertheless taught that even an erring conscience must be respected. For Bonaventure’s and Thomas’ view of conscience, see D’Arcy 1961 (Thomas), Baylor 1977:21–69 (Thomas), Mokrosch 1979:18–27, Potts 1980 and Billy 1993. 39 Baylor 1977:54. See Summa Theologiae 1a2æ q 76.1 (‘Sin’—‘Ignorance as a cause of sin’, in Aquinas 1970, vol. 25:142–5) and 1a2æ q 6.8 (‘Psychology of human acts’—‘Voluntary and involuntary’, ibid., vol. 17:30–3). 40 The Catholic theologian Stelzenberger makes a similar point to Jonsen and Toulmin’s when he laments the fact that in casuistry, there is seldom any focus upon synderesis as the imprint of the eternal law in human minds (Stelzenberger 1963:140f.). 41 For conscience in Luther, see Baylor 1977, Mokrosch 1979:27–51, Lindhardt in Bojesen and Lindhardt 1979:76–94. In the following references, WA stands for the standard critical edition of Luther’s works known as ‘Weimarer Ausgabe’ (Luther 1883–). Quotations in English are taken from Luther’s Works, Luther 1958–. 42 Quoted in English translation from the preface to his Latin writings, 1545 (Luther 1958–, vol. 34:336f.). Cf. WA 54:185.21ff. 43 WA 7:832.7–10. Quoted in English from Luther 1958–, vol. 32:112. Cf. Acta Augustana 1518, WA 2:16. 44 See De votis monasticis (1521), WA 8:608.18ff. and Von der Beicht, ob die der Bapst macht habe zu gepieten, WA 8:152.1–2: ‘den ynn den gewissen wil er [Gott] alleyn seyn unnd seyn wort alleyn regieren lassen, da soil freyheyt seyn von alien menschen gesetzen’. 45 De votis monasticis, WA 8:610.2–3, quoted in English translation from Luther 1958–, vol. 44:304. 46 See the selection of texts ‘De la tolérance universelle’ and about ‘La conscience errante’ in Bayle 1948:95–120, 121–48.

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47 As we shall see in Section 8.4, Khālid Khālid refers positively to Rousseau’s concept of the social contract in his exposition of the history of human conscience. 48 See Butler 1850:26f., 29–37. (Cf. Leirvik 2002a, chapter 3.8.2.) 49 ‘Handle so, daß die Maxime deines Willens jederzeit zugleich als Prinzip einer Allgemeinen Gesetzgebung gelten könne’; Kritik der praktischen Vernunft, in Kant 1983, Band 6 (Erster Teil): 140 (=A 54). 50 Amin’s philosophy of ‘interiorism’ (al-juwwāniyya) is much influenced by Kant—as in his reference to Kant’s notion of the inner voice, Amīn 1964:253. Cf. references to Kant and his concept of the inner law and moral freedom in 1985/1942:131, 1981/1963:168f. and al-Akkad n.d.: 94. Cf. also 1974/1947:140 and 177f., 1976:160f. 51 Kant 1983, Band 7 (Zweiter Teil): 799 (=A 191). 52 Ibid.: 788 (=A 174–5). 53 ‘die sich selbst richtende moralische Urteilskraft’, Kant 1983, Band 7 (Zweiter Teil): 860 (=A 272). 54 §137, ibid. 55 Hegel 1952:450, cf. 445. 56 Theogonie, Feuerbach 1960b:135 (in my translation). 57 Der Eudämonismus, Feuerbach 1960a:279f. (in my translation). 58 Der Eudämonismus, Feuerbach 1960a:282 (in my translation). 59 Theogonie, Feuerbach 1960b:143f. 60 Nietzsche n.d.: 44f. From ‘Zweite Abhandlung: ‘Schuld’, ‘Schlechtes Gewissen’ und ‘Verwandtes’. 61 For conscience in Freud, see Bojesen in Bojesen and Lindhardt 1979:126–40; Mokrosch 1979: 90–5; Sharpe 1994:197–203. 62 Heidegger 1973:314f. and 344f. 63 Ibid.: 320. 64 Levinas 1986:38, Levinas 1998:175. 65 The Chinese word ren (referred to as run in Lindholm’s article, it may also be transliterated as jen) is composed of the signs for ‘man’ and ‘two’. In Confucian philosophy, it is considered as a cardinal virtue. 66 The Arabic version available on the UN web site http://www.unhchr.ch/udhr/lang/ arz.htm in all cases. A different version, supplied by the Cairo Institute of (consulted 08.03.01) has in the preamble, but wijdān in art. 1 and 18. Human Rights Studies in December 1997 has Khālid is the one who most explicitly relates 67 As we shall see in Chapter 8, Khālid his ethics of conscience to the idea of universal human rights. When Khālid writes about conscience as an expression of the human being in his/her true existence, he is not referring to the isolated individual, but to the human being in his/her social existence. He speaks of and Christ as being ‘together on the road’ in defence of ‘the ordinary human being’—with a view to the right both to subsistence and to freedom of conscience.

4 Islamic ethics: knowing with whom?

68 Similar warnings against Orientalists who claim that Islamic ethics have no place for conscience can be found in the Egyptian philosopher Amīn (Amīn 1964:187). 69 ‘To prove the slight moral and religious worth of Islam, people have also adduced facts about the language in which the teachings of Islam were first cast. It has been said, for example, that Islam lacks the ethical concept we call ‘conscience’, and it has been offered in evidence that ‘neither in

Notes

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the Arabic itself nor in any other Muhammadan language is there a word which properly expresses what we mean by conscience (Goldziher 1981/1910:16f, quoting Tisdall 1906:62). 70 Qur’ān 2:177, 2:189, 5:2. 71 For an overview of Islamic ethics as a multi-layered and dialogical tradition, see Fakhry 1994 and Leirvik 2002a, chapter 4: ‘Islamic ethics—knowing with whom’? 72 A much longer exposition of Islamic ethics can be found in Leirvik 2002a, b. ). 73 See Wehr 1979:11f. and 299f., and EI 1999 (see adab and 74 The classical example is Miskawayh 1978, cf. Section 4.5. The expression is also frequently used by modern Muslim writers, as we shall see in

The first great modernist reformer in

Indian Islam, Sayyid Ahmad Khan (d. 1898), published a journal with the title (in Urdu: Tahzib-ul-Akhlaq, with the English subtitle The Muhammadan Social Reformer, cf. McDonough 1984:28ff.). 75 See Donaldson 1953; Antes 1980; Antes 1982; Carney 1983a; Hovannisian 1985; Hourani 1985; Fakhry 1994; Brown 1999. 76 For example, Izutsu 1966; Hourani 1980; Rahman 1980, 1983; Sachedina 1988. 77 Goldziher 1981/1910:17f., referring to Q 40:14, 22:32 and 26:89. 78 For ‘conscience’ in Rahman, see also Rahman 1980:21, 24f., 47f., 53, 61, 112; Rahman 1983:179; Rahman 1982:156f. 79 This is the subtitle of his book Liberation and Pluralism (Esack 1997). 80 I will return to Farid Esack’s reflections on the South African experience in Section 13.4. 81 Q 3:104, 3:110, 3:114, 7:157, 9:67, 9:71, 22:41, 31:17. 82 Q 5:44, 45, 47, 48, 49. 83 The expression ‘the Book (al-kitāb) and the Wisdom’ is often used about the revelation, cf. references in Kassis 1983:525. In Q 3:48 and 5:110, however, it is used in connection with Jesus. The expression ‘(God will teach him/I taught thee) the Book and the Wisdom, the Law and the Gospel’ indicates that ‘the Book and the Wisdom’ is used more as a general epithet of divine references to Jews and Christians as ‘People of the Book’ revelation, cf. the numerous ( al-kitāb), Kassis 1983:114–16. 84 Q 2:136, 2:285, 3:84, 4:152, 6:83–90. Cf. 42:13–14: ‘make no divisions’. 85 For exegetical and contextual perspectives on Jesus Christ in the see Robinson 1991 and Leirvik 1999a, chapter II.1. 86 Cf. further references to McAuliffe’s study and discussion in Section 13.2. 87 Cf. Esack’s argument. 88 Cf. Wehr 1979:1155. 89 Q 91:7–10 is quoted on the first page of Ibn Miskawayh’s in which references are otherwise rare. Cf. Miskawayh 1978:9/Miskawayh 1968:1. 90 Cf. also Q 14:22, by use of the same verb: ‘Reproach not me, but reproach your own souls’ (Yūsuf ). 91 Cf. a similar reference to the heart at rest in Q 13:28. 92

1974/1961b:389, cf. T.J.Winter in al-Ghazālī 1995a:xxviii: ‘the soul which blames term—which came to denote the active conscience (al-nafs al-lawwāma)—another stricken by guilt and self-reproach whenever God’s commands are violated and the lower soul wins a skirmish with the rational mind’.

93 There are twenty-nine occurrences of al-nafs in various forms in the see list in Hourani 1985:53. 94 Cf. Rahman 1980:25ff. and the exegetical/historical discussion in Hourani 1985:49–56: ‘“Injuring oneself” in the

in the light of Aristotle’.

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258

95 Q 13:3f. and passim. The imperfect form of the

is used 48 times, see references in Kassis

Kassis 1983:426. 1983:272f. The verb yatafakkaru occurs 17 times in the is also quoted by 96 Quoted from T.J.Winter’s Introduction to al-Ghazālī 1995a:xxi. The al-Ghazālī, cf. ibid.: 7, 193 (note 19). 97 Bukhārī’s Kitāb

al-nabī and Kitāb manāqiq

and Muslim’s Kitāb

(of the Prophet and of the companions, respectively). and Kitāb and Bukhārī’s Kitāb 98 Muslim’s Kitāb al-birr the hour of judgement. See Muslim: Kitāb (Muslim 1993, 99 Together with belief in cf. al-Nābulsī 1989:69. vol. Ia:4–6). Khālid was fond of this 100 Kitāb al-wahy, Al-Boukhari 1993, vol. I:4. 101 Amīn 1964:198f. cf. 218. 102 Kitāb Al-Boukhari 1993, vol. I:14f. 103 In his translation, Mahmoud Matraji adds ‘the (Muslim) brother’ as a narrowing parenthesis: ‘his (Mulim [misprint for Muslim]) brother’ (ibid.). The same parenthesis is added in Muhammad Muhsin Khan’s translation: ‘The Prophet said, “None of you will have faith till he wishes for his (Muslim) brother what he likes for himself”’ (Al-Bukhâri 1994:61). 104 For the general question of references to Jesus and parallels to Christian tradition in the collections, see Leirvik 1999a, chapter II.2. 105 Kitāb al-birr Muslim 1993, vol. IVa:176. 106 n.d./1953:6, 173, cf. 1996/1957:22, 165. 107 I am referring to Alessandro Ferrara’s notion of contextualist universalism, as introduced in Section 2.2. 108 Kalām may mean both speech and discussion. 109 On al-Fārābī and his contribution to Islamic ethics, see Fakhry 1994:78–85; Butterworth 1983:226–30; Frank 1996:962–4. 110 For Ibn Sīnā’s ethics, see Fakhry 1994:85–8; Butterworth 1983:230–3; Hourani 1985:227–48. 111 About Ibn Rushd and ethics, see Fakhry 1994:88–92; Hourani 1985:249–69 (‘Averroes on Good and Evil’), Butterworth 1983:233–6; Butterworth in Hovannisian 1985:17–45 (‘Ethics and Classical Islamic Philosophy: a Study of Averroes’ Commentary on Plato’s Republic’) and Frank 1996:966f. 1974/1961a:331ff. and his books on 112 See Rušd (1953). Cf. Khālid 1963:166f.

ibn Sīnā (1946) and Ibn

113 Cf. Khālid

to the defence of ‘the

Khālid’s dedication of

(Khālid human being’ (Khālid 1986/1958:7), and the title of his book 1994/1960). 114 For Miskawayh’s contribution to Islamic ethics, see Kraemer 1986:222–33; Fakhry 1994:107–30; Walzer 1962:220–35; Donaldson 1953:121–31; Zurayk’s preface in Miskawayh 1968:xi–xx. 115 See the programmatic formulations in his first discourse on the principle of ethics, Miskawayh 1978:18ff./Miskawayh 1968:9ff. 116 Ibid.: 45/60f, cf. ibid.: 32/45. 117 Ibid.: 45/60f. Cf.

concept of the jihād of conscience, in

1996/1957:164f. 171–3, cf. ethics in 118 Cf. the chapter about 1964:209ff.

n.d./1953:

Amīn’s philosophy of ‘interiorism’, Amīn

Notes

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119 Cf. Donaldson 1953:198–200, Schumann 1988:76–83 and Leirvik 1999a, chapter V: ‘Jesus in ’. (The Bezels of Wisdom), quoted by Awn 120 From R.W.J.Austin’s translation of his 1983:259. 121 Ibid. al-nafs

122 For Khālid, see in particular the chapter 123 This distinction is found both in 124 EI 1999, see 125 Roger Arnaldez translates

in Khālid 1994/1963:15–48.

(d. 922) and in Ibn

(d. 1240).

as ‘conscience’ in this context (EI 1999, see

).

126 127 During the latter part of the twentieth century, his ethical system has been the subject of several studies—see Donaldson 1953:134–65; Sherif 1975; Quasem 1975; Hourani 1985:135–66 (‘Ghazālī on the ethics of action’) and Fakhry 1994:193–206, 227–31. Cf. Amīn 1964:214–6, 275–92. 128 Hourani 1985:135f., cf. Fakhry 1994:195. 129 Cf. his remarks in al-Ghazālī 1982, vol. I:33f. 130 See al-Ghazālī (1982, vol. I:92, 113, 124f.), cf. similar statements in min and Bidāy at al-hidāya, Watt 1994a:63, 69 and 113. 131 See al-Ghazālī 1982, vol. I:272, 274, 279. In Fazul-ul-Karim’s translation, one finds that in some places he uses the word ‘conscience’ to denote the inward orientation of al-Ghazālī’s ethics. His choice seems, however, to be rather arbitrary. In one case, he translates al-mudrik min (in parallelism with ) as conscience, probably in the sense of consciousness (al-Ghazālī 1982, vol. 3:6/al-Ghazālī 1927, vol. 3:6). He may sometimes translate qalb as conscience, see ibid., vol. 1:35 and vol. 3:31/vol. 1:17 and 3:22. In most places, however, he translates qalb either as ‘heart’ or ‘soul’. For instance, he translates the heading of book 21, Kitāb al-qalb, as ‘Soul and its attributes’ (ibid., vol. 3:1ff./vol. 3:2ff.). In a case when (in the plural, ) occurs, he appropriately translates it as the ‘inner thoughts’ of people, which sages and saints can often tell (ibid., vol. 3:30/vol. 3:22). 132 Amīn 1964:281, 285—cf. Section 7.6. 133 Quoted from Leirvik 1999a:86. 134 al-Ghazālī 1927, vol. 3:5/al-Ghazālī 1982, vol. 3:5. 135 al-nafs Cf. T.J.Winter’s translation and introduction to books 22–23, al-Ghazālī (1995a). to of al-Baghdādī (=Al-shaykh al-Mufīd), al-Ghazālī 136 Winter traces this 1995a:197. 137 For references to other scholars, see Huff 1995:107f. (note 63).

5 Conscience in Arabic: the semantics of 138 Amīn includes a sub-chapter on wijdān in his famous Kitāb his exposition of human will and character. Amīn seems to prefer wijdān over with the problems of moral consciousness, but includes sub-chapter (Amīn 1985/1920:55). In Sayyid

from 1920, after when dealing

in parenthesis in the heading of the

one finds that wijdān—when used for moral

Notes

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consciousness—is accompanied by connotations to the experiential-emotional, in accordance with the main senses of this word in the modern Arabic lexicon (see Section 8.8). Wehr lists ‘to secrete, conceal, hide, keep 139 As for the fourth, causative verbal form secret’. 140 According to Wehr, the first form of the verb means ‘to be or become lean, emaciated’ or ‘to contract, shrink’. 141 Third, describes how conscience can either be clear or obscure, doubt-stricken and straying or firm and at rest. Fourth, he refers to the emotional distinction between a ‘good’ ( or =‘bonne’) and a ‘bad’ (qaliq, ‘uneasy’ or masqī, ‘distressed’=‘mauvaise’) conscience. He also mentions the notion of remorse (tabkīt) in this context. Fifth, he cites the notion of ‘freedom of conscience’—‘in the field of religion and elsewhere’. Sixth, he refers the use in logical reasoning, as an expression of the hidden premise of a disputable syllogism of 1971:763f). 142 It should be noted that authorship is disputed (see discussion in Nwyia 1968). 143 My translation. For the Arabic text, see Nwyia 1968:215. Cf. French translation and comments in Nwyia 1970:321. The passage is also noted and discussed in the Encyclopaedia of Islam, under the entry for (EI 1999). 144 Imam Ali 1986:411 (sermon 198), translating 1963:394. 145 1963:639 (saying 377), cf. Imam Ali 1986:656. 146 As for the use of sarīra in Nahj see ibid.: 141/209 (sermon 82), about a man who was busy collecting good acts and purifying his inner self for the hereafter. Cf. ibid.: 622 (saying 276)/639 (saying 286), about the inner self which may be sinful before God although one may appear to be good in the eyes of other people. 1963:151 (sermon 85). 147 Imam Ali 1986:215, translating 148 Followed by the comment ‘Tiré du sens grammatical de ‘pronom’ (= selon l’école de Basra; contrà maknî, école de Kûfa)’; Massignon 1954:40, cf. p. 49. 149 Cf. the following passage from Ibn meditation on the metaphor of travel. Referring to the ecstatic night journey of the Prophet, he writes (in my translation):

He experienced a divine gift and a special care, something that had not arisen in his heart (bi-sirrihi; in his inner unconscious) or been unfolded in his conscious reflection God prepared his night journey in order to confirm that he was selected to enter the stage of love (maqām ). Le dévoilement des effets du voyage. translated into French by Denis Gril (Ibn Arabi 1994:24). Gril translates with (French) conscience, which should probably here be taken in the sense of consciousness. See Ibn

As for Ibn Khālid Khālid cites one of his poems as an illustration of the uprightness of conscience. In this poem, where invokes the transcendental unity of all beings, he refers to sirrukum fi (Khālid 1993:258).

Notes

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150 196?:23. The dictionary is a 44pp. offprint from the Moroccan magazine According to the online library services of OCLC First Search, it was published in the 1960s, probably in Casablanca. 151 Cf. his expression al-qawl

wa-huwa

bi-hi takūn

from his work quoted by Amīn 1964:149. 152 In a text originating from the philosophical circle of Abū Sulaymān al-Sijistānī (d. 985), we find the following statement attributed to Abū Sulaymān (in Kraemer’s translation):

If the heart of one friend is open to another, the truth glows between them, the good enfolds them, and each becomes a mainstay to his companion, a helpmate in his endeavor, and a potent factor in his attaining his wish. There is nothing surprising in this: souls ignite one another, tongues exchange confidences; and the mysteries of this human being, a microcosm in this macrocosm, abound and spread. (Kraemer 1986:163) In a work of the theologian and philosopher Sayf al-Dīn al-Āmidī (d. 1233), one can find the following statement (translation by Michael Carter): ‘Nor do we accept that the understanding [of the meaning of words] can only be achieved by historical transmission [of words with that meaning]: what about pedagogical transmission, such as is done with children, or the deaf and dumb use of sign language to make known to others what is in one’s ’ (al-Āmidī 1985, vol. I:34). mind 153 The distinction is noted and discussed in the Encyclopaedia of Islam, in the entry for (EI 1999). 154 The reference is to the ‘inner thoughts’ of people which sages and saints can often tell (al-Ghazālī 1927, vol. 3:22, cf al-Ghazālī 1982/vol. 3:22). 155 Watt 1994a: 100/al-Ghazālī 1950:4. 156 Ibid.: 131/19. and its cognates in grammar, cf. the entries for and in EI 1999. 157 As for 1971, I:764 (defining ‘enthymème’— 158 According to the philosophical dictionary of reasoning by not overt premises—and citing Ibn Sīnā’s al-Najāt). Cf. Ibn Sīnā’s definition of in the chapter about logic

in

qiyās

(Ibn Sīnā 1980:11). al-sirr [says]: qalbika… (Ibn 1955, vol. IV:492—see ). reproduces the entire Lisān and expands it with material from other sources. 160 Tāj As for see al-Zabīdī 1888, vol. 3:352 (the entry for ). 161 The dictionary itself translates niyya as ‘Animus, voluntas: conscientia: Niet, Intentio’. 162 Cf. van Koningsveld, al-Samarrai, and Wiegers 1997:32–6 and 195f. Moriscos is the conventional term for Spanish Muslims who were converted to Christianity by force, and finally expelled from Spain in 1609–14. 159

Notes

262

163 Mozarabic is Christian-Arabic as practised in Spain. See the critical investigation of the glossary by van Koningsveld 1977, and the complete edition by Seybold 1900. P.Sj.van Koningsveld argues that the glossary was intended ‘to enable Christian readers who had a working knowledge of the Arabic language to read and understand certain Latin texts by giving a list of basic Latin words in alphabetical order and an explanation or explanations in Arabic’ (ibid.: 1). 164 Seybold 1900:99. For intentio, the glossary lists wa-himma, not niyya (ibid.: 265). 165 Freytag has ‘Uva flaccida’ (‘withered grape’) as the first entry, then ‘Conceptus animi; Mens, arcanum mentis’ (‘mental concept, mind, secret of mind’), and finally ‘Pronomen affixum’ (Freytag 1835, vol. 3:27). 166 Lane 1874, book 1, part 5:1803. 167 Kazimirski 1875, vol. 3:46: ‘1. Mince et Maigre. De là 2. Baie flétrie et dont la peau est ratatinée. 3. Esprit; cœur. 4. Pensée in time et cachée au fond du cœur. 5. Latent, caché. De lá 6. En gram., Nom latent,…pronom, aflixe pronominal’. 168 In his supplement to Arabic dictionaries, Dozy takes Humbert’s Guide de la conversation arabe and the third edition of Bocthor’s dictionary from 1864 as an early evidence for in the sense both of (French) ‘conscience’ and ‘for intérieur’ (Dozy 1967:13). 169 Ellious Bocthor served initially as an interpreter to the French Army in Egypt, and moved to Paris in 1812 to continue his translation work from Arabic to French. He eventually became a professor of colloquial Arabic at the ‘École royale des langues orientales vivantes’ in 1821, but died later in the same year. The manuscript for his dictionary was revised, enlarged and published by A.Caussin Perceval, who took over Bocthor’s chair (Bocthor 1828–29, I:v–vi). 170 For ‘Examen de conscience’, he lists

for ‘bonne conscience’

and for ‘mauvaise conscience’ radīya ([sic], probably ), for ‘Conscience troublée’ mutaqalqila (Bocthor 1828–29, I:189). Under a separate entry on al-sarīra, and (ibid., II:257f). ‘remords’, he lists [=Lisān 171 al-Bustānī n.d./1870:1255, in my translation. In Arabic: wa-l-sirr and Tāj cf.] wa-minhu li-l-quwwa li-ltamayyuz bayna mā yajūzu wa-mā lā yajūzu aw-huwa yunabbihu nāhiyan (His first entry is ‘withered grape’. As the third entry, he describes the grammatical meaning.) as ‘Pensée in 172 Belot’s Vocabulaire Arabe-Français (2nd edition, Belot 1888:434) renders appears as time. Conscience’. In his Dictionnaire Français-Arabe, first published in 1890, the fourth entry under ‘conscience’, after vol. 1:233).

sarīra,

and before

(Belot 1890,

Neither do the composite expressions listed by Belot give any clear evidence for in the sense of moral consciousness. Under ‘homme de-, de bonne-’, Belot lists different expressions with qalb, sarīra and excluding appears, however, in expressions for ‘cas de conscience’ (ibid.). In the fifth edition, published in 1923, one basically finds the same entries, with only minor adjustments. In a twentieth-century revision of the dictionary, however, published by R.P.R. Nakhla, conscience is defined as moral consciousness (‘Conscience, sf. morale’) and rendered as and In this revised edition, is also given a more prominent place in the

Notes

263

composite expressions listed, for example, as the first entry under ‘homme de-, de bonne-’: naqīy (Belot 1952:111). 173 Joshua Blau erroneously charges al-Bustānī, Belot and others with implying that was also used in the sense of moral consciousness in medieval Arabic (Blau 1981:42f.). I believe that Bocthor’s and al-Bustānī’s suggestions should rather be considered either as an evidence of innovative usage in nineteenth-century Arabic, or as a deliberate innovation. Blau is right, however, that the medieval Arabic parallel to conscience is rather niyya, as attested by early Bible translations (see Section 5.4). 174 Spiro 1974/1897:139—cf. Spiro 1980/1895:353. 175 Saadeh 1911:369. 176 Margoliouth 1964/1911, vol. 4:46. 177 Tisdall 1906:62f., note 2—from a chapter entitled ‘The weakness of Islâm’. As we have seen in Section 4.1, Ignaz Goldziher takes Tisdall to task for implying that the alleged absence of a word indicates the absence of a conception of ethical consciousness. 178 A detailed presentation of complete Bibles, Old Testament and New Testament manuscripts and editions is given by Graf 1975–77/1944–53 (Erster Band: 85–195). Metzger 1977 (pp. 257–67) gives an overview of ‘The Arabic versions’ from the eighth to the eighteenth century. LazarusYafeh 1992 (pp. 111–29) discusses early translations of the Jewish Bible into Arabic such as that of Saadia Gaon (d. 942).

As for the references to Biblical material in Muslim apologists and polemicists from the classical and medieval period, Lazarus-Yafeh has pointed to the fact that only very few of them seem to have had access to Arabic Bible translations. Instead, they had to rely on oral information from Jews, Christians and converts to Islam. Some of the latter would know Hebrew and Greek versions and/or other Bible translations such as the Syriac ones. Muslim apologists would also draw upon the cumulative tradition of (free) quotations from the Bible and apocryphal sources (often mixed with Midrashic and legendary material) evolving from early tofsīr literature, the various works of early Muslim historians and the major collections of ‘stories of the prophets’. 179 The Syriac Peshitta (Bible 1979), on which many of the oldest Arabic translations depend, renders syneīdēsis as

in all cases except two. In Romans 9:1 and 2. Corinthians 1:12,

instead. In Tit. 1:5,

is used together with

In 2. Corinthians 5:11,

is used is used.

The standard dictionary Thesaurus Syriacus translates as 1. as 1. ‘mens, animus’ (Quatreme, Bernstein et ‘conscientia’, and al. 1879–1901). In a modern Arabic translation of the Peshitta (Bible 1982), is translated as niyya (‘intention’) in most cases, but as in Acts 24:16, Romans 13:5 and Hebrews 10:2. is as translated as I am thankful to Elie Dib Wardini, my former colleague at the University of Oslo, for helping me out with the Peshitta references. 180 The Latin Vulgate has conscientia for syneīdēsis in all cases.

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181 Textus receptus is a conventional naming (introduced by Elzevier in 1633) of the choice of relatively late Greek manuscripts underlying printed editions of the New Testament from Erasmus (1516) onwards. Textus receptus stood mostly unchallenged until the beginning of textual criticism by J.A.Bengel (1734) and the discovery of older manuscripts from C.Tischendorf onwards, and prevailed as the textual foundation of all major Bible translations until the latter part of the nineteenth century. 182 Bible 1968:415f. The King James Version renders the passage as follows: ‘And they which heard [it], being convicted by [their own] conscience, went out one by one, beginning at the eldest’. 183 In classical (Islamic) Arabic, the term niyya is loaded with moral as well as juridical connotations. collections, cf. the dictum bi-lAs noted in 4.4, it figures prominently in the reported by al-Bukhārī. In general usages, niyya often corresponds to niyyāt in the first and

cf. the treatment of nawā and niyya in the classical Arabic dictionaries (Ibn 1955 and al-Zabīdī 1888).

Differently from niyya, is used in the in the sense of clear evidence or sure knowledge (see references in Kassis 1983:342). Etymologically it is related to seeing. 184 According to Graf, these manuscripts are of Melchite (Greek-Catholic) origin (Graf 1975– 77/1944–53; Erster Band: 86). According to Staal 1983–84 and Gibson 1899 (cf. Metzger 1977), Sinai arab. 151 and 154 are translations made from Syriac, whereas (according to Gibson 1894) 155 is made from Greek. 185 MS Sinai arab. no. 151 (from 867, written by Bishr ibn al-Sirrī in Damascus, edited by Staal 1983–84), which contains the Pauline epistles, the Acts of the Apostles and the Catholic epistles, has niyya in 26 out of 29 cases. Romans 9:1 and 2. Corinthians 5:11 have Corinthians 4:2 no specification.

(‘mind’), and 2.

MS Sinai arab. no. 154 (from the ninth century, edited by Gibson 1899), which contains the Acts of the Apostles and the Catholic epistles, has niyya in Acts and 1. Peter. MS Sinai arab. no. 155 (from the ninth or tenth century, edited by Gibson 1894), contains the epistles of Paul to the Romans, the Corinthians, the Galatians and (in part) the Ephesians. It has niyya in all places in Romans and 1. and 2. Corinthians. 186 The codex arpet was brought to St Petersburg by Tischendorf and published by Stenij 1901. It

contains large parts of the Pauline epistles, and the epistle to the Hebrews. Stenij’s edition includes the portions of Paul’s epistle to the Romans and the Corinthians, and the epistle to the Hebrews. It

(‘opinion’) and even (‘mind’) in Romans 9:1, in 2. Corinthians 1:12 (pl.) and 4:2, has a different wording in 2. Corinthians 5:11, and niyya in all other legible cases (in all five occurrences in Hebrews, and in Romans 2:15). 187 The BNM cod. 4971 (BibleManuscript) contains the Gospels of Matthew, Luke and John, parts of the Gospel of Mark and the Acts of the Apostles, as well as the entire body of Pauline epistles. Except from 1. Corinthians 8:7, where it prefers niyya, this manuscript has for conscientia/syneīdēsis in all Pauline references. In 2. Corinthians 5:11, it adds sirr According to van Koningsveld 1977:54f. and Roisse 1999:148, the translation of the Pauline epistles might go back to the tenth century. The translation was probably made from Latin (the Vulgata).

Notes

265

188 Thompson 1955:10. For the notion of an ‘Egyptian Vulgate’ Arabic translation made from Coptic and the manuscripts in question, see Graf 1975–77/1944–53, Erster Band: 87, 92–3, 155 and 160–3. 189 Metzger 1977:264f. A manuscript of Egyptian/Coptic origin, possibly from the sixteenth century, As we shall see, the evidence has niyya in all places except for 2. Corinthians, where it has conforms to that of Thomas Erpenius’ printed New Testament in Arabic from 1616. The manuscript is found in the uncatalogued collection of the Evangelical Theological Seminary in Cairo. It has not been edited, and the dating is a guess. I am thankful to Mark Swanson for drawing my attention to the manuscript. 190 Latin text: ex eo intelligentes ignominiam; from the interlinear Arabic-Latin edition 1619 (Bible 1619/1591). The rendering of John 8:9 is identical with that of a Wiener Arabic manuscript, possibly from the fourteenth century, referred to as ‘wiener hds 43’ and edited by de Lagarde in 1864 (de Lagarde 1864). Graf 1975–77/1944–53 (Erster Band: 159) identifies the manuscript as Wien or. 1544. 191 Bible 1616. About Erpenius’ edition: see Metzger 1977:265; Graf 1975–77/1944–53, Erster Band: 139, 158f; de Lagarde 1864:X and XX. 192 For the Gospels, Erpenius primarily used the MS Leiden or. 2369, often referred to as ‘Scaliger 217’. 193 2. Corinthians 1:12, 4:2, 5:11 and Romans 9:1. Niyya/niyyāt+ Romans 2:15 and Titus 1:15, and even in Romans 14:5 (corresponding to the Greek nous). In John 8:9, it has minhu mutafahhimīn al-tabkit. Once more, one can see that the verses that have other words than niyya (in this case, ) correspond more or less to the verses that reveal other options than the standard choice of in the Syriac Peshitta. 194 Cf. Thompson 1955, Part II:51–5. 195 The Propaganda Version was republished several times, cf. Bible 1822/1671. 196 2. Corinthians 1:12, 4:2 and 5:11; Romans 9.1, and Titus 1.15 (together with niyya, both corresponding to the Greek nous in the plural). Like Erpenius’ New Testament, it even has (‘mind’) in Romans 14:5. It does not include the variant reading of John 8:9 (Bible 1822/1671). 197 See Thompson 1955, part I:4–12, and Graf 1975–77/1944–53, Erster Band: 93–6. 198 According to Graf 1975–77/1944–53, Erster Band: 93f., and Thompson 1955, part I:10. 199 Thompson 1955, part I:11: ‘The text of the Arabic version of the London Polyglot is almost a transcript of the Paris Polyglot with some additions in the prophets.’ 200 Bible 1657. The London Polyglot has riwāya or rawīya (‘deliberation’) in Acts, in Romans 13:5, 1. Corinthians 8:10 and 12, Hebr. 9:9 (with wahm, ‘belief, surmise’) and 1. Pet. 2:19, (‘intelligence’) in 1. Corinthians 10:25 and 27 and Hebr. 10:22, wahm in 1. Corinthians 10:28 and 29 and Hebr. 9:9 (with ) in Hebr. 10:2, and (must be misprint for ) in Hebr. 13:18.

The Newcastle edition of the Bible from 1811 contains the Arabic part of the London Polyglot (Graf 1975–77/1944–53, Erster Teil: 98), and thus gives the same evidence (Bible 1811). 201 Graf 1975–77/1944–53, Erster Band: 140f. together with In John 8:9, it reads wa-min 202 Hebr. 10:22 has niyya. Titus 1:15 has mubakkatīn (‘blamed by their insight’). 203 Bible 1991/1865, cf. Thompson 1955, part III: 98–106 and Saliba 1975. The Bustānī-van Dyck Bible is also referred to as van Dyke (in Arabic: fān Dīk). 204 Bible 1992/1878, cf. Thompson 1955, part IV:146–9. In the 1990s, both the vanDyck Bible and the old Jesuit Bible were still published by the United Bible Societies, through the Middle East

Notes

266

Bible Society and/or the Bible Society in Egypt (Dār al-Kitāb al-Muqaddas fi-l-Sharq 205 Bible 1980/1969. 206 Bible 1993/1978. First published in 1978 and revised in 1993. 207 Bible 1988—presented not as a literal but as an ‘interpretative’ translation (tarjamat tafsīriyya). 208 Bible 1983/1857. Fāris al-Shidyāq was a well known Arabist who worked in Lebanon, Egypt and Malta. At the invitation of Samuel Lee, he became the head of a group of translators (including Thomas Jarrett) who embarked upon the task of rendering the Bible into Arabic for the first time since the Propagation edition of 1671. The New Testament was published in 1851, and the entire Bible in 1857 (Bible 1983/1857: preface, cf. Graf 1975–77/1944–53, Erster Band: 99).

The Fāris al-Shidyāq Bible was reprinted in Tripoli (Lebanon) by Maktabat in 1983, on the initiative of Father Ibrāhīm Sarrūj. In the publisher’s preface, he argues that this is the best of the modern Arabic translations, although it was neglected after the appearance of the van Dyck/Bustānī and Jesuit editions. In a separate preface, a New Testament scholar of the (Protestant) Near East School of Theology in Beirut recommends the translation. 209 It has

in John 8:9, Romans 9:1, 2. Corinthians 1:12, 4:2, 5:11 and Titus 1:15 (with niyya).

In John 8:9, Shidyāq uses the expression ‘their consciences convinced them’. Differently from Erpenius, Shidyāq has (insight) in 1. Corinthians 8:7 and 8:10. instead of 210 The old Jesuit Bible (Bible 1992/1878) reads bi-kulli niyyatin (intention) in Acts 23:1. 211 The same variant reading of John 8:9 is found in the far more recent ‘Today’s Arabic version’ from 1978, but not in the Jesuit Bible (neither the old nor the new, from 1878 and 1969). Although both and Khālid often refer to the passage John 8:1–11, only actually quotes this particular passage ( 1966/1961:296). 212 After the demise of Eli Smith, the work was completed by Cornelius van Dyck with the extensive assistance of a Muslim Shaykh from al-Azhar, Yūsuf ibn Cf. Thompson 1955, part III:98–106 and Saliba 1975. 213 According to officials in The Bible Society in Egypt (personal information, December 1997). 214 Wehr 1979:85, Doniach 1982:328. Found once in see n.d./1938:35. Cf. Gregorius 1972, vol. 1:7 and 2:30ff., cf. 2:28. in the works analysed in this study, see Yannī 215 Wehr 1979:1239. As for 1903–04:93, Khālid 1955:24 (in a quotation of the Western psychologist J.A.Hadfield), 1954:18, and Gregorius 1972, vol. 1:1, cf. 1:92. in the authors focused on in this 216 Badawi and Hinds 1986:39. As for the expression study, uses it together with nadam (remorse), 1954:158. Cf. 1985/1920:55 and Gregorius 1972, vol. 1:81. 217 Schregle 1974:484 (‘schlechtes Gewissen’). Khālid warns against excessive nadam and torturing of conscience (lá ) with excessive rebuke, in Khālid 1990/1961:94. 218 Cf. references in the preceding notes. 219 As candidates for rendering the French conscience (in the sense of consciousness and/or conscience), Monteil 1960:207 lists as ‘conscience morale’, consciente’,

and wijdān. He defines as ‘perception as ‘prise (ou perte) de conscience’, and reserves

Notes

267

wijdān for expressing attitude or behaviour in accordance with conscience, that is, ‘comportement selon la conscience’. 220 Wehr 1979:1231 focuses on passion, ecstasy, emotion and sentiment; Badawi and Hinds 1986:924 on inner consciousness, imagination, mind. 221 al-Bustānī n.d./1870:2222. R.Dozy, in his Supplement aux Dictionnaires Arabes (1967), cites al-Bustānī and adds that wijdān is also used in the sense of ecstasy (cf. wajd) in the Muqaddima of Ibn Khaldūn (Dozy 1967:782f.). may also be translated by ‘conscience’ (listed as his last 222 According to Wehr 1979:675, entry, after i.a. ‘innermost thoughts’, ‘true mind’, ‘intention’. 223 in his frequently equates and see Amīn 1964:55, 96, 198. On p. 96, he cites Qāsim Amīn, whose parallel use of and (as quoted by Amīn, who gives no reference) might corroborate the testimony of nineteenth-century Egyptian Arabic dictionaries. As noted already by Humbert 1838:249 (cf. Section 5.3), was early used in Egyptian colloquial Arabic (in the form of dimma). 224 Wehr 1979:360. 225 Ibid.: 471, cf. Saadeh 1911:369 and Schregle 1974:484. 226 has also left its marks in languages influenced by Arabic. In contemporary Urdu, ); in Swahili, it is dhamiri. In Turkish, however, conscience is zamīr (written like the Arabic the common word for conscience is vicdan (cf. the Arabic wijdān).

6 The notions of and wijdān in Egyptian reformers and writers 227 Vatikiotis claims that Zaghlūl—the brother of the great revolutionary and founder of the Wafd party Zaghlūl—translated Du contrat social, and that the Lebanese Christian translated Émile (Vatikiotis 1991:232, 238). I have not been able to verify Vatikiotis’ claim. The only Arabic translations of these works available in the National Library in Cairo (Dār al-kutub) are those made by 228 For 229 See

published in 1956 and 1954, respectively.

and see Hourani 1995:253–9 and Schoonover 1954:22. 1899–1910, vol. 3 (1901–02):160–89, 241–51, 301–16, 469–84—under the heading

(‘The history of Jesus’). of 1899–1910, vol. 3:306. In what follows (not included in 230 Renan 1935:170, translated in translation), Renan states that ‘it was the conscience to which he [Jesus] appealed’ (Renan 1935:171). The religion of Jesus is repeatedly referred to by Renan as a religion of conscience (cf. ibid.: 65, 82, 151, 152, 194, 220), but does not seem to have paid particular attention to this aspect of Renan’s exposition. As we shall see in section 7.3, Renan’s book probably had much influence on approach to Jesus. 231 The bone of contention was the doctoral thesis of Ernest Renan from 1852, Averroès et l’Averroisme. aw aw al-wājib. 232 233 Cf. Hourani 1995:170f., Awad 1986:107ff. Founded in 1907, the ‘People’s Party’ was the first modern political party in Egypt, and propounded an inclusive vision al-Sayyid: ‘The paper of the Egyptian nation, cf. the following programmatic statement by

Notes

268

will not distinguish or discriminate between religions and races’ (Vatikiotis 1991:227). As an ethico-political thinker, he saw natural law rather than Islamic law in the communitarian sense as was the foundation of the ideal state (Hourani 1995:170–83). In this respect, markedly different from the two other nationalist parties that were formed in the same period, and al-dustūrī, which both referred themselves to a more particularist, Islamic identity (Conermann 1996:57f). 234 Whereas Coptic politicians were strongly involved in the Wafd side by side with Muslims, representatives of the Liberal Constitutionalist Party occasionally accused the Wafd of harbouring a Coptic conspiracy against the Islamic nature of the Egyptian nation (cf. Smith 1983:83–5, 146–8 and Section 10.2). 235 Only two out of three planned volumes were published, in 1921 and 1923. This was Haykal’s second main work in Arabic, after his famous Zaynab which is commonly regarded as the first Egyptian novel (Awad 1986:124f.). 236 Haykal alludes to Q 17:85: ‘The spirit is of my Lord’s command’ (in Fakhry’s translation). 237 For a discussion of Haykal’s utilisation and critique of Rousseau, see Smith 1983:56–60. 238 As for Haykal’s relation to the authors who are the main focus of this study, Harold Vogelaar has noted that Haykal reacted very positively to M.Kāmil

dramatisation of the issue of

human conscience in Qarya ( 1954), and recommended it to be read by scholars as well as the ruling elite (Vogelaar 1978:104). 239 See Khālid’s references to Rousseau in general and Du contrat social in particular (Khālid 1950:31/Khālid 1953:30 and Khālid 1963:185–90), and

reference to Rousseau’s

1995/1952:40). notion of the social contract ( followed in 1900 by the sequel al-jadīda (‘The new woman’). 240 Entitled 241 As for role in the development of Christian-Muslim relations in Egypt, regarded ‘the blind faith’ of Christianity as a parallel to obscurantist taqlīd among Muslims. Basically, he sees Islam as the religion of reason, whereas Christianity is more inclined towards irrationality. On the other hand, he holds the view (also shared by ) that Christ has been misinterpreted by Christianity, and that Christ’s example in confronting the blindness of faith among his contemporary religious leaders is exemplary (cf. Schumann 1988:84ff., Goddard 1996:43–7 and Leirvik 1999a:140–3). dictum as a reference to A consultation of 242 Schumann 1988/1975:139 takes the Arabic original of Amīn’s book, however, shows that although Amīn introduces this loyalty to the word allegedly used by on passage with a reference to this occasion was wijdān, not (Amīn 1944:115).

Also in other places in his writings about Amīn presents him as one who addressed the living consciences of his audience, Amīn 1965:166, 223. 243 Safran erroneously claims that it was published in 1929 (Safran 1961:160). The prefaces of the tenth printing from 1985 indicate that the first edition was published in 1920, the second in 1921 and the third (with some additions) in 1924.

from 1950) and a multi-volume 244 His most famous works include his autobiography ( exposition of the intellectual and rational side of Islamic civilisation, published as Fajr (‘The dawn of Islam’, 1929), (‘The forenoon of Islam’, 3 vols 1933–36) and (‘The noon of Islam’, 4 vols 1945–55). See Boullata in Amīn 1978: xi.

Notes

269

245 In the list of sources, he refers explicitly to classics such as Miskawayh’s

and

but also to modern Western works such as John Stuart Mill’s Utilitarianism, John Stuart Mackenzie’s Manual of Ethics and J.H.Hadfield’s Psychology and Morals (ibid.: 232f.). As we shall see, Hadfield’s Psychology and Morals, which was later translated into Arabic, was also a source of inspiration for Khālid’s early works on new morality (see Section 8.2). 246 Amīn 1985/1920:55–62. In a footnote, he states explicitly that al-wijdān refer to the word ‘Conscience’ (ibid.: 55, note 1). 247 In the (16:60), is clearly a divine attribute: ‘Allah’s is the supreme exemplar’ (in Fakhry’s translation), or ‘To Allah applies the highest similitude’ (in translation). 248 As we shall see, the same may be said of and Khālid, who did not make it very clear what would be the concrete moral and legal implications of their conscience-based understanding of Islamic law.

As regards the later development of Amīn’s thought, Safran attributes the later part of his writings to what he terms ‘the reactionary phase’ among Egyptian intellectuals. In (‘The day of Islam’, published in 1952), one may observe a rather drastic change in Amīn attitude towards other religions and the West. He now claims that ‘All the Christian peoples are unanimous in their enmity to Islam’, and argues that Islam is both a religious and a temporal order (Safran 1961:226f.). It might be, however, that Amīn’s statements in this phase of his career should be read as an anti-colonial reaction on behalf of Islamic civilisation rather than as religiously motivated statements (Boullata in Amīn 1978:xii). 249 In these essays, published three years before Nasser’s revolution, depicts ‘the sufferings of the Egyptian masses on one hand, and on the other the greed, the callousness, the selfishness, the lack of principle prevalent among rulers, would-be-rulers, and their sycophants’ (Cachia 1956:65). al-Qaddūs is often referred to as al-Quddūs. 250 are frequent in the conclusion to the novel, see (al-Qaddūs 1963/1958): 251 References to 668, 675. (‘I am free’) which was written in the 1950s (al-Qaddūs 252 Also in his famous short story al-Qaddūs employs the notion of in the context of self-examination. In the n.d.), fictional setting of 1936, the short story describes a young girl’s desire to be emancipated from conventional confines, and her accompanying scruples. al-Qaddūs describes her as initially being troubled by a ‘heavy conscience’( ibid.: 82). After telling how she lied to her aunt about taking part in a friend’s Jewish family rituals, al-Qaddūs speaks of ‘something’ preventing her from falling asleep—like the inner court

set up in her

conscience every time she sinned or thought she had sinned. In fact, almost every night such a court was set up, when she heard a voice coming from her chest (min ) like the hidden voice of conscience crying ‘court in session!’ 253 That is,

(ibid.: 95). the famous blind poet-philosopher of the eleventh century, on which wrote a dissertation.

Notes 254

270

1977:407. In the Arabic original, he speaks of himself in the third person 1996/1973:164.

255 As for

relation to the authors who are the main focus of this study, he reacted

drama of conscience in Qarya and to positively both to Kāmil philosophy of religion in Al-wādī al-muqaddas, Vogelaar 1978:103, 227f. 256 Represented by personalities such as Jamāl al-Dīn al-Afghānī, al-Nadīm,

and others. Also

figures among the heroes of the modern Egyptian consciousness. 257 Cf. Amīn’s description of the ‘English’ and ‘French’ schools among modern Egyptian intellectuals, Amīn 1978:119. 258 As sees it, the role of the intellectuals is by no means confined to thinking. The aim of the true elite is to change society—by means of reason, dialogue and revolutionary power 1972:9). In the world of ideas, their outlook is holistic. They seek the reconciliation of the scientific and humanistic sciences, the latter being based on the gifts of intuition and inspiration (ibid.: 9). Through such efforts, the Western and Arab cultures may also be reconciled. 259 Like Khālid and Kāmil al-Qaddūs and are commonly counted among Muslim writers who have employed Christian symbols al and imagery in a creative, non-polemical way (Goddard 1996:127–33; Leirvik 1999a:180–2).

7 (1889– 1964): ethico-religious internalisation, human conscience and Islamic apologetics

260 Sources of biographical information: Schumann 1988/1975:11 1f., Awad 1986:166–71 and Ford literary production can be found in al-Sakkūt 2001:29ff. A comprehensive listing of 1983. 261 In 1938, he left the Wafd party and joined the breakaway group. 262 The Egyptian State Information Service, on their web-page www.sis.gov.eg/calendar/ html/cl120397.htm (accessed in October 1999). 263 Including books about the Prophet’s wife (1943) and his daughter (1954), the exemplary believer and freed slave Bilāl (1945), the military commander who conquered Egypt ibn (1944), the third caliph (1954) and ‘the father of martyrs’ (1945). 264 (1953). view of al-Ghazālī, see Amīn 1966:45–7. 265 About 266 Also in the preface to his biography of described the book as 1981/1963:3). Cf. Wessels 1972:15. a ‘spiritual portrait’ ( (‘ philosophy’, 1974/1947, cf. 267 Cf. his book titles Al-falsafa n.d./1947) and (‘The human being in the ’, 1974/196 1b).

Notes

271

268 See 1985/1942:131, 1974/1947:120 and 155f, 1981/1963:168f and al-Akkad n.d.: 94. 269 His book about the influence of Arab-Islamic culture on Europe ( 1946) was subsequently translated into English by The Supreme Council for Islamic Affairs in Cairo (al-Akkad n.d.). Typical titles of books of the apologetic vein are (‘The truths of Islam and the futility of its opponents’, 1957) and the heading of his essays in response to Western perceptions of Islam, Mā yuqāl (‘What is said about Islam’, 1974/1963). works that have been translated into English (Akkad 270 Sāra is one of a very few of 1978). It is an inner drama about a man’s perplexed relationship with an independent woman. Amīn has characterised Sāra as an ‘interiorist’ (juwwānī) novel (Amīn 1966:28f.). 271 See Safran 1961:212–15; Wessels 1972:14–19; Sabanegh 1983:343–83, Badawi 1985:55 and Awad 1986:169. 272 Carlyle portrays along with other ‘men of genius’ (cf. Carlyle 1911/1841:58), as a man with a ‘great mind’ who ‘cannot help being sincere’ (ibid.: 61, 72). He lived ‘Direct from the Inner Fact of things’ (ibid.: 62), as a ‘deep-hearted Son of the Wilderness’ (ibid.: 72). His proclamation of the ‘only true morality’ in submission to God pertinently made Goethe exclaim ‘If this be Islam…do we not all live in Islam?’ (ibid.: 75). Although Carlyle takes exception to use of the sword and regards Islam in its concrete expression as a ‘bastard kind of Christianity’, he still finds ‘a heart-life in it’ (ibid.: 81–3). He regards the moral precepts of as ‘true dictates of a heart aiming towards what is just and true’ (although their expressions are ‘not…always of the superfinest sort’, ibid.: 97). 273 I am referring to discussion of the classical biography of in his hāmiš al-sīra (‘In the margin of the biography’) from 1933, Haykal’s scholarly narrative in from 1935 (translated as The Life of in 1976), and Tawfīq play from 1936 (in English 1964). biography, have been analysed and discussed by The books mentioned, together with Sabanegh 1983, Badawi 1985 and Wessels 1972. The latter focuses on Haykal’s biography. 274 Other chapters of the book depict the genius of his call, his political and organisational genius, and the characteristic features of as a friend, ruler, father, master and worshipper. Khālid’s suggestion that if had not received the 275 Cf. Khālid command to proclaim from his Lord, he would have received it from what was at work in his own conscience (Khālid 1994/1960:9, see Section 8.4). 276 The first cited by al-Bukhārī, in his ‘Book of the Beginning of Revelation’ (Al-Boukhari 1993:4). 277 Cf. Safran 1961:213. military genius, (writing in 1942) compares his 278 In the chapter about military strategies with those of Napoleon and Hitler, for instance with regard to the importance of motivation and intention on the soldiers’ part (ibid.: 32ff.). Cf. discussion in Safran 1961:214 and Sabanegh 1983:368. 279 Safran accuses of sanctioning the killing of prisoners of war, and of defending the killing of politically hostile Jews in Medina and the enslavement of their womenfolk. He also claims that ‘faced every event in the life of Muhammed separately and adapted his moral judgment to it’, without applying a common principle (Safran 1961:213). 280 As early as 1922,

had visited Gandhi in his writings (

1981/1948:303).

Notes 281

272

means ‘great spirit’=Mahatma.

282 In the book, he often applies the notion of ibid.: 319f. and passim. 283 As we shall see, Khālid Khālid too pays much attention to Gandhi as a hero of human conscience. Even more pointedly than and the more political orientation of

he depicts the intentionalism of Christ as merged in the practice of Gandhi.

284 The 1957-edition included a chapter on the Dead Sea Scrolls, as a part of outline of the historical background of Christ’s mission. The title of the last chapter was changed, from to Law

(‘If Christ returned’). was nearly completed before the publication of Ford’s

285 My initial work on dissertation, with its English translation of

book. The quotations from

in Chapter 7 are my own translations, although checked in some detail with

Ford’s translation. 286 Cf. the list of Christian and Muslim commentators on this work in Leirvik 1999a:185.

is seemingly loyal to the denial of the crucifixion. After referring to the 287 cleansing of the temple, he states that when it comes to the climax of Christ’s life, ‘here ends the stage of history, and the stage of creed/doctrine begins’ ( 1996/1957:157). 288 In the following, I will give parallel references to and 289

(

n.d./1953:165, cf. (

n.d./1953)

1996/1957).

1996/1957:12, in the translation of Ford 2001:77.

290 Schumann 1988/1975:128–31 (with reference to ) and 139–41 (with reference to ) Ibrahim Ibrahim (Ibrahim 1988) and F.Peter Ford (Ford 2001) have also paid some attention to the centrality of

in

in English translations. As noted 291 Both Ludwig’s and Renan’s books were available to had also translated parts of Renan’s book into Arabic and published in Section 6.2, them in his journal As for the genre of genius biographies, it should be noted that Emil Ludwig wrote a whole series of books (in the twenties and thirties) about the lives of great men. Cf. Ford 2001:52f. 292 In Renan’s view, Jesus was characterised by his ‘gentle and penetrating genius’ Renan 1935:179), and as a religious reformer, he attacked the ‘traditional formalism’ of the Pharisees. But different from many other reformers, ‘he dwelt little on exegesis—it was the conscience to which he appealed’ (ibid.: 171). 293 As Renan sees it, ‘pure Christianity’ followed Jesus in this respect, and ‘struggled three hundred years for liberty of conscience’ (ibid.: 220). 294 This passage comes close to Ernest Renan’s idea cited earlier that Jesus established A pure worship…resting entirely…on the direct relation of the conscience with the heavenly Father’ (ibid.: 64f.). 295 The opposite claim that Paul deviated from Jesus’ message by his universalist interpretation of the Gospel is also put forward in the so-called Gospel of Barnabas (see Leirvik 1999a:136f.). 296

is the title of one of the book’s main chapters, cf.

n.d./1953:99ff., cf.

1996/1957:104ff. 297 repeats his reference to 105/109, 106/110, 107/110. 298 Ibid.: 105/109, 106/110, 107/110.

in ibid.: 102/106,

Notes

273

299 Cf. Amīn 1964:293ff. and Amīn 1966, and discussion in Section 7.5. 300 Nafs

n.d./1953:78/86),

(ibid.: 98/103), qalb (ibid.: 106/110).

301 An identical formulation is found in his earlier book Allāh 1994/1947:103). In accordance with the Bustānī/van Dyck Bible, which renders entòs hymôn as understands Luke 17:21 as ‘the Kingdom is within you’, not ‘among you’. 302 In comparison with Khālid,

does not pay much attention to the social critique implicit

in Christ’s proclamation of the kingdom. Cf.

critical notes on asceticism and his

n.d./1953:110–12, cf. 1996/1957:112–14. defence of riches, 303 Cf.ibid.:97/102: mutafaqqihun. 304 (1928–) was employed by various educational institutions in Egypt before he went to work with the government in Algiers, and eventually settled in the United States. For more biographical details, see Schumann 1988/1975:132. In the American context, where he has been teaching for a number of years, has been much involved in interreligious dialogue. 305 exploration of Christ as depicted in the Gospels has also received much attention by authors committed to Christian-Muslim understanding (see references in Leirvik 1999a:189). Olaf Schumann has also noted the centrality of in (Schumann 1988/1975:132–46). Kenneth Cragg sees portraying Jesus as a reformer of Judaism—opting for ‘a true ethical as opposed to the formalism to which Torah had been reduced’ (Cragg 1985a:56). 306 In general,

puts more stress on conscience as a prick and a curb than did

in

also cites the Bustānī-van Dyck rendering of John 8:9 (‘and their consciences pricked them’, 1966/1961:296). 307 After Christian—Muslim relations in Egypt had become more strenuous during the 1970s (see Section 10.2), expressed his recognition of the Copts’ bad memories of oppressive rule administered in the name of Islam, and their apprehension that their equal rights in society may be violated again (Haddad 1995:392). 308 persistent sensitivity towards Christian concerns in christology shines through in his contribution to a Jewish—Christian—Muslim dialogue in the 1970s about ‘high’ and ‘low’ christologies (Osman 1977). 309

1981/1963:169.

310 As for the understanding of human reason, refers to the discussion between and over Ernest Renan and his appraisal of the rationalist Islamic philosophy of Ibn Rushd (ibid.: 171f).

has elaborated his own views of the rationalist

philosophy of Ibn Rushd and the speculative philosophy of Ibn Sīnā in (1946) and Ibn Rušd (1953).

ibn Sīnā

311 view of the model Islamic philosopher and theologian al-Ghazālī is expounded in his small book Falsafat al-Ghazālī (1960). 312 The contents of the book are summarised and critically discussed in Nadav Safran’s Egypt in Search of Political Community (Safran 1961:215–26). 313 Quoted in Safran’s translation, ibid.: 219. 314 Cf. similar reservations towards democracy as a question of ‘weights and numbers’ in 1974/1947:41–4. 315 As for slavery, he contends that the abolition of slavery in Europe came about because of (although not ruling out slavery altogether) economic necessity, whereas the recommended the release of slaves despite economic necessity (ibid.: 95f., cf. Safran 1961:224).

Notes

274

316 I am referring to Alessandro Ferrara’s notion of contextualist universalism, as expressed in Ferrara 1990 and discussed in Section 2.2. 317 The original title of the latter was 1983:188).

al-karīm (according to al-Sakkūt

318 In (1953), Khālid speaks of a new morality al-jadīda) that ought to replace the prevailing reactionary morality in Egypt (see Section 8.2, ‘Conscience, new morality and civic ethics’). 319 In this context, he states that the modern ideal of democracy should not suppress the recognition that the majority of people are sometimes straying, and in need of guidance ( 1974/1947:41–4). 320 He cites Q 6:165 and 49:13. 321 He claims that although the punishments can seldom be applied, due to the fact that it is often extremely difficult to establish the necessary proof, the principles of Muslim penal codes are still valid. They stand as a reminder that the freedom of the individual must always be weighed against the interests of the community (cf. ibid.: 97–103). 322 In a hermeneutics of suspicion, Hilary Kilpatrick reads Sāra as an expression of the confusion in which Egyptian intellectuals found themselves during the 1930s, when Western culture had begun penetrating Egyptian society, and as a conservative reaction to the movement for the emancipation of women in Egypt (Kilpatrick 1974:30–5). She suggests that hatred of emancipation stems from his theory of the natural function of women, and one weapon which he uses to attack the idea of liberation is contempt’ (ibid.: 33). makes some rather male-chauvinist comments about women 323 Expounding his point, lacking a sense of humour, women’s aptitude for child care and household, and their liability to plot and deceit. In contrast, man finds his preference in reason and reflection. As for suggests that it should be seen in the general perspective of restraining desires, but also against the background of women’s tendency to exploit their charm. 324 As regards Christianity he attacks the negative fore ordination implicit in the doctrine of original sin, as expressed by Paul, Augustine, Luther and Calvin (whereas Thomas Aquinas and Catholicism are credited for having asserted that sin does not completely erase the good). 325 In the edition of Al-falsafa chapter (

by Dar

Misr (

is not included. In the version printed in

n.d./1947), the collected works

1974/1947), one will find both this chapter and two other extra chapters entitled

Bayna

and Tafsīr

326 His discussion of custom

is continued in pp. 420ff.

327 As regards Ibn Rushd’s view of the human person,

notes that he speaks of the human

‘spirit’ as a common denominator of reason and soul. Whereas ‘soul’ (nafs)—‘in the way we use the word’—is often associated with evil impulses and censure, this is not the case with the ‘divine breath’ of reason or the human spirit; the eternal permanence in which Ibn Rushd firmly believed (

1974/1961a:336).

328 Cf. similar statements in

n.d./1953:173.

asks why so many reject the prophethood of whereas 329 Apologetically, they bluntly accept what he perceives as the dubious moral qualities of some of the biblical stories 1974/1961a:371–6). cites the Old Testament stories about Noah who drank wine, Lot who slept with his daughters, Jacob who deceived his brother, Isaac who withheld Esau’s blessing, David who seduced Bathsheba and had Uriah killed, and Hosea who married a prostitute.

Notes

275

330 Probably with an implicit reference to the speculative ‘Islamic being 331

of Ibn

must also be distinguished from any notions of incarnation al-wujūd, ibid.: 395).

he claims that a truly and unity of

is emphatic that divine commissioning (al-taklīf) presupposes human freedom 1974/1961b:399ff.).

discusses Islamic anthropology in the view 332 In the second part of of other philosophical or religious anthropologies. He relates Darwin’s theory of evolution to the Greek and Indian idea of a great chain of creation (silsilat ibid.: 490–8), and —notably by Ibn claims that this idea was in fact brought to European Christianity through influence on Meister Eckhart and other European theologians. According to the idea of the great chain is often linked with an anthropology that subordinates the human soul to the spirit, but sees reason as the divine quality of the human being. 333 tuqābilu, that is in a complementary relationship. 334 In Section 10.1, I shall suggest a different reading of the various phases in the development of and other liberal intellectuals. Instead of dismissing their preoccupation with Islamic subjects as an apologetic reaction, I will see their turning to Islamic subjects as a truly modern reappropriation of the Islamic heritage, in a historical context which gives their writings a distinctive, anti-colonial ring. 335 As indicated in Section 6.3, it remains a question for further investigation whether did in as the resort of personal integrity or as moral consciousness. The dictum of fact invoke cited by Amīn turned out to be a reference to wijdān. 336 See bibliography in Anawati 1980. 337 Amīn 1944, Amin 1953 and Amīn 1965. 338 From juwwānī, ‘inner’, ‘inside’, ‘interior’ (Wehr 1979:171). Cf. the Egyptian colloquial guwwa, ‘inside’, and guwwāni, ‘internal’ (Badawi and Hinds 1986:184). 339 This is not found in the six authoritative collections in Sunnī Islam. It is mentioned in by Ibn al-Athīr almost the same form, however, in a medieval dictionary of rare words in (d. 1210—see the entry for j-w-n in Ibn al-Athīr 1896, vol. 1:190). Ibn al-Athīr holds the word jawwānī to be derived from the root j-w-n. But the collocation with its antonym banānī indicates that the word is rather derived from the root j-w-w, and added the suffix -āni. Since there is a medieval origin to this saying, it should be transliterated as jawwāni instead of juwwānī, since the latter form is influenced by colloquial usage. Ibn al-Athīr attributes the saying to Salmān (i.e. al-Fārisī). 340 Q 16:60: ‘God’s is the loftiest similitude’ (transl. Kassis 1983:786), alternatively Allāh’s is the sublime exemplar’ (transl. Fakhry 1997). 341 Amīn wrote extensively about the philosophy of the Arabic language, in Falsafat (1965) and (1967). 342 Amīn 1964:11f., with reference to Breasted 1934 and Adolf Erman: Die Religion der Ägypter (Erman 1968/1934). Amīn quotes Erman: ‘The doctrine of accountability [in ancient Egyptian religion] confirms that Egypt was the first country in the world in which the human conscience awakened’ (ibid.: 12). Erman himself refers to the ancient Egyptian notion of ‘Gott im Menschen’—as expressed by the concepts of ‘heart’ and of ka, the vital force—and comments: ‘Die ganze Vorstellung entspricht natürlich dem, was wir das Gewissen nennen’, Erman 1968/1934:162. As we shall see, Khālid lists Breasted as one of his sources in his exposition of conscience’s journey towards its destiny (Khālid 1963:2).

Notes 343 Cf. Section 5.2

276

and philosophical/secular usage’.

344 In Al-Juwwāniyya, there are two chapters about al-‘Aqqād: Al-juwwaniyya (Amin 1964:294ff.) and Al-juwwāniyya These are identical with two chapters in his

(ibid.: 310ff.). fīfikr

(Amin 1966), where one will

find the latter essay under the heading 345

in Amīn 1966:61ff.=Al-juwwāniyya fī

(Amīn 1964:31 0ff). 346 On interreligious dialogue, see Hanafi 1977. 347 In his analysis of the ‘modified Islamic discourse’ of Egyptian intellectuals, Stephan Conermann and as two parallel concepts typical of the quest for Islamic authenticity in the sees 1970s and 1980s (Conermann 1996:111). 348 The word is derived from a verb for originating or being rooted, (Wehr 1979:22f.). translates Amīn’s philosophy of al-juwwāniyya with ‘consciencism’, and 349 In fact, characterises it as ‘a certain rationalism tinted with intuitionism’, Hanfi 1995:448.

8 Khālid Khālid (1920–96): conscience, human authenticity and Islamic democracy

350 As for the biographical information summarised in the following, see Awad 1986:226–8, Branca 1984 and al-Nābulsī 1989:25ff. 351 al-Nābulsī 1989:66 characterises his independent position as ‘ascetic’ (mufakkiran zāhidan). Along with his books, Khālid published articles and wrote columns in major Egyptian newspapers Rūz al-Yūsuf and magazines such as Al- Wafd, Al-Ahrām, Al-Jumhūriyya, and Al-Hilāl, and in the international Arabic newspaper Al-Sharq (run by his son 352 Most of them have been republished either by Dār Khālid), or by Dār thābit (run by his son Usāma Khālid). 353 Al-Nuqrāshī was expelled from the (old) Wafd in 1937, became part of a splinter group in 1937, formed his first government in 1945, and his second in 1946. After his government ordered the dissolution of the Muslim Brotherhood, he was assassinated by a Muslim Brother in 1948. About Khālid’s relation to Nuqrāshī, see his autobiography Khālid 1993:148ff. and passim. As for the political context, see indexed references to al-Nuqrāshī in Vatikiotis 1991:567. al-wafd al-gadīd) was established in 1977. It stood for unrestricted 354 The neo-Wafd party ( freedom of expression, parliamentary democracy and private initiative in the economy. Although it propounded as a general foundation of the judicial system, it did not favour the idea of a religious state (McDermott 1988:11 Of.; Conermann 1996:127). 355 His political involvement even took him to prison for some days (Khālid 1993:173ff.). In the 1930s, he was also attracted by the Young Egypt movement, but never became a member (Khālid al-salām, which was made 1993:199f.). For a short period, he joined the so-called up of ‘a mixture of Marxists and liberals’ (al-Nābulsī 1989:44). In 1946, his social commitment even resulted in a project that, inspired by the corresponding Christian movement, was intended to carry the name of ‘Salvation Army’. Its aim was to ‘treat’ the social vices instead of ‘assailing’ them—by way of improvement not chastisement, mercy not harshness (Khālid 1954/1953:35, cf. Khālid 1993:418 and al-Nābulsī 1989:431).

Notes

277

356 For Khālid’s encounters with and critique of the Muslim Brotherhood, see Khālid 1993:269ff. and Khālid 1989/1981:14f. see Khālid 1993:247ff. and al-Nābulsī 1989:61ff. Cf. Khālid’s 357 As regards Khālid and (Khālid 1985/1971) on what he learnt from and how meditations in in a general Islamic perspective. For seven years, he he came to see the importance of Subkiyya movement and became an active member of their group joined the In his autobiography, he makes it clear that his preoccupation with aesthetics, poetry and the theme of love, as well as his emphasis on (‘doing the good and (Khālid beautiful’) in ethics, should be seen as a reflection of his understanding of 1993:216, 240f.). 358 Cf. Khālid 1993:263, 334 and Branca 1984:3f. According to al-Nābulsī and Khālid himself, much of his knowledge of Western thought came from the popular presentation of great authors in booklets published by the Young Egypt party ( al-fatāh), and the transmission of Western thought through the journal Al-Mukhtār, the Arabic edition of Reader’s Digest (al-Nābulsī 1989:44f., Khālid 1993:416). 359 Branca 1984:2, cf. al-Nābulsī 1989:52f. 360 H.G.Wells’ The Outline of World History from 1920 was translated into Arabic as Khālid refers to the book already in Min hunā Khālid 1950:35/Khālid 1953:33, cf. Khālid 1963:2. 361 Khālid refers to Will Durant’s The Story of Civilization (1935–) as a major source in al-bašar and al-insānī fī masīrihi see Khālid 1986/1958:10, Khālid 1969/1959 (list of sources, no page number), and Khālid 1963:2. It was translated into Arabic as 362 See Khālid’s references to Rousseau in general and Du contrat social in particular in Khālid 1950:31/Khālid 1953:30 and Khālid 1963:185–90. 363 Much of his liberal impulses seem to have come through a translation of J.B.Bury’s A History of Freedom of Thought (1913). Cf. Awad 1986:227 and al-Nābulsī 1989:45. Bury’s book focuses on the emergence of religious toleration and the growth of rationalism in Western history from the European renaissance and onwards. 364 See Khālid’s references to Tom Paine in Khālid 1953:28, 46/Khālid 1950:29, 52, Khālid 1955:30f., Khālid 1994/1959:67ff. and Khālid 1963:190ff. He also read about Thomas Jefferson and Ralph Waldo Emerson. 365 Such as R.B.Perry’s The Humanity of Man (Khālid 1963:3) and James A.Hadfield’s Psychology and Morals (Khālid 1954/1953:26, 62, 126 and Khālid 1955:24ff.). He also took in ‘chunks from Tolstoy, Freud, Adler, and Bergson… He even tried Marx but found him too abstruse’ (Awad 1986:227). 366 As regards modern Islamic reformers, he was acquainted with the works of the great Islamic Salāma Mūsā, reformers and liberal modernists in Egypt such as and (al-Nābulsī 1989:45f.). Awad 1986:228 downplays the influence of the liberal modernists on Khālid. 367 As for Khālid’s early views of socialism, see Khālid 1953:29, 40, 94f., 97ff. 368 Cf. his lā (‘Citizens, not subjects’) from 1952 and (‘Democracy forever’) from 1953. (‘This, or the deluge’) from 1953 and Li-kay lā (‘Lest 369 Cf. you plough the sea’) from 1955.

Notes

278

370 Cf. also his personality-oriented approach to early Islamic heroes in Khālid 1994/1964 and Khālid 1974. In his broad presentation of Khālid’s work, al-Nābulsī includes a chapter on Khālid as ‘the al-Nābulsī 1989:447ff.). human speaker’ ( al-rasūl (Khālid 1974), which contains his books about the rightly 371 Cf. the collection guided caliphs (from 1961), Abū Bakr (from 1962), (from 1966) and caliph (from 1967), as well as the exemplary 1969). 372 And the promise is God’, 1971.

ibn

(from

373 Lā yazālu ‘The Messenger is still speaking’, 1972. 374 See Section 8.6 ‘From universalist liberalism to Islamic democracy’. magazine of a visit made by Pope Shenouda to the hospital 375 See the report in the shortly before Khālid died on 1 March 1996 ( 1996). (‘The ordinary 376 An early example is Khālid 1994/1953:156–66, the chapter named Al-rajul man’). 377 It is indicative of his positive use Jewish-Christian tradition that the title of his book about kāna freedom of expression from 1961 alludes to the prologue of the Gospel of John (‘The ten al-kalima, ‘In the beginning was the word’). Similarly, his commandments’, from 1959) alludes to the Mosaic concept of ten commandments. 378 In his autobiography from 1993 (Khālid 1993), Christian tradition or Christian-Muslim relations is not an issue. 379 In Schumann 1988/1975. 380 As mentioned in the Introduction (Chapter 1), the only hint I had found before I began reading Khālid’s works was in a review of (Encounter 1982:8). Cf. Goddard’s observation on the importance of conscience in this book, Goddard 1996:157. 381 Such as new morality, civic ethics, human progress (al-taqaddum hijra towards the future and the combined notions of masīr (journey destiny). See the following exposition in Section 8.2 onwards. 382 Khālid’s main work on this topic masīrihi (Khalid 1963) was not given priority when most of his works were republished by his sons in the 1980s and 1990s. To my knowledge, this book has not been republished since 1971 (second impression, Al-Nābulsī pays no attention at all to it, in his otherwise Maktabat comprehensive monitoring of Khālid’s works. Al-Nābulsī notes Khālid’s interest in human conscience (al-Nābulsī 1989:56, 199, 209, 219, 280, 291, 433, 453, 456), but only in passing and he makes no point of it in his analysis. 383 In the following, I will give double references to the English translation and the original Arabic version, respectively. In my quotations, I will follow the English translation. 384 See al-Ghazzāli 1975/1953. As for al-Ghazālī’s personal relation to Khālid, see ibid.: xvi–xvii. (1951), which was suppressed 385 Similar things happened to his next book, at first, but then released by the order of the Public Prosecutor on condition that a certain passage was removed (Awad 1986:227). In the same period, Khālid openly challenged what he viewed as traditionalist and obscurantist tendencies at al-Azhar. In a series of open letters to a newly appointed shaykh, he expressed the hope that this old institution of Islamic learning might soon see a courageous reformer like Luther (Khālid 1967/1957:122f., 182). 386 Much like Khālid’s book, al-Rāziq’s book (‘Islam and the Principles of Political Authority’, 1925) instigated a heated debate between traditional and liberals, and even caused a government crisis (cf. Vatikiotis 1991:306f).

Notes

279

387 Khālid uses the word kahāna, which normally refers to fortune-telling or prophesying, but is probably meant here as a reference to ‘priesthood’ (translated as such in the English version). (Khālid 1989/1981:14). 388 As he later explains in Al-dawla 389 In his radio speeches from the beginning of the 1950s that were collected in Al-dīn li-l(‘Religion for the people’), and first published in 1953 with the title Al-dīn fī (‘Religion in the service of the people’), Khālid asserts that human conscience falls sick if it turns away from the concerns of the common people. The chapter Al-rajul (‘The ordinary man’) opens with the following reference to human conscience: At a time when human conscience rejoiced in integrity and vitality, the human race was gravely concerned about its toiling/enslaved members, those whom we call “ordinary people”’ (al-rijāl Khālid 1994/ 1953:157). 390 He also refers to Tom Paine, as an exemplary representative of the American struggle for freedom of thought and civil rights (Khālid 1953:46/Khālid 1950:52). 391 Allāh. The same is also invoked in Khālid 1954/1953:14f. The saying, which is not found in the six recognised collections, is invoked by al-Ghazālī in his exposition of the ethical implications of the most beautiful names of God (al-Ghazālī 1995b). 392 He criticises the political denial of women’s rights, the reactionaries’ appeal to religion in order to hold women down, and the psychological complexes ‘in us all’ that keeps the Eves of the world fettered. In his vehement attack on ‘the logic of the reactionaries’, he cites several examples which testify to the central position of women in the formative years of Islam. 393 This is how al-Nābulsī sees Khālid’s defence of women’s rights: whereas the famous reformer from the turn of the century Qāsim Amīn liberated women from the face veil with his (1899) and the rejoinder al-jadīda (Vatikiotis 1991:235f.), Khālid wanted to liberate them from the veiling of the intellect (al-Nābulsī 1989:349–57). 394 Hadfield’s book was translated into Arabic as al-nafs Khālid makes several list of sources (no page number), explicit references to Hadfield’s book in (discussed later). 26, 62, 126. He also refers to Hadfield’s book in Li-kay lā

Hadfield’s book is informed by psychoanalysis as well as humanist psychology. Hadfield states that his aim was to counter the popular idea that ‘new psychology’ is opposed to religion and morals. He defines new morality as more accepting towards biological instincts and emotions, although these should be ‘re-directed to higher ends…to the social and spiritual well-being of man, raising them to a higher potential’ (Hadfield 1964/1923:172). In general, he proposes a ‘therapeutic’ approach to ethics (ibid.: 45ff. and 178ff.). 395 Hadfield’s Psychology and Morals also contains a chapter with the title ‘The new morality’, and ends with a chapter entitled ‘Know thyself, accept thyself, be thyself. 396 He cites the words of Jesus about not resisting evil (Matthew 5:39), but questions whether this is really the way of God. As noted earlier, the Prophetic saying Allāh is invoked by al-Ghazālī, but not found in the six recognised traditions. 397 He also refers to the expresion (Q 16:60) elsewhere in the book, Khālid 1954/1953:63, 78, 92, 201. 398 Hadfield’s book, which was first published in 1923, was revised in 1949. In the 1949-edition, Hadfield included some more reflections on the role of conscience (Hadfield 1964/1923:vii). His approach to conscience, in both the 1923 and the 1949 editions, is marked by a predominant interest in conscience’s inhibitive functions (cf. ibid.: 39–41 and 110–14). In a chapter of the

Notes

280

revised 1949-edition, he stresses the importance of a ‘social conscience’ which may add some conservative wisdom to individual consciences (ibid.: 147ff.).

The Arabic translation that Khālid had access to, seems to be based upon the 1923-edition. Khālid makes no reference to Hadfield’s prolonged discussion of conscience in the revised 1949-edition. 399 Quotation in English from Hadfield 1964/1923:39f. 400 As noted earlier, the second edition of Hadfield’s book included a chapter on ‘social conscience’. It is not clear whether the translation which Khālid had access to included this chapter. 401 As examples of how tyranny may subjugate moral ideals, Khālid refers to Peter’s denial of Christ, and Galileo’s and Voltaire’s tottering when faced with sanctions or enticed by bribery from the hands of the tyrants. According to Khālid, tyrants always seek to impede the spread of human greatness and genius ( Khālid 1955:28f.). 402 Khālid returns to the example of Tom Paine in several others of his works. In this context, he refers to the titles of two of Paine’s major works: Rights of Man and The Age of Reason (ibid.: 31). which contains a whole chapter on Tom Paine (Khālid 1994/1959:67ff.), Khālid cites In Thomas Fast’s book Citizen Tom Paine, which appeared in 1943 and was later translated into Arabic. As we shall see, Tom Paine also reappears in (Khālid 1963:190ff.). In tune with Paine’s double front against political suppression and religious traditions (taqālīd), Khālid once more emphasises that tyranny may come both in political and religious guises. As an example of the latter, he mentions the vile rumours that were circulat-ing in al-Azhar (ibid.: 31). against the great Egyptian reformer 403 Impressed by the Chinese revolution, he even cites Mao Tse Tung as an example of the progressive fight for freedom (ibid.: 33ff.). 404 Khālid 1955:81 and 142. Khālid’s quotation has the same wording as the Arabic van Dyck-Bible’s rendering of Ezekiel 33:11 (Bible 1992/1878). English quotation from the New Revised Standard Version (Bible 1995). 405 In tune with Islamic tradition, Khālid defines dīn in a comprehensive way as ‘revelation, and fundamental program’, Khālid 1955:178. 406 Ibid.: 170, cf. 188. Khālid refers to the principle of cf. Q 2:106. 407 Religion urges such virtues, purifies and even improves them. But one should not confuse the basic virtues with the concrete means and manners that were prescribed by religion in a specific historical context. Khālid gives as his primary example the virtue of temperance or chastity and the question of whether this virtue is best safeguarded by separation or mingling in the social interaction between the sexes. 408 He gives a seemingly liberal interpretation of the classical warnings against wine, which should be taken as admonitions to moderation and caution rather than interdictions. But he assures the reader that he does not in any way encourage wine-drinking (ibid.: 194f, cf. 223f.). 409 Khālid argues that ‘religious morality’, by its merely prohibitive nature, violates free thought in the realm of ethics. With regard to moral motives, ‘religious morality’ gives free rein to the potentially destructive motive of divine intimidation which admittedly can be supported These parts of the Scriptures, however, by a literal interpretation of both the Bible and the should be read with the understanding that they were formulated in a less advanced human civilisation. They were also balanced by Christ’s and proclamation of divine mercy, lest they—as ‘reactionary means’—turned into ‘a terrorism of motives’ (ibid.: 196ff.). According to Khālid, religious morality in its reactionary form is also liable to fallacies such as fanaticism, introversion (ibid.: 202ff.) and fatalism (ibid.: 206ff.).

Notes

281

410 For example, the principle of overcoming evil with good, or the overwhelming power of love, whose biblical formulations (Romans 12:21, 1. Corinthians 13) are cited on a par with similar or (ibid.: 186, 209). insights derived from the 411 Cf. ibid.: 197f. (divine intimidation) and 201 (veiling and seclusion of women). 412 In the list of sources in his later masīrihi (Khālid 1963:2f.), he includes R.B.Perry’s The Humanity of Man (Perry 1956, translated into Arabic by Salmā al-Juyūshī as 413 Much of the book is dedicated to the historical memory of wars in which economic interest, political ambitions, religions and ideologies have all played their part—from the Crusades via the Crimean war to the world wars of the twentieth century. 414 Cf. his assertion in an article from 1953 that the great prophets Moses, Jesus and as well as modern heroes of liberation such as George Washington in his fight against the British, were all on the side of the future against economic, political and religious reaction (Khālid 1967/1957:82f). 415 Cf. Khālid 1997/1959:16, 22, 59, 65, 73, 75, 143, 146f. 416 See his list of religious and philosophical heroes in ibid.: 22, 24, 49, 74, 115 and 124. Among the Islamic philosophers, he cites i.a. al-Fārābī, Ibn Sīnā, Ibn Rushd and Miskawayh. As for European philosophers, he makes several references to Hegel’s and Marx’ views of evolution and revolution, although not uncritically (ibid.: 22, 31, 49, 55, 58f., 85f.). 417 See ibid.: 26, 37, 57, 66, 95. 418 Other words used for moral internalisation and the authentic, inner being in this book are notions of inwardness which stands for what is genuine in the innermost sense, and the As for see ibid.: 88, 98 (with sirr), 145 and 157. For see 7 1f. and secrecy On p. 72, reason fully conscious of itself intellect

is contrasted with the inner, slumbering

419 al-Nābulsī discusses in the perspective of personalist philosophy, in al-Nābulsī 1989:496ff. 420 The subsequent commandments proclaimed by Khālid include critical clearsightedness; the classical moral virtue of friendship; the intellectual virtue of reading; the virtue of thinking and speaking freely and without fanaticism of any kind; the readiness to choose one’s own life and not imitate others (i.e. versus taqlīd); and the virtue of standing up firmly for freedom and justice. Khālid ends his chapter on friendship by quoting the well-known dictum about obliterating the distinction between I and Thou in loving friendship: ‘Love is not complete until the one of you says to the other: oh… I!’ (Khālid 1990/1961:174, cf. 19). in Khālid 1994/1960:123. In this 421 Cf. Khālid’s employment of a different version of this context, he cites what appears to be a combination of the versions of Muslim (Kitāb al-birr Muslim 1993, vol. IVa:164) and Ibn (Musnad, 1969, vol. 4, no. 228): ‘Virtue (al-birr) is what reassures the soul, and makes the heart content…and sin is what rankles in your heart, and that you disapprove of its being known to people’. 422 Instead of repressing human impulses that might lead to sin, one should accept one’s natural impulses and rather seek a middle way of moderation ( Khālid 1990/1961:90). One should also have confidence in one’s own preserves of strength and energies and search for virtues in gladness, reassurance and perseverance: ‘you are one of the species that God has taken as his vice-regent’ Khālid 1990/1961:93). 423 Khālid quotes John 3:3, in van Dyck’s Arabic version (Bible 1992/1878): lan tuwalladū min fawq. Allāh

malakūt

Notes

282

424 In his ninth commandment, Khālid admonishes humanity to turn its face towards God. His God-talk is marked by the same universal approach as his ethics in general. Religion in the comprehensive sense—dīn—cannot be separated from science, philosophy, culture and art. It ) which incite encompasses everything. In all higher beings, there are inner forces (quwā them to search for the hidden, and for the greatest mystery (al-sirr ) which is the mystery of the higher power that created and still inspires everything (Khālid 1990/1961:230). from 1953, Khālid cites both and Christ as heralds of 425 Already in Al-dīn and the Gospels stand side by the rights of the common people, and quotations from the side. With reference to Matthew 19:21 and 25:34ff, he emphasises Christ’s warning against riches and his blessing of those who cared for the needy (Khālid 1994/1953:157–9). is credited with having made giving to the needy ‘a cultic rite of the free and integral conscience’ ( ibid.: 163). 426 In a polemical Christmas meditation from 1953, reprinted in Khālid 1967/1957:96–102, he scorns the allegedly Christian leaders of the Western countries for their lip-service to Christ, and their practical denial of his teachings as found in the Sermon on the Mount. 427 Cf. bibliographical references to Christian theologians who have highlighted this book in Leirvik 1999a:195. the Bible and 428 As sources for his book (Khālid 1986/1958:10), Khālid lists the as well as two modern books in Arabic translation: Will Durant’s The Story of Civilisation and Emil Ludwig’s Der Menschensohn which is referred to by Khālid in its Arabic translation as Ibn As we have seen in Section 7.2, Ludwig’s book was also part of the inspiration behind biography of Christ. Muslim 1993, vol. IVa:57. 429 Kitāb 430 Socrates knew there was something more within the human being, transcending the intellect. Hence, Socrates repeatedly referred to a divine sign or command within himself that was different from reason. Khālid identifies the divine voice to which Socrates referred as ‘revelation or inspiration’ Khālid 1986/1958:20). In general, he notes that although Socrates was a philosopher and not a messenger, he recognised the religious dimension of life and believed in the perennity of the spirit. Thus in Socrates, reason and revelation met, and although he attacked the gods, his philosophy announced true religion (dīn, ibid.: 23). 431 There was something in heart that said ‘halt’ to the polytheistic practices of his tribe. With time, his personality ripened, and his inner consciousness grew in a way that concentrated the faculties of his soul as well as his thinking and firm intention (ibid.: 63f). inspiration 432 Although Judaism may thus seem to pay the price for Khālid’s praise of Christ’s human and universal message, one could just as well see Khālid’s conventional attack on Pharisaism as an oblique critique of formalism and narrow-mindedness in traditionalist Islam. 433 Khālid concedes, however, that a certain measure of deterring intimidation—by means of laws, social customs and restrictions—is necessary in human upbringing (tarbiya). But one should take care that deterring measures do not turn into terrorism of conscience (ibid.: 140f.). 434 Followed by references to Christ’s warning against worldly power and wealth, citing Mark 10:42ff. and Luke 12:13f. in Wensinck 1954, vol. 3:158 Muslim, in 435 See reference to different versions of this Ibn Mājah: Sunan, in Kitāb al-fitan, Abū Dawūd: Sunan, in Kitāb al-jihād and Ibn Kitāb Musnad—cf. Ibn 1969, vol. 5, no. 207). 436 Quoting Q 13:11: ‘Allah does not change the condition of a people until they change what is in their hearts’, and Q 6.164: ‘no soul shall bear the burden of another soul’ (Fakhry).

Notes

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437 The

cited by Khālid is not found in the authoritative collections. In the alleged reassures his disciples when they fear the doubts of God they harbour in themselves: ‘Have you found it?’—That is: doubt—[Khālid’s commentary, or part of alleged saying?] And they said, in grief: ‘Yes.’ But he replied in joy: ‘Praise to A possible positive reference to doubt can be found in God. This is genuine faith Muslim’s Kitāb ‘We have more claim to doubt than Ibrahim (SAW) when he said: My Lord! show me how thou wilt quicken the dead. He said: Believeth thou not? He said: Yes! But that my heart may rest at ease’ (Muslim 1993, vol. Ia:101). As for see 1969, vol. 2, no. 456. Cf. Khālid’s reference to doubt as an element in the process of searching for God in Khālid 1990/1961:236. as more tolerant towards ‘our moral sins’ 438 Khālid describes ([sic], could be a misprint for the verbal noun of stem IV)) than towards the grave sins that are related to class and political power. At the personal level, opens up enormous scope for human trial and error (Khālid 1986/1958:124f). 439 takfīr ibid.: 156. Unfolding his point, Khālid cites the parable of the prodigal son (Luke 14:1 1ff.), together with several other references to the forgiving attitude of Christ and

440 In shorter sections between the themes of love and peace, Khālid elaborates the notions of and work ‘Truthfulness’ has to do with the congruence between our truthfulness ), and the ability of selfappearance and our hidden innermost being (bayna criticism (ibid.: 160f.). ‘Work’ means first of all a continuous endeavour for human progress (al-taqaddum al-insānī, ibid.: 163f.). 441 At this point, a certain difference from Kāmil and his concept of non-violence as a virtue of passive resistance (cf. Section 9.4) may be observed. 442 As for the traditional Muslim belief in Christ’s second coming, see Leirvik 1999a:45–8. 443 This is the final sentence of the book. 444 Cf. statement in that conscience found calm and reassurance not only from inspiration from his Lord, but from that of his heart and his companions (

1985/1942:22).

In an article first published in 1951, Khālid speaks of ‘proceeding from the innermost part of the tranquil desert’ alsājiyya, Khālid 1967/1957:49). ( 445 As

says of himself, in a

as

cited by Khālid: ‘My Lord has refined me

Therefore make my education good’ ( ibid.: 132). A similar is found in al-Ghazālī: ‘O Lord God! Thou hast made good my creation therefore quoted from al-Ghazālī 1995a:9, cf. xxi. make good my character 446 Suicide must be condemned because it might imply finishing off a slumbering human genius ( Khālid 1994/1960:87, cf. 28). 447 As in Khālid cites a version of the 448 ‘Battling with error’: the Arabic print reads (the verbal noun of stem IV). for

about birr and could be a misprint

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449 Also in this respect, the Prophet of Islam is an example to be emulated: taqwā was a cheerful, open and lively taqwā. And his loftiness was the loftiness of a most great natural disposition—no mannerism, no vainglory, and no introversion’ (Khālid 1994/1960:125). with having freed conscience of its heavy burdens and shackles. 450 He credits Marking also a concern for sincerity (or even authenticity?), Khālid speaks of the virtue of being true to oneself ( al-nafs) as the real content of warnings against falsehood (Khālid 1994/1959:23). 451 Cf. the parallel use of masīr and in Khālid 1985:95, 171, 187. (cf. references in Kassis 1983:1205), may either be used in the negative 452 In the sense, as the final outcome of evil, or in the positive, as a designation of divine homecoming. In translations of the may be rendered as ‘the end of all journeys’ or ‘the final goal’ ) or as ‘homecoming’ (Kassis). In contrast to determinist interpretations, it is quite clear (Yūsuf that Khālid views as a destiny which must be embraced by the human being in freedom. 453 Khālid’s list of sources reveal his reading of books about world history (Will Durant and H.G.Wells), about Socrates, about the themes of ‘humanity’ and human rights (he mentions Albert Bayet’s Histoire de la Declaration des Droits de l’Homme: du 89 politique au 89 économique from 1939, which was translated into Arabic by Mandūr as about Indian philosophy and Gandhi, and about the Arab and Islamic heritage.

)

As noted earlier (Section 8.3), R.B.Perry’s The Humanity of Man seems to have been a major source of inspiration behind Khālid’s quest for humanity and true humanness (Perry 1956, translated into Arabic by Salmā al-Juyūshi as ). In Perry’s book, the question of true humanity has to do with the exercise of freedom in the sense ‘enlightened choice’ (ibid.: 6, 26ff.), which means ‘the freedom of all men to fulfil the potentialities of human life’ (ibid.: 127). 454 Cf. al-Ghazālī’s concept of divine light or the light of the heart as a prerequisite of right knowledge, as expressed in min as well as in (Section 4.6). and published by Maktabat 455 The Dawn of Conscience was translated by Salīm in 1958. 456 Among the ancient Egyptians, Breasted found the reflections of ‘an individual aware of conscience as an ultimate authority at whose mandate he may confront and arraign society’ (Breasted 1934:177). From the fifteenth century BC, the rule of conscience was expressed by the word ‘heart’, in statements like ‘The heart of a man is his own god, and my heart was satisfied with my deeds’. In Breasted’s view, this means that the word heart was given ‘a meaning which made it more fully the equivalent of our word conscience than it had been in the Pyramid Age’ (ibid.: 255). Citing even later developments, from the eleventh century BC onwards, Breasted notes that ‘in this new age of personal piety conscience became, as it had never been before, the unmistakable voice of God’ (ibid.: 320). In the same process, it was linked with a novel concept of human ‘character’ (ibid.: 395).

Apart from Breasted, Khālid also refers to an Arabic translation of Before Philosophy: the Intellectual Adventure of Ancient Man: an Essay on Speculative Thought in the Ancient Near East by H.A.Frankfurt, John A.Wilson and Thorkild Jacobsen (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1949).

Notes

285

457 As regards his fascination with Chinese wisdom, cf. Khālid 1994/1959:33ff. 458 Cf. other references to Socrates/Socratic wisdom in Khālid 1954/1953:11–13 and Khālid 1986/1958:11ff.

The epithet ibnuhu al-bārr is also used for Gandhi (Khālid 1963:222). A similar expression ( al-bārr al-mutafawwiq) is used as a general epithet for the outstanding, devoted human being (ibid.: 108). In Khālid uses ‘a devoted son of democracy’ as a self-designation (Khālid 1985:177). 459 Whereas in

he had taken al-Fārābī’s notion of ‘the virtuous city’ (al-madīna

) as an admonition to personal fortification (Khālid 1990/1961:8f), he now emphasises that—as the Greeks had shown—the ultimate aim of ethical knowledge is to transform it into civilisational efforts and to construct a virtuous city in the communal sense (Khālid 1963:70). 460 With Abraham/Ibrāhīm, conscience experienced its first magnificent hijra, when Abraham broke with the idolatry of his fathers. 461 With an oblique reference to the end of Christ’s life, Khālid notes that Christ persisted in following this truth, ‘until he met his Lord’. 462 Followed by extensive quotations from the Sermon on the Mount and other passages for the Gospel of Matthew, ibid.: 111–16. 463 Khālid quotes the ‘If you punish, then let your punishment be proportionate to the wrong done to you’ (Q 16:126, Fakhry). 464 Notwithstanding his enduring commitment to peace and reconciliation (which Khālid abundantly exemplifies), accepted the use of violence for self-defence, though only as the very last resort, and with clearly defined restrictions on warfare, which Khālid also carefully elaborates. 465 Ibid.: 165ff., mentioning al-Kwārazmī, al-Kindī, al-Rāzī, the al-Fārābī, Ikhwān Ibn Sīnā, Ibn Bājah and Ibn Rushd. Khālid defined dīn as‘revelation, and 466 We have seen that in Li-kay lā fundamental program’ (Khālid 1955:178). Here again, he distinguishes between the Islamic notion of dīn, which is a broad concept covering all aspects of human existence, and the narrower concept of ‘religiosity’ (tadayyun) which he may have seen as more typical of historical Christianity. 467 Khālid 1963:190–216. Khālid notes that in the American struggle for social justice and equality between the races, war for the sake of freedom was in the end unavoidable (as it was for ). Beecher Stowe’s Christ-like Uncle Tom, and his nonviolent stand, did not get the upper hand—‘if there is no escape from war, let there be war’ (ibid.: 210). 468 In Khālid, Gandhi also figures prominently as a model of politically transformative humanity in Khālid 1997/1959:73 and 161f. 469 ‘Experiment’ (tajriba) is probably an allusion to Gandhi’s concept of non-violent ‘experiments with the truth’, cf. the title of his autobiography: My Experiments with the Truth. (Bayna yaday ). Then, in 470 In 1961, he published a book about the second caliph, 1963, followed a book on the first caliph, Abū Bakr ( Abū Bakr). In 1966, he turned his and in 1967, the turn had come of the third caliph, attention to the fourth caliph Within this genre of writings, there is also a book about and the martyrs of Karbalā ( al-rasūl fī Karbalā, 1968), and one about II, the exceptional Ummayad caliph who is often called the fifth rightly guided caliph ( ibn 1969). 471 Al-Nābulsī emphasises the humanitarian and personality-oriented concern of Khālid’s Islamic biographies (al-Nābulsī 1989:452). He notes a difference between Khālid and in their

Notes

286

approach to the great individuals. Whereas in focused on the rather focused upon the ‘humaneness’ of individual ‘genius’, Khālid in the Prophet (ibid.: 460). In my view, al-Nābulsī exaggerates the difference. As my presentation of Khālid has shown, the notion of the human genius is also quite central in Khālid’s works, where one finds a tension between his (socialist inspired) concern for the ordinary citizen ) and his repeated appeal to the human genius which rises above the level of the (al-rajul ordinary human. 472 Cf. his reference to al-tafawwuq in Khālid 1974:193 and passim. 473 Thematic exegesis (tafsīr ), as represented by Shaltūt and others, has been a prominent feature of modern exegesis in Egypt in the twentieth century. Khālid’s decision to write a thematic study is expressed in the preface of the 1994-edition, where he also explains that he intended this book to be the first part of a series. But his intention was diverted by his subsequent decision to write a biography of the men around the Prophet (cf. Khālid 1994/1962:5f.). 474 Khālid quotes Q 88:22, rendered above in the translation of Fakhry 1997. Yūsuf 1989 translates ‘You are not one to manage (men’s) affairs’. The Arabic reads: lasta 475 In the wide array of classical Arabic words for eternity connotes never-ending past, in the sense of a lack of beginning in time. In this context, the expression ‘conscience of eternity’ should probably be read as an allusion to conscience’s divine beginning or origin. 476 Khālid 1994/1962:37–52. With reference to Q, 80:1–11, which for his turning away from a blind man who interrupted him, contains a reprimand of Khālid makes it clear that the

defends the honour of ‘the ordinary citizen’

477 Khālid quotes Q 41:43 and 42:13. 478 Adding a historical-critical perspective, which is not so obvious in his interpretation of the he asserts that since it is well known that many alleged sayings have been material that is commonly recognised as falsified, he will be careful to deal only with was later followed up in his books Lā yazālu sound. Khālid’s ‘essential’ reading of (1972) and al-rasūl (1984). 479 Cf. the parallel expression in al-rasūl, Khālid 1991/1984:43. Khālid claims that when good 480 In an essay about ‘The believing inner nature’ deeds are connected to true faith, ‘faith in God is in fact the conscience of these good deeds’ ( Khālid 1994/1963:66). Cf. ibid.: 68: faith becomes the conscience and light of the act.

In Allāh (And the promise is God’), he associates with the inner personality and the secret thoughts of the heart (al-sarīra, Khālid 1985/1971:141). When expounding the importance of intention in the teachings of a similar same link is made between niyya (intention) and sarīra (ibid.: 44). In this book, it seems that without any clear distinction, both and niyya are used by Khālid to designate the innermost integrity and ultimate dedication of the person, as called for and lived by the Sūfis. 481 For this motive in the al-Bukhārī’s Kitāb

see Section 4.3. As for Khālid cites a story in (‘The Book of Hiring’), in which seeking God’s countenance/ doing

Notes

287

something for God’s sake is the only motive that counts behind good deeds and supererogatory actions (Al-Boukhari 1993, vol. 3:341). 482 The last phrase of the book. have always emphasised the greater jihād of the soul and kept a 483 He argues that although do not seclude themselves from worldly distance from the centres of worldly power, real even took to the matters and the struggle of their people. He reminds the reader that some sword—but always for the sake of God and as a part of an endeavour that was ultimately spiritual in nature (ibid.: 118ff.). 484 Among Khālid’s earliest books, Awad characterises both Li-kay lā and Al-dīmuqrātiyya, as typical ‘anti-tyrannos’ literature (Awad 1986:227). 485 His fundamental emphasis on freedom of speech entailed a persistent advocacy of freedom of the press in all his writings about democracy (cf. al-Nābulsī 1989:287–93). 486 Awad 1986:227. In Khālid recalls that Nasser defended his freedom of expression when this book was published (Khālid 1985:76). But Khālid emphasises that he was not content with personal freedom for himself, since he was convinced that people ruled by the military can never be a free people. In this context too, Khālid refers to the example of Gandhi. Cf. his invocation of Gandhi against military rule in his autobiography, Khālid 1993:426ff. and 434ff. 487 Cf. Khālid 1985:80, and his recollection of his personal dialogue with Nasser in 1956 in his autobiography, Khālid 1993:41 1ff. 488 Khālid 1985:85ff and 279ff., cf. Khālid 1993:453ff. Al-Nābulsī regards Khālid’s courageous free mind (al-Nābulsī 1989:77ff). As for the confrontation of Nasser as typical of a political context of this discussion, see Vatikiotis 1991:402f. 489 In an essay published in the 1990s, Khālid urges Mubarak to give himself the chance to be appointed as president of the republic after free elections. Although he appreciates Mubarak’s policy of national security, he insists that it belongs to the essentials of democracy that the people should always have the right to change their leadership through free elections. ‘For the people is a people—not a flock—by virtue of the superiority of its will, the light of its intellect, and the sovereignty of its conscience’ (Khālid 1994:43). Among the characteristics of a real democracy, Khālid once more mentions sound opposition, political parties, parliamentarianism, free press and freedom of speech (ibid.: 45f, 52f.).

For Khālid too, however, there was a limit to political freedom. In he explains that the violent expressions of the Al-dawla fī-lsecret organisation of the Muslim Brothers in the 1940s were a main reason for his strong warning against Islamic ‘priesthood’ in Min hunā (Khālid 1989/1981:13–15). He remained strongly critical of the more radical or (as Khālid saw them) extremist versions of Islamism in Egypt. In the 1990s, he supported the government in their employment of military courts against outlawed Muslim Brotherhood members (Khālid 1995). Cf. his rebuttal of the ideology of ‘the extremists’ on religious grounds in his autobiography, Khālid 1993:469ff. 490 In addition, there is one single reference to wijdān, although in the sense of emotion and not of conscience. When referring to his new insights about state and religion, he is happy to be able to assure the reader that it was reason and not emotion that made him change his views (Khālid 1989/1981:17).

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491 Apart from attacking Khālid for his confusion of ‘religious’ and ‘Islamic’ rule, al-Ghazālī had criticised Khālid’s positive views of Western civilisation and Western democracies, his advocacy of socialism and his views on women’s liberation (al-Ghazzāli 1975/1953). 492 Viktor E.Makari has characterised the moral theory of Ibn Taymiyya (d. 1328) as a social ethics with a strong vision of solidarity within the Muslim community. It is also a political ethics, with a dynamic vision of the Islamic state (Makari 1983). 493 Passages in show that although Khālid turned to a political discourse that might resemble that of the Islamists, he still regarded the Muslim Brotherhood’s slogan ‘The is our constitution’ and typically Islamist calls for the application of as potential threats to democracy (Khālid 1985:259, 276). 494 The central references are Q 3:159 and Q 42:38. 495 The notion of šūrā is discussed also in lengthy passages of 496 In Law šahidtu…, he states unambiguously that democracy in the modern sense is a more complete conception than šūrā, which might be reduced to mere consultation without any binding effect on the ruler (Khālid 1994:51–4). 497 Khālid cites the permission of retaliation in verses such as Q 2:178f. 498 Historically, he contrasts the tolerance of Islamic Spain with that of Christian Spain. In a contemporary perspective, he attacks ‘the tricks that the forces of Christian mission are playing today with Islam and Muslims’ (ibid.: 94f.). al-dawla al-muslima 499 al-rasūl from 1984 (‘Encounter with the Messenger’, Khālid 1991/1984) also 500 His shows that Khālid did not take away anything from his insistence that the value of every action lies in its intention. Neither did his increased interest in the political dimensions of Islam reduce his conviction that the aim of religion is first and last the transformation of souls. In a meditation on the ‘the deeds depend upon the intentions’, he once more links intention (niyya) with the concept of the inner soul, with the uprightness of conscience, and with sincerity In the same context, he speaks of the transformation of the inner soul to a sincere soul at rest as the utmost aim of religion and of any prophetic mission (ibid.: 41–3). 501 Khālid cites Western authors such as the French poet Lamartine, Rom Landau (Islam and the Arabs, 1958) and Thomas Carlyle, Khālid 1996:44–61. 502 As for the formulation of this idea in classical Muslim apologetics, see Leirvik 1999a:56f. 503 For instance, Khālid tells the story of ‘the year of the elephant’ (Khālid 1996:87), which is hinted at in the (Q 105) and elaborated in Ibn Hishām’s classical biography. The story contains a traditional sting against the Christians from Abyssinia and their plots against the of Mecca, cf. Guillaume 1996:21–30.

The concluding essay ends with a vehement (and easily justifiable) attack on the recent abuse of Christianity by Russians in their fight against the Chechen Muslims, and by the Serbs in the abominable crimes committed against Bosnian Muslims. Against these Christians, Khālid invokes Christ himself (‘You viper’s brood’, Matthew 12:34— Khalid 1996:166f). 504 In his interpretation of his father’s view of democracy in Usāma Khālid uses in more or less the same way, as an expression of the real sense of Islamic government and of Islamic (Usāma Khālid 1994:82).

Notes

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505 Chartier (1973) emphasises his conception of ‘religion in the service of freedom’, and his vision of the truly free human being. Shākir al-Nābulsī, who has published the only monograph so far on Khālid’s works (al-Nābulsī 1989), pays more attention to his role as a social and political preacher, but without neglecting his strong advocacy of religious reform and his deep concern for the integrity of the human person. is often used by liberals to characterise what they regard as the inherently theocratic506 authoritarian view of religion and politics among Islamists. Cf. Usāma Khālid: 81. 507 Usāma Khālid’s view on Islamism, democracy and liberalism was unfolded in conversations with the present author on 04.12.1997 and 07.12.1997. According to Usāma Khālid, there are only two alternative positions when it comes to Islam and democracy: either you are a arguing some kind of theocracy, or you are a liberal, defending the will of the people. In Khālid remained a liberal. this sense, as Usāma Khālid’s sees it, Khālid movement in Pakistan, the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt 508 Together with the and other parts of the Arab world is commonly regarded as the seminal and typical representative of the ‘Islamist’ tendency in twentieth-century Islam. 509 One should keep in mind, however, that is a congenial thinker in his own right, and his view cannot always be taken as co-identical with later appropriations of his thoughts, that is, in the more militant branches of Islamism. 1989:86, cf. 1993/1964:58. 510 511 Kotb 1953:30–44, cf. 1980/1945:40–55. 1988: n.d.: 27. 512 qalbihi [‘the law of the heart’] English translation from 513 n.d.: 68f6, cf. 1988:76. 1989:52, cf. 1993/1964:34. 514 English translation from 515 Or rather: ‘it leaves the question of doctrinal feelings to the freedom of conscience’, taraka al-wijdāniyya al-wijdān. English translation above from 1993/1964:90f. 1989:139, cf. (i.e. concealed in the mind; instead of the 516 In order to express this, he uses the participle mystically loaded ) in parallelism with ‘It is necessary to establish a harmony between the laws governing the hidden nature of man ( al-bašar ) and those governing his external life just as much as it is incumbent to achieve a coordination of the hidden and external aspects of human personality’ 1993/1964:111, in my translation). (

admits, however, that the human being can never fully grasp the universal law, nor can there be a perfect accordance between the Islamic system and the laws of the universe, or between the hidden nature of the human being and its external life. Only God can create perfect harmony. 517 Cf. Milestones: 150–2, 207, 213, 260f., 303. theocratic 518 Shahrough Akhavi (Akhavi 1995, cf. Akhavi 1997) has noted that despite outlook and his overall dismissal of Western thought as jāhiliyya illusions, he does not hesitate to invoke concepts that are in fact firmly rooted in Western tradition and underpinned by anthropocentric philosophy. For instance, Akhavi argues that his notion of ‘social justice’ is influenced by Western thought. Robert Lee notes that in spite of his ardent critique of the

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290

deviations of Western modernity, appropriated the modern notion of a progressive fulfilment of the human potential (Lee 1997:101).

Akhavi characterises invocations of conceptions borrowed from Western traditions as ‘one of the ironies of the Islamic resurgence that has inhered during the last generation’ (Akhavi 1995:404).

9 (1901–77): conscience M.Kāmil as the law of inhibition and the voice of God

519 For biographical information, see Vogelaar 1978:3ff. 520 Harold Vogelaar mentions his influence from philosophers, historians and scientists such as Descartes, Charles Darwin, Ernest Renan, August Comte, Oswald Spengler (Der Untergang des Abendlandes, translated as The Decline of the West), Herbert Spencer and Sigmund Freud (Vogelaar 1978:9–14). 521 In 1979, Imīl Tawfīq published a study which had initially been presented to the Arabic Academy (of which was a member) in 1985, with the title Min al-qarya al-wādī al-muqaddas (‘From the village to the hallowed valley’, Tawfīq 1979). As the title indicates, this study deals with

books Qarya

and Al-wādī al-muqaddas, but also includes in its scope

other two main books

and

in pays much attention to the notion of only be had by the individual (ibid.: 23–6, 113f).

al-biyūlūjī

Tawfīq

and his insistence that conscience can

Also in 1979, the General Egyptian Book Organisation published a presentation of his works and an appreciation of his achievements as a scientist, thinker and writer, made by al-Jawādī (al-Jawādī 1979). Al-Jawādī also pays some attention to notion of (ibid.: 169–71). 522 His speech at the United Nations is printed in Hussein 1964–66. 523 The first English edition was published in 1959 by N.V.Djambatan in Amsterdam. 524 For initial reactions to the book from Egyptian intellectuals, see Vogelaar 1978:103–5. Qarya was also much appreciated and discussed among Christian intellectuals in Egypt. A notable example is the Dominican father G.W.Anawati’s broad presentation and discussion in Anawati 1955. from 1995, in which he pays particular attention 525 Cf. Abdeslem Kekli’s essay about Qarya to notion of and his view that religion and politics must not be mixed up (Kekli 1995). 526 The book has also been translated into Dutch, Spanish, Turkish and French (Vogelaar 1978:76). 527 See references to Egyptian and international discussions of Qarya in Leirvik 1999a:177. 528 Cf. Vogelaar’s characterisation of

as an Egyptian humanist in the title of Vogelaar 1978,

and Hélène Expert-Bezancon’s article ‘Regard d’un humaniste égyptien, le Dr Kâmil (Expert-Bezancon 1988).

Notes

291

Diary of 1928, cited in Vogelaar 1995:413.

529 From

530 His evolutionary views are expressed in al-biyūlūjī (‘The biological analysis of history’, from 1955). For a summary of its contents, see Vogelaar 1978:32–44. 531 See

Adam,

and Nolin 1964. Arabic original:

essay Al-tafsīr

n.d.: 38–42. Cf. also his

(‘Scientific interpretation of the

—a

1971. In Qarya stupid innovation’), ibid.: 29–37. Both essays are also printed in he speaks of Adam not as the first being to walk on two legs, but the first to be aware of sin and to feel the influence of conscience (Hussein 1994/1959: 532

is summarised and discussed in Vogelaar 1978:132–203. The book provoked a

heated debate in the newspaper Al-Akhbār in 1962, in which whether

1954:238). had raised the question of

had plagiarised Samuel Alexander’s Space, Time and Deity from 1920. claimed that for his own part, he had summarised parts of Alexander’s points in his

book Allāh from 1947.

denied that he had ever seen Alexander’s book. In response to his

took the charges of plagiarism as a sign of crisis for independent, original critics, thinking among Egyptian intellectuals, who always needed some well-known figure to back them. See summary and discussion of this debate in Vogelaar 1978:136f., 175–85. 533 Cf. Vogelaar 1978:179f. 534 This was also the title of a lecture he delivered at The Temple of Understanding, Princeton, in 1972 (ibid.: 259). 535 view on Kant is expressed in He admired Kant’s sense of ‘our insignificance when compared with the firmament above and our superiority when we consider the moral law within us’. But Kant ‘failed to realise that without invoking the moral law we have some reasonable argument to believe that we are in some ways greater than the great cosmos of which we are such a very small part’ (quoted from Vogelaar 1978:135f.). As an alternative to the idealist approach, laws.

linked the system of immaterial values with a theory of the hierarchy of natural

536 Hussein 1994/1959:214–18, cf. 1954:258–64. 537 Hussein 1994/1959:231 and 68f, cf. Husain 1977:89. 538 Vogelaar 1978:107. 539 As Cragg notes: ‘The physical check to what was destructive or harmful to the heart, by the heart, had its parallel in the moral personality. Conscience was its name’ (Cragg 1985b:130). Cf. Vogelaar 1978:152, 185ff. consists of thematic commentaries on sūra 1 and 2, and some essays on general themes 540 relevant to the understanding of the 541 See translation from 1971:104–8 in Gaudeul 1990 II:304–7, and comments in ExpertBezancon 1988:21–4, 39f. and Ford 2001:15f. 542 This point had already been made by G.W.Anawati in 1955, in his otherwise positive evaluation of

novel (Anawati 1955:128–33).

543 From a personal letter from to William Cantwell Smith, 30 June 1961. 544 The Arabic original has ‘kill’, not ‘crucify’. 545 The title of the book, Qarya alludes to a expression about unrighteous populations being punished by God (Q 21:11, 22:45 and 48). Cf. and Cragg 1959, and my al-nafs in Section 12.5. One may speculate whether the title, discussion of the related concept

Notes

292

for the informed reader, may also function as an antonym to al-Fārābī’s classical notion of al-madīna

(‘the virtuous city’, cf. Section 4.5).

546 Note that employs the notion of designate the bounds of conscience, and not (as in classical Islamic law) to denote the divinely established punishment for certain crimes. from 1995 (Kekli 1995), he highlights critique of 547 In Kekli’s essay about Qarya politicised religion, which Kekli conventionally holds to be typical of Judaism at the time of Jesus, and fatal to the integrity of conscience. kullihā. A better translation would perhaps be ‘love for

548 Cragg’s translation of the whole human race’.

549 At the end of the novel, there is a ‘Return to the Sermon on the Mount’, in which more elaborate interpretation of it as a lesson of ‘faith, love and restraint’ (Hussein

gives a

1994/1959: 1954:242ff.). al-Farūqī’s view that ‘the 550 Similar points are frequently made by Muslim intellectuals, cf. Muslim is…by nature moralistic, an activist, and a futurist; the Christian is by nature complacent, a passivist, and a proclaimer of an event past’ (quoted from Zebiri 1997:152). seems to have taken much interest in the collective psychology of Christians, Muslims 551 and Jews. In an essay about the Exodus experience, he sets out to identify ‘the particular mental, psychological and moral traits of the Jewish people’. He speaks of the ‘violent transition from the disaster with which they had to contend, to a complete confidence in the future on the further side of their deliverance’ as a formative experience which characteristically makes them ‘run to extremes both in despair and expectancy’ (in Cragg’s translation, and Cragg 1959:35, 39). 552 Cf.

elaboration on the notion of

in

translation is based upon a paper read by

and Cragg 1959. The English

in the Arabic Academy in Cairo during its n.d.:

1956/57 session. Two slightly different Arabic versions of the essay can be found in 3–28 and 1971:146–57. 553 Cf. Kenneth Cragg’s comments on this, Hussein 1994/1959:17–19 and 226f. see 186/223. 554 As for šūrā, see 29/2, 76/73 and 128/143. For 555 By use of the words hādin and to characterise the functions of reason and conscience respectively,

might seem to allude to epithets of the Prophet

Very frequently, he is referred to as cf. ibid.: 816f). of as a hādin and 556 Occasionally, (

in the

(Kassis 1983:814f.). In Q 13:7, he is spoken

may also speak of conscience as a curb, when comparing it to taqwā

1974/1961b:410). But in the main, he attributes this function to reason. Cf. Section 7.4

(‘The role of conscience in anthropology’). 557 In comparison with Galen’s Platonic taxonomy of the faculties of the soul (reason, desire and will—cf. Section 4.5), conscience with however, whether

might seem to substitute for will. It is not clear,

intended any allusion to Greek models.

558 In 1955, had already given an explanation of his notion of conscience which is almost identical to the one given in the annexes to City of Wrong, as can be seen from a footnote in from the same year (Anawati 1955:77f.). G.W.Anawati’s article about Qarya 559 Cf. summary and discussion of 1978:185–94.

notion of conscience in

in Vogelaar

Notes

293

560 Cf. Vogelaar’s comments in ibid.: 152, 155, 167. Although most often speaks of inhibition as a psychological law related to certain physiological functions, he occasionally also refers to it in a cross-cultural perspective. In his address to the United Nations in 1965, he speaks of a mentality of inhibition typical of the Middle East: ‘Les hommes de cette catégorie sont attirés par la culture du Moyen-Orient, dont la note dominante est la morale, la morale étant essentiellement inhibitrice’ (Hussein 1964–66:374). 561 Cf. Vogelaar’s discussion of this motif in ibid.: 152, 168, 185ff. 562 Cf. Vogelaar’s discussion in ibid.: 181, 187. 563 Hussein 1994/1959:

1954:59f. In an essay about the effect of the Exodus

speaks in a less positive way of the Jews’ knowledge of experience on Jewish mentality, ‘passive resistance’. Coming close to anti-Judaic stereotypes, he makes the general comment that ‘Oppression generates in men the passive virtues: it creates patience, a capacity for cunning and shrewdness. But many of the positive virtues it atrophies, such as courage, generosity, bravery and sacrifice ‘(in Cragg’s translation, and Cragg 1959:36). 564 Hussein 1994/1959: 1954:59 and Husain 1977: 1968:166. 565 We have seen that Caiaphas struggled hard to reconcile ‘his duty to conscience and his duty to polities’ (ibid.: 73/65). The Roman soldier who became a Christian, paid with his life for his conscientious objection to the Roman state violence he used to be a part of (ibid.: 104ff./108ff.). 566 Cf. Imīl Tawfīq’s discussion of this important aspect of 1979:23–6, 113f.

theory of conscience, Tawfīq

567 al-wādī al-muqaddas (‘the sacred valley of ’), Q 20:12, 79:16. 568 Obviously a paraphrase of Christ’s words in Matthew 16:26 about gaining the world but losing one’s soul. 569 Diary of 1941, quoted from Vogelaar 1978:30f. Revealing his ‘biological ‘outlook on evolution, he continues: ‘It is true that certain nations are so slow in this particular line of evolution as to look as far away from pacifism as ever. But the process is too certain biologically to allow of any people escaping its effects’ (ibid.). view, the wise man in Qarya says that ‘Self-defence is 570 Perhaps indicative of only legitimate for an individual in the case of outright direct aggression against him. But the claim of general aggression against a nation or country is a vain assertion that does not justify involving men in total slaughter, as we see it in war’ (Hussein 1994/1959: 571 Ibid.: 115. 572 Both

1954:246).

and Khālid, however, invoked Gandhi more explicitly than

makes a reference in passing to Gandhi in Al-wādī al-muqaddas (Husain 1977: 1968:140). himself makes a distinction between 573 In his address to the United Nations in 1965, prevention of war, which is a political matter, and establishment of peace, which is a social and psychological question (Hussein 1964–66:378). view of purification, Vogelaar 574 This is the conclusion of Vogelaar’s analysis of 1978:229ff. Cf. Cragg’s analysis of his concept of purity in Cragg 1985b:133f. 575 In particular, the book’s chapter ‘Guidance and misguidedness’ abounds with references to human conscience. 576 In his narrator’s comments, proclaimed that ‘What He breathed in us was none other than conscience, the gift of God, possession of which distinguishes us from animals’ (Hussein 1994/1959:143, cf. 1954:165, cf. 237). He even had the disciples praying: ‘O God, Thou hast been gracious unto us and has bestowed conscience upon us. It is a spirit from Thee

Notes (

minka). What it enjoins

294

and what it prohibits are alike Thine’ (ibid.: 146/169).

seem to allude to references to God’s strengthening of the believers with Here, minhu, Q 4:171). a spirit from himself (Q, 58:22), or even to Christ as a spirit from God 577 We have seen that Amīn also speaks of the conscience of the believer as the voice of God in the depths of his mind, Amīn 1964:208. Cf. Gandhi’s references to conscience as the inner voice of God, Gandhi 1946:39, 27. 578 Cf. Husain 1977:74/135: When Islam invites to the straight path, it encourages the human being to seek ‘guidance in the believer’s own soul, with God as its focal point’. controversial novel in which he 579 This was also a main point in Najīb allegorically presented the history of Judaism, Christianity and Islam as a history of failed restoration efforts which were eventually overrun by atheist modernity. The novel was serialised in the Egyptian newspaper Al-Ahrām in 1957 and published as a book in Lebanon in 1967 after having been banned in Egypt. Cf. Goddard 1996:123–7 and Leirvik 1999a:192–4. 580 Vogelaar refers to comments made by J.Bouman in Veritatem Incaritate in 1959 (‘Une voix importante sur le Christianisme’). 581 Vogelaar 1978:192–4, citing Hourani 1995:140. 582

Diary of 1941, quoted in Vogelaar 1978:59.

583 Diary of 1941, quoted from Vogelaar 1978:31. In a letter to a friend, describing his motive for writing Al-wādī al-muqaddas, he says: ‘The essence is that we should proceed from Man to God and not from God to Man; scientific metaphysics or, [as] I prefer to call it, [the] Sciences of the Transcendental’ (ibid.: 208). 584 Cf. Vogelaar 1978:228, 235f.

10 Christians and Muslims in Egypt: united or seperated by modernity? 585 Before published the classical biography of 1933),

in

in 1942, had discussed hāmiš al-sīra (‘In the margin of the biography’,

Haykal had written a scholarly narrative about

( 1935), and Tawfīq had written a play entitled (1936). 586 For a general overview of Nasser’s era, see Vatikiotis 1991:375ff., Vatikiotis 1978 and Ibrahim 1987 (with a focus on religion and politics). 587 In the 1990s, one could see that some Egyptian intellectuals invoked the secularist legacy of Nasser’s era—‘an era in which Egyptian identity superseded sectarian affiliation, an era when religion fit into a broader program of scientific and cultural enrichment’ (Gordon 1997:105). 588 Cf. the surveys of major developments in Christian-Muslim relations by Vogt 1986, McDermott 1988, Solihin 1990 (a Muslim view), Philipp 1995, tot Sevenaer 1997, Sedra 1999, Zeidan 1999 and Makari 2000. 589 As for the modern numerical balance, the actual percentage of Christians is a matter of some controversy. Some would claim that already in the Mameluke period (from the thirteenth to the sixteenth century), the percentage of Copts to the total population was fixed at more or less the modern level, which may be somewhere between 6 and 8 per cent (tot Sevenaer 1997:23; others give higher estimates).

Notes

295

590 Such claims were put forward by al-Marāghī, the Shaykh of al-Azhar, in 1937–83, and once again joined by the Liberals (Smith 1983:83–5, 146–8). Theories of Coptic conspiracies have continued to pop up, cf. rumours circulating in the late 1970s that the Copts were seeking to set up a Coptic (Solihin 1990:75). state in 591 From the 1920s, references to the common Pharaonic heritage prevailed among Muslim nationalists, for instance Haykal (Smith 1983:85, 89f, 96). 592 There were also reported apparitions in 1986. See McDermott 1988:182–4, 187. 593 I am referring to militant groups such as Al-takfīr wa-l-hijra,

at al-jihād and

al-muslimīn, and radical student groups under the heading of (cf. Ibrahim 1987:127, McDermott 1988:194ff. and Conermann 1996:116–23). 594 In The Prophet’s Pulpit, Patrick D.Gaffney has analysed the effect of radicalised Islamic preaching during the late 1970s (Gaffney 1994). personal account of these dramatic incidents in 595 Cf. the Coptic lay intellectual Milād Hanna 1994:11f, 47f. 596 Sohirin Mohammad Solihin gives a rather a critical evaluation of the ‘changed policy’ of the Coptic church in that period and what he perceives as the ‘political manoeuvring’ of Shenouda (Solihin 1990:69ff.). 597 Haddad 1995 gives an overview of various positions held by Muslim intellectuals on this issue, citing i.a.

al-Bishrī,

Salīm

and Fahmī Huwaidī. In his book

(‘Citizens, not dhimmīs’), Fahmī Huwaidī calls for a new interpretation Muwātinūn lā of old concepts, in order to engage the Copts as well as Muslims in the process of necessary Islamic reforms. Interestingly, when calling for ‘freedom of conscience’ he twists the dictum ‘You [plural] have your religion and I have mine’ (Q, 109:6) into ‘You [plural] have your religion and your conscience (Huwaidī 1990:89, 95). 598 Qilāda praises Islam’s classical respect for the Copts, but distinguishes between periods of dialogue and confrontations, encounters and controversies in the Muslim-Christian history of Egypt. Coming to the modern period, he puts much emphasis on the joint nationalist project from onwards (Qilāda 1994:281ff.). —like Khālid—refers repeatedly to 599 In his presentation of the Pharaonic heritage, Breasted’s The Dawn of Conscience (Breasted 1934). from 1959 was followed up some years later by the book 600 Lūqā’s biography of (Lūqā n.d./1969). He also wrote books on Abū Bakr and In (‘Myself and Islam’, 1984), he further explained his relation to bin mafhūm Islam. As for religious anthropology in general, see his (‘Towards a human understanding of the human being’, 1975). His books continue to be republished by Maktabat gharīb in Cairo. 601 The 2nd edition (the one referred to in the bibliography) was a special edition by the Ministry of Education (Lūqā 1959:1). 602 In the same year as his book appeared, Sargiyūs (1883–1964) wrote a refutation of Lūqā’s views, which was reprinted by the American and Canadian Coptic Association in 1981 (Sargiyūs 1981/1959). Sargiyūs counters Lūqā’s defence of Islam, which he claims is carried out at the expense of Christ and the salvific doctrines of the church. 603 Lūqā is emphatic that Islam is not—as its adversaries often imply—‘reactionary’(Lūqā 1959:100). A recurring point made by Lūqā is that by virtue of his great character and the revelation he received, joined what is often separated—namely spiritual life and life in the world, mind and body, religion and politics. As for Islamic ethics, Lūqā characterises it as a value-based

Notes ethics oriented towards the supreme ideal

296 rather than a set of outward rules and

wajh Allāh) as the basic drive behind regulations. He sees seeking the countenance of God ( ethics in Islam (ibid.: 143). As for moral application, he claims that Islam allows for a personal ijtihād which leaves much of the matter to human conscience ( sarīra—ibid.: 151). 604 In the special edition by the Ministry of Education from 1959, the book was prefaced by references to the ‘we’ of Muslims and Christians in the Arab nation, and framed by universalist invocations of ‘humanity’ and ‘human progress’ (ibid.: 8–10). The same edition also carried a dedication to the religious inclusivism of Mahatma Gandhi (ibid.: 23). 605 Badawi notes that the compromise between this world and the hereafter was a common concern a concern that Lūqā shared (Badawi 1985:52). for modern Muslim biographers of 606 Expounding his view of God, Lūqā takes pains to demonstrate that Christ did not preach anything contrary to the Islamic view of divine unity. Emphasising the simplicity of Christ’s teaching, he dissociates himself from the ‘mysteries’ (sirr) of classical church doctrines (Lūqā 1959:66f., 72). Not surprisingly in a liberal, rational interpretation of Christianity, he also distances himself from the notion of original sin and atonement, and claims that the Islamic view that each person is responsible only for hin-/herself is in fact far more acceptable to the human intellect (ibid.: 75ff.). 607 Cf. Ernest Renan’s view of Jesus and his mission (Renan 1935), as summarised in 7.2.3. 608 This was, claims Lūqā, in accordance with the natural development of humanity (ibid.: 89, 150). in this He makes it clear that he agrees with the claims put forward by book in which he presents Islam as a more respect (in rational religion than Christianity; cf. Schumann 1988:84ff., Goddard 1996:43–7 and Leirvik 1999a:140–3). from 609 One will find the same type of approach in the sequel 1969, which is dedicated to freedom of thought and conscience (Lūqā n.d./1969:5). 610 This was Sargiyūs’ first accusation against Lūqā (Sargiyūs 1981/1959:3). 611 In his exposition of moral theology, Gregorius distinguishes (with reference to French terminology) between ‘coupable’ and ‘uncoupable’, ‘invinciblement’ and ‘vinciblement’ errors in the judgements of conscience (Gregorius n.d.: 54ff., cf. Gregorius 1972, 1:37f.).

As for casuistry, Thorbjørnsrud has emphasised the flexible character of modern Coptic spiritual counselling (Thorbjørnsrud 1999:118ff.). The need for a flexible approach to counselling, sensitive to individual differences, is also clearly expressed by Gregorius (Gregorius 1972, 1:78f., 2:4). appears to see remorse (tabkīt ) as part of the first-level operations of conscience (ibid., 1:7). 613 In addition to his New Testament references, which cover most aspects of conscience as referred to in the New Testament, Gregorius frequently invokes the apocryphal book of Ecclesiasticus (or the Wisdom of Jesus Son of Sirach). In his rendering of Ecclesiasticus, is used to

612 Gregorius

translate ‘remorse’ in 20:21 ( your) soul (in every act)’ in 32:23 ( 2:29 and 51.

for LXX ou

), and for ‘(trust

for LXX písteve tê psychê sou). See ibid.,

or sirr al-tawba), see 614 For the Coptic sacrament of confession/repentance (sirr Thorbjørnsrud 1999:413ff. Citing the exemplary repentances of Antiochos (2. Maccabeans 9:1–22) and Nebuchadnesar (Daniel 4:9–37), Gregorius underlines the universal potentiality for tawba in human beings (ibid., 1:78ff.). 615 sirr and sirr al-mayrūn, cf. Thorbjørnsrud 1999:406–11.

Notes

297

616 Also in other places, Gregorius refers to the (Platonic as well as ) notion of see Gregorius 1972, 1:99, 102. 617 In other respects too, Gregorius has stood out as a moderniser. In debates about circumcision, Gregorius has strongly opposed female genital mutilation. Accepting the tradition of male circumcision, he however speaks of it as merely an outward thing which is less important than the circumcision of the heart (Thorbjørnsrud 1999:306ff.). 618 He may also speak of conscience as a moral instinct ( Gregorius 1972, 1:21). 619 He cites ‘The Creed of a Savoyard priest’ at length, ibid., 2:7ff., cf. 1:19f. 620 In an essay entitled ‘Born in the Wrong Age: Coptic Women in a Changing Society’, Thorbjørnsrud has examined the gender aspect of increased church activities (Thorbjørnsrud in van Doom-Harder and Vogt 1997:167–89). 621 Maurice Martin in van Doom-Harder and Vogt 1997:17. 622 Robert Lee has a somewhat different perspective. He rather sees the Arab-Islamic demand for authenticity as a romantic break with rationalist essentialism as propounded by Western universalists—and expressed most strongly in Western development theories (Lee 1997:13). Lee, however, also recognises the elusiveness of any notion of authenticity: ‘That which is authentic and genuine must necessarily be essential to a person and a culture, but philosophical essentialism tends to negate the concreteness and particularity that authenticity requires’ (ibid.: 176).

11 Conclusions to Part IV

623 In the section ‘The genius of Christ, and his law of love and conscience’.

12 Wronging the Self, wronging the Other: conscience and ethics in modernity 624 Radical Islamists such as have also often stressed the Islamic right and duty to say no and—if necessary—openly to oppose unjust authority. But differently from the Islamic democrat Khālid, they have often blurred the question of whether freedom of conscience and the right to personal and political dissent should be retained in full in an Islamic state. In Section 8.8, we have seen that —after having called for the ‘liberation’ of conscience from tradition-bound shackles—waters down ‘freedom’ of conscience to a question of privately held doctrinal feelings and non-divulged personal convictions. The Islamic state called for in his Milestones presupposes a complete outward loyalty to the authority established by Islam. 625 Cf. Vogelaar’s contextual interpretation of Qarya as a meditation on the Second World work parallels the insights of Emmanuel War as a human catastrophe. In this respect, Levinas (cf. Section 12.5), Zygmunt Bauman (Modernity and the Holocaust) and Hannah Arendt (Eichmann and Jerusalem and The Origins of Totalitarianism—cf. Vetlesen 1994:85–125). 626 As noted, wijdān, which is sometimes invoked by modern Egyptian authors and may occasionally be interchangeable with refers to the (moral) feelings of the Self. 627 We have seen that speaks of the law of conscience and love preached by Christ. According to Khālid, Christ demonstrated by his own life that

Notes

298

loving affection is more powerful and more lasting than anything else, and capable of too taught his followers to overcoming evil (Khālid 1963:109). Khālid claims that ‘love one another in the spirit of God and show mutual affection’ (Khālid 1986/1958:159). 628 As explained in Chapter 5, refers to the innermost person, and to what one knows intimately by oneself. It does not contain the dialectic between Self and Other which I have seen as constitutive of the word ‘conscience’ and its Greek and Latin origins (as laid out in Chapter 3). 629 The New Testament reference is Matthew 7:12. 630 In the Jewish Bible, one finds the injunction to love one’s neighbour as oneself in Leviticus 19:18. tòn plēsíon sou hōs In the New Testament, the injunction occurs as a fixed formula ( seautón) both in the Gospels (Matthew 22:39f. and Mark 12:31), in Paul (Romans 13:8f. and Galatians 5:14) and in the Epistle of James James 2:8). As with the golden rule (Matthew 7:12), the injunction to love one’s neighbour as oneself is said to summarise the entire Law. Outside of the New Testament, one finds a radicalised version in the Epistle of Barnabas 19:5 (in the translation of ’. LCB): ‘Thou shalt love thy neighbour more than thy own life does invoke the golden rule in his book about Christ, see 631 1966/1961:413. 632 The verb used for ‘wishes’ is which can mean both to love, to like and to wish. 633 Matraji in Al-Boukhari 1993, vol. I:15, Khan in in Al-Bukhâri 1994:61. 634 Cf. his comment to Buber in his essay on ‘Dialogue’: ‘There would be an inequality, a dissymmetry, in the Relation, contrary to the ‘reciprocity’ upon which Buber insists, no doubt in error’ (ibid.: 150). 635 As the noun (wrongdoing, injustice) connotes darkness the title of novel also alludes to the grave possibility that human consciences may be utterly darkened, and that people in this state resemble a darkened city ( al-madīna 1954:2). 636 Cf. Rahman 1980:25, Khālid 1994/1960:84. and Cragg 1959:208. 637 For example, in Matthew 16:26, cf. 638 Aarnes 1997:20, quoting Levinas’ Humanisme de l’autre homme. 639 Muslim 1993, vol. IVa:176. In the following, when asking about the lack of care for a hungry and ’. a thirsty servant, God will say: ‘you would have found him by My side/ near Me 640 Miskawayh 1968:25f., cf. McDonough 1984:110: ‘Ibn Miskiwaih may not have envisaged a twentieth-century form of culturally pluralist society, yet his teaching of the need to co-exist justly with others in order to learn temperance from them certainly indicates that he thought of individuals as constantly maturing as they learned to take seriously persons who were different from themselves.’ 641 Levinas 1993:67f., 215; cf. Aarnes 1997:24. 642 Cited from his essay about ‘Bad conscience and the exorable’. According to Levinas 1999:120, even fear of God should be understood in the light of ‘the fear for the neighbor and for his death’.

13 Conscience in interreligious dialogue: telling the story of Oneself as Another

643 My translation. In Norwegian: ‘I snart 300 år har vi sett fremover og satt vårt håp til fremtiden. Det er tid for a se oss til siden: der star vår neste—han har ventet på oss i snart 300 år’. In a footnote, Aarnes says that he relates this thought to conversations with Zygmunt Bauman.

Notes

299

644 ‘The self is through and through a hostage, older than the ego, prior to principles. What is at stake for the self, in its being, is not to be. Beyond egoism and altruism it is the religiosity of the self’ (Levinas 1981:117). 645 John of Damascus (d. 753) spoke of ‘the heresy of the Ismaelites’ as the most recent Christian heresy. Article 1 of Confessio Augustana condemns the ‘Muhammadans’ on a par with classical Christian heretics such as the Arians (Leirvik 1999a:105–21). 646 For Protestant Christian missionary images of Islam, see Zebiri 1997, chapter 3. 647 The title of the French original is Les identités meurtrières. 648 For an overview, see Zebiri 1997, chapter 2: ‘Muslim Popular Literature on Christianity’. 649 In the section ‘The genius of Christ, and his law of love and conscience’. 650 The verses focused on by McAuliffe are Q 2:62, 3:55, 3:199, 5:66, 5:82f., 28:52–5 and 57:27. 651 For Askari and his contribution to Muslim-Christian dialogue, see Cragg 1985b: 109–25 and Leirvik 1999a:156–8, 246–8. 652 In a later essay from 1985, he goes so far as to claim that Muslims ‘require a Christian presence amidst them’ to counter the danger of falling into Pharisaic legalism, and to give greater space to the dimensions of suffering and the tragic—‘of submission in silence without resistance, of confronting self-righteousness, of upholding the value of humility and poverty, of going inward, of partaking of the burdens, seen and unseen, of the other’ (quoted from Zebiri 1997:167). 653 Employing Freudian insights, Kristeva writes that ‘It is through unravelling transference—the major dynamics of otherness, of love/hatred for the other, of the foreign component of our psyche—that, on the basis of the other, I become reconciled with my own otherness-foreignness, that I play on it and live by it. Psychoanalysis is then experienced as a journey into the strangeness of the other and of oneself, towards an ethics for the irreconcilable. How could one tolerate a foreigner if one did not know one was a stranger to oneself?’ (Kristeva 1991:182). 654 Cf. Levinas’ reflections on ‘ipseity’, in Levinas 1981:114: ‘The ipseity in the passivity without arche characteristic of identity, is a hostage. The word I means here I am, answering for everything and for everyone’.

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Arabic (and other foreign) terms 90, 93, 97, 111, 126, 138 41, 49, 56–7, 95, 108 139, 178 41, 56, 59, 95, 135–6 86, 120, 132–3, 145, 202, 204, 242 36, 49, 56, 74, 86, 88, 106–7, 112–13, 116, 141, 144, 148, 152, 174, 255 nn.185–6 15, 107, 121–4, 166, 208–9 74–6, 84, 148, 255 n.183 94, 102, 106, 114, 116, 158, 270 n.418 birr 39, 43, 49–50, 139, 147, 218, 270–1 n.421 conscientia (Latin) 26, 28–30, 38, 40, 47, 61, 71, 73, 78, 204 71 72–3, 84, 121, 258 n.223 41, 48, 56 fiqh 50, 59, 153, 158 40, 47, 60, 102, 146 69 hadā, hudā 45, 181 44, 50 45 177, 181, 185, 261 n.321 45, 162 44–5, 56 wajh Allāh 47, 159, 242 45, 49 50–1, 86, 103, 104, 114, 200, 223 43, 238 55–6, 64, 96, 107, 116, 127, 129, 136, 146, 157, 163–4, 168, 183, 205 43, 238

Arabic (and other foreign) terms

317

jawhar 121, 158, 205 jen (Chinese) 36 jihād 108, 144, 168 51, 57, 60, 103 juwwāniyya, juwwānī 58–9, 101, 120–4, 174, 265 n.338–9 141, 144, 151, 212 44–6 136–7, 140, 147, 154, 156, 160, 163, 165, 210, 273 n.452 minhaj 161, 168 149 58–9, 70, 102, 111, 205 nafs 40, 47–8, 58, 69, 116, 123, 158, 186, 188, 218 72 niyya 49, 59–60, 71, 74–6, 94, 121, 151, 158–9, 255 nn.183, 185, 256 n.193, 257 n.209, 275 n.480, 276 n.500 qalb 40, 43, 69 qibla 100, 187 qudwa 132–3 41–2, 49, 55–6, 58, 62, 97, 100–1, 104, 107, 111, 114, 125, 142–3, 163, 169–70, 197, 199, 204, 222–3 sarīra 69–70, 73, 78 46, 50 sirr 58, 68–70, 72, 78 67, 73 108, 162–3, 177, 181 syneīdēsis, syneidos (Greek) 26–7, 67, 73–6, 78 synteresis/synderesis (Latin) 28, 38, 40, 47, 204 77, 96, 178 77, 91 41, 56, 123, 204, 219 taqlīd 105–6, 142, 153, 204 taqwā 40, 43–4, 70, 132, 147–8, 212, 218, 273 n.449 52, 142, 158, 168 122, 208–9 103, 113–14, 119, 129, 177, 180 46, 108, 121, 124, 162 44, 85, 91, 101, 113, 152, 204 77, 83, 132, 165, 177, 257 n.215 67, 114, 120, 122, 129

Arabic (and other foreign) terms

318

wijdān 36, 67–8, 73, 84, 86, 88, 96, 102, 106–7, 115–16, 121, 123, 135, 138, 142, 146, 168–9, 210, 252 n. 138 94, 106 al-nafs 48, 56, 146, 180, 210, 224, 226, 285 n.635

Name index Aarnes, Asbjørn 230 52

87 179 129, 166 87–9 82–3, 85, 105–6, 119–20, 123, 172, 189–90, 269 n.402,

283 n.608 Abraham 46, 91, 138, 157 Abū Bakr (caliph) 91, 155 Ibrahim M. 233 Akhavi, Shahrough 278 n.518 Akthar, Shabbir 191

4–6, 8, 14, 37, 43, 48, 55, 57–8, 60, 84, 86, 89, 90–124, 128, 137–8, 144, 153, 175, 186, 189, 193–5, 200–2, 208, 210–14, 218–20, 223, 226, 229, 234, 236, 238, 242, 259 n.248, 271 n.428, 272 n.444, 274 n.471, 280 n.556, 285 n.627 al-Āmidī, Sayf al-Dīn 253 n.152 52–3 al-Azmeh, Aziz 209 57, 60 al-Bustānī, 72, 76–7 al-Fārābī 54–6, 69, 113, 139, 274 n.459, 270 n.416 al-Ghazālī 43, 59–60, 64, 90, 106, 121, 123, 130, 165, 212, 251 n.131, 268 n.391 129, 159, 161, 166 al-Ghazālī, Tawfīq 282 n.585 69, 138, 251 n.123 (Caliph) 52–3 58–9, 69 al-Nābulsī, Shākir 166, 245 n.3, 268 n.382, 274 n.471, 277 n.505 68–9 82–3, 85 al-Shidyāq, Fāris 76, 257 n.208 al-Sijistānī, Abū Sulaymān 253 n.152 Tawfīq 57 al-Zabīdī 70–1 69, 121, 130 196 57 Amīn, 57, 85–7, 90, 166, 252 n.138

Name index

320

Amīn, 15, 49, 58–9, 84–5, 101, 120–3, 166, 174, 248 n.50, 249 n.68 Amīn, Qāsim 84–5, 121, 268 n.393 Abdullahi Ahmed 50, 222–3 82–3, 85, 262 n.291, 263 n.310 Aquinas, Thomas 28–9, 61, 203 Aristotle 53–4, 56, 60, 113, 149, 219, 226 Askari, Hasan 230, 234–5 Awad, Louis 93, 95 Awn, Peter J. 58 Ayoub, Mahmoud 233 Bakhtin, M.M. 21 Belot, Jean Baptiste 72, 78 Benhabib, Seyla 11 Blau, Joshua 254 n.173 Bocthor, Elias 72 Bojesen, Lars Bo 247 n.624 Bonaventure 28–9, 61 Branca, Paolo 166 Breasted, James 121, 149, 273 n.456, 273 n.456, 282 n.599 Buber, Martin 223, 230, 243 Buddha (and Buddhism) 138, 141, 147, 149, 188, 219 Butler, Joseph 33, 37 Carlyle, Thomas 93, 261 n.272 Chartier, Marc 277 n.505 Christ, Jesus 26, 32, 46, 60, 74, 82, 85, 90–1, 97–105, 108–9, 113–14, 116, 119–22, 126, 128, 132, 135–6, 138–9, 140–5, 146, 150–1, 157, 162, 164, 174–81, 184–5, 188–90, 201–2, 204, 212–13, 219–20, 222, 226, 234, 270 nn.409, 414, 271 n.425, 285 n.627 Cicero 26, 37 Conermann, Stephan 193–4 Cragg, Kenneth 5, 39, 145, 172–3, 180, 185–6, 191, 225, 245 n.2 Davies, Catherine Glyn 31 Deladière, R. 58 Denny, Frederick M. 46 Despland, Michel 9 Durant, Will 271 n.428, 273 n.453 Erman, Adolf 121, 265 n.342 Erpenius, Thomas 71, 75 Esack, Farid 40, 43, 230, 238, 241 Fakhry, Majid 41–2, 45, 53 Ferrara, Alessandro 14, 17, 220 Feuerbach, Ludwig 34, 37, 88, 234, 243 Ford, F.Peter 97, 104, 245 n.1, 262 nn.285, 290 Freud, Sigmund 34 Freytag, G.W. 71

Name index

321

Galen 54, 56 Gandhi, Mahatma 36, 38, 90, 95–6, 119, 136, 138, 148, 153–4, 162, 186, 212–13, 226, 275 n.486 Giddens, Anthony 12 Goddard, Hugh 5–6 Goldziher, Ignaz 39, 43, 63 Gregorius, Bishop 203–5, 213, 247 n.35 Hadfield, James A. 131, 133, 268–9 n.394–8 15, 120–4, 209 Milād 200–1, 282 n.595 83, 282 nn.585, 591 Hegel, G.W.F. 14, 33–4, 37, 120, 122, 235, 243 Heidegger, Martin 13–14, 34–5, 37, 235, 243 Hieronymus 28, 248 n.37 Hilger, Dietrich 19 Hobbes, Thomas 33, 110, 169 Hourani, Albert 81, 189–90 Hourani, Georg F. 45, 52–3 Huff, Toby E. 29, 61–4 M.Kāmil 4–6, 8, 37, 48, 99, 116, 145, 172–91, 194, 201, 210–14, 218–20, 224–6, 229, 234, 236, 238, 242 87–9, 90, 166, 282 n.585 Humbert, Jean 72 Ibn 56, 219 Ibn 58, 69, 251 n.123, 252 n.149, 264 n.330 Ibn Hibat Allāh 74 Ibn 69, 252 n. 149 Ibn 54 53 Ibn Ibn 70 Ibn Rushd 54–5, 82, 90, 113, 263 n.310, 264 n.327, 270 n.416 Ibn Sīnā 54–5, 70, 90, 113, 270 n.416 Ibn Taymiyya 162 Ibrahim, Ibrahim 86, 119, 262 n.290 Izutzu, Toshihiko 44–5 Jesus see Christ Jonsen, Albert R. 29 Jordheim, Helge 246 n.20 Kant, Immanuel (Kantian) 14, 33, 37, 90, 106, 111, 120, 123, 174, 205, 222, 279 n.535 Kazimirski, A. de Biberstein 72 Kekli Abdeslem 278 n.525, 279 n.547 Kelsay, John 52 Khālid, Khālid 4–6, 8, 13–15, 26, 37, 55, 58, 60, 86, 125–71, 175, 186, 188–9, 194–5, 201–2, 205, 207, 210–14, 218–20, 223, 226, 229, 234, 236,

Name index

322

238, 242, 249 n.67, 252 n.149, 259 n.248, 272 n.444, 274 nn.471, 284 n.624, 285 n.627 167, 200, 266 n.352, 277 n.507 Khālid, Kilpatrick, Hilary 264 n.322 Koselleck, Reinhart 18–19 Kraemer, Joel L. 55 Kristeva, Julia 21, 120, 213, 236, 246 n.11, 21, 286 n.653 Lane, William 71 Lazarus-Yafeh, Hava 254 n.178 Lee, Robert 11, 169, 208, 284 n.622 Levinas, Emmanuel 4, 15, 38, 223, 225–6, 230–1, 235–6, 243–4 Lindhardt, Jan 247 n.624 Lindholm, Tore 249 n.65 Luckmann, Thomas 12 Ludwig, Emil 98, 271 n.428 Luther, Martin 30, 37, 242, 268 n.385 Lūqā, 201–2 Løgstrup, Knud E. 223 McAuliffe, Jane Dammen 46, 233–4 Maalouf, Amin 232 Macleod, Arlene Elowe 208 Najīb 281 n.579 193 Massignon, Louis 69 Miskawayh 54–7, 123, 219, 226, 249 n.74, 250 n.89, 285 n.640, 270 n.416 Mokrosh, Reinhold 247 n.22 Moses 108, 135, 138, 157, 175, 188, 270 n.414 Mubarak, President 199, 276 n.489 26, 32, 49, 60, 93, 95–6, 105, 108, 118–19, 126, 128, 132, 135–6, 138–9, 140–7, 151–2, 162, 163, 188, 201, 212, 219–20, 222, 233, 270 nn.409, 414, 271 n.425 Nasser, President 107, 113, 127, 153, 160–1, 163–4, 167, 190, 194–5, 197–9, 275–6 n.486–8 Negri, Salomon 75 Nelson, Benjamin 29, 61–4 Nietzsche, Friedrich 14, 34, 110 Paine, Tom 134, 147, 153, 268 n.390, 269 n.402 Paul 27, 37, 45, 99 Perry, R.B. 273 n.453 Peters, Francis 233 Philo of Alexandria 26 Philipp, Thomas 198 Plato 26, 53–4, 56, 60, 137, 149, 219

Name index

323

Qilāda, William Sulaymān 200–1 Sayyid 15, 167–71, 191, 194, 213, 284 n.624 Rahman, Fazlur 40, 43, 47, 50–1 Raphelengius, F. 70 Rasmussen, Lissi 22, 238 Rawls, John 17 Reinhart, A.Kevin 41–2, 50–1 Renan, Ernest 82, 85, 98, 119 Ricoeur, Paul 11, 38, 229–31, 235–7, 243 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques 14, 31–3, 68, 82–5, 108, 153, 205, 219–20 Rumi 57 Sachedina, Abdulaziz 40, 45, 47 Sadat, President 195, 199 Safran, Nadav 86, 90, 95, 108–9, 118, 193, 200, 259 nn.243, 248 Said, Edward 232 Salvatore, Armando 122, 209 197, 283 n.602 Sargiyūs, Schumann, Olaf 5, 85, 91, 97–8, 119–20, 128 Shamir, Shimon 193 Shenouda III, Pope 198–200 Sībawayhi 70 Smith, Margareth 57 Socrates 26, 116, 132, 141, 149, 152, 204, 213, 271 n.430 Solihin, Mohammad Solihin 282 n.596 Spiro, Socrates 73, 78 Stelzenberger, Johannes 247 n.22 Tawfīq, Imīl 278 n.521 Taylor, Charles 14–15, 38, 219–21, 229 Thorbjørnsrud, Berit 205–7, 283–4 nn.611, 620 Tillich, Paul 29–30, 247 n.33 Tisdall, William 39, 73 Toulmin, Stephen 29 Tracy, David 4, 230–1 Trilling, Lionel 14 (caliph) 91, 139, 156 (caliph) 163 85, 104–5, 119, 200, 233, 263 nn.304–8, 285 n.635 Utvik, Bjørn Olav 209 Vatikiotis, P.J. 82 Vetlesen, Arne Johan 220–1 Vogelaar, Harold 173–4, 180, 189–90

Name index Wells, H.G. 129, 273 n.453 Yannī, Yūsuf 43

85

Zaghlūl, Zaghlūl, 197 Østerberg, Dag 11

258 n.227

324

Subject index Al-Azhar 125–6, 268 n.385, 269 n.402 ancient Egypt(ians) 147–9 anthropology 91, 107, 109, 115–16, 181, 187 anti-authoritarian (ism) 133, 142–3, 157, 160, 211, 218 apologetics, apologetic 90–1, 93–4, 107, 108–10, 112, 119, 164, 166 Arabic Bibles, biblical Arabic 73–7, 81, 254 n.178 Arabic dictionaries 70–3, 77–8 thought 47, 52, 61, 64, 111 asymmetrical relations 223–5 authenticity (human, Islamic) 11–15, 31, 33, 37–8, 48, 58, 84, 89, 117–18, 124, 126, 139, 142, 147–8, 160–1, 163–7, 169, 171, 187, 192, 203, 208–9, 211, 213, 217–21, 225, 228, 232, 236, 241–3 autonomy 14, 16, 26, 33–4, 37–8, 117, 165, 187, 211, 223, 227 body discourses 205–8, 213 Bustānī-van Dyck Bible 76, 263 n.301 cardinal virtues 54, 86 casuistry 29–30, 38, 42, 49, 61, 204 character formation, moral character 26, 41, 49, 54–60, 64, 106, 135, 149, 218–19, 221 Christian-Arabic 71–7, 81, 120, 210, 253 n.163 civilization(s) 63–4, 84, 99, 118, 134–6, 148, 173 civil religion 32–3 common sense 45, 62 communitarianism, communitarian 8, 13, 15–18, 25, 27–8, 38, 40–1, 46, 49, 51, 53, 57, 61–4, 118, 124, 126, 155–6, 161, 163, 178, 190–1, 203, 205–6, 208, 214, 229, 239, 246 n.16–17 community, communal 13–14, 16–18, 27, 36–7, 46, 100, 114–15, 133, 161, 164, 169, 175, 181, 185, 188, 190–1, 195, 206, 211, 218, 221, 229–30, 239–41 concept, conceptual history 18–19, 25, 28, 39, 43, 63, 81, 90; globalised concepts 35 concern for others 221–2 conscience: as antecedent guide 165, 212; as antecedent warner 147, 165, 182, 212; bad conscience 34–5, 40, 77, 89, 225, 227–8; as consequent judge 117, 146, 165, 212; as curb 105, 110, 116–17, 139, 147, 165, 175, 181–2, 184, 188, 212, 218, 220; freedom of conscience 31, 36, 102–3, 111–12, 143, 152, 160, 211; good conscience 26–7, 30, 89, 212, 227–8; as inner judge 86, 117;

Subject index

326

as the innermost 10, 33–4, 48, 58, 68, 72, 78, 81, 97, 102–3, 110, 134, 143, 158–9, 217, 220; as inner voice 26, 37, 96, 204; as the light of God 176, 185, 187; as the law of inhibition 172, 175, 182–4, 186, 188–9, 212; martyrdom of conscience 203; political conscience 95, 97, 102, 107, 119, 137, 191; as remorse 72, 76, 86, 89, 91, 139–40, 159, 165; social conscience 88–9, 133, 149, 159, 189, 218, 243; transmoral conscience 11, 28–31; as the voice of God 99, 121, 141, 186, 189, 212, 242 consciousness 31, 33, 67, 70, 72–3, 117, 119, 122, 151, 169–70 “contextualist universalism” 109, 163, 168, 240 Copts, Coptic Christianity 8, 73–5, 82, 128, 172, 192, 196–208, 213, 229, 233 crucifixion 104–5, 144–5, 176, 180, 195, 228–9, 262 n.287 democracy 107–9, 111, 127, 131, 153, 160–3, 166–8, 171, 208, 211, 218, 236 destiny, destination 136–7, 140, 147–8, 154, 156, 160, 240 dialogue, dialogical 4–5, 7–8, 21, 42, 53, 190, 214, 223, 236, 243; Interreligious d. 4, 7–8, 122, 128, 160, 214, 217; Muslim-Christian d 4, 81, 105, 124, 141, 165, 172, 175, 213, 228, 237 diapractice 22, 237, 243–4 difference (sensitivity to) 104–5, 157, 188–9, 191, 202, 223–4, 229–30, 232–4, 236, 244 discourse analysis 19–20 doubt 143, 152, 272 n.437 ‘Egyptian Vulgate’ 74–5 elitism 88, 108–11, 128–9 emotions, feelings 12, 14–15, 32, 38, 69, 77, 83–4, 86, 96, 98, 102, 106–7, 115, 122, 135, 142, 169–70, 212, 220, 222, 236, 240 empathy 220, 222, 229 Enlightenment (European) 31, 117, 152, 162, 211 ethics: discursive ethics 42, 226; divine command ethics 40–1; duty ethics 52, 134; ethics of proximity 212, 223–4, 229; exhortatory ethics 42; Islamic ethics 7, 18, 39–64, 226; narrative ethics 43, 49, 57, 59–60, 106; philosophical ethics 40, 53–7, 63, 85–6, 100, 102, 112, 116, 135, 212, 219; prescriptive ethics 42, 46, 50, 64, 106, 110, 135, 150, 226; religious ethics 59–60, 106, 134–5, 159, 164–5, 212; Sufi ethics see Sufism; therapeutic ethics 54, 57, 219; value ethics see values; virtue ethics see virtue European philosophy 9, 22, 25–38, 82–4, 90, 112–15, 122, 124, 126, 138, 171, 205, 210 existensialism, existensialist 31, 90, 113, 115, 117, 119, 133, 211, 235, 242

Subject index

327

face 16, 225, 227, 230, 242–3 fear 35, 40, 117, 131–2, 139, 143–6, 224–5, 243 feelings see emotions formalism 98, 142 geniuses 90–1, 93, 95, 97, 105, 111, 118, 147–8, 211, 218 Golden Rule 49, 212, 221–2 Good Friday 172–3, 175–9, 229, 234 good works 44 Gospel, Gospels 45–6, 74–5, 95, 97, 101, 104, 141, 144–5, 150, 155, 175, 225 Greek philosophy 7, 14, 26, 42, 52, 53–7, 113, 126, 132, 138, 149, 152, 168, 179, 219 guidance 45, 94, 102, 109, 112, 138–9, 150, 159, 177, 181, 185, 187–9, 211 heart 10, 27, 47, 59, 69, 72–3, 82, 94, 102, 113, 138, 164, 170, 187, 202, 219 hermeneutics, hermeneutical 40, 44, 47, 139, 209, 237, 239 Hispano-Arabic 71, 74–5, 78 humanism, humanist, humanity 17, 38, 53, 55–7, 63–4, 107–9, 128, 136–8, 147, 150, 154, 157, 163–4, 168, 173, 178, 180, 192, 195, 202, 205, 208, 213 human rights 35–6, 38, 107, 109, 137, 151, 158, 239–40 hypocrisy 98–9, 142, 158 identity discourses 192, 194, 197, 200, 203, 206, 214, 231, 236 inclusivism 135, 161, 187, 194–5, 213–14, 229, 233 individualism 16, 55, 61, 104, 114 inner/outer 47, 59, 70, 101–2, 114, 117, 142, 170 integrity (personal) 7, 17, 31, 37, 78, 89, 94, 123, 147–8, 155–6, 165, 169, 204, 211, 218, 221, 225, 228 internalisation 10, 64, 78, 90, 98, 102, 106, 120, 158, 171, 204, 211 intention(s) 49, 59–60, 71, 74–6, 94, 121, 151, 158–9, 176, 179 interreligious solidarity 238–9, 241 interreligious studies 3–4 intersubjectivity 12–13 intertextuality 7, 20–1, 40, 57, 64, 120, 171, 219, 241 inwardness, “interiorism” 14, 37, 68, 101, 120–1, 217, 221 “inward turn forwards” 217–18, 229, 233 Islamic law 41, 50, 53, 55, 62, 101, 169, 171, 226 Islamic philosophy 53–7, 63, 109–10, 113, 120, 122, 138 Islamic state 161–2, 195 Islamism, Islamists 126, 128, 166–7, 170, 193, 199, 206, 209, 276 n.493, 277 n.507, 284 n.624 Judaism, Jewish, Jews 32, 44–6, 94, 99, 103, 111, 122, 135, 142, 171, 177, 179, 188, 196, 202, 231–2, 238, 271 n.432, 280 n.563 “knowing by oneself, knowing with the other” 7, 10, 25–6, 34, 36–7, 40, 229, 245 n.9

Subject index

328

“law of love and conscience” 97, 100–1, 105, 114, 119 legalism 99–100, 104, 106, 111 liberal, liberalism 15, 82, 85–7, 90, 107, 109, 123–4, 126, 130, 160, 193, 194, 196–7, 201–2, 210, 213, 241 literalism 98–9, 101, 103, 106 love 56–8, 60, 97–102, 104, 117, 144–5, 150–1, 154, 177, 188, 212, 220, 226 mercy 144, 146 modernity, modernism 11–13, 17, 19, 31–7, 93–4, 101, 105, 118, 123, 127–9, 134, 163, 166, 168, 171, 190, 192–3, 204, 206, 208, 213, 218, 231, 233, 239 Muslim Brotherhood 125, 127, 129, 161, 166–7, 169, 193, 194, 197, 199, 276 n.489 Muslim-Christian relations in Egypt 192–209, 214, 237 thought 47, 52, 111 mysticism, mystical 29–30, 57–60, 69–70, 103, 114, 117, 126, 158–9, 185–6, 210, 212, 219 nationalism, national unity 128–30, 178, 193, 195, 196–7, 198, 200–1, 208–9, 213, 236 natural law 27–8, 38, 46 natural sciences 173–4, 183, 186–7, 189, 211 Neoplatonism 53–4, 114, 219 “new morality” 110, 127, 131, 136, 218 non-violence 37, 95–6, 145, 150–1, 153–4, 162, 172, 178, 185, 189, 212, 225–6, 229 “oneself as another” 227, 229–39, 243 Other, otherness 11, 15–16, 18, 22, 25, 34–5, 48, 81, 117, 194, 201, 209, 211, 214, 217–28, 229–32, 234–5, 239, 242, 244 outward appearances 98–101, 103, 105, 151, 169, 202, 211 pacifism 154, 185–6, 191 ‘Pharaonism’, Pharaonic 84, 196, 200 political rationality 181–2, 184 postmodern 52, 64 potentials, potentalities 14, 84, 90, 96, 118, 136, 142, 146–8, 169, 171, 173, 175, 218, 228 powers (faculties) of the soul 54, 99, 105, 116, 182, 183 progress, progressive 12, 16, 84, 94, 98, 108, 113, 118, 130–1, 134–5, 137–8, 140, 143, 148, 153, 160, 163, 171, 178, 195, 202, 211 psychology 118, 128, 131, 133, 139, 148, 172, 183, 280 n.551 reason, rationalism 16, 32–3, 38, 40, 52, 54, 57, 62–4, 83, 85–6, 108, 110, 112, 114, 116, 118, 122–3, 134, 136, 141, 149–50, 152, 166, 172–3, 181–2, 188, 202, 211–12, 220, 222, 239 reciprocity 222–5 reform, reformers 96, 100, 106, 111, 126, 166, 193, 194, 222 religious education 3

Subject index

329

religious revival 198, 200–1, 203, 206–7, 213 religious studies 3 respect for others 221–2 revelation (and reason) 40, 54, 62–4, 94–5, 112, 150–1, 155, 169, 173, 212 rigidity 101, 113 romanticism, romantic 12–14, 31, 84, 95, 102, 117, 146, 211, 220 second coming of Christ 145 secularisation, secularism 12–13, 129, 160, 166, 192, 195, 200–1 Self, selfhood 11, 15–16, 18, 21, 25, 34–5, 48, 81, 117, 209, 214, 217–28, 229–31, 235, 239, 242, 244 self-criticism 180–1, 231, 233 self-examination, self-accounting 58–60, 64, 101–2, 111, 117 self-improvement 218–19 self-reflection 12 self-reproach 40, 87, 117, 142, 165, 178–9, 189, 227–8 self-wronging 224–6 Sermon on the Mount 101, 136, 144, 150, 178, 184, 226 sin 132, 139–40, 143, 147, 183, 224–5 social contract 32–3, 37, 153, 161 social ethics 123, 169, 191 socialism 34, 104, 123, 127, 129–31, 153, 193, 194 social justice 128–9, 137, 144, 149, 151, 154, 158–9, 166–7, 169, 171, 188, 218, 224 Stoicism 26, 53, 99, 204 Sufism, Sufi ethics 43, 47, 57–9, 69–70, 78, 102, 114–15, 123, 126, 158–9, 187, 205, 219 sword 144, 150–1 Torah 45–6, 135, 150, 157, 175 “the dawn of conscience” 121 thematic exegesis 156–8, 274–5 n.473 theocracy, theocratic 107, 162, 168, 277 n.507 theology, theological 3–4, 8, 51–3, 204, 217, 227, 231, 234, 242 traditionalism, traditional 113, 118, 126, 129–30, 135, 142, 187, 195, 204, 211, 218 transcendence 16 transposition 21, 120, 213 truth 98, 108, 154 tyranny 113–14, 131, 133, 160, 178, 186 universalism, universalist 8, 13, 15–18, 25, 27, 35–8, 40–1, 49, 51, 53, 55–7, 61–4, 83–4, 99–100, 102, 116, 118–19, 124, 126, 128, 137, 157, 160–1, 163, 165, 178, 190, 195–6, 202, 205, 208, 214, 222, 236, 239–40, 246 nn.16–17 values, value ethics 43, 51, 52, 83, 126, 135, 138–9, 145, 149–50, 158, 165, 221 veil 198, 207–8, 238

Subject index

330

virtues, virtue ethics 26, 41–2, 49, 53–60, 130, 132, 135, 138–9, 152, 175, 183–4, 211, 219, 226 women’s roles/rights 96, 110–12, 130–1, 139, 162, 222–3, 240, 264 n.322–3, 268 n.392–3 World War, Second 173, 180–1, 186, 189, 220, 284–5 n.625 “wronging the Self, wronging the Other” 217–28