Muslim Societies: Historical and Comparative Perspectives (New Horizons in Islamic Area Studies)

MUSLIM SOCIETIES

This volume examines Muslim societies across Europe, North Africa, Central Asia and South Asia from the eighteenth century to the present, providing fresh insight through comparison. The contributors examine the characteristics of peaceful symbiotic relationships with other peoples as well as a series of conflicts, such as ethnic strife and interregional conflicts, between Muslims and non-Muslims. Movements and populations covered in Muslim Societies include the nineteenth-century North African Sanusi movement and its relationships with the Sufis and Arabs of the region, Soviet and Chinese Central Asia, Muslim-Hindu relationships in South Asia, Muslims in Syria and Muslim immigrants in Europe. With its wide historical and geographical breadth, Muslim Societies seeks to develop our understanding of the Muslim world and to appreciate contemporary Muslim issues through their historical origins. It will appeal to students of Islam, the Middle East and Asian Studies. Sato Tsugitaka is Professor in the School of Letters, Arts and Sciences at Waseda University, Tokyo. He is a former President of the Japan Association for Middle East Studies.

NEW HORIZONS IN ISLAMIC STUDIES Series editor: PROFESSOR SATO TSUGITAKA

The series New Horizons in Islamic Studies presents the fruitful results of Islamic Area Studies Project conducted in Japan during the years 1997–2002. The project has planned to do multidisciplinary research on the dynamism of Muslim societies in both the Islamic and non-Islamic worlds, considering the fact that areas with close ties to Islam now encompass the whole world. This series provides the newest knowledge on the subjects of “symbiosis and conflict in Muslim societies”, “ports, merchants and cross-cultural exchange”, and “democratization and popular movement in Islam”. Readers will find multifarious, useful achievements gained through international joint research with high technology of geographic information systems about Islamic religion and civilization, particularly emphasizing comparative and historical approaches. PERSIAN DOCUMENTS Social history of Iran and Turan in fifteenth–nineteenth centuries EDITED BY KONDO NOBUAKI ISLAMIC AREA STUDIES WITH GEOGRAPHICAL INFORMATION SYSTEMS EDITED BY OKABE ATSUYUKI MUSLIM SOCIETIES Historical and comparative aspects EDITED BY SATO TSUGITAKA

MUSLIM SOCIETIES Historical and comparative aspects

Edited by Sato Tsugitaka

First published 2004 by RoutledgeCurzon 11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by RoutledgeCurzon 29 West 35th Street, New York, NY 10001 This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2004. “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.” RoutledgeCurzon is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group © 2004 editorial matter and selection, Sato Tsugitaka; individual chapters, the contributors 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 Muslim societies : historical and comparative aspects / edited by Sato Tsugitaka. p. cm. – (New horizons in Islamic area studies) Includes bibliographical references (p. ) and index. 1. Muslims – Europe. 2. Muslims – Asia. 3. Muslims – Africa, North. 4. Islam – 1800– 5. Civilization, Islamic. I. Tsugitaka, Sato. II. Series. D1056.2.M87M8555 2004 909′.09767–dc22 2003016611 ISBN 0-203-40108-5 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 0-203-67113-9 (Adobe eReader Format) ISBN 0–415–33254–0 (Print edition)

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CONTENTS

Contributors Preface 1

vii ix

Introduction: Islam in Middle Eastern studies – Muslims and minorities

1

SATO TSUGITAKA

2

Sufism and foreign rule in Africa: politics and piety

9

KNUT S. VIKØR

3

The Andijan Uprising reconsidered

29

KOMATSU HISAO

4

Faction struggles among the Bukharan ulama during the colonial, the revolutionary and the early Soviet periods (1868–1929): a paradigm for history writing?

62

STÉPHANE A. DUDOIGNON

5

“Majorities” and “minorities” in modern South Asian Islam: a historian’s perspective

97

MUSHIRUL HASAN

6

The politics of a Partition Riot: Calcutta in August 1946

109

NAKAZATO NARIAKI

7

Muslims in Western Europe: sociohistorical developments and trends FELICE DASSETTO

v

137

CONTENTS

8

Comment 1: symbiosis and conflict: reflections on Andalusi history and historiography

156

MANUELA MARÍN

9

Comment 2: a discussion including the Middle East

172

ABDUL-KARIM RAFEQ

Index

188

vi

CONTRIBUTORS

Japanese names are given using the surname first. Felice Dassetto

Catholic University of Louvain, Belgium.

Stéphane A. Dudoignon Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique/ Université Marc Bloch, France. Mushirul Hasan

Jamia Millia University, India.

Komatsu Hisao

The University of Tokyo, Japan.

Manuela Marín

Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, Spain.

Nakazato Nariaki

Institute of Oriental Culture, The University of Tokyo, Japan.

Abdul-Karim Rafeq

The College of William & Mary, USA.

Sato Tsugitaka

Waseda University, Japan.

Knut S. Vikør

Bergen University, Norway.

vii

viii

PREFACE

This collection of papers originates from a special session, entitled “Muslim societies over the centuries: symbiosis and conflict in comparative aspects”, that was added to the 19th International Congress of Historical Sciences held in Oslo, Norway during August 2000. The Oslo session came about as part of the research activities connected with the project “Islamic Area Studies” funded by the Japanese Ministry of Education, Science, Sports and Culture, between 1997 and 2002 to do multidisciplinary research on Muslim societies in both the Islamic and non-Islamic worlds, reflecting the fact that regions with close ties to Islam now encompass the globe. What the Oslo session and this volume confirm, I think, is that in communities where Muslims reside, we find both peaceful symbiotic relationships with other peoples, as well as serious problems such as religious and ethnic strife, interregional conflicts, population explosions and destruction of the environment. We may therefore say that social, political and economic trends in the Islamic world will definitely determine the development of world civilization in the twenty-first century. This makes it necessary for both Muslim and non-Muslim scholars to take positive steps towards a better understanding of Islamic history, ideology and of the Islamic world today. The reader will find here such diverse topics as Muslim societies in North Africa, Central and South Asia and Europe during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and as majorities and minorities in modern South Asia; the Sufi movement in North Africa; the Andijan Uprising in Central Asia; and the living conditions of immigrant Muslims in western Europe. It is our hope that the papers collected here will lead to a better understanding of the features characterizing symbiotic and antagonistic relationships in the history of Muslim societies. I would like to take this opportunity to thank all of the contributors to this volume and the discussants in the session, especially Sato Kentaro who collaborated in assisting the session arrangement and book compilation. In conclusion, this collection is dedicated to Professor Ulrich Haarmann, whom I met in Hamburg during 1998 for the purpose of organizing the ix

PREFACE

Oslo session together. His sudden death from leukaemia the following year shocked us all. We therefore dedicate this work to the memory of both Professor Haarmann’s outstanding scientific achievements and his magnanimity and wisdom as a human being. Sato Tsugitaka Professor, Waseda University Project Leader, Islamic Area Studies

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INTRODUCTION

1 INTRODUCTION Islam in Middle Eastern studies – Muslims and minorities Sato Tsugitaka

When I suggested that the theme of our session in Oslo be “Muslim Societies over the Centuries: Symbiosis and Conflict in Comparative Aspects,” I was thinking of two matters, which I would like to explain here in a little more detail. The first matter has to do with methodology. I consider that it is more important to reflect upon “Muslim Societies in Islamic and Middle Eastern Studies” than “Muslim Societies in the Middle East.” The second matter I was thinking of concerns specific incidents which have occurred in my own research field, including a small-scale revolt on the Syrian coast in 1318 and the change in the relationship between Muslims and Copts in Egypt during the Ayyubid and Mamluk periods. As to the first point concerning methodology, there are some researchers of pre-modern Muslim societies, for example, who have concluded that the majority (in terms of either ethnicity or religion) lived in symbiosis with minority peoples or adherents, whereas other researchers have suggested that nothing but mutual distrust and severe conflicts existed between these same majority and minority peoples. Let me offer some examples. In his monumental work entitled A Mediterranean Society (six volumes, Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1967–93), Shlomo Dov Goitein describes a partnership situation in commercial activities that was the same for Jews and Muslims, citing the case of two Jewish brothers in Qayrawan who formed a partnership with a Muslim in 1048 (vol. 1, pp. 172–3). In another work entitled Jews and Arabs (New York, 1955), we find the same kind of statement: “Then (after the Arab-Muslim conquest in the seventh century) came the second and, in the past, most important, period of creative Jewish-Arab symbiosis lasting about 800 years” (p. 10). Bernard Lewis states in his book, The Jews of Islam (Princeton, 1984) that “The Jews who lived in Christian countries, that is in Europe, were a minority, and a relatively unimportant one at that. With few exceptions, 1

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whatever was creative and significant in Jewish life happened in Islamic lands” (p. 67). As Lewis observes, there was no dhimma (protection) for Muslim residents in medieval Europe, and no aman (security) for Muslim visitors (p. 24). And Qasim ‘Abduh Qasim, who studied the dhimmcs during the Mamluk period based on the original Arabic sources, concludes that the favorable position of the dhimmcs during the early Islamic period continued, unchanged, despite some rather severe conflicts, up to the end of the Mamluk period (Ahl al-Dhimma fc Mihr al-‘Uher al-Wusia, Cairo, 1979, pp. 197–200). On the other hand, Bat Ye’or asserts that although Judaism and Christianity were tolerated according to the agreement of the dhimma concluded with Muhammad, in practice, freedom of worship was not respected (The Dhimmi: Jews and Christians under Islam, Rutherford, 1980, p. 60). Contrary to the conclusion reached by Qasim ‘Abduh Qasim, Bat Ye’or asserts that under the influence of the ulama discrimination, humiliation, massacres, fiscal extortion, forced conversions and the destruction of churches and synagogues occurred during the rule of the Mamluks (p. 71). According to Norman A. Stillman, the capitulation that became the model for the treatment of Jews and Christians (and later, Zoroastrians) under the new Islamic empire was the document outlining terms of surrender extended by the second caliph, ‘Umar b. al-Khaiiab (reigned 634–44) to the patriarch of Jerusalem, Sophoronios in 15/636 (The Jews of Arab Lands, Philadelphia, 1979, p. 25).1 He asserts that this so-called “Pact of ‘Umar,” which was modified and enlarged in later Arab histories, regulated the everyday life of the dhimmcs, who were not to build in their cities any new monasteries, churches, hermitages or monk cells. They were required to pay the jizya and the kharaj, and never to strike a Muslim, carry arms, ride horses or use regular saddles on their mounts. Moreover, they had to wear clothing that distinguished them from the Arabs (ibid., pp. 25–6, 157–8).2 Steven M. Wasserstrom says in his book, Between Muslim and Jew (Princeton, 1995), “It is no exaggeration to say that nearly every leading scholar in Jewish-Muslim studies has adopted Goitein’s usage, that is, ‘creative symbiosis’ relationship of Jews with Muslims, with its popularity continuing to increase in the 1980s” (p. 5). Then he poses the following question: What is its relevance to the critical study of religions? He argues that Goitein is concerned not with religion, but with the content of daily existence (p. 6). The fact that different views are attributable to the different viewpoints and focal points of respective researchers is also true of those who study the relations between the majority and the minority ethnic groups or religious sects among Muslims, like the Kurds, Negro slaves, the Nuhayrcs and the Druzes. It is, therefore, insignificant to discuss whether or not Islam is a tolerant religion by pointing to casual incidents or specific issues. The relationships or contacts between Muslims and minorities in the course 2

INTRODUCTION

of history must be defined on the basis of substantive, actual cases, by shedding light on the political, social and economic conditions underlying such cases, and by comparing each case with similar occurrences in, for example, Europe and Asia. Next, I would like to turn to some specific incidents I encountered in the course of studying the history of Egypt and Syria during the Ayyubid and Mamluk periods. Since 1986 I have collected information on the Syrian coastal town of Jabala with the intention of reconsidering Islamic history and the present situation from the viewpoint of local history. I have visited the town of Jabala several times, and found an area with complex geographical features, stretching from plains bordering the Mediterranean Sea to mountains over a thousand meters in height overlooking the countryside around the coastal towns. The native people say that the district of Jabala is the birthplace of poets due to the beauty of its rural scenery. During ten years of research, I have found the interesting Sufi legend of Sultan Ibrahcm b. Adham (d. 777–8) and a small revolt waged by the Nuhayrc peasants against the Mamluk sultanate to be of great significance in understanding the history of Jabala and its surrounding areas. Here I take up the latter incident, because of its relation to the theme of “Muslims and minorities.” The details of the revolt may be found in my book entitled State and Rural Society in Medieval Islam: Sultans, Muqta‘s and Fallahun (Leiden, 1997, pp. 162–76); however, more briefly: on 20 February 1318 the Nuhayrc peasants in the mountain district of Jabala rose up against the Mamluk Sultan al-Malik al-Nahir. They were led by a man who called himself Mugammad b. al-Gasan al-Mahdc (Messiah), who had told the people that as he worked in his field, a white bird entered his body, took out his soul and put the soul of Mugammad b. al-Gasan in its place. His followers grew to 3,000 or 5,000. It is said that the Nuhayrcs rejected openly the authority of the Mamluk state, declaring that Sultan al-Malik al-Nahir, king of Egypt, had already died. Mugammad al-Mahdc hoisted both a red flag and a candle “burning as brightly as day.” Its holder was a young man without a mustache calling himself Ibrahcm b. Adham – interestingly enough the same name as that of a popular Sufi saint who died in the early Abbasid period. When amir Qiriay, governor of Tripoli, received the news that the Nuhayrc peasants had attacked the town of Jabala, he dispatched 1,000 cavalrymen to quell the revolt. The troops had no problem in killing its leader, Mugammad al-Mahdc, and thus ending the revolt in a matter of five days. Therefore, we consider the revolt had no serious impact upon the Mamluk regime during the third reign of Sultan al-Nahir (1310–41). However, when we look a little more carefully, we find a close connection between the revolt and the sultan’s religious policy at the time. The Nuhayrcs, or ‘Alawcs, belong to one of the extremist Shc‘ite sects formed in Syria during the tenth and the eleventh centuries. Holding firmly to the original Shc‘ite ideas, they came to consider the first Imam, ‘Alc b. 3

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Abc Ialib, to be the most important manifestation of the “hidden sense” (ma‘na) of God. It is said that they had learned a secret way of teaching people from the Isma‘clcs stationed at Mahyaf and Qadmes, and that they had based their liturgy on the beliefs of native Christians. Since they were a minority with a peculiar religious life, they suffered atrocities at the hands of the Crusaders, the Mamluk sultan Baybars (1260–77) and the Ottoman sultan Selim I (1512–20) alike. As we know, most of the Nuhayrcs today live in the mountainous areas of Jabal Anharcya or Jabal al-Nuhayrcya, east of Latakia and Jabala, and make up around 11 percent of the Syrian population.3 Contemporary sources do not offer any distinct explanations for the cause of the Nuhayrc revolt in 1318. All Ibn al-Wardc (d. 1348), a Syrian historian, says is: In this year (717/1317–8) many miscellaneous taxes (maks), such as taxes on wine and prostitution, were abolished in the coastal region. In this year the sultan ordered the Nuhayrcs to build a mosque in every village and prohibited initiation (khiiab) into their creed. In this year the Nuhayrcs renounced their obedience to the sultan. (Ta’rckh Ibn al-Wardc, II, 380) When considering the cause of the revolt, I recalled the Nahirc cadastral survey (al-Rawk al-Nahirc) carried out in the region of Tripoli during the previous year, 1317. Following the cadastres of Syria (1313–4) and of Egypt (1315–6), the Tripoli cadastre was carried out by the Mamluk government in Cairo to reassign iqia‘s to amirs and mamluks. The survey was over by November 1317, and miscellaneous taxes like the tax on fowl and prison tax were customarily exempted. The exemption of miscellaneous taxes described by Ibn al-Wardc seems to indicate this post-cadastral survey situation in Tripoli. Furthermore, two orders concerning the religious life of the Nuhayrcs were issued on 13 December, following the exemption of these taxes in the district of Tripoli. The first order reads, “The Nuhayrcs should construct a mosque (masjid) in each village and assign part of the village’s land (for its management). A manager is to be appointed as a representative of the governor of Tripoli, and has the responsibility to control the mosques” (Nuwayrc, Nihayat al-Arab, XXX, fol. 108). Actually, the Nuhayrcs had no tradition attaching importance to prayer at mosques. What happened was that the Mamluk government took the opportunity of the cadastral survey to intensify its control over the Nuhayrcs and ordered them to construct a mosque in each village. The second order by Sultan al-Nahir reads, “At the same time, we outlaw the Nuhayrc’s khiiab. After the issue of this order they may not perform any kind of khiiab. The influentials and village shaykhs 4

INTRODUCTION

should bear witness not to restore their khiiab” (Nuwayrc, Nihayat al-Arab, XXX, fol. 108). The khiiab in Arabic means literally “discourse” or “epistle,” but the second order makes it clear that khiiab also refers to the Nuhayrc creed itself. Al-Maqrczc explains the Nuhayrc khiiab as follows: When a youth grows to be an adult, a banquet is held for him. After eating and drinking they (the participants) make him swear forty times to keep the secrets of their sect. Then they impart him the knowledge: The deity (ilahcya) is ‘Alc b. Abc Ialib, drinking wine is permissible, the transmigration of souls is a fact, the world is eternal, resurrection after death is false, and Paradise and Hell are to be denied. (Kitab al-Sulek, II, 178) Since al-Maqrczc was one of the Sunnite ulama, it is uncertain whether he had full knowledge of the secret Nuhayrc doctrine. However, his account suggests that the khiiab during the Mamluk period was the initiation ceremony into the Nuhayrc sect. That is to say, the Nuhayrcs had the custom of transmitting their beliefs through the khiiab ceremony. Accordingly, the ceremony was the core of their religious life, and they no doubt considered that its prohibition would lead to a negation of their long tradition. The revolt occurred at Jabala two months after the order prohibiting the khiiab was issued by the sultan. Therefore, we can surely point to the cause of the uprising as the government’s policy ordering the Nuhayrcs to construct mosques and stop practicing their own khiiab, following the Nahirc cadastral survey in Tripoli. However, the rebel leader Mugammad al-Mahdc had no careful, detailed scheme to organize his revolt against the Mamluk government, but only an emotional protest against a policy intending to control the religious life of the Nuhayrcs. Here we find an interesting tradition in government to cope with the rebels. When he received the news of the revolt at Jabala, amir Qiriay, governor of Tripoli, asked Ibn Taymcya (d. 1328), who was at Damascus, whether he should attack and kill the Nuhayrcs for challenging the sultan’s authority. We can find the answer in the collection of his fatwas: Praise be to God. As long as the Nuhayrcs refuse (to surrender), you should fight until they submit to Islamic law, because most of the Nuhayrcs, other than the followers to the imposter, are non-believers (kafir). As to the followers of the imposter, they are the most vicious of renegades (murtadd). You may therefore kill the combatants and plunder their estates. It is disputable whether you can take their children captive or not. Most of the ulama, are opposed to the view that the children of renegades be taken captive. (Majme‘ Fatawa, XXVIII, 553–5) 5

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As is widely known, Ibn Taymcya was a strict Hanbalite scholar who advocated jihad against the Mongols and criticized harshly the popular Sufism among Muslims. As is apparent in the fatwa mentioned above, he was violently opposed to the Nuhayrcs, too, calling them non-believers and renegades. In another fatwa, he says, “The Nuhayrcs are more unfaithful than the Jews and Christians, and those who would fight them are equal to the troops stationed at the coastal area fighting against the Crusaders.”4 Furthermore, his view had no small influence on the other Sunnite scholars. For example, Ibn Kathcr (d. 1373) who was a pupil of Burhan al-Dcn al-Farazc al-Shafi‘c, later fell under the strong influence of Ibn Taymcya. He asserted that rebel leader Mugammad al-Mahdc had turned heretic and should be the first to suffer from hellfire on the Day of Resurrection.5 We may well consider that Sultan al-Nahir, supported by such “public opinion,” intended to regulate the religious life of the Nuhayrcs; but the later historical sources give no information whether or not any policy was carried out successfully after their suppression. The Nuhayrc revolt provides us with a suitable means to better our understanding of the relationship between the Mamluk state and a religious minority. What were the conditions which prompted the Mamluk government to exert pressure on the Nuhayrcs? First, there was the Crusader invasion into the sacred city of Jerusalem and then Egypt. At the time when Halag al-Dcn (1169–93) established his authority in Egypt, the symbiotic relationship between Muslims and Copts had already begun to collapse. The situation of the Copts was worsened by growing hatred shown by Muslims toward Christians as a result of the Crusader invasion. Under the rule of Shcrkeh, uncle of Halag al-Dcn, Abe al-Malig al-Muhadhdhab from the famous Mammatc family, who had served the late Fatimids and the early Ayyubids as an able Coptic official, was obliged to convert to Islam. It may be supposed that the surname “Mammatc” refers to a corruption of the Coptic “Mahometi,” that is, “Mugammadan,” since the family embraced Islam.6 Second, there was the Mongol invasion following the Crusades, causing the government and the ulama to become ardent protectors of Islam. However, the recapture of Jerusalem by Halag al-Dcn (1187), the repulsion of the Mongol army by Baybars al-Bunduqdarc (1260) and the eviction of the Crusaders from Palestine (1291) resulted in affirming the Sunnite regime of Islam. Now the Muslim people could not ignore the comfortable and luxurious life of the dhimmcs living around them. They now had to be treated according to a rule of differentiation (ghiyar) from Muslims. The influential amirs and ulama requested Sultan al-Nahir to proclaim new regulations based on the Pact of ‘Umar. In 1301 the sultan took positive measures to revive the Pact of ‘Umar and did introduce some new regulations, inducing a decree that non-Muslims had to wear identifying colored turbans: blue for Christians, yellow for Jews. The dhimmcs 6

INTRODUCTION

were also forbidden to build homes higher than those of their Muslim neighbors. However, Sultan al-Nahir endeavored personally to relax the humiliating decree, even at the price of exciting the anger of the conservative ulama. He refused to believe that every fire or other calamity during these years was the result of a Christian conspiracy. But fanaticism had increased among the ulama and the Muslim masses, forming the “public opinion” against the dhimmcs. As al-Maqrczc states, after the new regulations were proclaimed, many Copts converted to Islam, some intending to retain their social positions, others detesting having to wear blue turbans and ride donkeys (Kitab al-Sulek, I, 911). During the third reign of al-Nahir (1310–41) we find some Coptic Muslims (Muslimanc al-Qibi) serving in the cadre of the Mamluk administration. For example, Taj al-Dcn al-Iawcl, who proposed the cadastral survey in Egypt, was skilled in accounting and finance, and understood well the features of each Egyptian district. Even after his conversion, it is said that he strongly favored the Coptic people. As‘ad al-Shaqqc was also a Coptic convert to Islam, and was generally known as al-Shaqqc al-Agwal (“Squinteyed Oppressor”) due to his “nefarious” conduct. When Taj al-Dcn al-Iawcl died in 1311, he was appointed najir al-dawla and administered state affairs single-handedly.7 Through the implementation of the cadastral surveys (1313–25) proposed by these Coptic Muslims, Sultan al-Nahir established a Mamluk regime based on his loyal retainers. He must have been confident concerning the success of policies to regulate the dhimmcs and such Muslim minorities as the Nuhayrc sect. His decisions had been strongly hoped for and strongly supported by the ulama and the common Muslims. As mentioned previously, state policy toward religious minorities during the Mamluk period was closely related to both external and internal conditions. We observe that the external conditions caused much social tension among Muslims in Egypt and Syria, which was further increased by those ulama who demanded that the dhimmcs be dismissed from administrative offices. This shows clearly that the Mamluk sultans did not adopt oppressive policies against the minorities because they themselves were aliens from the non-Islamic world. Consequently, we may conclude that researchers of symbiosis epochs still have to study the various conditions that enabled such coexistence; and those who study conflicts must consider the political and social factors that caused them, rather than attributing such conflicts to the religious characteristics of Islam or its social system.

Notes 1 See al-Iabarc, Ta’rckh al-Rusul wa al-Mulek, 1: 2405–7. 2 Concerning the Pact of ‘Umar, see the following studies: A.S. Tritton, The Caliphs and their non-Muslim Subjects (London, 1930); M. Gil, A History of

7

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3

4 5 6

7

Palestine 634–1099 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 51–56; M.R. Cohen, “What was the Pact of ‘Umar? A Literary-Historical Study,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam, 23 (1999): 100–157. R. Dussaud, Histoire et religion des Nohairîs (Paris, 1900); D. Gubser, “Minorities in Power: The Alawites in Syria,” in The Political Role of Minority Groups in the Middle East, ed. R.D. McLaurin (New York, 1979); M.M. Bar-Asher and A. Kofsky, “An Early Nuhayrc Theological Dialogue on the Relation between the Ma‘na and Ism,” Le Muséon, 108 (1995): 169–80. M. St. Guyard, “Le fetwa d’Ibn Taymiyyah sur les Nosairis,” Journal Asiatique, 259 (1971): 166. Ibn Kathcr, al-Bidaya wa al-Nihaya, 14: 84. The Encyclopaedia of Islam, new edition, s.v. Ibn Mammatc. His son, al-As‘ad, was the author of Qawancn al-Dawawcn. See further D.P. Little, “Coptic Converts to Islam during the Bagrc Mamluk Period,” in Conversion and Continuity, eds M. Gervers and R.J. Bikhazi (Toronto, 1990.) Sato Tsugitaka, “The Proposers and Supervisors of al-Rawk al-Nahirc in Mamluk Egypt,” Mamlek Studies Review, 2 (1998): 73–92.

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SUFISM AND FOREIGN RULE IN AFRICA

2 SUFISM AND FOREIGN RULE IN AFRICA Politics and piety Knut S. Vikør

One of the most problematic aspects of the study of Islam in history is how to interpret the relationship between ‘religion’ and ‘politics’ in Muslim societies. A major theme for modernization theorists, the popular expression is often that there is ‘no distinction’ between the two – that in Islam, religion is politics and politics is religion. This view is happily adopted by young Muslim activists, who explain the decadence of the Muslim world today with the ‘impious’ division of the secular from the religious. But of course this is a slogan, not a description of an existing reality. The distinction between religion, dcn, and state, dawla, certainly exists both in Islamic thought and Muslim practice. That the Muslim ruler is the commander of the faithful does not make him a religious figure, nor is the law regulating the sale of apples a religious law just because its ultimate authority is a statement from the Prophet Mugammad. How the relation between political and religious authority should be was contested in early Islam.1 However, the result was that while the caliph could command allegiance on the basis of his leadership of a community of co-religionists, he could not influence the content of the religion. That was the prerogative of a class of scholars who increasingly saw links to the political authorities as a sign of corruption. When we in later times see religious figures or pious organizations playing a part in political struggles, we cannot therefore merely consider it a Muslim ‘normality’ that deserves no comment. When religious and the political structures coincide, it is rather an anomaly that requires some explanation outside the sphere of religious thought itself. That is clearly the case when we look at the many cases where Muslim religious figures, and in particular brotherhoods of Sufi mystics, played important roles in the face of European colonialism in the nineteenth century. 9

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Varieties of Islamic identities How religious differences in Islam translate into community distinctions can be seen on three different levels. One is the distinction between theological totalizing entities, primarily Sunnism and Shc‘ism. Another is between specific ‘rites’ or ‘schools of law’ (Ar. madhhabs, ‘methods’) within these larger entities, which differ in details of how to understand the Sharia law. Unlike the Sunnc-Shc‘c divide, madhhab divisions are partial, in that they only concern law and ritual practice. A third level of distinctiveness is that between the religious brotherhoods within Sunnc and Shc‘c Islam. Such brotherhoods or ‘Sufi orders’ (Ar. iarcqa, ‘Way’ to attain gnosis) pervade Islam, and thousands of distinct brotherhoods are found throughout the Muslim world.2 Their theology is mystical, aiming at a personal and super-sensory experience of the passing away of the individual ego into a divine presence. Such an experience is reserved for the select few – the saints – not the common man. Yet Sufism is a truly popular form of Muslim devotion, as every believer can approach some aspect of the ideal by leading a pious life, following the teaching of a personal shaykh and participating in rituals held regularly by the brotherhoods in villages and towns. While all Muslims normally accept each other as believers, each of these levels of identity entails a different degree of ‘differentness’ from other Muslims. The theological divide between Sunnism and Shc‘ism is exclusive and total: it covers all aspects of religious life, and every Muslim, be they scholar or layman, must and does know whether they are a Sunnc or a Shc‘c. The second level of distinctiveness, between the madhhab schools, is exclusive and partial: it does not necessarily imply a theological position or an identity in areas other than those covered by the madhhab, law and ritual practice. However, a scholar must choose one madhhab and should stick to that. (Such a choice is strictly speaking not necessary for a layman, but most Muslims will identify with a single school in their ritual practice.) The level of mutual acceptance and sometime cooperation is normally much higher between the schools than between Sunncs and Shc‘cs, although sectarian distinctions can certainly occur also between madhhab followers.3 Affiliation to Sufi brotherhoods indicates a distinctiveness that is partial and non-exclusive. Brotherhoods cut across madhhab lines without difficulty (although they seldom cross the Sunnc/Shc‘c divide),4 and a Sufi can join any number of brotherhoods at the same time. However, most ordinary members will stick with one order,5 and Sufi shaykhs who sometimes ‘collect’ affiliations to different iarcqas by the dozen will most often consider one only as their primary Way, with the others as pious, and sometimes even merely polite, supererogatory devotions.6 The adaptability of such a religious distinctiveness to political purposes clearly depends on the nature of the distinction. The Shc‘cs explain their

10

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separation from the rest of the Muslim community by an early political conflict, and they arguably became a distinct group through the rise of the various Shc‘c states in the Middle East and North Africa in the early ninth century.7 Certainly the established position of Imamc Shc‘ism today owes much to the decision by Isma‘cl Hafavc in 1501 to make it a state religion and a focus for political identity for the new Iranian state. Thus, while Shc‘c thought mostly developed in periods of peace, and largely under Sunnc rule, its identity was formed as a result of political distinctiveness. Madhhab distinction, on the other hand, has seldom formed the basis for political mobilization or identity. The Ottomans did impose their own Ganafc madhhab in the courts and also in those regions where other schools had dominated. This was however largely to produce a more unified legal system throughout the empire, based on the school that had been predominant in the Ottoman heartlands. Thus it was often tempered by attempts to integrate any other madhhab that might exist locally into the judicial apparatus.8 We have very few examples of political unrest or revolutions being fought in the name of a madhhab, in spite of the fact that the practice of law is an affair of the state and thus inherently political. One would therefore expect it to be even rarer to find the third and least distinctive level of identity, the Sufi brotherhoods of mystics, as bearers of political identity. The status of the shaykh and the objects of Sufi practice are clearly turned towards the other-worldly; and if distance from the corrupting influence of temporal power is desired for a legal scholar, it is all the more so for a mystic saint. And, of course, it is true that most Sufis, shaykhs and followers never took part in political life.9 But in certain circumstances such organizations and leaders did display a potential for political mobilization. Rare in stable, established political circumstances, such cases are all the more common when extraordinary events occur: a revolution, a conflict with a foreign power or the demise of a regime.

Sufis and outsiders in North and West Africa Such was the case in nineteenth-century Africa, when new and non-Islamic rulers intervened and religious leaders, among them Sufi shaykhs, were forced to take account of a new political and social reality. Not all Sufi answers were militant or military, however. As European military supremacy established itself, the choices that the Muslim leaders faced were to welcome, resist, accommodate or ignore the newcomers. The alternatives the Muslims had were the application of jihad, a defensive military campaign to preserve Islamic political rule; hijra, withdrawing beyond the reach of the infidels; or taqcya, hiding their true feelings and cooperating with the Europeans.10 This set of terms implies that the only ‘true’ relationship between the colonized Muslims and their overlords was one of hostility, disguised or 11

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not. To some extent this was probably most often the case. However, all three refer to a Muslim reaction to the external invasion. This was not always the best way to describe their situation: often the Muslim leaders were the initiators and saw the presence of the new, foreign, element on the scene as a strategic resource to be used for aims unrelated to the Muslim/ infidel or local/foreign dichotomy. Sufi shaykhs and Muslim leaders often had their own agendas, and the Europeans, once their presence in the region was an indisputable fact, became one further element to take into account when promoting these aims. Thus, the reasoning behind which strategy the Muslim leader would choose towards the Europeans was more often based on circumstance than doctrine. The Europeans (and in particular the French) were very keen to create a taxonomy of Sufi orders between ‘fanatical’ and ‘friendly’ or ‘moderate’,11 but comparative studies make such general categories fall apart; an order that may have worked with the French in one context may head a jihad in another – without any sense of split or dissension within the order itself. A few examples from the history of Sufism in this area in the nineteenth century may illustrate several of these different and flexible reactions to the foreign presence.12 San∞s£ya Perhaps the most notorious case of a Sufi order taking a militant stance against foreign rule in Africa was that of the Sanescya brotherhood. This is not least because France, for reasons of its own, conceived them to be fanatic opponents of Christianity and French influence, and believed they were behind numerous plots and conspiracies against the French from the 1850s on.13 As it happens, this was all pure fantasy on the part of the French. They did not actually come into contact with the real Sanesc brotherhood before they moved eastwards from the Niger into the Lake Chad region around 1900. The brotherhood was at that time in fact a purely pious organization with little or no political interest, and was certainly not much concerned with the progress of the Europeans, until then far away in the west. They were neither aware of nor linked to the ‘conspiracies’ that the French had seen – mostly local and spontaneous revolts against the colonizers. The Sanescya brotherhood was formed in the early 1840s in Cyrenaica in what is now eastern Libya by a Maghrebi scholar, Mugammad b. ‘Alc al-Sanesc (1787–1859).14 Its main focus was the Beduin Arab tribes that lived in the oases and moved along the desert side in the region; nominal Muslims but without the level of religious knowledge or practice required of the believers. To achieve its aim of a higher level of Islamic life among the Beduins, the Sanescya established lodges with schools and small mosques 12

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or places of prayer in many of the oases of eastern Libya and western Egypt.15 Most lodges were small, with a staff of perhaps four or five resident brethren besides students and guests. The lodge also had other functions for the local community: it provided small plots of land for the poor to settle on and cultivate, or simply distributed food to them, and so on. However, perhaps the most important function was the prerequisite for all the others: Cyrenaica had at the time been a region of perennial conflicts between tribes and factions. Only a few years before al-Sanesc came there, a large war had pitted two major tribes against each other. Clearly, the brotherhood could not perform its religious education under such conditions, so the first order of the day was to create social peace. The order clearly had the willing assent of the tribes in this endeavour – they all welcomed lodges onto their territory and gave the order land to build on and cultivate. They also provided the lodges with regular manual labour and entrusted them with their youngsters to be taught and to work for the lodge. In these mediations, the brotherhood continued an ancient tradition of ‘holy’ families who served as middlemen and defused conflicts. But they developed it further, by covering all of the region in one structure and by their centralization.16 The brotherhood had a centre, first in the oasis of Jaghbeb on today’s Egypt-Libya border, later in the larger oasis of Kufra in south-eastern Libya. This centre controlled what went on in each lodge, it appointed and replaced its shaykhs, collected part of its revenue and kept a fairly tight grip on its organization. The purpose of all this was religious: to create the conditions required for the brotherhood’s primary goal: to expand piety and learning. It was not political, in the sense that the shaykhs never tried to take over the authority of the tribal leaders. Nor would they have had the strength to do so; the social power of the lodges depended on the resources that were freely given by the tribal leaders, and which they could withdraw. However, the peace created by the brotherhood did have a positive influence in one mundane field where the brotherhood and the tribes shared the benefits: trade. From the middle of the nineteenth century, the transSaharan trade route crossing the central Sahara from Lake Chad to Tripoli was severely hit by political disorder, partly because of new pressure from the Ottoman masters in the north, partly because of disruptions in the rule of the Bornu kingdom to the south.17 Thus, the caravans suffered from increased raiding by Arab, Tuareg and Teda nomads, to the degree that it disrupted commerce and made the traders look for other options. At the same time, a new route was developed further east, going from Wadai in the south (present-day eastern Chad), over Kufra and eastern Libya to Benghazi on the coast. This route was more arduous than the Lake Chad-Tripoli one, but it had one major advantage: it passed almost completely through territories where 13

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the Sanescya brotherhood had spread their message. As long as the Sanescs could maintain their role as peace brokers and intermediaries between the tribes in the region, they could guarantee the traders freedom from raids along the route. And as they organized the relations between the tribes, they could also ensure for them a part of the revenue that accrued from the trade, without the need of raiding. The brotherhood went further in promoting trade: the lodges, located strategically in oases all along the eastern desert, were built to accommodate traders and became way stations where the traders could not only reprovision themselves and rest, but also store goods and in some cases (in particular at the Sanesc centre Kufra) trade their wares. The brotherhood also provided guides and dug wells. Thus, although the brotherhood did not directly take part in trade itself,18 it did play a social and temporal role alongside its religious activity. But it was one neither militant nor concerned with foreigners. The order did indeed store arms in the lodges, but not to fight the French; they were there to protect themselves and the trade caravans from any residual raiders that might remain. That is not to say that the Sanescs had no knowledge of the situation elsewhere – the founder, al-Sanesc, came from western Algeria, and many of the leaders also originally hailed from that region. During the resistance war against France in Algeria in the 1840s, al-Sanesc did send moral and some material support to his fellow Muslims there, but only on a limited scale (a couple of brethren went with money and some guns), as it was too far away both in terms of geography and of the brotherhood’s emphasis of interest. Thus, when the French started to move from the Niger towards the eastern Sahara, the order was aware that it could mean trouble.19 But they did not seriously think that they would be the target – it was rather the rulers of Wadai they were concerned for. The French, however, saw the brotherhood as their primary enemy, and attacked and destroyed its southernmost lodge at Bir Alali in 1902. Taken unawares, the brotherhood withdrew to more remote oases in the desert, where the French did not have the means to follow them for another decade. In the meantime, local tribes caught on to the idea that the French saw the Sanescs as their enemies, and starting proclaiming that they fought to defend the brotherhood, which they belonged to or identified with. This did not however mean that they intended to take any advice from the shaykhs of the order or anyone else on how to conduct their combat, and their individual and isolated raids on the French proved to be of little consequence, having some success only because of the difficulties of the desert. This situation lasted until 1911. Then, a new foreign force moved in from the north, as the Italians invaded Tripolitania.20 The Turkish troops there were forced to withdraw after a few months, and resistance in 14

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western Libya soon collapsed. However, in the east the Italians were not able to root out the nomadic resistance. And this time, the Sanescs, having looked and learned at the southern front, took a more active part. It was apparently the then leader of the brotherhood, Agmad al-Sharcf al-Sanesc (grandson of the founder), who on his own initiative and against the advice of his councillors made the decision to throw the order into the struggle and in essence transform the pious and trade-oriented organization into a guerrilla force.21 The order set up training camps with Turkish instructors, and were armed by them (and later by the Germans). They gathered volunteers, often on a tribal basis, but in many cases it was the lodge shaykhs – that is, people from outside the tribal hierarchy – who took over command of the armed groups. This allowed for easier acceptance of cross-tribal units (in the later phases of the war, when resistance forces were depleted and concentration of forces was more pressing). The most celebrated Libyan resistant, ‘Umar al-Mukhtar, was such a shaykh of a Sanesc lodge, who did not have any tribal position in the region where he was fighting.22 In this way, the Sanesc forces were able to maintain the struggle in Libya against the Italians on and off for two decades until 1931, laying the basis for the later return of the order’s leader, al-Sharcf’s cousin Mugammad Idrcs, as first and last king of Libya 1951–69. ‘Umar A similar situation of resistance ‘in spite of themselves’ is the case of al-gajj ‘Umar Tall in the western regions of West Africa, today’s Senegal and Mali. However, ‘Umar, unlike al-Sanesc, combined his work for religious reform and Sufi piety with the evident political aim of creating a new jihad-based state in his homeland. But the target of the jihad was not European Christians, but the animist (or ‘semi-Muslim’) local petty kingdoms of the region. It was only the French expansion into his region later on that changed the nature of the conflict to a local-foreign one. ‘Umar’s background was primarily religious. He had been initiated into the Tijancya Sufi brotherhood, a new order originating in Morocco that did not then have any strong impact in West Africa. Thus, ‘Umar on a visit to Mecca was appointed representative (khalcfa) of the brotherhood south of the Sahara.23 While he may have started as a leader by default in a distant land, he eventually became one of the dominant thinkers of the brotherhood. His major work of Sufi theology, al-Rimag, has become one of the standard works of the Tijanc order worldwide, and may be the most influential work of Islamic theology ever written in sub-Saharan Africa.24 After spending a few years writing and recruiting followers to his Way, he turned to his political aims. He established a centre where he gathered students who also became soldiers,25 and he challenged the existing political leadership of the local small states. Through the strict structures of the 15

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brotherhood, he could establish an organization that, while it – unlike the contemporary Sanescya – had a locally recruited leadership, could still go outside the established social and political hierarchies. This region was on the borderland between Muslim, semi-Muslim and fully animist statelets. ‘Umar’s avowed primary enemies were the pagan animists, his aim the expansion of the land of Islam. But in reality, much of his activity took place inside the existing Muslim polities, and his jihad toppled many of the small-scale rulers of the upper Niger valley with ease, not least because many young people of their lands flocked to ‘Umar’s banner. He thus united the small Muslim states into one large empire that covered much of the western Sudanic region from Senegal to Burkina. In his state, he sought to apply Islamic rule and Islamic piety, but his students soon came to function as a de facto aristocracy as much as religious scholars. At the time, the French were only present on the Senegalese coast. This was ethnically and socially separate from ‘Umar’s area of interest, and they ignored each other until the French started to move up the Senegal river in the 1850s. ‘Umar still did not see them as an enemy, and sought an alliance with France against common enemies in the petty states of the area. However, the French were not interested, and a conflict ensued. ‘Umar withdrew eastwards, still welcoming peace rather than conflict with the Europeans. But as the French moved towards the east, the two expanding forces inevitably came into contact and conflict. The ‘Umarian state increasingly turned into a focus of resistance to the French expanding force, although ‘Umar himself was killed on another front, fighting the Muslim power of Masina-Timbuktu in 1864. His son Agmad continued his state and his struggle, increasingly a pure ‘Umarian-French conflict which lasted for almost another thirty years, before he was himself killed in battle with the French in 1891 and the Tijanc political entity disappeared.26 §am¡ll£ya Thus, the French basic attitude towards the brotherhoods was suspicion and hostility, and this continued after their colonial dominion had been established. They could however not hope to eradicate the orders, which in the preceding half-century had rapidly grown deep roots in the population. In particular the Tijancya, ‘Umar’s brotherhood, survived the collapse of his state and became the dominant Muslim organization of West Africa, with tens of millions of adherents. But after their empire was defeated, the order turned away from politics. It still performs social roles, but its main activity has become religious and pious, continuing the tradition of mystical and religious specialists in West African society. In the early period under ‘Umar, the order was centrally organized around his own position of ‘representative’ of the order in 16

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West Africa. After his state collapsed, this has developed into a multi-centric tradition with three parallel focuses around the shaykhly families of Niasse at Kaolack, the Sy at Tivawane, and the various parts of ‘Umar’s family. All three families have in addition shown fissionary tendencies internally.27 This is especially true of the third, that of the ‘Umarian family, which is probably the weakest of the three main Tijanc branches in West Africa. That may explain the perhaps surprising fact that the most vigorous acceptance of French rule came from this quarter. Its recognized leader, Sayyidi Nuru Tall, forged close links with the French, and was rewarded with an official appointment as grand marabout, or chief Sufi of all of French West Africa.28 This was an honorific position without any real power – there was (and is) no common structure between the different Sufi brotherhoods in Africa that he could direct. But it is evident that Tall accepted and tried to use the title to strengthen his position within his branch, and among Sufi leaders in general in Senegal. Thus, rather than seeing him as ‘collaborator’ in the colonial enterprise, it is probably more correct to see him as using the French foreign administration as an instrument in his primary goal, to re-establish the pre-eminence that his family had had in the Sufi life of Senegal. Another Tijanc branch, this in Mali, showed a different pattern. Shaykh Gamah Allah was already recognized as a leading shaykh at an early age around 1910, although he did not belong to any of the dominant Tijanc families.29 Instead, he sought legitimacy directly from North Africa, and through a small variation in the ritual, established himself as head of a separate branch.30 Gamah Allah was primarily a recluse, and stayed in a small village on the desert side. He gained support in particular when other leaders of the order, including influential members of the ‘Umarian family, switched to his branch, but he did not proselytize on any large scale. Yet, when the French set up a presence in that area, his support was so large that they sought contact with him, primarily to get him to abandon his ritual variant and merge with the main Tijanc current under the leadership of Nuru Tall. Gamah Allah ignored them. He refused to come to the French post and did not receive their men if he could avoid it. Nor did he do anything to oppose them; he was clearly neither in the position nor of the inclination to become a resistant to French power. He simply made it clear through his actions that he wanted nothing to do with them. This avoidance of political centres is nothing new in Islam – it follows a pattern of saintly scholars throughout history, but it was in contrast to the often conspicuous presence of other Sufi leaders in West Africa. To the French, it appeared extremely suspicious, and they considered Gamah Allah a hostile leader that they could not easily suppress because he did nothing openly against them. Only when a squabble arose between some local members of the brotherhood and youths of a neighbouring tribe, 17

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leading to some deaths, did they get a chance. Labelling it a revolt led by the fanatic ‘Hamallistes’, they exiled Gamah Allah, who died in France in 1942, and restricted the activities of the brotherhood. Still the order grew, and is today one of the major brotherhoods in Mali, Burkina and Ghana.31 Ra¶m¡n£ya None of the orders presented so far have positively sought out a resistance against colonialism, although all ended up in this situation. A case of one which did seek conflict, but with limited success, can be found in the Ragmancya brotherhood of the eastern Algerian desert side in the 1850s.32 Like the Sanescs further east, this was a fairly new order, but unlike them it had no unified or centralized structure, nor did it spread much beyond this part of Algeria. Different lodges and families of shaykhs contended for superiority. They also took different attitudes towards the French, who entered Algiers in 1830 but only approached this more remote district about ten years later. The resistance in the west was then led by ‘Abd al-Qadir, who himself had a Sufi background as son of one of the main leaders of the Qadircya brotherhood there. When one of the shaykhs of the Ragmancya, Gasan b. ‘Azzez, came to him to seek investiture for the resistance, ‘Abd al-Qadir had no hesitation in appointing him his local representative for the east, and asked him to take up the struggle. However, this failed. Eastern and western Algeria were quite different in social composition and in the east there was already an established social and political leadership around local secular leaders. They did not recognize or accept that this new Sufi shaykh should take on the military leadership, and the shaykh’s jihad soon descended into local squabbling. However, as the French approached the region after the defeat of ‘Abd al-Qadir, the local leaders proved inadequate to confront them. The most prominent Ragmanc leader at that time, Gasan’s brother Muhiafa, decided to withdraw to the oasis of Nafia across the border in Tunisia, a short distance away. Here a thriving exile centre was established, and the Sufi leaders gave both religious and sociopolitical guidance to those who remained behind. Around 1850 two successive attempts were made to raise a front against the French inside eastern Algeria, again on a religious basis, but this time not in the form of Sufi shaykhs: both these revolts were led by people who claimed to be mahdcs, eschatological leaders who were above the normal rules of religion and whose success would usher in the Day of Reckoning.33 This was not a new concept, there had already been a number of shortlived local mahdist revolts in Algeria. Mahdism is theologically not particularly linked to Sufi tradition, and many mahdcs – e.g. the famous Mahdi of Sudan of the 1880s – were hostile to the brotherhoods. However, these two 18

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in Algeria were more pragmatic in nature, and sought and received close support from the Ragmanc exile centre in Tunisia. The Sufis provided them with an established legitimacy as well as with material resources. In spite of this, the French made fairly short shrift of both of these revolts and each collapsed after a few months.34 One of the Ragmanc centres inside Algeria was unable to take part in this struggle, because it was located near Be Sa‘ada, where the French had set up their garrison. Thus, they instead practised withdrawal from politics and de facto accommodation with the new masters. As other Ragmanc centres involved in the resistance fell under French restrictions, this lodge grew to become a major resort for the brotherhood. Its shaykh became the ‘friendly face’ of Islam to European visitors, but gained in this way an influence that could come in useful in internal Sufi conflict. This was shown when its founding shaykh, Mugammad b. Abc ’l-Qasim died in 1897. He had no male successors, but his daughter Lalla Zaynab had been running the affairs of the lodge, and presented herself as the new head of the lodge. Some brethren disapproved of a female leadership, and instead proposed a remote cousin who had not been intimately involved with the leadership. It was however the local French commanders who most strongly opposed the daughter, as they believed a frail female would be manipulated by potentially hostile outsiders. In response, the daughter – who herself spoke no French – hired French lawyers and wrote to the French central commander. Using language and arguments suitable to their way of thinking, she was able to make the central command support her claim of leadership, overriding the opposition of the local French officials. Thus, we see here that a policy of ‘accommodation’ allowed the actor to use the outsider as an instrument to further her own case in the internal family dispute.

Circumstance and doctrine These examples show Sufis reacting in a number of quite different and contrasting ways to the new forces that appeared. It seems however to be impossible to place them doctrinally into categories of ‘militant’ and ‘quietist’ Islam. That a militant jihadist legitimacy can be used to cement the position of a very ‘accommodationist’ Sufi leadership is seen in Sayyidi Nuru Tall’s continuity of the leadership from the line of the jihad leader al-gajj ‘Umar. An even clearer example of how family and religious ties do not match attitudes to the French is in the two sons of the Mauritanian shaykh Mugammad Fafil. They jointly established a brotherhood (or branch of the Qadircya order) named after their father, the Fafilcya, in the second half of the nineteenth century. Both sons left their ancestral region. One, nicknamed Ma’ al-‘Aynayn, went north to Spanish Sahara and southern 19

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Morocco, the other, Sa‘d Beh, south to the borderlands with Senegal.35 Both became dominant leaders with large followings in their respective regions, and maintained relations with each other as the southern and northern leaders of their brotherhood. But they took completely opposing positions to the Europeans. Ma’ al-‘Aynayn made contacts with the Moroccan sultan and raised a revolt against the French advances; he became the most famous resistance and guerrilla leader of western North Africa. His brother, on the other hand, welcomed the French order and became a close partner to the French authorities in Senegal.36 It thus appears that it is not the religious or ideological content of the mystical (or for that matter the exoteric religious) teachings of the brotherhoods that led some of them to an ‘activist’ and others to a ‘quietist’ stance. The choices are made on the basis of the situation that each leader finds himself in. On some occasions, the position of political militants is thrown upon them from outside, as in the case of the Sanescya, or redefined through a new external context, as in the ‘Umarian jihad. On other occasions, Sufi leaders themselves try to promote their own goals by taking initiatives that lead them to different positions towards the foreigner. It may therefore well be that it is a conceptual trap to use such terms as ‘resistance’ or ‘collaboration’ to describe their attitudes. Instead, one should probably see these as complementary strategies to further similar goals.37 In studies of the colonial encounter, the focus has thus perhaps been too centred on the foreign element, looking for reactions to whatever the Europeans were doing and seeing the Muslim ‘traditional society’ more or less as a constant challenged by the events. Instead, it could be more fruitful to consider the European presence as the ‘constant’, one of many contextual factors around which the Muslim actors defined their strategies for goals that were the same before and after the Europeans arrived. The main temporal aim of any Sufi leader is to establish and spread his own brotherhood and its teachings. Organized Sufism was new to West Africa; the first actual Sufi brotherhoods appeared in the southern reaches of the Sahara around 1800.38 In many respects, it was the efforts of al-gajj ‘Umar to establish the Tijancya, discussed above, which really formed the first specifically Sufi organizational base in the region. For this reason, it has later also come to dominate West Africa more than any other region of the Islamic world.39 This in spite of the ultimate failure of ‘Umar’s political structures. When the predominance of the family authority of ‘Umar’s descendants was disrupted, other families took over as dominant shaykhs, and members of ‘Umar’s family thus found it useful to try to utilize their contact with the colonial power to enhance their own position. Another factor that the Tijancya history shows is that religious organizations such as these thrive, rather than wane, by internal rivalry. The Qadircya brotherhood had appeared in West Africa in the early decades of the 20

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nineteenth century, but originally without any strong structures.40 Only when the more organized Tijancs came onto the scene did the Qadircs take major steps towards creating their own organization, and benefited from it. An interesting result of this is seen in Kano in Nigeria from the 1940s.41 The Tijancs had by then come to dominate Sufi life there, and the other Sufis gathered under the banner of the Qadirc leaders. Surprisingly, we find many ‘Qadirc’ branches that in other countries are quite separate and huge brotherhoods – thus in Kano we have a ‘Qadircya-Sammancya’ branch, a ‘Qadircya-Shadhilcya’ branch, and so on. Nowhere else would Sammancs or Shadhilcs imagine that they were branches of the Qadircya, with which they have no historic connection.42 But in Kano, all the non-Tijanc brotherhoods have merged together under one single leader, and have thus redefined their identity as sub-branches of the largest non-Tijanc brotherhood.43 Why Sufis become revolutionaries Although the aim of the Sufi leaders was to spread their message and their pious example, we do find that they are often drawn into political confrontations, and particularly so in transitional situations, when the established social and political order collapses. Defeat at the hands of the Europeans and imposition of colonial rule is a crisis situation for the social and political order, and therefore we find Sufis often in the political focus here (and, as in the Tijanc case, drawing non-political benefits from this). There must be something in these orders that make them politically relevant in such situations. One evidently crucial factor here is organization. Sufi brotherhoods are built around the unquestioned authority of the shaykh over his followers. In some cases this stops at the local level, in others – and in particular in the new orders that were created in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries – the authority was extended on a larger regional or inter-regional level, for example in the Sanescya and to some extent the Tijancya. Even without such structured organizations, the recognized authority of a local or remote shaykh is a very powerful tool for mobilizing support. If the shaykh decides to use his authority to protect the land from the invaders, he can easily define a struggle against European invasion as a jihad, a war in defence of the faith, where his pious and religious authority becomes relevant for the struggle (thus, Agmad al-Sharcf al-Sanesc wrote several epistles on the theory of jihad once he had decided to fight the Italians).44 Another factor, which is equally important in pre-colonial state creation as in anti-colonial resistance, is the identity provided by the Sufi Way. We noted above that schools of law very seldom became a focus for political identity, while Sufism often did so. A probable reason for this is that the schools provide a fairly static form of identity. The number of schools in 21

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Sunnism is fixed at four, and to try to define a state through a new school of law is bound to be rejected (a case in point is the failure of the twelfthcentury Almohad empire to base itself on a fifth school, the Jahircya). Thus, the schools lack the flexibility needed to become the ideological cement for a new state, something that defines one state from its neighbour and tells the militants that they belong together against their opponents. Almost everywhere, and certainly in West Africa, the neighbours are certain to be of the same school as oneself. This is not so with the Sufi identities. They are very dynamic and flexible, linked as they are to the life of one dominant shaykh. Thus, they can easily provide a religiously-based identity for a new polity in a transitional stage where established identities no longer work, and where the authority of inherited rule is no longer sufficient – for example because the new state cuts across old polities and unites them rather than just conquers them. This is seen very clearly both in the Sanesc and Tijanc cases. Thus a prerequisite for the Sufi model to provide a successful pole for resistance and revolution is its independence from the established social structure. It must be different, have alterité, while at the same time have clear links with dominant patterns of social and religious thinking that it can mobilize. The Sanescs and Tijancs mentioned clearly had such a distance from the social establishment while (in the Sanesc case) also cooperating with this establishment. This can also be seen from the case above where the model failed, that of the Ragmancya. The leaders here were also partially outsiders (from slightly further north than the region in question), but their integration into the existing social and political order made it impossible for them to successfully become a leadership alternative to the small-scale secular tribal chiefs, who were themselves unable to provide the regional leadership that the foreign challenge required. Here we can also see what the alternative is when Sufism fails to deliver: mahdism. In a sense, the potential resistance has to ‘up the ante’ in patterns of leadership in order to proceed. A mahdist model has many advantages, because a leader accepted as the mahdc can break free from all constraints of tradition. He has absolute authority, not only over his followers but also over the faith, he can ignore or rescind any established rule of the Islamic Law, because he has direct authority from God, and holds a rank not much below that of the Prophet himself.45 It is a potentially immense power, and can lead to unquestioned support from his followers of a kind no Sufi shaykh could expect. But the mahdist model is also dangerous. Fully personal and centred on the mahdc himself, it cannot draw on any larger structure beyond him and must by its nature be ad hoc. Also, it is ephemeral. It is based on the idea that the mahdc is invincible. If he loses one or two battles against the enemy, the falsity of his claim is established, and the previously unquestioned 22

SUFISM AND FOREIGN RULE IN AFRICA

support will evaporate from one day to the next. Therefore, the mahdist model is not necessarily more apt for political purposes than the relatively more restrained Sufi one, where both the claims and the expectations are lower. These drawbacks were seen by the ‘pragmatic’ mahdcs of our case, who therefore welcomed the support of the exiled Sufi leader. This must also be the reason why the last of these two mahdcs was, after his defeat and the dissipation of his mahdc-hood, able to reform with a smaller force and continue a reduced guerrilla struggle for some years in a different region of Algeria. Diversity in action, unity of motivation By making such a comparative study of various cases, selected not so much from a similarity of political attitude as from religious background, we can perhaps see better how the religious and the political are intertwined. They are not conceptually meshed, the political action remains a side-effect of the brotherhood’s purpose and main goal. All the Sufi leaders discussed were mystics who regularly sought the personal experience of divine presence, through a piety and devotion to the Prophet, like all other Islamic mystics. Most of them were prominent scholars and many wrote religious books of great depth and erudition. What drew them into the political field was not any ideological tenet that ‘to serve God we must fight the infidel’, as is sometimes believed. That was in most cases a secondary effect of the understanding that ‘as teachers and scholars, we must spread our knowledge to others of our faith, and by our example promote their piety’ – that is, interact with the surrounding society through an organized brotherhood. Hence, this continuation of the pious example into the mundane world of organization leads them to interact with the social reality of their day. New factors in this context – like European colonizers – may then lead to new leadership roles being adopted. The Sufi shaykh seeks to promote or affirm the position of his brotherhood through participating in the society in which his brotherhood is based. In some cases, this leads him to take the position of jihad to protect the society from a ruler with a different faith and different agenda; in others, the brotherhood and the Way is better served by withdrawing from the political field, and in yet others the foreign can be used in one way or another to promote the pious experience. The different strategies may cover a similarity of aims.

Notes 1 Partly focusing on the concept of the caliph either as khalcfat Allah, viceregent of God, or khalcfat rasel Allah, [temporal] successor of the Prophet, cf. Patricia

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2

3

4

5 6

7

8

9

Crone and Martin Hinds, God’s Caliph: Religious authority in the first centuries of Islam (Cambridge, 1986). Some recent introductions to the history and ideas of Sufism are Alexander Knysh, Islamic Mysticism: A short history (Leiden, 2000); Valerie J. Hoffman, Sufism, Mystics, and Saints in Modern Egypt (Columbia, SC, 1995) and Julian Baldick, Mystical Islam: An introduction to Sufism (London, 1989). For political and religious confrontations between Sufis and non-Sufis, see Frederick de Jong and Bernd Radtke ed., Islamic Mysticism Contested: Thirteen centuries of controversies and polemics (Leiden, 1999). See e.g. Heinz Halm, Die Ausbreitung der mafi‘itischen Rechtsschule van den Anfangen bis zum 8./14. Jahrhundert (Wiesbaden, 1974) for conflicts and rivalries in the early period. On madhhab formation and politics in general, see also Emile Tyan, Histoire de l’organisation judiciaire en pays d’Islam (Leiden, 1960), and Sherman A. Jackson, Islamic Law and the State: The constitutional jurisprudence of Shihab al-Dcn al-Qarafc (Leiden, 1996). But cases of this exist, certainly the Bektashc order, widespread in the Balkans and in Turkey, which marries Shc‘c sentiment and Sunnc identity; John Kingsley Birge, The Bektashi Order of Dervishes (London, 1937) and H.T. Norris, Islam in the Balkans: Religion and society between Europe and the Arab world (London, 1993). And many ordinary Sufis will focus their identity on their local shaykh, with little concern or knowledge of his wider identification with a particular iarcqa, see e.g. Hoffman, Sufism, Mystics and Saints. For an example of such multiple adhesions, see those of the Mugammad b. ‘Alc al-Sanesc, discussed below. He wrote two different fihrists each of forty Ways that he had attached himself to (al-Manhal al-rawc and al-Salsabcl al-ma‘cn), but these were only the most select of a much larger body of Ways he had ‘collected’. Downplaying the importance of such subsidiary ‘network’ contacts is Barbara R. von Schlegell, Sufism in the Ottoman Arab World: Shaykh ‘Abd al-Ghanc al-Nabulusc (d.1143/1173) (Ph.D. thesis, University of California, Berkeley, 1997), 122–31. Although many strands to what became Shc‘c thought were found in the early centuries, the cohesion of these into something more than the theological currents of the formative period coincided with the establishment of the Qarmaic, Faiimc and other Shc‘a-based political entities at this time. For a discussion of the formation of a Shc‘c legal alternative, see Devin J. Stewart, Islamic Legal Orthodoxy: Twelve Shiite responses to the Sunni legal system (Salt Lake City, 1998). See e.g. Robert Brunschvig, ‘Justice religieuse et justice laïque dans la Tunisie des Deys et des Beys jusq’au milieu du xixe siècle’ in Études d’islamologie, II: Droit Musulman, ed. R. Brunschvig (Paris, 1986), 219–70 for the changing relations between the Ganafc and the locally dominant Malikc school in Tunisia during the Ottoman period. Although many brotherhoods had other social functions in their community. Among the many case studies of this from various parts of the world, see e.g. Vincent J. Cornell, Realm of the Saint: Power and authority in Moroccan Sufism (Austin, 1998); Michael Gilsenan, Saint and Sufi in Modern Egypt: An essay in the sociology of religion (Oxford, 1973); Julian Johansen, Sufism and Islamic Reform in Egypt: The battle for Islamic tradition (Oxford, 1996); Sarah F.D. Ansari, Sufi Saints and State Power: The pirs of Sind, 1843–1947 (Cambridge, 1992) and Alexandre Bennigsen and Chantal Lemercier-Quelquejay, Le Soufi et le commissaire: Les confréries musulmanes en URSS (Paris, 1986).

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10 For overviews of the history of Sufi orders in Africa in the nineteenth century, see B.G. Martin, Muslim Brotherhoods in Nineteenth-Century Africa (Cambridge, 1986) and Knut S. Vikør, ‘Sufi brotherhoods in Africa’ in N. Levtzion and R. Pouwels eds The History of Islam in Africa (Athens Ohio, 2000), 441–76. 11 For cases of this, see e.g. Louis Rinn, Marabouts et Khouan: Étude sur l’Islam en Algérie (Alger, 1884); Henri Duveyrier, La confrérie musulmane de Sîdi Mohammed Ben ‘Alî es-Senoûsî: et son domaine géographique en l’année 1300 de l’hégire = 1883 de notre ère (Paris, 1884); A. le Chatelier, Les confréries musulmanes du Hedjaz (Paris, 1887) and Octave Depont and Xavier Coppolani, Les confréries musulmanes (Paris, 1897 & 1987). 12 Some of the arguments and material here has also been presented in a different context as ‘Sufism and revolt: Tijancs, Sanescs and Safavids’ in the panel ‘Sufi states’ at the MESA Conference in Providence, RI, 22–4 November 1996. 13 A detailed study of the development of the ‘black legend’ of Sanesc militancy in the French minds is Jean-Louis Triaud, La légende noire de la Sanûsiyya: Une confrérie musulmane saharienne sous le regard français (1840–1930) (Paris, 1995). The impression of a basically militant Sanesc order survives in an inverted form in several recent works, e.g. Ali A. Ahmida, The Making of Modern Libya: State formation, colonization and resistance, 1830–1952 (Albany, 1994), 86–95 and George Joffé, ‘Reflections on the role of the Sanusi in the Central Sahara’, Journal of North African Studies, 1/1 (1996): 25–41. 14 For a biography of the founder and the organization of the order, see Knut S. Vikør, Sufi and Scholar on the Desert Edge: Muhammad b. ‘Ali al-Sanesc and his brotherhood (London, 1995); also Mugammad Fu’ad Shukrc, al-Sanescya: dcn wa-dawla (Cairo, 1948); E.E. Evans-Pritchard, The Sanusi of Cyrenaica (Oxford, 1949); Mugammad al-Iayyib al-Ashhab, al-Sanesc al-kabcr: ‘Arf wa-taglcl li-du‘amat garakat al-ihlag al-Sanesc (Cairo, 1956?); ‘Abd al-Malik al-Lcbc, al-Fawa’id al-jalcya fc ta’rckh al-‘a’ila al-Sanescya al-gakima fc Lcbcya (Damascus, 1966); Nicola Ziyadeh, Sanescyah: A study of a revivalist movement in Islam (Leiden, 1958 & 1983) and Agmad Hidqc al-Dajjanc, al-Garaka al-Sanescya: Nash’atuha wa-numewuha fc’l-qarn al-tasi‘ ‘ashar (Beirut, 1967 and 1988). 15 The main concentration was in Cyrenaica, but it also established lodges in Tripolitania and Fezzan in western Libya, a few in Tunisia as well as some in the Gijaz. It spread south of the desert in the later decades of the nineteenth century to northern Chad and some centres of Niger. See list in Knut S. Vikør, Sources for Sanesc Studies (Bergen, 1996), 187– 201; also Evans-Pritchard, Sanusi, 24–5, and Ashhab, Sanesc, 33–8. 16 See Evans-Pritchard, Sanusi and Emrys Peters, ‘The Sanusi order and the Bedouin’, in The Bedouin of Cyrenaica (Cambridge, 1990), 10–28 for two contrasting views of the ‘structural’ nature of the Sanesc’s relation with tribal divisions. 17 Dennis Cordell, ‘Eastern Libya, Wadaï and the Sanusiya: a Tarîqa and a trade route’, Journal of African History, 18 (1977): 21–36; also Knut S. Vikør, The Oasis of Salt: The history of Kawar, a Saharan centre of salt production (Bergen, 1999) and Glauco Ciammaichella, Libyens et Français au Tchad (1897–1914): La confrérie senoussie et le commerce transsaharien (Paris, 1987). 18 Although some traders did join the brotherhood as members, no shaykhs or leaders of the organization seem to have engaged directly in trade. They did of course receive some remuneration from the traders for their services. 19 On this, see Jean-Louis Triaud, Tchad 1900–1902. Une guerre franco-libyenne oubliée? Une confrérie musulmane, la Sanûsiyya face à la France (Paris, 1987), and Légende noire.

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20 The best summary of the Italian-Sanesc conflict in Libya in English is EvansPritchard, Sanusi, 104–90. 21 Triaud, Légende noire, 783. 22 Enzo Santarelli, Giorgio Rochat, Romain Rainero and Luigi Goglia, Omar al-Mukhtar: The Italian reconquest of Libya (London, 1986). 23 The founder of the Tijancya was Agmad al-Tijanc (d.1815 in Fez), a contemporary (and probably a remote relative) of al-Sanesc, above. On the Tijancya, see Jamil M. Abun-Nasr, The Tijaniyya: A Sufi order in a modern world (London, 1965). The most important works on ‘Umar and his jihad are B.O. Ylyruntimzhin, The Segu Tukolor Empire (London, 1972) and David Robinson, The Holy War of Umar Tal: The Western Sudan in the mid-nineteenth century (Oxford, 1985); see also Martin, Muslim Brotherhoods, 68–98. For a comparison of the various jihads in West Africa in the nineteenth century and how they used different Sufi models, see Knut S. Vikør, ‘Jihad in West Africa: A global theme in a regional setting’, in Muslim Diversity: Local Islam in Global Contexts, ed. Leif Manger (London, 1999), 80–101. 24 It is normally bound together with the basic manual of Tijanism, ‘Alc Garazim Barada’s Jawahir al-ma‘anc. On the Rimag, see John Hunwick, ‘An introduction to the Tijanc Path: being an annotated translation of the chapter headings of the Kitab al-Rimag of al-Gajj ‘Umar’, Islam et sociétés au sud du Sahara [ISSS], 6 (1992): 17–32 and Bernd Radtke, ‘Studies on the sources of the Kitab Rimag Gizb al-Ragcm of al-gajj ‘Umar’, Sudanic Africa, 6 (1995): 73–113. 25 At a place called Dinguiray, in today’s north-east Guinea. His first actions were towards the upper Senegal, turning later towards the upper Niger around Segu. 26 Important in this context is the contrast between this West African experience and that of the Tijanc order around its ‘mother lodge’ in Algeria after the French arrival. Rather than taking a similar militant and anti-French stance, the Tijancs there withdrew from the resistance headed by ‘Abd al-Qadir, and were seen by the French as ‘friendly’ and ‘moderate’. Clearly rivalry between the relatively new Tijanc order and the older Qadircya, around which ‘Abd al-Qadir’s movement was partly built, played an important role for the Tijanc position. Nevertheless, the relations between the North African and West African branches were close and not marred by their differential stance towards militant action; Abun-Nasr, Tijaniyya. 27 For the Tijancs in Senegal, see Leonardo A. Villalón, Islamic Society and State Power in Senegal: Disciples and citizens in Fatick (Cambridge, 1995); Christopher Grey, ‘The rise of the Niassene Tijaniyya, 1875 to present’, ISSS, 2 (1988): 34– 60; Ousmane Kane, ‘La Confrérie “Tijaniyya Ibrahimiyya” de Kano et ses liens avec la zawiya mère de Kaolack’, ISSS, 3 (1989): 27–40; Villalón and Kane, ‘Entre confrérisme, réformisme et islamisme: Les Murstarshidcn du Sénégal’, ISSS, 9 (1995): 119–201 and Said Bousbina, ‘ ‘Al-Hajj Malik Sy: sa chaîne spirituelle dans la Tijaniyya et sa position à l’égard de la présence française au Sénégal’, in Le temps des marabouts: Itinéraires et stratégies islamiques en Afrique occidentale française v. 1880–1960, ed. David Robinson and Jean-Louis Triaud (Paris, 1997), 181–98; also Lucy C. Behrman, Muslim Brotherhoods and Politics in Senegal (Cambridge, Mass., 1970). 28 Sylvianne Garcia, ‘ ‘Al-Hajj Seydou Nourou Tall, “grand marabout” tijani: l’histoire d’une carrière (v. 1880–1980)’, in Temps de marabouts ed. Robinson and Triaud, 247–75. 29 Louis Brenner, West African Sufi: The religious heritage and spiritual search of Cerno Bokar Saalif Taal (London, 1984); also Benjamin F. Soares, ‘The spiritual economy of Nioro du Sahel: Islamic discourses and practices in a Malian

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30

31 32 33

34 35

36

37 38

39 40 41 42

religious centre’ (Ph.D. dissertation, Northwestern University, 1997) and Constant Hamès, ‘Cheikh Gamallah, ou qu’est qu’une confrérie islamique (iarîqa)?’, Archives de sciences sociales des religions, 55/1 (1985): 67–83. A difference occurred between two major North African Tijanc centres on whether a particular prayer should be repeated eleven times or twelve. The latter was claimed by the important Fez centre and by all West African Tijancs except Gamah Allah’s followers; these follow the Algerian Tlemcen branch as ‘elevenbeaders’. Boukary Savadogo, ‘La Tidjaniyya hamawiyya au Moogo central’, ISSS, 10 (1986): 7–23. This section is based on the work of Julia A. Clancy-Smith, Rebel and Saint: Muslim notables, populist protest, colonial encounters (Algeria and Tunisia 1800– 1904) (Berkeley, 1994). The second these two mahdcs was Mugammad ‘Abd Allah – known as the ‘Sharcf of Wargala’ – who claimed to be a representative of the Sanescya, by this time well known in Algeria. He had probably been authorized by the Sanescs to try and establish a lodge in eastern Algeria, slightly beyond the edge of Sanesc activity. There are however no indications beyond the Sharcf’s own claim of Sanesc backing that they were involved in the revolt itself; Vikør, Sufi and Scholar, 212–16 and Triaud, Légende noire, 32–42. However, the Sharcf escaped and continued anti-French activities in Algeria and Tunisia for a number of years, but then apparently without making claims to mahdc-hood. A nephew, Mugammad wuld Mugammad Fafil stayed behind in the desert-side regions and had more distant relations with the colonial powers; Glen Wade McLaughlin, ‘Sufi, saint, sharcf: Mugammad Fafil Wuld Mamcn: his spiritual legacy, and the political economy of the sacred nineteenth century Mauritania’ (Ph.D. dissertation, Northwestern University, 1997), 174–6, 189–94. In fact, Sa‘d Beh at the instigation of the French wrote an admonition to his brother to make him desist in his political activity. But while this may have put a strain on their relationship, they do not seem to have broken off their Sufi linkage to the shared heritage of their father; Dedoud ould Abdallah, ‘Guerre sainte ou sédition blâmable: un débat entre shaikh Sa‘d Bu et son frère Ma al-Ainain’, in Robinson and Triaud, Temps des marabouts, 119–53. Cf. discussion in Robinson and Triaud, Temps des marabouts, 13–16 and passim. Contrary to the statement often made that ‘Islam was spread in Africa by Sufi missionaries’; that is only true in one part of Africa not discussed here: the mainland regions of Tanzania after 1880. In all other regions, Islam preceded Sufism, most often by centuries. The Sudan, close to Egypt and the Gijaz, had the earliest presence of organized brotherhoods, by the seventeenth century; Vikør, ‘Sufi brotherhoods in Africa’, 447. Although in particular the Qadircya (and a local branch of it, the Murcdcya), but also the Shadhilcya and other major orders later developed strong organizations here. It was also linked to ‘Uthman b. Fedc’s earlier jihad against ‘not sufficiently Islamic’ local rulers in Hausaland (northern Nigeria) from 1804; Murray Last, The Sokoto Caliphate (London, 1967). Roman Loimeier, Islamic Reform and Political Change in Northern Nigeria (Evanston, 1997). The Shadhilcya is one of the classical orders of Islam, formed in the Maghreb in the fourteenth century, while the Sammancya are normally considered a branch of the independent Khalwatcya order. The Sanescya developed from the

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Shadhilc order, while the Tijanc and Ragmanc orders both are offshoots from the Khalwatcya (although the Tijancs consider themselves fully independent, with a separate link to the Prophet through their founder). 43 The leader in question was Nasiru Kabara (d.1996); John Paden, Religion and Political Culture in Kano (Berkeley, 1973), 152–69; Loimeier, Islamic Reform, 53–4 and ‘The Writings of Nasiru Kabara (Mugammad al-Nahir al-Kabarc)’, Sudanic Africa, 2 (1991): 165–74. 44 Most importantly, the Bughyat al-musa‘id fc agkam al-mujahid (Cairo, 1332 AH /AD 1913–4); Knut S. Vikør, ‘Jihad, ‘ilm and tasawwuf – two justifications of action from the Idrisi tradition’, Studia Islamica, 90 (2000): 153–76. Al-Sharcf also wrote several works on Sufism, cf. Vikør, ‘The Sanesiyya tradition’, in Arabic Literature of Africa: I: The writings of eastern Sudanic Africa, ed. R.S. O’Fahey (Leiden, 1993), 173–4. 45 For an example of this in practice, see Aharon Layish, ‘The legal methodology of the Mahdi in the Sudan, 1881–1885: issues in marriage and divorce’, Sudanic Africa, 8 (1997): 37–66. This freedom did not stop the Sudanese Mahdi from developing a widespread and predictable bureaucracy during his years in power. For proof of this, see the massive seven-volume publication of the edicts and proclamations of the Mahdist state: al-Athar al-kamila li’l-imam al-Mahdc, ed. M.I. Abe Salcm (Khartoum, 1990–4).

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THE ANDIJAN UPRISING RECONSIDERED

3 THE ANDIJAN UPRISING RECONSIDERED Komatsu Hisao

Introduction At dawn on May 18, 1898, 2,000 Muslim partisans commanded by a Naqshbandi shaykh, Dukchi Ishan (Ishan Madali), suddenly attacked Russian troops stationed at Andijan. This attack was planned to be the start of a full-blown revolt in the eastern Ferghana Valley against Russian rule. Because of its historical significance, many works dedicated to the modern history of Central Asia mention this rebellion, later named the Andijan Uprising, even though it ended in failure. It made the first strong impact on Russian rule in Turkistan since their conquest in the mid-1860s. As far as we know, Soviet historians have written most of the works on the Andijan Uprising,1 and their treatment has varied greatly, alternating between regarding the Uprising as a “progressive popular movement against colonialism and feudalism” and a “reactionary nationalistic movement.” However, their analysis has neglected the role of Islam. For example, one historian asserts that the influence of Islam reflects only the backwardness of Turkistan compared to European Russia, and Islam was only a cover for a popular movement.2 Nonetheless, some Soviet ethnographers have reported the deep-rootedness of Islam in Central Asian society, especially the strong survival of Ishanism, the Central Asian term for Sufism.3 Although the ethnographers’ accounts seem to demand that Soviet historians re-evaluate the role of Islam in Central Asian society from a historical perspective, they made no attempt to do so during the Soviet period. During the perestroika period, positive and negative aspects of the Andijan Uprising were debated once again among Uzbek historians. Since then, in the course of rewriting national history (especially after the independence of Uzbekistan in 1991),4 they have adopted a positive evaluation of the Uprising. However, the only comprehensive analysis to appear with a new interpretation is the recent work of Bakhtiyar Babadjanov, who studied the religious aspects of the Uprising using the manuscript of Dukchi Ishan’s unique work ‘Ibrat al-Ghafilcn (Lessons for Ignorant People). I will consult 29

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his discoveries, and his critical notes on my previous paper will be examined in this essay.5 Outside the former Soviet Union, the lack of source materials has prevented study of the Uprising for many years. Among the few serious works written outside the Soviet Union are those of Beatrice F. Manz. She presents a new interpretation of the Uprising, considering it as the continuity of power struggles by political groups since the last period of the Kokand Khanate. However, she relies mainly on Russian sources and underestimates the socioeconomic conditions under colonial rule, and the religious aspects of the Uprising.6 Despite her contribution, we need a more comprehensive analysis in order to understand the significance of the Andijan Uprising in historical perspective. This essay, which focuses on the activities of Dukchi Ishan, will examine, first, the social and political functions of Ishanism in the Andijan Uprising, and second its impact on the Russian authorities and Orientalism, and the responses of the Muslim society. When we take into consideration the resurgence of Islam and Sufi orders in post-Soviet Central Asia, especially in the Ferghana Valley and other places, this essay may contribute to examining the phenomenon of re-Islamization, repeated in the history of Central Asia.7 The main sources for analysis are as follows: first is Fazilbek Atabekoghli’s work, Dukchi Ishan Vaqeäsi, published in Samarkand-Tashkent in 1927. This historical work, written by the son of a qadi in Andijan, contains valuable eyewitness accounts and some original documents.8 Second are writings about the Uprising by contemporary Central Asian Muslim intellectuals, as well as Dukchi Ishan’s own work, ‘Ibrat al-Ghafilcn.9 Third is a series of Imperial Russian General Staff Office archives concerning the Uprising, published after the October Revolution. They consist of telegraphs and detailed reports sent from the Turkistan army that suppressed the Uprising and later made investigations for the Minister of War, General A.N. Kropatkin.10

Dukchi Ishan: a Muslim leader in the Ferghana Valley Although we do not have definite information on the early life of Dukchi Ishan, he clearly had no rival Muslim leaders in the eastern Ferghana Valley in the 1890s. To understand Ishanism in his case, we will trace how he became a prominent Muslim leader in the region. Muhammad ‘Ali Sabir, commonly called Dukchi Ishan or Ishan Madali, according to his own writings and confession to Russian officers, was born around 185611 at Chimion qishlaq, about 25km south-west of Margilan, and later moved with his family to Mingtepe qishlaq, about 35km south of Andijan. His father, Muhammad Sabir, was supposedly an émigré from Kashghar. Many Turkic Muslims in Xinjiang, called Qashgharlik in the 30

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Ferghana Valley, immigrated to that valley from their country when Muslim rebellions occurred repeatedly against the Qing rule throughout the nineteenth century. The Kashghar émigrés preserved their strong spirit of the jihad, in most cases led by Naqshbandi ishans against Chinese infidels. For example, in the case of the Andijan prefecture, according to the 1897 Russian census, the Kashgharis constituted about 2.8 percent of the total Muslim population. Their jihad spirit may have had certain effects on young Muhammad ‘Ali and his followers.12 In any case, when Dukch Ishan refers to his followers in ‘Ibrat al-Ghafilcn, he never fails to mention the Kashgharis. Close relations existed between Dukchi Ishan and the Kashgharis, who lived mostly in the south-eastern Ferghana Valley – that is, around Andijan. Muhammad Sabir was a spindle maker (in Uzbek dukchi) and a farmer. His son Muhammad ‘Ali (Madali) succeeded him in the former occupation, which later gave the son his nickname, “Dukchi.” Muhammad Sabir was an ardent murid (disciple) of a local ishan (a title for Sufi leaders, derived from the Persian cshan). He left Mingtepe with his son to travel about as a peddler, heading toward Samarkand. Muhammad Sabir entrusted his son to a great ishan, who gave Islamic learning to young Madali. After his father’s death, the 18-year-old Madali served Mulla Usman Akhund Sudur, who lived in a suburb of Samarkand, and received ijaza (diploma) and irshad (direction) from his pir (master). When Dukchi Ishan told a Russian officer in 1897 of his 26-year career as an ishan, he might have been recalling the reception of this irshad.13 On returning to Mingtepe at the age of 20, Madali became a new murid of a Naqshbandiyya-Mujaddidiyya shaykh, Ishan Sultankhan Torä, who enjoyed considerable status in the eastern Ferghana Valley. Through devoted service to this ishan, Madali succeeded in gaining his master’s confidence, and at last he was appointed a khalifa (successor) of Sultankhan Torä. When Sultankhan Torä died circa 1882, Madali replaced him.14 While he ascended in the hierarchy of Ishanism from murid to khalifa, khalifa to ishan, however, the Muslim community in the Ferghana Valley was undergoing a great transformation. In 1876 the Kokand Khanate, weakened by Russian aggression and repeated rebellions of the Qipchaq and Qyrghyz tribes, was annexed to the Russian Empire, and the whole Ferghana Valley was put under the rule of the Turkistan governor-general of Tashkent. In 1886, when he was 33 years old, Dukchi Ishan made his pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina. In those days Turkistan Muslims used two pilgrimage routes. One passed through Bukhara, Afghanistan, Peshawar and Bombay, and from Bombay to Jedda by sea. Another passed through Bukhara, the Caspian Sea, Caucasus and Kafa, and from Kafa by sea to Istanbul, then Suez. On the first route was a popular holy place believed to be the grave of the fourth caliph, ‘Ali in Mazarisharif, and a Russian passport was not required, so from 2–6,000 Turkistani pilgrims used this route annually in the 1890s. In 1894, 75 percent of the Turkistani pilgrims who landed at 31

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Jedda were from the Ferghana Valley. Dukchi Ishan is said to have made his pilgrimage by the second route that passed through Samarkand, Kattaqurgan, Bukhara, Kabul, Peshawar, Bombay and Jedda. According to Dukchi Ishan’s confession, after staying in Medina for two years, on the way back he studied under a shaykh in Kashmir for about one year. At the same time he told Russian officers that he had been to Sebastopol, Odessa, Kafa, Ashkhabad, Uzunata and Tashkent in the Russian Empire. This suggests that he had gained a broad knowledge of the contemporary Muslim world beyond Turkistan.15 In general, the pilgrimage gave ishans an even better reputation among their followers. In their successful propagation, ishans often used “holy remains and stories” brought from Haramayn, such as the Muy-i mubarak (The Moustache of the Prophet) and the Khak-i shafa (The Healing Sand of Haramayn).16 In Dukchi Ishan’s case he received some legends regarding the spiritual instructions of the Prophet in a dream during his stay in Medina. According to the ‘Ibrat al-Ghafilcn the Prophet, attended by Abu Bakr, ‘Umar, ‘Uthman and ‘Ali, appointed him a caliph (khalifa) to guide fellow Muslims in a right way.17 After the hajj, Dukchi Ishan gained much more fame and followers among “Uzbek, Kashghar, Tajik, Turk, and Qyrghyz.” As shown in this quotation, ‘Ibrat al-Ghafilcn presents information regarding the ethnic composition of his followers. In its introduction he writes as follows: O dear ulama who read Arabic and Persian, and dear Sufi Mulla! Allow me to write these words of admonition in Turkic. Because our country [ilimiz] is the land of Turks, Kashgharis, and Qyrghyz, it is impossible to understand each other in the Arabic or Persian language. Therefore I wrote this ‘Ibrat al-Ghafilcn in Turkic.18 Although in this context the Tajiks are absent among his followers, Dukchi Ishan never fails to refer to the Persian-speaking Tajiks as one of the major components of his murids, along with the Turks, Kashgharis, Uzbeks and Qyrghyz. As to the “Turks,” we should consider them to mean not the minority group called “Turk,” who dwelt mainly in the south-eastern Ferghana Valley, but the major group called by another name, “Sart,” who constituted the main body of the settled Muslim population in the valley. His murids were scattered among all the ethnic groups in the Ferghana Valley, which is notable for its multiethnic population.19 One reason why Dukchi Ishan gained great fame was his devoted service to fellow Muslim travelers. He offered drinking water and a restingplace for them on the busy road passing about 10km north of Mingtepe. He carried water up from a valley 200m deep, and received people under trees he himself had planted. On these occasions there must have been religious preaching or conversation.20 32

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However, we suppose such services had another important aspect, because this busy road passing through the large bazaar towns of Asaka, Aravan and Osh coincided with one of the main routes for Muslims who wished to visit a set of mazars (holy places) located in the eastern Ferghana Valley. At Aravan there was a legendary qadamja (footprint) of Caliph ‘Ali, and at Osh a famous mountain, Takhtisulayman. In this mountainous region were also a series of popular mazars connected with the legends of ‘Ali, widely respected among Turkistan Muslims (Duldul-ata, Shahimardan, etc.). Though most of them originated in pre-Islamic cults of caves, mountains or fountains, every year a large number of pilgrims from all over Turkistan visited them with hopes of worldly gain. Particularly for Ferghani Muslims, they were such important holy places, to be visited at least seven times in one’s lifetime, that “every spring there was found a crowd of pilgrims at these places.”21 The name of a devoted ishan, who continued distinguished service on the main pilgrims’ road, could be widely circulated in the Ferghana Valley by word of mouth. Atabekoghli saw the spread of Dukchi Ishan’s fame as follows: Since between Aravan and Asaka he offered water to passersby, Dukchi Ishan acquired fame among people rapidly, and the number of pious believers in his virtue increased day by day. Especially among the Qyrghyz nomads in Kokart and Ketmentepe, his reputation was so eminent that wealthy bays (in Uzbek, rich people) and local notables came to visit Dukchi Ishan. The believers, desiring him to be settled in a proper qishlaq, voluntarily constructed a new house in Mingtepe qishlaq, and presented it to the ishan. After then a great amount of näzr (dedications), niyaz (donations) and khudayi (offerings) was sent to him from various places. However, Dukchi Ishan spent whatever he received for the aid of widows and kambagals (the poor). This also caused his fame to spread . . . Because he himself was a därveshdost (ascetic) and cared for the poor well, his dwelling, khanäqah, was always full of the poor.22 As indicated above, another aspect of Dukchi Ishan’s devoted service was supplying meals for the poor, and at his ashkhanä (soup kitchen), equipped with 14 qazans (cauldrons), hälim (flour gruel with some meat) was distributed every day to becharäs (the poor), whose number was estimated as from a few hundred to a thousand. While Atabekoghli seldom refers to the detail of the kämbäghäls or becharäs gathered in Mingtepe, the report of Major General Dolinskii, the military prosecutor of the Turkistan region at the time, provides us with certain information on them. According to his report, the main participants of the Uprising consisted of, first, semi-settled Qyrghyz, “who are the most volatile element in the multiethnic population of Ferghana;” second, Uzbek peasants in the neighboring districts of 33

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Mingtepe who were under the common and direct influence of Dukchi Ishan; and third, “outlaws,” such as märdikars (day laborers in the countryside), peddlers, beggars, devanäs (eccentrics), näshäkäshes (hemp drinkers), qumarbazs (gamblers) and tramps.23 The last group, mainly composed of wandering people, was probably made up of temporary residents around Mingtepe qishlaq. Dukchi Ishan’s ashkhanä probably played a considerable role in attracting these wandering people to his protection. Along with these devoted services, Dukchi Ishan’s medical activities are also worthy of consideration. In the same report, Dolinskii described them vividly as follows: Like other ishan, Dukchi Ishan treated all kinds of sick people in his house. His methods of curing them were simple and primitive as those mentioned in the Bible. Using either a handful of salt or a clod of soil, he ordered patients to swallow them with water. In another case he applied soil to the diseased parts and beat them with his own “sacred hand,” and then reciting “God is great,” stroked his moustache. These were all applied for medical treatment. Since poor natives had no opportunities to undergo modern medical treatment, they could not help looking forward to holy ishans who worked miracles. In any case, owing to both the firm conviction of the patients and the psychological influence of Dukchi Ishan, there were found not a few examples of cures and they contributed to the excellent fame of Dukchi Ishan the doctor. Even on the night of the assault of the Andijan barracks, there were many sick people in his house.24 In the 1890s the Ferghana Valley went through both outbreaks of cholera, which resulted in 10,000 deaths in 1892, and repeated large famines. These famines may be considered artificial disasters because a disorderly spread of cotton fields had deprived the Ferghana Valley of its original capacity to be self-sufficient for food. In such a critical situation the devoted ishan of Mingtepe would have been recognized as a “Mahdi” for the Ferghani Muslims. And their image of the Mahdi-saint was circulated by many käramät (miracle) stories created by Dukchi Ishan’s sincere murids.25 In fact they left an anonymous Turkic work, the so-called Manaqib-i Dekchc Cshan (The Miracle Stories of Dukchi Ishan).26 In this collection that succeeded the rich tradition of Manaqib literature in Central Asia, Dukchi Ishan is given the highest rank of murshid, equal to Baha’ al-Din Naqshband (1318–89). His miracle stories are found also in his ‘Ibrat al-Ghafilcn, which tells how Dukchi Ishan often dreamt of the Prophet and the four “Rightly Guided Caliphs,” and received their favors and spiritual instructions.27 Needless to say, the visible and invisible käramät enhanced the charismatic authority of Dukchi Ishan in the Muslim society of the Ferghana Valley. 34

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The following facts demonstrate Dukchi Ishan’s firm position in the Muslim society of the eastern Ferghana Valley, gained through the abovementioned activities. First, the khanäqah complex constructed in Mingtepe is to be noted. Around his khanäqah with a mosque a set of structures existed, such as a big minaret 20m high, some mehmankhanä or hajikhanäs (guest houses), a askhanä, mäktäb (school) for 250 pupils, a large atkhanä (stable) accommodating 500 horses and some workshops for brick-making and milling. All of them were built and maintained by his murids. Moreover, neighboring his khanäqah a small qishlaq Ishan-chek occupying about 2.5 hectares was constructed, where many artisans (carpenters, smiths and so on) invited from various places of the Ferghana Valley dwelled.28 The large scale of this complex appearing in the countryside of the Ferghana Valley would sufficiently demonstrate the prestige of Dukchi Ishan. Among the visitors to his khanäqah there were not only Muslims but also Russians, including administrative officials, gypsies and Jews.29 Second, we consider a Persian document of agreement composed in Safer 1312 AH, or August 1894, by ten mingbashis (volostnoy upravitel’: county chief) and some elders in eastern Ferghana. The contents may be summarized as follows: As it is all obvious to the almighty God, a part of Muslims because of their excessive carelessness and complete ignorance are committing abominable deeds such as abandoning of community (tark-i jama’at), nonfullfilment of religious duties and orders, enjoying of intoxicating drinks, and there is immorality of women, and injustice in bazaars. Thereupon we will entrust Mulla Muhammad ‘Ali Ishan, son of Muhammad Sabir Sufi, with all authority to instruct us on what is approved by canonical law, to prevent us from making unlawful conducts, and to punish offenders according to the Sharia.30 This document clearly shows that Dukchi Ishan was charged with the purification of the Muslim community from its corrupted situation. This aspect coincides with the main spirit of the ‘Ibrat al-Ghafilcn, which lacks any kind of mystical preachings and instructs fellow Muslims to live in accordance with the Sharia. As analysed by Bakhtiyar Babadjanov, Dukchi Ishan, recalling the glorious days of the Prophet and the first four caliphs when true Islam prevailed, severely criticized fellow Muslims for their corruption, ignorance and deviation from the Sharia. Among other things, he criticized Muslim notables, established ulama, and hereditary ishans for their ignorance and corruption. In the introduction he wrote that, to rid their society of present evils, he aimed to explain the principles of Islam (such as tawhid and iman), and discuss approvable acts and objectionable deeds according to canonical law. In this work Dukchi Ishan explains the 35

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most elementary principles of Islam, such as the Five Pillars, as well as the methods of purification before worship and religious services. It seems that his followers did not have even an elementary knowledge of Islam.31 It can be said that Dukchi Ishan engaged in the re-Islamization of the people by preaching a true Islam, based on the Sharia and the Sunna. Finally we must consider the ra’is office, one of the features of Dukchi Ishan’s iarcqa (order). Dukchi Ishan’s iarcqa consisted of some khalifas, who acted for the ishan in remote places; ra’ises, supervisors of religious order and practice; and approximately 20,000 common murids. In such a iarcqa, absolute obedience to their shaykh is generally emphasized and the murids are often compared to a corpse before a washer of the dead. But according to the official report, Dukchi Ishan did not require of his murids unconditional submission and compelled neither dedication nor donation, as Dolinskii specifically noted. Dukchi Ishan asked of them only observance of Islamic Law and practice, and it was the ra’is that were charged with their supervision. The appointment of ra’is began in 1895. They are reported to have carried a derra (whip for punishments) granted by Dukchi Ishan. The comment of Lieutenant General Korolykov on this ra’is office is worth noting because when “nominees of the ishan exercised authority parallel to ours,” it meant the existence of dual power.32 Since the beginning of Russian rule in Turkistan, those actually in charge of local administration were the mingbashis and qadis of Muslim origin, appointed directly by the Russian prefecture officer (uezdniy nachalinik) at the rank of colonel or lieutenant colonel. They exercised administrative and judicial powers respectively under the strict control of Russian officers. This system of local administration established by K.P. von Kaufman (1867– 82), the first governor-general of Turkistan, seemed to have succeeded in organizing pro-Russian Muslim groups around the appointed Muslim officers. However, the 1886 statute on the government of the Turkistan region introduced a selection system for local administration that replaced the former appointment system and gave extensive powers to the civil judge (narodny sud’ya) in the place of qadis. Though the 1886 statute originally aimed to control the autocracy of the governor-general of Turkistan, the introduction of a selection system unfamiliar to Muslim people brought about all kinds of unlawful acts and misfeasance in the local administration, especially in judicial matters.33 It was against this corruption of justice that Dukchi Ishan protested intensely. We find in his sayings the following passage: “Infidels, together with the crafty, will exploit and tempt us by every method until we are worn out completely. Due to the temptation of disgusting Satan and maneuvers of infidels there is no qadi who is fair and unbribable.”34 It is important to note that even Korolykov justified Dukchi Ishan’s protestations. When various protests by the Muslim population continued against the corrupt local administration, Dukchi Ishan’s appeal aroused 36

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wide sympathy. He condemned the official powers by establishing his own ra’is office. He also interfered in the local selections through his murids and was able to dominate some local officers.35 In the mid-1890s, Dukchi Ishan, commanding a large iarcqa based in his khanäqah, was exercising an authority that paralleled the Russian power. He had become a prominent Muslim leader in the Ferghana Valley in name and reality. A contemporary Muslim, Muhammad ‘Azcz, who was working at the district office of Marghilan at the time of the Andijan Uprising, describes Dukchi Ishan as follows: He never spared efforts in offering his hospitality to every guest. The number of his murids was superior to any other groups (tayfa, jama‘alar) and a great amount of provisions dedicated to this ishan was distributed generously to the poor. When he found ulama among his guests, he used to ask questions regarding the regulations of namaz, fast, and pilgrimage to the holy cities, and discussed issues regarding generosity toward poor widows and the righteous way of Muslims according to the Quran and hadcth (tradition of the Prophet).36 The popular image of Dukchi Ishan was not far from this description by a local Muslim intellectual.

The Qyrghyz and Dukchi Ishan Atabekoghli describes vividly how anti-Russian sentiment grew among the Muslim population from the mid-1890s onward. The opening of the Russo-native school (Russko-tuzemnaya shkola), the authorities’ interference in waqf estates, citing the name of the czar on the occasion of Friday worship, the elimination of the word “infidels” from the holy Quran, and the tyrannical behaviors of Russian officers caused unrest and antipathy among town dwellers. In the Qyrghyz area surrounding the valley, the heavy taxes brought about by the nationalization of ancestral pastures and the threat to stock farming by the penetration of Russian peasant-settlers (muzhik) increased hostility against Russian rule. In this section we will trace the development of the Andijan Uprising, taking note of the Qyrghyz, who constituted the main body of the Muslim partisans. Since the period of the Kokand Khanate, it had been hard for political authorities in the Ferghana Valley to control Qyrghyz nomads in the mountainous region of the Ferghana Valley (today’s southern Qyrghyzstan). Aiming at securing the commercial route passing through eastern Turkistan (Xinjiang), the Kokand Khanate conquered most of the Qyrghyz nomads during the 1820s and 1830s. However, heavy duties and military service imposed by Kokand khans, and the loss of vast pastures at the foot of the 37

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mountains, ended in the revolt of the Qyrghyz against the Kokand khans. The rebellion in 1875–6 conducted by Pulatkhan (1844?–76) involved even the settled Uzbek population in eastern Ferghana and caused the de facto collapse of the Kokand Khanate. Battle sites were all over the Andijan district, including Mingtepe qishlaq. Probably the memory of this warfare had not faded away even in 1898. In fact some close associates of Pulatkhan such as Mulla Ziyauddin were found 20 years later to be among the followers of Dukchi Ishan. Under Russian rule, too, Qyrghyz nomads and poor peasants repeatedly engaged in mass petitions, rejection of taxes, demonstrations against local officers and banditry, and even escaped from their registered places. Against their protests the governor-general of Turkistan declared an order of special precaution in the Ferghana province from 1892 to 1906.37 It appears that increasing protests by the Qyrghyz from the 1890s on were intensified by the flow of Russian peasants into the Qyrghyz area, which began during this period. Russian immigration into Central Asia started in 1847 to solve populationagriculture problems in Central Russia and strengthen Russian rule in the newly conquered land. However, since there was little room for Russian settlement in the densely populated Ferghana Valley and since the Turkistan governorship restrained Russian immigration from a political point of view, immigration into the Ferghana province was delayed. The first Russian settlement there was Poklovskii, constructed in 1893 in the Osh prefecture. In this settlement at the foot of the Pamir Mountains, rich in natural resources and blessed with good weather, some Russian farms soon appeared, employing Qyrghyz peasants. Following this, in the Namangan (Uspenskii in 1897) and Andijan (Nikolaevskii in 1897 etc.) prefectures, Russian colonies were also constructed.38 Every settlement was located at the foot of the mountains surrounding the Ferghana Valley, but in the same area there existed either winter pastures of Qyrghyz nomads or proper lands settled by poor Qyrghyz peasants.39 The expropriation of lands by the Russian authorities was a matter of life or death for the Qyrghyz population. Furthermore, some Russian immigrants settled in these areas without official permission. For example, at the beginning of the 1890s, when a great famine in Central Russia compelled a large number of Russian peasants to migrate into Central Asia, unauthorized settlers (samovolitsi) entered the Ketmentepe and Kokart Valleys and started colonies occupying Qyrghyz land. Faced with the growing wave of Russian immigration, the governor-general of Turkistan could not help being afraid that further colonial activity would lead to extreme unrest within the Qyrghyz population and, in the worst case, revolt against the Russians. Early in 1891 the governorship issued an act ordering the arming of Russian settlers; finally in 1897 they prohibited Russian immigration into Turkistan entirely (until 1906). It is undeniable that extreme tension between the Qyrghyz and Russian immigrants existed in the 1890s.40 38

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In 1897 Dukchi Ishan told of his friendly relationship with the Qyrgyz to Russian officers who visited him at Mingtepe to investigate his questionable activities. He said, “My brothers [beradär] are so many that I myself don’t know the precise number of them, still most of them are the Qyrghyz living in Ketmentepe and Kokart.”41 How did he build up the close relations with the Qyrghyz? In order to understand this, we should look at the historical background of ishan-Qyrghyz relations. A set of Sufi hagiographies such as Ziya al-Quleb, written in the beginning of the seventeenth century, tell that Naqshbandi shaykhs (ishans) worked for the Islamization of the infidel Qyrghyz and had had considerable success in this direction since the second half of the sixteenth century. Soviet ethnographers explain that the Islamization of Qyrghyz nomads began in the second half of the seventeenth century, and the degree of Islamization was more remarkable in southern Qyrghyzia, which kept closer connections with the Kokand Khanate, than in northern Qyrghyzia. Some tribes even went on pilgrimage to the holy places such as Takhtisulayman. But they held their own pre-Islamic traditions and beliefs, and generally remained under the strong influences of Sufi shaykhs. It was the Naqshbandi ishans of Osh and Kashghar who promoted Islam in southern Qyrghyzia. They made great efforts to recruit new murids among Qyrghyz nomads and visited them periodically to receive a great amount of livestock as näzr.42 Dukchi Ishan succeeded such predecessors in southern Qyrghyzia. At Akterek, near Osh, he built a small mosque, which served as one of the most active centers of his iarcqa, and every summer he traveled among his Qyrghyz murids.43 According to Atabekoghli, Dukchi Ishan’s fame was so great that all Qyrghyz around Andijan, including children, became his murids and offered him various niyaz every day. The Qyrghyz elders often left wills that their shroud must be woven by “the holy thread,” and spun with spindles made by Dukchi Ishan himself. The firm ties between the Qyrghyz and Dukchi Ishan are attested by Russian sources also. On 15 April 1897, Chanishev, a Russian officer in the Asaka district reporting to the chief officer in Margilan, said that Dukchi Ishan was followed by the whole Qyrghyz population in the mountains and their loyalty to the Ishan was so firm that over 10,000 Qyrghyz murids could come together within a day on the order of Dukchi Ishan. The officer cautioned the authorities against him.44 Analyzing the causes of the uprising, Beatrice Manz points to the lack of strong religious feeling among Qyrghyz nomads and their desire instead to seek political leadership in a religious charismatic person (Dukchi Ishan) in place of tribal leaders who had lost their authority. However, contemporary sources show that religious bonds between the ishan and the Qyrghyz were strong. In 1896 Qyrghyz leaders in Ketmentepe and Kokart met in Kokart and decided to petition Dukchi Ishan about the Russian immigrants’ offenses. A few influential persons from Toqmaq also attended this meeting, which 39

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indicates that Dukchi Ishan’s fame had reached as far as northern Qyrghyzia, where a mass of Russian peasants had migrated earlier than in the Ferghana Valley.45 A delegation of twenty-five Qyrghyz visited Dukchi Ishan in Mingtepe to speak to him and ask for permission for a war (gäzatgä ijazät) against the muzhiks that “disrupted the order of Qyrghyz.” In response to their desire to “die rather than become impoverished,” Dukchi Ishan persuaded them that it was too early to proclaim gäzat and ordered them to wait until a larger uprising, including town dwellers, could be prepared. The next year the Qyrghyz nomads met again for the gäzat, and the leaders, a former mingbashi and an assistant qadi, asked Dukchi Ishan to attend the meeting, which gathered more than 1,000 Qyrghyz under the pretext of a mourning ceremony. In this assembly they resolved the following three points: 1

2 3

On the occasion of gäzat, since it is impossible to distinguish the shahids (martyrs) from the dead or the gazis (fighters) from the murderers without a khalifa, we will have Dukchi Ishan as khalifa. As our khalifa he will take charge of the application of Sharia and send ra’ises to every district to punish the increasing number of unlawful acts. From now on we will send all Muslims (millat-i Islamcya) secret letters that instruct them to prepare for gäzat and wait for the order from Dukchi Ishan.46

After this meeting Dukchi Ishan sent secret letters asking for the cooperation of notables in large cities such as Andijan, Osh, Margilan and Namangan. One of these letters, the correspondence with Muhammad ‘Ali Bay, a wealthy merchant in Andijan and the founder of the magnificent madrasa Mädräsä-i Jami, is found in Atabekoghli’s work. The contents may be summarized as follows: [From Dukchi Ishan to Mahmud ‘Ali Bay]: Our present situation can be called the end of the world (akhir-i zaman). There prevails every kind of trouble and evil. Muslims are suffering the rule of infidels. It is our duty to purify the Muslim community and God granted this humble servant the permission of jihad (holy war). Now having an opportunity for holy war, it is an unavoidable duty for us to pursue the liberation from oppression and support our holy soldiers. I ask you to attend our meeting that will be held on the 15th day at Mingtepe. [From Mahmud ‘Ali Bay to Dukchi Ishan]: I appreciate your idea very much. However, in my humble opinion, we are too feeble to challenge such a powerful ruler as the Russian emperor and the results are evident. Especially the recent opening 40

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of the railways makes it easy for the Russian army to move anywhere. Of course, there is not one person who submits to Russian tyrannical rule among Uzbeks in cities (shähärlär Ozbeklär), the Qyrghyz in mountains (taghlär Qirghiz ilatiyälär), or, possibly, the whole Turkistan Muslim population. However it is an undeniable fact that we are lacking in both weapons and funds. We would like to ask you to reconsider your plan, taking the outcome into consideration.47 Muhammad ‘Ali Bay’s prudent argument would represent the common opinion of urban Uzbeks. In fact none of the Uzbek notables attended the meeting held by Dukchi Ishan. According to him, “the town dwellers did not come into action, being afraid of the persecution of the Czar.”48 There may be another reason for their rejection of Dukchi Ishan’s invitation, as suggested by Bakhtiyar Babadjanov. As shown above, Dukchi Ishan in his work and preaching criticized established ulama and hereditary ishans because of their ignorance and corruption. His hostile attitude towards these Muslim notables could deter them from participating in the uprising and thus limit the scope of the Muslim revolt. The representatives of the Qyrghyz and the few Uzbeks who gathered in Mingtepe decided to postpone the holy war until the next year and swore they would secure as many allies as possible in the meantime. It is clear that in contrast to the Uzbek notables, who hesitated to participate in the revolt, Qyrghyz nomads insisted on radical action against Russian rule throughout the three years before the Uprising. Their radicalism was due to the serious threat posed by the Russian immigrants. In 1893 a young Tatar writer, Muhammad Zahir Bigiyev (1870–1902), traveling in Turkistan, visited a famous Tatar merchant in Samarkand, Abdulgani Husaynov (1839/40– 1902), who was familiar with the social and economic conditions in Turkistan through his extensive commercial activities. Husaynov’s accurate grasp of the situation is worthy of note. At the time, he told Bigiyev: “Though the population of Turkistan submits to Russian rule, they cannot stand the behavior of Russians officers and decrees relating to Muslim affairs. Particularly the influx of Russian immigrants is an intolerable pressure for Turkistan Muslims. It can cause them to revolt in the near future.”49 Although we have no doubt that Dukchi Ishan expected the cooperation of the military forces of the Qyrghyz nomads in the Uprising, in his confession he reveals to Russian officials that he also expected to seek support from the Ottoman sultan-caliph. It is said that in 1897 he wrote to the sultan on “the miserable conditions in Turkistan,” referring to the ruin of spirit and habit of the Muslims since the collapse of the Kokand Khanate, and the oppression of Russian rule. Dukchi Ishan asked for advice, and in January of the next year he received an answer and a robe of honor from the sultan-caliph (Abdülhamid II: 1876–1909). In this letter, the sultan 41

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appointed him as representative of the caliph in Turkistan and instructed him to make Turkistan Muslims observe the Sharia. Although the Russian authorities seized this document and confirmed later that it was forged, Dukchi Ishan himself was said to have believed it to be a genuine ferman (edict) from the sultan-caliph until the last moment. His hopes about the Ottoman can be learned also from the Chanishev report, which stated that Dukchi Ishan was planning to send 250 pupils to study in Istanbul in the near future.50 According to Russian sources, it was a certain Hajji Abd al-Jalil Mir Sadiq Qari who delivered this ferman to Dukchi Ishan. Originally from Andijan, after the hajj in his younger years he went to Istanbul and stayed at “Kalandar-hane of Sheykh Mogamed in the Sultan-Ayub-Ansar district.” This Kalandar-hane must refer to the Kashghar tekkesi that existed in the Eyüp district in Istanbul. According to an Ottoman source, the master of the tekke (Sufi lodge) in those years was Sheykh Mehmed. Abd al-Jalil traveled between Istanbul and the Kashghar-Ferghana region twice in the winters of 1895–6. It was pretty well perceived by the Russian authorities that agents of Sultan Abdülhamid II were engaged in the secret propaganda for pan-Islamism in Central Asia. As Dolinskii points out, Abd al-Jalil may have been one of the agents. It seems that the Russian authorities were apt to exaggerate the foreign, namely Ottoman, factors in the Andijan Uprising. However, it is possible to consider an “agent” such as Abd al-Jalil as one of the grass-root pan-Islamists at the turn of the century. In any case, Dukchi Ishan, who was convinced of the spiritual support of the sultancaliph, was to start the real preparation for the jihad in February 1898. Wealthy Muslims in Kokand received anonymous letters demanding money for the jihad, and many manifestos were sent to the Qyrghyz in the mountains surrounding the Ferghana Valley.51 Shortly before the uprising, Qyrghyz peasants working on Russian farms left their employers and the Russian immigrants, anticipating the Qyrghyz revolt, fortified their settlements. However it was not until the Andijan Uprising itself, which had been ready for some years in the Ferghana province, that the Russian authorities recognized a problem of great urgency. The special committee dispatched from Tashkent to Mingtepe in May 1897, relying on the Chanishev report, could not detect anything other than the courteous reception and bribery of Dukchi Ishan. After the Uprising it was no surprise that the Turkistan general-governorship was the subject of severe criticism. Count C.C. Pahlen (1861–1923), who thoroughly investigated the Russian administration in Turkistan, pointed out the general negligence of Russian officers in Turkistan, noting that even a Muslim captain, S. Enikeev, a district officer responsible for public peace in south Andijan, was a murid of Dukchi Ishan. More importantly, the Turkistani Muslims, including Muslim officers and notables, had not informed the Russian authorities of the coming Uprising, which most of them knew of 42

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beforehand. On the night of the uprising in Samarkand there were Muslims praying for the success of Dukchi Ishan in a mosque.52

The eve of the Uprising In the middle of May 1898, when many pilgrims were found in the Ferghana Valley, the Qyrghyz in the Kokart Valley held a grand meeting for the jihad and dispatched an advance troop of 200 to Dukchi Ishan in Mingtepe. Saying that the promised date had come, they asked him to take the resolute step. In response to their demand, Dukchi Ishan sent his sympathizers instructions to prepare themselves for the uprising a week later. The khanäqah in Mingtepe was full of Muslims gathered from various districts, and they numbered over 500 on the eve. In Andijan also, partisans prepared for the Uprising and sent a messenger to the Qyrghyz in Kokart to indicate the time and place to wait at. Upon receiving the message, the Qyrghyz in Kokart came into action at last. They were to drive the muzhiks from the Kokart Valley and then advance to Andijan. On the evening of May 17, by the Russian calendar, the news of the Qyrghyz operation reached the khanäqah. Atabekoghli describes the scene in Mingtepe as follows: When they received the news from Qyrghyz, the 500 people who gathered in the khanäqah were strongly stirred. They took Dukchi Ishan outside to put him on a piece of white felt and, raising him, cried, “God is great.” They were extremely excited and could not keep quiet any longer. Suddenly the Sufis forced Dukchi Ishan to ride a gray horse named Duldul and, circling around the khanäqah, they performed zikr-sema (Sufi reciting ceremony). In the excitement all men and women ran out to the street and shouted, “Ishan has risen to the throne of khan.” It was the time of night prayer. The people seized everything available – knives, clubs, pistols, rifles – and left for Andijan in a troop of 600. The inhabitants of Mingtepe and the khanäqah were in ecstasy and were unable to move at all.53 This concrete description enables us to study the mentalité of the partisans. First, the series of performances on the eve is reminiscent of the coronation ceremony of ancient Turkic rulers. According to the Chinese chronicle Choushu (History of the Chou Dynasty) compiled in the eighth century: Among Tuque, when their leader rises to throne, the elders and notables, carrying him on a piece of felt, turn him 9 times in the same direction of the sun’s movement, and each time all subjects worship him. Then, they help him to ride a horse and wring his neck with a small piece of silk as if to choke him. As soon as they 43

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unfasten this noose, they ask him how many years he will be able to govern the country. This rite, although partly modified, was carried out for a long period among Turkic peoples in Central Asia, as is well exemplified in the historical sources written on both western and eastern Turkistan in recent centuries. For example, in the above-mentioned rebellion of Pulatkhan, the Qyrghyz and Qipchaqs supporting Mulla Ishaq (Pulatkhan) brought the new khan into existence, replacing the Kokand khan by putting Mulla Ishaq on a white felt cloth.54 It is noteworthy that the Muslims in the eastern Ferghana Valley, having gone through a rebellion, held the same coronation after a period of twenty-two years. It was not only homage to old tradition, but also a clear declaration of newly established political power embodied by Dukchi Ishan. The fact that he had exercised his own judicial authority parallel to the Russian one makes it appear that this declaration on the eve of jihad was a natural consequence of his previous activities. However, it is not clear how they designed their state after the victory of jihad. We know only that they entrusted everything to Dukchi Ishan, who wished to follow the example of the second caliph, ‘Umar, famous for his justice among Muslims. How can we interpret the mass enthusiasm shown from within on the eve? When we note the date of the Andijan Uprising, we may find a clue: May 18, 1898 by the Russian calendar corresponds to the ninth day of Muharram 1316 by the Hijri lunar calendar, in other words the eve of ‘Ashera’. As is well known, on the tenth day of Muharram, 61 AH Husayn, the second son of Caliph ‘Ali, was killed in the Battle of Karbala, and every year during the first ten days of Muharram Shi’ite Muslims hold the ‘Ashera’ ceremony to remember the martyrdom of Husayn, the third Imam. In general the ‘Ashera’ ceremony is understood as a proper rite of Shiism. However, some Soviet ethnographers reveal that the ‘Ashera’ ceremony was widely spread among the Sunni population in Central Asia. According to O.A. Sukhareva, in Tashkent, Samarkand, Bukhara and the Ferghana Valley, the Sunni Muslims also held the ‘Ashera’ ceremony every year, to mourn the martyrdom of Hasan, the first son of Ali, and Husayn. The rite, which consists of recitation of poems for mourning, zikr and the common meal, was attended mainly by women and members of Qalandariyya. The so-called “orthodox clergy” had nothing to do with this rite. Such ‘Ashera’ ceremonies in Central Asia seemed to have their own peculiarities. For example, while we do not find Hasan in the ‘Ashera’ ceremony of the Shi’ites, in Central Asia Hasan and Husayn were believed to be twin martyrs killed on the same day. Sukhareva and others explain that the peculiarities of the ‘Ashera’ ceremony in Central Asia originate from pre-Islamic beliefs, especially ancient Iranian beliefs – popular cults of twin gods or a hero who died young – that prevailed in Central Asia before its Turkification and Islamization. It is likely that these pre-Islamic 44

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elements, undergoing Islamization, remained in Central Asian Islam until recent times. The orthodox clergy’s indifferent attitude to the ‘Ashera’ ceremony would suggest the “heretical” origin of this rite.55 In any case, when we take this ‘Ashera’ ceremony into consideration, we can guess at a religious excitement behind the mass enthusiasm on the eve. Bakhtiyar Babadjanov points out that the coincidence of the date of the Andijan Uprising and the ‘Ashera’ was accidental. In fact Dukchi Ishan was obliged to hurry to designate the specific date for uprising in May 1898. However, he should select an appropriate time for the uprising. Finally, it is beneficial for us to examine another aspect of the problem: the coincidence of the motif of the ‘Ashera’ ceremony with the jihad idea in the Andijan Uprising. During the first ten days of Muharram, the Qalandars (wandering Sufis in Central Asia) recited poems entitled “Shahadat-i Imam Hasan, Imam Husayn,” and travelled through towns and villages.56 “Shahadat,” which is the motif of the ‘Ashera’ ceremony and means both “martyrdom” and “testimony of the Muslim,” is clearly indicated in a written oath drawn up a few weeks before the Uprising. After the eulogy of God, Adam and the Prophet, and a quotation from the Quran, “Oh Prophet, fight hard against unbelievers and false believers, deal with them severely [9:73],” the oath, written in Chaghatay-Uzbek, says as follows: Let there be unlimited praise to successors and friends of the Prophet, especially the four Caliphs. They devoted their lives and estates to the holy war for God and the Prophet. Saying, “Follow us,” they wrote the duties of the Muslims in books and left them as a memory in order to guide cowards. Now it is necessary and unavoidable for us to declare “We are servants of God, followers of the Prophet.” First for God, second for the Prophet, we will fulfill our duties that God ordered, and bring the Sunna of the Prophet and the Shari‘a into existence. As servants of God, faithful followers of the Prophet, wishing to rest in the esteemed rank of first gazis, second shahids, we have all signed below to swear our resolution of devotion. From now on, if one breaks his oath due to the instigation of Satan and his cowardliness, he will go to hell as a traitor.57 Their resolution of devotion and martyrdom in the oath is nothing but the motif of the ‘Ashera’ ceremony. The date of the Uprising was probably deliberately adjusted to the ‘Ashera’. The date of ‘Ashera’ must have been the most suitable occasion for reaffirming their resolution of a holy war together. Pahlen writes in his memoirs that Dukchi Ishan proclaimed the holy war in a seizure of fanaticism after an excited gathering in his mosque.58 It is true that there was an enthusiastic meeting on the eve. But we may suppose that it was not coincidental, but planned. In short, the partisans made a mass declaration of jihad by practicing the coronation ceremony of 45

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old Turkic origin on the eve of the ‘Ashera’. Though the letters of oath honestly represent the orthodox doctrine of Islam, the meeting on the eve tells of the multifaceted nature of Central Asian Islam. If the meeting was a means for mass expression of jihad, it is probably not mistaken to pick out a cultural complex as one of the reasons for the fervor. And, wasn’t it Dukchi Ishan who embodied this complexity? Around 8 pm on May 17, partisans with talismans made by Dukchi Ishan left Mingtepe. Most of them were riding. The armed troop increased in size due to the many Uzbek peasants who joined on the way and the 200 partisans that Mahmud ‘Ali Bay organized in Andijan, so that the total number reached about 2,000. On the way they cut off a telegram line and killed a messenger who carried with him an urgent message to the chief prefecture officer of Andijan. Having advanced 35km without being detected by the Russian authorities, around 3 am on May 18, they made a surprise attack on the Russian barracks next to the new town of Andijan, where the Russian population was only 631. At the time 163 were under officers and soldiers in two barracks. The Russian troops, suffering losses of twenty-two dead and sixteen wounded, succeeded in driving back the partisans after a battle of fifteen minutes.59 Soon after the Uprising, the Turkistan army developed sweeping operations and tried to arrest the partisans and their aides. As a result, 546 persons including Dukchi Ishan himself were captured, 415 of whom were sent to a field court-martial. In spite of a severe trial, Dukchi Ishan appeared to have defended the lawfulness of the Uprising throughout the trial, stating that it was due to the confiscation of Qyrghyz land by the muzhiks and to the series of damages to the Muslim community brought on by the Russians. But on June 12, 1898, Dukchi Ishan and his five associates were executed in the presence of 10,000 Andijan citizens, who were forced to attend. Atabekoghli, who may have been one of the eyewitnesses, describes this execution in detail. The corpse of Dukchi Ishan was buried without any Muslim attendants and the tomb was guarded against stealing. Although in Central Asia a tomb of a famous ishan customarily became a mazar to be visited by Muslim people, the mazar of Dukchi Ishan is unknown.60 The policy of retaliation and punishment carried out by the Turkistan governorship is also well described in the work of Atabekoghli. The Mingtepe qishlaq that provided the leader and many partisans was the main target of this policy. The qishlaq was destroyed completely and the inhabitants were compelled to leave it. In 1899 a new Russian settlement of 200 houses named Russkoe selo (Russian village) appeared on the Mingtepe site. The Uzbek name “Marhamat” means “the grace of the Czar for the muzhiks.” In 1909, according to Pahlen, there were Russian muzhiks who became absent landowners and former inhabitants who returned as tenant farmers.61 46

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Russian reaction and Muslim interpretations Although the Andijan Uprising itself was suppressed immediately by superior Russian armed forces, an unexpected Muslim revolt in the most advanced cotton cultivation area had a serious impact on the Russian authorities, who until then were confident of their colonial rule in Turkistan, and raised questions about the Muslim problems in the empire. In this regard the detailed report Islam in Turkistan, prepared by GovernorGeneral Dukhovskoi and submitted to Czar Nicholas II in 1899 is worth consideration.62 In this document the newly appointed general presents his view of Islamic society and the state policies that should be adopted for Russia’s Muslim subjects. General Dukhovskoi’s report advised the czar to draw up a state strategy against Islam, “which had been hostile to Russian civilization with no exception” – in other words a “strategy of fighting against the abnormal ills attached to the state organism.” According to General Dukhovskoi, who probably had a great deal of experience in dealing with Muslim problems during his military service in Caucasus, the Russian Empire at the time embraced a Muslim population of over 14 million (approximately 20 million including the protectorates of Bukhara and Khiva) in a large territory extending from the Crimea and the middle Volga basin to Turkistan. Russia could not achieve her divine duty of bringing the Muslim subjects into Russian civilization because of her lack of a systematic Muslim policy. Since the conquest of Kazan by Ivan IV in 1552, General Dukhovskoi continued, Muslim subjects such as the Tatars, enjoying a completely peaceful life under the protection of Russian law and armed forces, had followed devotedly the way of strengthening the dogma and practices of Islam, and had worked to spread pan-Islamism under the influence of the neighboring Ottoman Empire. It was the iarcqa and Muridism, characterized by their ability to agitate and their strict order, that General Dukhovskoi found the most dangerous among the “contemporary Muslim movements.” Needless to say, he embodied the centuries-old Russian orientalism with deep-rooted hostility against Islam. Noting common features in the anti-Russian struggle led by Shamil (1796/7–1871) in the North Caucasus, the Mahdist movement in Sudan, and the Andijan Uprising, he wrote as follows: Shamil showed us that Sufism is much more dangerous than orthodox Islam in many points, and once an integrated organization or center with spiritual and temporal authority over Muslims emerges, there can appear a most undesirable disorder for us every time . . . It is a mistake to expect that in the future there will never appear such a man as Shamil among our Muslim subjects. This argument has been proved by the case of Dukchi Ishan in Andijan.63

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General Dukhovskoi anticipated that such incidents would increase in the future due to the improvement of transportation and the development of international trade in the Muslim world. Although his argument lacks any socioeconomic analysis, it went beyond the interests of a soldier who is simply responsible for the security of the empire. The threat of pan-Islamism was one of the main issues of the Dukhovskoi report. In this respect he was very wary of the national reformist movement of the contemporary Tatar intellectuals, which was “neglected by Russian intellectuals who were ignorant of Islam.” He wrote: It may be difficult for people who are not accustomed to the contents of the Sharia and its sophistry to understand that our Tatars are trying to persuade the Russian government and community of true Islam by using all means and every poor trick without any hesitation. They insist that Russian discourses about the intolerance of Muslims toward infidels and the incompatibility of the dogma of Islam with the idea of universal progress are nothing but misunderstandings by Russians who are ignorant of the Sharia and the “real” spirit of Islam. At the same time our Tatar Pan-Islamists are working hard to have educational activities among the Tatars and other Muslim peoples in Russia under their own influence, and are using all kinds of propaganda in order to spread the knowledge of the Turkish language among the Muslims in Russia.64 Although General Dukhovskoi does not mention any proper names of these “Tatar propagandists,” it is clear that in this passage he took into consideration the argument of the famous Jadid (reformist) intellectual Ismail Bey Gasprinskii (1855–1914), a Crimean Tatar by origin. In his Russian article Russian Mohammedanism (Simferopol’, 1881) Gasprinskii writes as follows: Sooner or later Russia will include a large Muslim population by incorporating the Turkic Muslim territories in Asia. However, professing the great mission of civilizing Asia, Russia has neglected her Muslim subjects except in the areas of tax collection and provision of security. As a result, Russian Muslims are suffering from poverty and ignorance and their destructive migration to other countries has not ceased. Muslims and Russians are isolated from each other due to the ignorance and distrust on both sides. Although Russian writers are apt to attribute this to the hostility extant in Islam itself toward other religions, the real reason is not found in Islam but in the absence of an appropriate policy toward the Muslims. The policy of assimilation by force will only rouse opposition from the Muslims, who keep their traditions, and are destined to fail as was 48

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revealed in Poland. What course would be the most effective one? A policy of cooperation based on the principle of equality or autonomy such as those adopted in the U.S.A. and Finland. Russia should allow and assist Muslims to become emancipated from their own ignorance and prejudice and attain intellectual awakening through widespread education in their native language. Civilization, once born in the Orient and reaching to the West has now reversed course and is moving back to the Orient. Russians and Muslims must become the vanguard of this movement.65 In those days Jadidism, the Muslim reformist movement in Russia inaugurated by Gasprinskii, was beginning to enter from the Crimea and the middle Volga region into the cities of Turkistan through the efforts of Tatar intellectuals and merchants. It is worth noting that although the Jadidist strategy of the rebirth of Islam differed considerably from Dukchi Ishan’s, the Russian authorities condemned Jadidism as well as militant Muridism as a serious threat to the empire. How should Russia treat the Muslim problems? Criticizing both the tolerant policy toward Muslim subjects adopted by Catherine II (1762–96) and the neglectful policy of the former governor-generals of Turkistan as ineffective or harmful, Dukhovskoi suggested that the Russian Empire should promote the “civilization” of its Muslim subjects, keeping an eye out for any Muslim political or social movements. According to his argument, the missionary work of the Russian Orthodox Church would cause only Muslim opposition, not enlightenment, and it was best to educate in the Russian method Muslim youth who were affected neither by prejudice nor by the superstitions prevailing in Muslim society. Furthermore, Dukhovskoi offered to establish a consistent imperial policy toward Muslim subjects, advising a series of effective measures, such as influencing Muslim women through the activities of Russian women doctors and nurses, introducing the Russian judicial system gradually into Muslim society, promoting Russian immigration into Turkistan and arranging the legal status of illegitimate children born from Christian-Muslim marriages. The ambitious General Dukhovskoi encouraged the study of Muslim affairs which had been neglected for many years. The first volume of The Collection of Materials Relating to Islam edited by his order was presented to Nicholas II together with the above-mentioned report. It consists of articles relating the condition of the Muslim clergy in Turkistan, including ishans, the general description of Sufism, the introduction of the precepts of Algerian dervishes, the introduction and translation of a jihad thesis, the reports of Muslim pilgrims to Mecca and Medina, and others. According to the report of the Russian consulate in Jedda, the number of Muslim pilgrims from the Russian Empire was equivalent to the number from other Muslim areas, except the large Muslim groups from India and Java. Although 49

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its academic quality was criticized severely by the leading Russian orientalist V.V. Bartol’d (1869–1930), it is worthy of note that the Russian authorities were interested in France’s experiences in her Magreb colony.66 In 1899 the governor-generalship for the first time selected the most capable students learning in the Russo-native schools in Turkistan and sent them to travel in the Russian Empire, even granting them an audience with the czar. The aim of this excursion was to encourage them to learn the Russian language and show them the great and mighty Russia, to destroy their false pride that “Central Asian Muslims are the most advanced people in the world following the Turks in Istanbul, and all other people are barbarous.” However, Russia’s defeat in the Russo-Japanese War and the consequent disorders in the empire damaged “their desirable impression of Russia obtained through the excursion,” and before long this kind of excursion was abandoned.67 As shown in this example, the Russian Empire at the beginning of the twentieth century could not afford to realize the Muslim policy project of General Dukhovskoi. It was only after the October Revolution that a systematic Muslim policy was elaborated and adopted in the Muslim areas of the former empire. When we consider the harsh experiences of the Muslim peoples in the Soviet Union, the Dukhovskoi report seems to have been an omen. The first Muslim view on the Andijan Uprising appeared in the famous newspaper Terjuman published by Ismail Bay Gasprinskii. As a matter of course it provides only official information released by the Russian authorities and has no special comments on the incident. However, Gasprinskii is supposed to have no sympathy with, and on the contrary be opposed to, the Uprising because just two years earlier he had published a unique treatise, Russo-Oriental Alliance, in which, recognizing positive aspects of Russian rule in Central Asia, he proposed a grand strategy of alliance between Russia and the Muslim world, among others the Ottoman Empire, against the common threats from the East and the West.68 In general, negative responses to the Andijan Uprising prevailed among Turkistani Muslims. Mirza ‘Abd al-‘Azim Sami (1838–1907), a contemporary Bukharan historian, condemned “the reckless act” of Dukchi Ishan as follows: After drawing in many people as his murids in the mentioned country [Andijan], Ferghana, Tashkent, Osh and other cities, he was taken by a strong desire for fame and power because of his great wealth and great number of murids. He decided to assault Christians and attacked the railway station at Andijan, but because of the counter attack of the Russian army, his attempt ended in total failure. They say: “When a member of a tribe commits a shameful act, irrespective of age, all the members of the tribe lose 50

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their honor.” During the reign of Alexander [sic], who brought peace to the country through his justice, the people of Andijan caused disturbances against the fatva-yi musalemat [judicial opinion of keeping peace].69 Although Sami gives no detail about the fatva-yi musalemat, supposedly most of the Hanafi school ulama in Turkistan approved this legal order under Russian rule. Sami denounced Dukchi Ishan, who pretended to be a Hanafite,70 not only because he brought to Turkistan Muslims such great calamities as a number of Muslim casualties caused by the Russian repression and the heavy indemnities imposed by the authorities, but also because he broke the fatva accepted by most of the Turkistani ulama. Sami also attributes the Andijan earthquake in 1898 to divine wrath against the Andijan Uprising that ruined the peace of Turkistan. The attempt of Dukchi Ishan seemed nothing other than a thoughtless and harmful act to Sami, who witnessed the overwhelming power of Russia that subjugated the Bukhara Khanate a few decades before. Another Bukharan intellectual, Mirza Siraj al-Din (1877–1914) also accused Dukchi Ishan of “ignorance and fanaticism” in his travel account Tuhaf-i Ahl-i Bukhara (Kagan, 1912) and referred to the heavy damage suffered by the Muslims. It was impossible for a Muslim intellectual who reflected on the causes of the decline of Islamic civilization, observing the modern Western civilization in European cities, to make a rational interpretation of the Andijan Uprising. An ishan in Namangan also accused Dukchi Ishan of hypocrisy and harmful ambition in his poem from another perspective.71 However, these critical comments do not mean that the Andijan Uprising was totally rejected by Turkistan Muslims. Needless to say, nobody could publicly dare praise or refer positively to the Uprising during the czarist period. In relation to this, we quote the opinion of Sal’kov, who investigated the uprising in Turkistan as a contemporary: “Many Muslims are accusing Dukchi Ishan of ignorance and blaming him for the calamities he brought to them. But it seems that they censure him not because he revolted against Russians, but because he came into action with neither sufficient arms nor a well-prepared plan.”72 Outside Russia the Andijan Uprising was described in another context. For example, Abdurreshid Ibrahim (1857–1944), who was an active pan-Islamist in Russia and visited Japan in 1909, referred to the Uprising before a Japanese audience as follows: In 1896 [sic] when General Kropatkin was the Minister of War, tens of thousands of Russian soldiers suddenly invaded Andijan to plunder, rape Muslim women, kill approximately 20,000 of the Muslim population, throw more than 500 Muslims into prison, and execute eight Muslim notables. This was the most brutal act 51

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committed by the Russian authority in Turkistan. However, if we also take into account insignificant incidents, examples of Russian tyranny are too numerous to mention. I am sure that the warmhearted and sensitive Japanese who hear my sincere speech will show their sympathy for Turkistani Muslims.73 It seems that Ibrahim omitted the explanation of the causes of the Andijan Uprising itself, and indeed was conducting anti-Russian propaganda in Japan. However, he gives an interesting comment on the jihad against the Chinese rule in Xinjiang during the nineteenth century in his famous work, Muslims in Russia or a Short History of the Tatar People (Cairo, 1900) as follows: As far as we know, most of peoples who raised a rebellion have been destined to perish at the end. For example how many calamities did Chinese Muslims suffer by their raising rebellions against the Qing rule? Much blood of Muslims was shed such as a flood. In short any rebellion against a government is not free from every kind of risk. Therefore we must keep social order as much as possible and make use of this peace to obtain sciences and education, and we must take precautions against raising a rebellion.74 This comment shows that even an ardent pan-Islamist such as Ibrahim shared the same opinion as Sami regarding the significance of keeping peace. So, apart from Muslim intellectuals abroad, how did Ferghani Muslims interpret the Andijan Uprising? When we look at the writings of Muhammad ‘Aziz Marghilani and Fazilbek Atabekoghli, we can suppose some trends existed among Ferghani Muslim intellectuals that sympathized with or defended Dukchi Ishan and his murids even in the late czarist period. For example, Muhammad ‘Aziz writes as follows: [When Dukchi Ishan raised revolt against the Russians] he lost his normal consciousness because of temptations of jinns and the Satan. If he had knowledge in that time, he could see into satanic flatteries and intrigues. He himself could realize that Russia is a great power and is equipped with overwhelming forces and wealth.[75] This khalcfa [Dukchi Ishan] himself was not guilty at all. Those who deceived [Dukchi Ishan] by saying, “if we take the field, we can conquer the world” should be blamed. Those who brought about great calamities to Muslims consisted of former soldiers and amirs who could not benefit from Russian rule or ruined by themselves, wandering people in search of bread, and every kind of outlaws including murderers. They were determined to raise a rebellion, being aware that they could not contend with the Russian 52

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army and their revolt would cause a great bloodshed. Nevertheless they pressed Dukchi Ishan to raise a rebellion. There was neither a learned man nor mulla – ulama among them. If Dukchi Ishan had some learned advisers, such a disaster could have been prevented.76 In fact, in August 1902 the military governor of the Ferghana province wrote in his secret report to the governor-general of Turkistan that despite local representatives’ efforts to denounce Dukchi Ishan, the Muslim people remembered him as a martyr who sacrificed himself for the sake of God, and they referred to his name with respect.77 It was after the Russian Revolution that Muslim intellectuals became able to present their interpretation of the Andijan Uprising relatively freely in public. The most significant example is the above-mentioned work of Atabekoghli, and in this work the author described the causes of the Uprising from the viewpoint of the indigenous Muslim population, showing apparent sympathy for Dukchi Ishan and his followers and strong antipathy against the czarist colonial rule. However, as the anti-Islamic and anti-nationalist policy of the Soviet authorities intensified, such an approach as Atabekoghli’s came to be denounced by the Soviet historiographers and he was denounced as an “anti-people nationalist.” Despite seventy years of Soviet rule, the legend of Dukchi Ishan survived and controversies about his jihad last even today. Recently Bakhtiyar Babadjanov and Muzaffar Kamilov introduced an interesting debate on Dukchi Ishan among the Muslim intellectuals in the Ferghana Valley. Muhammadjan Hindustani (1892–1989) was one of the most eminent ulama of the Hanafi School in Soviet Central Asia. Although suffering Soviet oppression, he continued his study of Islamic learning during the Soviet period, and from the Khrushchev period onward began to teach students illegally. It is said that most of the contemporary ulama in Uzbekistan and Tajikistan are the disciples of Hindustani. However, by the end of the 1970s he came to perceive that some of the younger ulama, including his own disciples, were gradually moving away from the traditional Hanafi School of teaching. Denying the widely accepted traditions and rituals of the Muslim population in the Ferghana Valley, they pursued purism in their own interpretation of Islamic dogma. After Hindustani called them “wahhabi,” the term was later popularized by the authorities and now is used widely to refer to “political Islam” or “fundamentalism” in Central Asia. In order to criticize his opponents the “wahhabi,” who called themselves mujaddidi (renovators), and to prevent a “great schism” among the Muslim community, Hindustani wrote a treatise in 1987 entitled Answers to Those Who Brought About Incomprehensible Innovation Into the Religion. In this work he described the Andijan Uprising in the same way as Mirza ‘Abd al-‘Azim Sami and denounced the mistaken ideas of his opponents who admired Dukchi Ishan’s proclamation of the jihad: 53

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It is even more surprising that you extol Dukchi Ishan for his jihad. It would have been better if this jihad had never happened! You were not even born at that time. But I know that jihad very well. It was ignorant disciples like you who led this poor man [Dukchi Ishan] into error and illusion, saying to him: “O sir, let us attack! Our army numbers 70,000 men. We can take Andijan in one attack!” But for weapons they had only sticks and axes and the like. At midnight they left the village of Mingtepe and attacked the barracks, where 200 Russian soldiers were sleeping. They awoke and began to shoot. Those 70,000 participants in the jihad scattered and retreated, leaving the unfortunate [Dukchi] Ishan in trouble. And what did this jihad lead to? Thus began the domination of the White Tsar, and the awful slaughter in Mingtepe; Russian troops arrived from Andijan and opened fire on the people, including women and children. Thousands were killed, and the village was burned. Think about it, was this jihad really commanded by God?78 Then Hindustani quotes a phrase from the Quran: “[Deliver your property without any limits for the sake of Islam] however don’t throw yourself into destruction [2/195].” The emergence of the “wahhabi” and Hindustani’s condemnation of them show that the controversies of the Andijan Uprising, in other words of a “true Islam,” had not ended among Muslims in the Ferghana Valley.

Conclusion N.P. Ostroumov (1846–1930), a famous Russian orientalist who worked in Turkistan during the colonial period, points out that there were no popular movements in Turkistan which did not have an ishan involved.79 Among these popular movements the most radical was the Andijan Uprising, which aimed to establish a Muslim state by clearing the land of Russians. This radicalism may have had its roots in the jihad ideology, stimulated by the intention to purify the Muslim community and drive away Russian settlers. It is undeniable that this ideology had reason and effectiveness enough in the Muslim society of the Ferghana Valley in the 1890s. It reflects the protests of the Muslim population against the socioeconomic order of the time. The large iarcqa of Dukchi Ishan is worthy of note. It included all the ethnic groups in the Ferghana Valley, such as Turks, Kashgharis, Uzbeks, Tajiks and Qyrghyz. And his active iarcqa succeeded in integrating such various social groups as wandering people, peasants, nomads and even some notables. It provides us with an example of the formation of a communal order in Central Asian Muslim society. As we have seen, this organization played a decisive role in the Uprising. The iarcqa, which penetrated even 54

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into the stratum of Muslim officers, would suggest the vitality of Ishanism. At the same time, as indicated by B. Babadjanov, in future studies we should examine the features of Ishan’s iarcqa in the light of the evolution of the Naqshbandiyya-Mujaddidiyya tradition since the latter half of the eighteenth century. When studying the ishans of Tashkent in the 1890s, we presumed that it was in rather rural and nomadic areas that ishans were able to exert considerable influence. Certainly, “the ishans in steppes,” exemplified by Dukchi Ishan, were superior by far to the “ishans in towns” in their abilities.80 One of the reasons for the difference may be the flexible or syncretistic character of Ishanism, which absorbed local and traditional customs even of non-Islamic origin. Such Ishanism could obtain a wider and stronger base in rural, and especially nomadic, areas where pre-Islamic elements were more prevalent than in the towns. We see an example in the relationship between Dukchi Ishan and the Qyrghyz. However, Dukchi Ishan’s Ishanism, while showing localism on one hand, on the other hand proclaimed Islamic orthodoxy clearly, as seen in his firm adherence to the Sharia and the Sunna. At first glance, the coexistence of localism and orthodoxy in his Ishanism may seem strange. But the mass fervor on the eve of the Uprising seems to tell us that such a dichotomy did not exist in the consciousness of the partisans themselves. It would be incorrect to emphasize only the local aspects in Ishanism. In any case, in the Ferghana Valley, where there were neither Muslim political powers nor Muslim intellectual leadership that could defend the Sharia, people had recourse to Dukchi Ishan, who preached the re-Islamization of Muslim society. When we put the Andijan Uprising in the context of the modern history of the Muslim world, we can find considerable relevance to other movements that developed in the nineteenth century. The militant action against colonial rule and the idea of recovering a pure Islam (in other words, the Salafiya trend) shown in the Andijan Uprising make it possible for us to compare it with various Sufi-based movements, the so-called neo-Sufism, especially in terms of emphasis on moral and social teaching, the leaders’ intimate association with the spirit of the Prophet, the rejection of absolute obedience of murids to their leader, strict observance of Sharia and Sunna and militant activities in defence of Islam.81 And, the Uprising seems to have direct or indirect relations with jihad movements as seen in the Kashghar region under the Qing rule, and grass-root pan-Islamic movements that prevailed throughout the Muslim world at the turn of the century. These features also revitalized Russian orientalism against Islamic civilization, including the Jadidist movement that developed in Central Asia, and this Russian orientalism had an effect on Soviet policies toward the Muslim peoples for many decades until the perestroika period. Finally, if 55

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we take into consideration the recent resurgence of Islam in post-Soviet Central Asia, the Andijan Uprising should be considered in the context of the centuries-long controversy of a “true Islam” or in the context of the re-Islamization that has occurred repeatedly in the history of Central Asia for many centuries.

Notes 1 As to the historiography of the Andijan Uprising, see Yuri Bregel ed., Bibliography of Islamic Central Asia, Part 1 (Bloomington: Indiana University, 1995), 620–1. 2 K.F. Kasymbekov, Iz istorii narodnyh dvizhenii v Fergane v kontse 19-nachale 20 veka (Tashkent: Fan, 1978), 43. 3 For example, see S.M. Demidov, Sufizm v Turkmenii (Ashkhabad: Ylym, 1978); Chantal Lemercier-Quelquejay, “Sufi Brotherhoods in the USSR: A Historical Survey,” Central Asian Survey, 2/4 (1983): 23–35. 4 E. Yu. Yusupov/V.B. Lunin, “Andizhanskoe vosstanie 1898 goda v sovetskoi istoricheskoi literature,” Obshchestvennye nauki v Uzbekistane, 1987/1, 18– 31; M.G. Vakhabov, “Eshche raz ob Andizhanskom vosstanii 1898 goda,” Obshchestvennye nauki v Uzbekistane, 1987/7, 43–57; Kh. Z. Ziyaev, “O sotsial’noi sushchnosti Andizhanskogo vosstaniya 1898 goda,” Obshchestvennye nauki v Uzbekistane, 1987/7, 57–63; “Soveshchanie po probleme ‘natsional’noosvoboditel’noe dvizhenie v Uzbekistane 80–90-kh godov XIX veka’,” Obshchestvennye nauki v Uzbekistane, 1988/5, 45–53. As a standard description regarding the Andijan Uprising in contemporary Uzbek historiography, see Ozbekistanning Yangi Tärikhi I, Turkistan Char Rossiyasi Mustämläkächiligi Dävridä (Tashkent: Shärq, 2000), 353–82. It is treated as a national struggle for liberation from Russian colonial rule. 5 B. Babadoanov, “Dekkc Cman und der Aufstand von Andioan 1898,” in Muslim Culture in Russia and Central Asia from 18th to the Early 20th Centuries, ed. Anke von Kügelgen, Michael Kemper and Allen J. Frank 2 (Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 1998), 167–91; B. Babadzhanov, “Andizhanskoe vosstanie 1898 goda: “Dervishskii gazavat” ili antikolonial’noe vystuplenie?,” O’zbekiston Tarixi, 2001/2, 25–30. See also my previous paper published in Japanese: Komatsu Hisao, “Andijan Houki to Ishan,” Toyoshi Kenkyu, 44/4 (1986): 1–31. 6 Beatrice F. Manz, “Central Asian Uprisings in the Nineteenth Century: Ferghana under the Russians,” The Russian Review, 46 (1987): 267–81. 7 See a set of papers in Stéphane A. Dudoignon and Komatsu Hisao eds, Islam in Politics in Russia and Central Asia (Early Eighteenth to Late Twentieth Centuries) (London: Kegan Paul, 2001). 8 Fazilbek Atäbekoghli, Dukchi Ishan Vaqeäsi (Färghanädä istibdad jälladläri) (Samarkand-Tashkent, 1927). Reprint in modern Uzbek orthography under the same title (Tashkent: Cholpan, 1991). 9 ‘Ibrat al-Ghafilcn, Biruni Institute of Oriental Studies, Academy of Sciences of Uzbekistan, Manuscript No. 1725. 10 “Andizhanskoe vosstanie v 1898 g.,” Krasnyi arkhiv 88 (1938): 129–81. 11 Babadoanov, “Dekkc Cman und der Aufstand von Andioan 1898,” 176; Älinäzär Egämnäzärov, Siz Bilgän Dukchi Eshan: Hujjätli qissä (Tashkent: Shärq, 1994), 19–20. 12 As to the Qashgharlik see: S.S. Gubaeva, Etnicheskii sostav naseleniya Fergany v kontse XIX – nachale XX v. (Tashkent: Fan, 1983), 34–5, 86–8. There was a

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13 14

15 16

17 18 19 20 21

22 23 24 25 26

27 28

29 30 31 32

qishlaq called Qashghar among a set of small qishlaqs that constituted a large Mingtepä qishlaq. Fazilbek, 6, 21; ‘Ibrat al-Ghafilcn, 102b. Babadoanov, Dekkc Cman, 178–179; As to the Naqshbandiyya-Mujaddidiyya see: B.M. Babadoanov, “On the history of the Naqmbandcya Muladdidcya in Central Mawara’annahr in the Late 18th and Early 19th Centuries,” in Muslim Culture in Russia and Central Asia from the 18th to the Early 20th Centuries, eds M. Kemper, A. von Kügelgen, and D.Yermakov (Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 1996), 385–413. Fazilbek, 21; Egämnäzärov, 129. On the pilgrimage from Russian Turkistan, see V.N. Yarovyi-Ravskii, “Palomnichestvo (khadzh) v Mekku i Medinu,” Sbornik materialov po musul’manstvu (S.-Peterburg, 1899), 129–56. I. Geier, “Materialy k izucheniyu bytovykh chert musul’manskago naseleniya Turkestanskago kraya, 1, Ishany,” Sbornik materialov dlya statistiki Syrdarynskoi oblasti, 1 (Tashkent, 1891) 73–4; V.P. Nalivkin i dr., “Kratkii obzor sovremennogo sostoyanii i deyatel’nosti musul’manskogo dukhovenstva i raznogo roda dukhovnykh uchrezhdenii,” Sbornik materialov po musul’manstvu (S.-Peterburg, 1899), 35. ‘Ibrat al-Ghafilcn, 109b–10a. ‘Ibrat al-Ghafilcn, 12a–b. ‘Ibrat al-Ghafilcn, 105a, 111b. It is supposed that Dukchi Ishan used the term “Uzbek” for those who preserved Uzbek tribal traditions. Fazilbek, 6–7; Andizhanskoe vosstanie, 145; V.P. Sal’kov, Andizhanskoe vosstanie v 1898 g. (Kazan’, 1901), 14. V. Nalivkin/I. Nalivkina, Ocherk byta zhenshchiny osedlago tuzemnago naseleniya Fergany, (Kazan’, 1886) 153–54; Muallim Kemal, [Andijan], Shura, 1910/16, 503–4; R. Ya. Rassudova, “Kul’tovye obekty Fergany kak istochinik po istorii oroshaemogo zemledeliya,” Sovetskaya etnografiya, 1985/4, 96–7. Fazilbek, 7. Andizhanskoe vosstanie, 168. Ibid., 172–3. Fazilbek, 7, 14. The unique manuscript of the Manaqib-i Dekchc Cshan was recently discovered by Bakhtiyar Babadjanov in the Biruni Institute of Oriental Studies, Academy of Sciences of Uzbekistan: Manuscript No. 1724. The Russian translation with introduction is prepared for publication by him [forthcoming]. It is true that this work is full of incredible fictions; however, concrete information contained in it will enable us to analyse the social background and territorial distribution of Dukchi Ishan’s murids. ‘Ibrat al-Ghafilcn, 105a, 109a–10a. Fazilbek, 7, 9–10, 12, 15–16; I. Tolqun, “Madali Esan (1856–1898),” Millij Türkistan, 1952–1953/82, 26; M. Ya. Gertsulin, “Kishlak Tadzhik v Ferganskoi oblasti,” Niva, 1898/50, 992; Sal’kov, 22. Dukchi Ishan owned a large amount of well-irrigated land (about 74 hectares in area) in Margilan prefecture, that was donated by his murids: Sal’kov, 21. Sal’kov, 36. Fazilbek, 29 [Facsimile of the Persian text]; Andizhanskoe vosstanie, 146. Babadoanov, “Dekkc Cman und der Aufstand von Andioan 1898,” 171–4. Andizhanskoe vosstanie, 146, 173; Dukchi Ishan’s orders to appoint certain murids to the office of ra’is were even certificated by official stamps of civil judges and mingbashis. M.A. Terent’ev, Istroiya zavoevaniya Srednei Azii, 3 (S.-Peterburg, 1906), 469.

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33 As to the 1896 statute and its problems see: Andizhanskoe vosstanie, 156–9; Sal’kov, 91–7; N. Fioletov, “Sudy kaziev v Sredne-Aziatskikh respublikakh,” Sovetskoe pravo, 1927/1, 137–40. 34 Ibid., 139–40. 35 Andizhanskoe vosstanie, 158; Sal’kov, 35; Terent’ev, 471. As to the popular protests against local administration, see: V. Ya. Galitskii i dr., Vozniknovenie i razvitie revolyutsionnogo dvizheniya v Kirgizii v kontse 19-nachale 20 vv. (Frunze: Ilim, 1973), 45–50; Kasymbekov, 46–56; K.U. Usenbaev, Obshchestvenno-ekonomicheskie otnosheniya Kirgizov: vtoraya polovina 19-nachalo 20 vv. (Frunze: Ilim, 1980), 214–17. 36 Muhammad ‘Azcz Marghilanc, Tarckh-i ‘Azczc, Biruni Institute of Oriental Studies, Academy of Sciences of Uzbekistan, Manuscript No. 11108, 184a–b. This work is published in modern Uzbek: Muhämmäd Äziz Märghilaniy, Tärikhi Äzizii (Färghanä char mustämläkäsi dävridä), Näshrgä täiyarlavchilär: Shadman Vahidov vä Dilaram Sängirova (Tashkent: Mä’näviyat, 1999). 37 For the details see A. Kh. Khasanov, Narodnye dvizheniya v Kirgizii v period Kokandskogo khanstva (Moskva: Nauka, 1977); Galitskii, 29–30. 38 V.I. Masal’skii, Turkestanskii krai (S.-Peterburg, 1913), 330; V.V. Bartol’d, Istoriya kul’turnoi zhizni Turkestana, in Sochineniya, 2/1 (Moskva: Izdatel’stvo Vostochnoi Literatury, 1963), 330–1. 39 Galitskii, 40; a map contained in B. Dzhamgerchinov, Prisoedinenie Kirgizii k Rossii (Moskva: Sotsekgiz, 1959) clearly shows that Russian immigrants penetrated mainly into the areas of the settled Qyrghyz. 40 P.G. Galuzo, Turkestan-koloniya (Moskva, 1929), 68; K.P. Ten, “Russkoe naselenie Srednei Azii vo vtoroi polovine 19-nachale 20 v.,” Istoriya SSSR, 1970/4, 148. Russian officers did not refer to the problems of Russian peasant migration in connection with the Andijan Uprising. Instead, Turkistan governorship cited the 1886 statute, which was displeasing, as one of the main reasons for the Uprising. In their works on the Andijan Uprising, Soviet historians also paid no attention to the tensions between the Qyrghyz and Russian immigrants. As to problems regarding migration in Central Asia see, Komatsu Hisao, Obiya Chika and John S. Schoeberlein eds, Migration in Central Asia: Its History and Current Problems, JCAS Symposium Series 9, The Japan Center for Area Studies (Osaka: National Museum of Ethnology, 2000). 41 Fazilbek, 21. 42 Sawada Minoru, “The Kirghiz and Islam in the Latter Half of the 16th Century,” Tezukayama-Gakuin Junior College Annual Report of Scientific Studies, 43 (1995): 149–76: S.M. Abramzon, Kirgizy i ikh etnogeneticheskie i istoriko-kul’turnye svyazi (Leningrad: Nauka, 1971), 267, 271–3; T.D. Bayalieva, Doislamskie verovaniya i ikh perezhitki u kirgizov (Frunze: Ilim, 1972), 43, 61, 145, 162. Acceptance or exploitation of a great amount of donation by ishans sometimes incurred the antipathy of the Qyrghyz. For example, Toktogul (1864– 1933), born in Ketmentepe and the founder of Soviet-Qyrghyz literature, in his poem titled “Ishan and khalifa” (written in 1897), severely criticized the hypocrisy and greediness of an ishan. This ishan might be Dukchi Ishan himself. Toktogul, accused as a participant in the Andijan Uprising by a betrayal, was condemned to exile to Siberia. See Poety Kirgizii (Leningrad, 1980), 64, 76–81. 43 Sal’kov, 36, 39. 44 Fazilbek, 7, 9, 18–19. 45 Andizhanskoe vosstanie, 173. 46 Fazilbek, 26–28. 47 Ibid., 30–1.

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48 Ibid., 32. 49 Muhammad Zahir Bigiyev, Maverannahrda Seyahat (Kazan: Kitab, 1908), 98. 50 Andizhanskoe vosstanie, 134, 142, 146–7, 170; K. Timaev, “Andizhanskoe vosstanie: iz lichinyh vospominanii,” Srednyaya Aziya, 1910/12, 134; Fazilbek, 19. In the Russian translation of this ferman quoted by Terent’ev (463–6), we find a somewhat questionable silsila (genealogy) of the Naqshbandiyya order. Thierry Zarcone reveals the existence of Sufi network that served the diplomatic relations between the Kashghar Emirate and the Ottoman Empire in the end of the nineteenth century. Thierry Zarcone, “Political Sufism and the Emirate of Kashgharia (end of the 19th century): the role of the Ambassador Ya‘qeb Xan Tera,” in Anke von Kügelgen, Michael Kemper and Allen J. Frank eds, Muslim Culture in Russia and Central Asia from 18th – to the Early 20th Centuries, 2 (Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 1998), 153–65. 51 Andizhanskoe vosstanie, 147, 162–3, 169–70; Zâkir Sükri Efendi, Die Istanbuler Derwischkonvente und ihre Scheiche (Mecmu’a-i Tekaya), Nach dem Typoskript von Mehmet Serhan Taysi herausgegeben, eingeleitet und mit Indizes versehen von Klaus Kreiser (Freiburg, 1980), 50–1. As to the Central Asian tekkes in Istanbul, see G.M. Smith, “The Özbek Tekkes of Istanbul,” Der Islam, 57 (1980): 130–9. 52 Fazilbek, 24, 33–4; K. Pahlen, Mission to Turkestan: Being the Memoirs of Count K.K. Pahlen 1908–1909, ed. Richard A. Pierce, bans N.J. Couriss (London: Oxford University Press, 1964), 53–5; Terent’ev, 435; I. Yubachev, “Kurban-dzhan-datkha: kara-kirgizskaya tsaritsa Alaya,” Istoricheskii Vestnik, 1907/12, 975; Bartol’d, 374. On the criticism against the Turkistan governorship, see S. T-ov, “Andizhanckoe vosstanie i ego prichiny,” Istoricheskii Vestnik, 1908/5: 659–70. 53 Fazilbek, 35. According to Muslim legends, Duldul is the name of a fine horse presented to ‘Ali by the Prophet. About 13km east of Mingtepe is a sacred mazar, famous for its legend regarding ‘Ali, who fought against a White Devil, leaving his favorite Duldul at this spring. See Masal’skii, 713. 54 A. Kh. Khasanov, 79. As to the examples in Eastern Turkistan, see: Shah Mahmed bin Mcrza Fazil Chulas, Ta’rckh, Kriticheskii tekst, perevod, kommentarii, issledovanie i ukazateli O.F. Akimushkina (Moskva: Izdatel’stvo Vostochnoi Literatury), 1976, Persian text, 15, 64, 99, Russian translation, 160, 211, 248, 273 (note 79); Hamada Masami, “Islamic saints and their Mausoleums,” Acta Asiatica, 34 (1978): 93. 55 For the ‘Ashera’ ceremony in Central Asia see O.A. Sukhareva, Islam v Uzbekistane (Tashkent: Fan, 1960), 27–9; A.L. Troitskaya, “Iz proshlogo kalandarov i maddakhov v Uzbekistane,” Doislamskie verovaniya i obryady v Srednei Azii (Moskva: Nauka, 1975), 197–8. On the cult of ‘Ali in Central Asia, see G.P. Snesarev, Khorezmskie legendy: kak istochinik po istorii religioznykh kul’tov Srednei Azii (Moskva: Nauka, 1983), 53–66. 56 Troitskaya, 197. 57 The facsimile of the text is in Fazilbek, 27. 58 Pahlen, 54. 59 Andizhanskoe vosstanie, 129–33, 149–50. 60 Ibid., 142, 151–2; Fazilbek, 57, 61–8; Yuvachev, 977; Pahlen, 58–9. 61 Fazilbek, 39–46, 71– 4, 86–7; Andizhanskoe vosstanie, 178–80; Pahlen, 59. 62 Vsepoddanneishii doklad Turkestanskago General Gubernatora General-otInfanterii Dukhovskago, Islam v Turkestane (Tashkent, 1899). 63 Ibid., 10. 64 Ibid., 11.

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65 Ismail Bei Gasprinskii, Russkoe musul’manstvo: mysli, zametki i nablyudeniya musul’manina, (Simfelopol’, 1881). 66 Sbornik materialov po musul’manstvu, Sostavlen po rasporyazheniyu Turkestanskago General-Gubernatora, General-ot-Infanterii Dukhovskago pod redaktsieyu Poruchika V.I. Yarovogo-Ravskago (S.-Peterburg, 1899), 132, 136; V.V. Bartol’d, “Muntakhab al-Masa’l nam risala,” Zapiski vostochnogo otdeleniya Russkogo arkheologicheskogo obshchestva, 19/4 (1910): 197. 67 N.P. Ostroumov, Sarty: Etnograficheskie materialy (Tashkent, 1908), 185–91. As to the arguments of Dukhovskoi, see also Shoshana Keller, To Moscow, Not Mecca: The Soviet Campaign Against Islam in Central Asia, 1917–1941 (Westport-London: Praeger, 2001), 17–20. 68 Articles on the Terjuman (1898/5/29, 1898/6/5, 1898/6/13); Ismail Bei Gasprinskii, Russko-vostochnoe soglashenie, Bakhchisarai, 1896, reprinted in Druzhba narodov, 1991/12. The English translation by Edward J. Lazzerini is available in Edward Allworth ed., Tatars of the Crimea: Their Struggle for Survival (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 1988), 202–16. 69 Mcrza ‘Abd al-‘Azcm Samc, Ta’rckh-i Salatcn-i Manghctcya, Izdanie teksta, predislovie, perepod i primechaniya, L.M. Epifanovoi (Moskva: Izdatel’stvo Vostochnoi Literatury, 1962), 121b–2a. As to Samc’s life and thought, see Jo-Ann Gross, “Historical memory, cultural identity, and change: Mirza ‘Abd al-‘Azim Sami’s representation of the Russian conquest of Bukhara,” in Daniel R. Brower and Edward J. Lazzerini eds., Russia’s Orient: Imperial Borderlands and Peoples, 1700–1917 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1997), 203– 26. 70 Fazilbek, 21. 71 Mcrza Siraj al-Dcn Hajjc Mcrza ‘Abd al-Ra’ef, Tuhaf-i Ahl-i Bukhara, Ba muqaddeme-yi Doktor Muhammad Asadcyan (Tehran: Entesharat-e Be ‘Alc, 1369), 41–2; Mirza Siradj ad-Din Hakim, Souvenirs de voyage pour les gens de Boukhara, traduit du persan (Asie centrale), presente et annote par Stéphane A. Dudoignon (Paris: Sindbad, 1999), 47–8; Sal’kov, 103–106. 72 Sal’kov, 118. V.V. Bartol’d also introduces a Russian observation of the Andijan Uprising as follows: “One who worked in those years in Turkistan and knew a lot of native people told me that many people in Tashkent and Samarkand had learned about the intrigue already and prior to the uprising of [Dukchi] Ishan it was felt that native people’s attitude toward Russians changed. It is needless to say that after the failure of Ishan the same people pretended to be the faithful subjects of the Czar, and contributed donations to the families of the Russian victims.” V.V. Bartol’d, Istoriya kul’turnoi zhizni Turkestana, 374. 73 Abdürresid Qbrahim, “Alas Turkistan,” Japan and Japanese, 511 (1909): 4 (in Japanese). 74 Abdürresid Qbrahim, Rusya’da Müslümanlar yahud Tatar Akvaminin Tarihçesi (Cairo, 1900), 84. 75 Muhammad ‘Aziz Marghilani, Tarckh-i ‘Azczc, 184a–4b. 76 Ibid., 191b. 77 Egämnäzärov, 119. 78 Bakhtiyar Babadjanov and Muzaffar Kamilov, “Muhammadjan Hindustani (1882–1989) and the Beginning of the “Great Schism” among the Muslims of Uzbekistan,” in Stéphane A. Dudoignon and Komatsu Hisao eds, Islam in Politics in Russia and Central Asia (Early Eighteenth to Late Twentieth Centuries) (London: Kegan Paul, 2001), 212–14. 79 Ostroumov, 223.

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80 Komatsu Hisao, “Tashukentono Ishannitsuite [The Ishans of Tashkent],” Isuramu Sekai [The World of Islam] 23/4 (1985): 83 (in Japanese); V.V. Bartol’d, Istoriya kul’turnoi zhizni Turkestana, 373. 81 Although the effectiveness of the concept “neo-Sufism” is criticized severely, a comparative approach can provide us with new clues to a comprehensive understanding of the Andijan Uprising. Further studies in this direction are required. See R.S. O’Fahey and Bernd Radke, “Neo-Sufism Reconsidered,” Der Islam, 70/1 (1993): 52–87.

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4 FACTION STRUGGLES AMONG THE BUKHARAN ULAMA DURING THE COLONIAL, THE REVOLUTIONARY AND THE EARLY SOVIET PERIODS (1868 –1929) A paradigm for history writing? Stéphane A. Dudoignon

Up until recently the historiography of late nineteenth- and early twentiethcentury Central Asia has been focused on the study of modern ethnogenesis processes and modernization movements, in the framework of an overall rhetoric of nation building. A Marxist–Leninist tint was instilled, notably through a special interest in nineteenth-century “popular movements,” some of which were presented as progressive, and admitted as constitutive elements of proletarian Central Asian nations. (See for instance the tradition of academic works, in Soviet Tajikistan, about the Baljuan revolt led by Mulla ‘Abd al-Wasc‘, alias Vose, in 1885–7/8). Since the mid-1970s, the early twentieth-century reform and modernization movements (recalled “Jadidism”), and the debates of that period on the reformed teaching of literacy, have been integrated into this nation-centered historiography. Then, during the last years of perestroika, the eventual re-examination of the period of national autonomies (from 1917 to 1923) has put the concept of statehood (deroavnost’) at the center of the official historiographical literature. Finally, the proclamation of national independences, in 1991, has reinforced this priority given to the historical legitimation of the nations of the USSR. At the same time, the present continuity of the old oligarchies, and that of the Soviet culture of power, have reassessed the ever-growing dependency of history and historians on politics and politicians, at least in Central Asia, if not elsewhere in the Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS).1 62

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However, new conditions of research have also recently permitted, in the margin of politicized historical discourse, a deep qualitative change, the first results of which can already be observed, both inside and outside the CIS. One of the most significant aspects of this present evolution is a new interest in the “Islamic discourse” as it developed since the late eighteenth century among the Muslim religious circles of the Russian Empire and early Soviet Union. Recent studies have cast new light on historical memory, and on territorialized communal consciousness, as it was formulated regionally and locally by late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century ulama in various regions of the Russian Empire, in accordance with the remembrance of a specifically Islamic past.2 Another consubstantial aspect of this qualitative change of research is a new interest in group identities and inner segmentations in Muslim societies of Central Eurasia, especially through the articulations of these identities and segmentations with various kinds and levels of political institutions. Although this new trend has been initiated by social scientists who deal mostly, if not exclusively, with present time,3 diachronical studies on regionally or locally based social groups, on the evolution of their specific identity and strategy towards state structures, have already made their appearance.4 In the present paper, we will try to outline an analysis of the lineage-based protection systems (qawms, lama‘as, qabclas, ia’ifas), and political factions (firqas) as they developed, and are documented in Bukhara throughout the overthrows of the colonial (1868–1917), revolutionary (1917–20), and early Soviet period (after 1920). Although southern Central Asian factions as interpersonal networks have already begun to be studied for the pre-modern period,5 we would like to propose an extension of this study to the early modern period (i.e. posterior to the establishment of the Russian protectorate in 1868, and the annexation of new provinces to the Emirate of Bukhara in 1876), with a particular interest in the evolution and role of these factions in the specific political framework of the Russian domination. * This study will focus on two mutually concurrent Bukharan factions, which are called in our sources Temancs and Kelabcs, the mutual antagonism of which seems to have dominated the political arena of the Emirate of Bukhara during the last five decades of its history. For this, we will investigate sources which have generally been neglected by modern historians of late nineteenthand early twentieth-century Central Asia. It is true that ignorance of the Persian language, and of manuscript Persian sources by many historians of modern Central Asia may explain the relative conservatism of this special area of modern historical studies. This neglect has been recently aggravated by a now fashionable disregard for unpublished narrative sources – which for the Emirate of Bukhara still make up the main part of what remains of the pre-Soviet documentation of local origin. In spite of relatively abundant Russian archive materials, writing the history of the last half-century of the 63

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Bukharan Emirate without making appeal to any unpublished Persian narrative source, which some authors have recently adopted as a principle, looks like making the history of sixteenth-century Tuscany with no attention to Guicciardini, for the reason that he was a Florentine, and a protagonist of the events that he described, or repelling Thucydides on the pretext that he was not as an impartial observer as we used to consider him up to recent reappraisals of his work. Moreover, narrative sources of a classical facture and highly normative character help us to penetrate into the deepest structures of a culture, which are more usually revealed to us by ethnographs and anthropologists.6 I would like to devote this paper to one narrative source in particular (although it will be compared indeed with other, also neglected materials),7 a source of a specific, autobiographical character. Although the genre of autobiography is not unknown to Central Asian, Persian or Turkic literatures (suffice to remember the sixteenth-century arch-classic Babur-nama), the frequent choice of this form for history writing after 1920 seems characteristic of the disappearance of court culture, of the marginalization of social and political activists of the colonial period, and of the increasing role of alternative intellectual sociability. The special source that we have in mind is the so-called “diary” (Rez-nama) of the leading Bukharan ‘alim and adcb Mcrza Mugammad Marcf Hadr-i Riya (1867–1932). This work of 260 folios covers a period of 40 years which is explicitly comprised between the death of Riya’s father Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker in 1306/1889, and the death of the king of Afghanistan, Amanullah in 1348/1929. Riya has devoted special paragraphs of his work to the history of Bukhara and of the Bukharan faction struggles after the annexation of new provinces to the Emirate in 1876, and to the consequences of this annexation on the geographical outline of the main Bukharan factions. The entire text of the Rez-nama has been rewritten ex nihilo after a first version that Riya had been writing since 1907 disappeared in the burning of the author’s personal archive in April 1918, in the immediate aftermath of the first, unsuccessful Bolshevik assault against the capital of the Emirate. As such, what is offered to us by this work is less a diary than a memory of the struggles between the leading Bukharan factions, especially during the revolution and civil war, as this memory was exposed a posteriori by one of the protagonists of these struggles in the first decade of the Soviet period. * As such, Riya’s second Rez-nama presents an attempt at setting the past in order, for the education of future generations. Its “Islamic discourse” is that of a reform-minded Ganafc theologian, who in the Rez-nama and other contemporary writings shows a clear hostility to both Ganafc traditionalists and neo-Ganbalc (Wahhabi) trends – which were gaining momentum in the first years of the Soviet period, notably under the influence of journals from the Near-East like al-Manar,8 and for the needs of 64

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the jihad against the Red Army. As such, Riya’s Rez-nama offers us a captivating source for the study of the destiny of Islamic thought and judicial practices in Central Asia during the early years of the Soviet period. Moreover, Riya’s discourse on his own qawm or lama‘a or qabcla or ia’ifa, his identification of this protection system with the larger political faction (firqa) of the Tumanis, his presentation of the latter as open-minded progressists, and the Kulabis as fanatical traditionalists are also interesting in themselves. They give us some keys on the author’s strategy at constructing a personal memorial during the revolutionary and early Soviet periods – a time when Riya shortly occupied prominent positions in the judicial and religious apparatus of the People’s Soviet Republic of Bukhara, together with prominent ulama and literati of the reformist trend, before retiring to write his memorialistic works. Through the Rez-nama and other contemporary narrative sources we will try to apply the postulates of microstoria as it developed in Western Europe since the 1970s, to the diachronical study of a system of personal protection and patronage, seen from within, as it was articulated on a political faction in early modern Bukhara, with special attention for the revolutionary years. As we will try to suggest in the present study, the logics of this protection system and faction, as both are described by Riya, appear for the most part through the evolution of the Temanc ia’ifa, and through the structural changes and redefinitions that were imposed on it over time by various circumstances. These upheavals explain the interest, for us, of a diachronical approach to this particularly moving social group, in a relatively short duration (the durée brève, which has been so neglected by the French school of the first Annales, and cherished on the contrary by the Italian theoreticians of microstoria). Such a diachronical study is perhaps what historians can bring to the study of those micro-groups which are now at the core of our current interrogations on modern societies.9 However, relying on testimonies written in the first person singular, on things which have been lived through, is a thing with which specialists of the still unwritten history of contemporary Central Asia have often to satisfy themselves. The state of the documentation available to us explains the very specific relation between history and memory which, because of the paucity of written sources, are perhaps closer to each other in modern Central Asia than, for the same period, in any other cultural area of what we used to call the “old continent.” These are some of the reasons why we would like to insist here on the significance of narrative sources such as Riya’s Rez-nama, among others, for a genealogical and functionalist approach to communal identities in modern and contemporary Central Asia, and for a global understanding of the successive meanings of being a “Temanc” or a “Kelabc” from the mid-nineteenth century up till now.10 In this way, our microstoria of a Bukharan ia’ifa, through the memory conveyed by one of its protagonists, compared with other, contemporary sources, 65

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may perhaps contribute to a more global appraisal of inner segmentations and conflicts of the reputedly opaque modern Central Asian societies.11

Our main source and its author Elements for a biography It is a fact that our main source has been very understudied until now, to the point that until recently it could not be extensively used by Riya’s youngest son, and one of his posthumous biographers, the literary critic and academician of Tajikistan Muhammadjon Shukurov (Shakuri, b. 1926).12 Although Mcrza Mugammad Marcf Hadr-i Riya (Ramaran 27, 1283/ January 24, 1867-cir. April 20, 1932) is far from being absent from the early twentieth-century Bukharan historiography and literary anthologies,13 the main source on him remains his Rez-nama and the latter’s variations.14 Among these, a particularly significant one, for our purpose, is Riya’s biography of his father Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker (1231/1816–1306/1889), better known to the authors of literary anthologies under his pen-name (tatalluh) of Ayat,15 a first-rank scholar and political figure in Bukhara during the fatal 1870s and 1880s. This second work, which was completed by Riya at the very end of his life, in 1931, contains invaluable data on Riya’s immediate ancestors, and on the history of their personal protection network in nineteenth-century Bukhara. Let’s begin with a brief biographical overview on the author of these works.16 In the “diary” and in his biography of his father, Riya presents himself as the descendant of a family of Yersari Turkmen origin, whose first known representatives, until the young Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker, had been leather and textile craftsmen (karmgar, mostegar). His great-grandfather Mulla Nahr-Allàh had migrated from Yersari territory to the city of Charjuy, a river port on the left bank of the Amu-Darya river, and his grandfather Mulla ‘Abd al-Rasel from Charjuy to the vicinity of Bukhara under the emir Gaydar b. Ma‘hem (r. 1800–26). The family had settled there in Karakmaran, a village peopled by craftsmen and petty traders, in the district of Wabkand, some 35kms to the north-northeast of Bukhara.17 As to Mugammad Marcf, he was born in the provincial district (teman) of Riya al-Dcn, on the lower Zarafshan river, some 70kms to the east of the capital, not far from the boundary of Russian Turkestan; his father ‘Abd al-Muker was then occupying there one of his first judicial posts, as the qarc of that city.18 During his lifetime and long after his death, Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker was considered one of the most prominent jurists and mudarrises (madrasa teachers) of the whole Emirate of Bukhara. In his childhood and adolescent years, he had first practiced the leather and textile craftsman’s profession which had been that of Mulla ‘Abd al-Rasel and his immediate forefathers.19 66

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However, his intellectual abilities permitted him to leave this profession, the first in his lineage, and to reach rapidly the summit of the religious hierarchy. Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker came to fulfill important diplomatic missions under the Emir Mujaffar al-Dcn (r. 1860–85).20 The latter’s successor, Amcr ‘Abd al-Agad (r. 1885–1910) appointed him to the post of supreme judge (qarc kalan)21 of the Emirate, a post he occupied during the last years of his life. The nomination of such an outsider seems to have excited the hostility of the ulama in charge,22 and remains a characteristic of the Manghit’s policy in matters of promotion inside the ulama. During that period of his personal zenith, Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker’s house in Bukhara used to welcome regular literary evenings (malalis) three times a week, on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays. These intellectual gatherings used to bring together the proponents of the reformist trends which had been developing in the Bukharan madrasas since the very first years of the nineteenth century. ‘Abd al-Muker’s son Mugammad Marcf (ramaran 27, 1283/January 24, 1867–end of 1350/April, 1932) studied first with his father, then with the theologian and jurist ‘Isa Matdem b. Mulla Niyaz Mugammad (1826– 87).23 The choice by ‘Abd al-Muker of such a teacher for his son was not innocent: ‘Isa Matdem appears, for example in the History of the Revolution of Bukhara, written in the early 1920s by the pro-reformist Bukharan memorialist ‘Aync (1878–1954), as a leading figure among the most open-minded Bukharan ulama, and one of the main local disciples of the famous Tatar reformist scholar from the Middle Volga region of Russia, Mihab al-Dcn al-Marlanc (1818–89).24 After the death of his father in 1889, when he was himself only 22 years old, Mugammad Marcf continued his studies in various Bukharan madrasas up till 1896. He had inherited Ayat’s rich personal library, and a great deal of his father’s personal prestige. From the 1890s to the early 1920s – that is, during most of the Russian protectorate and a big part of the revolutionary period – Riya’s own house, when he was in Bukhara, or in one of his numerous qarc positions in the adjacent districts, continued to welcome large malalis with the participation of prominent ulama and their numerous pupils. These evenings were the occasion for endless poetical joustings and anecdote telling, during which the master of the house used to taunt his adversaries from rival factions.25 There were also discussions about the manuscript works of some theoreticians of political reform of the Emirate such as Danim (1827–97).26 As a talented calligraphist and an unrepentant book lover – as such a worthy heir of several generations of mcrzas through his mother’s ascendents27 – Riya played a considerable role in the copy and diffusion of the works of the main nineteenth-century Bukharan Ganafc reformist ulama.28 * In his autobiographical works, Riya shows himself as a disciple of these ulama in his own administration of justice. As a judge (qarc),29 Mcrza 67

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Mugammad Marcf reveals his open vision of the mar‘. In a legalist spirit which is peculiar to Bukharan reformist thought, mar‘ is praised as a written law, and a guarantee against the arbitrary rule of the tribal amlakdars – the “Uzbek” military tax collectors whose power gained momentum during the first decade of the twentieth-century. As an advocate of a rehabilitation of the mar‘ against the ‘adat (customary law of the steppe), Riya appears as a defender of the interests of the “Sart”30 bazaar against the “Uzbek” tribal military administration, in a spirit which remains very close to that of the main political treatises written by Danim in the 1870s. Like his father Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker before him, and like many enlighted scholars of his time, Riya also advocated the reform of Islamic education. In 1907/8, he contributed financially to the opening of the first reformed maktab (primary school) which was created that year in Bukhara, on a model developed by the Crimean Tatar publicist Ismail Gasprinskii in European Russia since the early 1880s. One of Riya’s sons, Mugammad Jarcf, was among the very first pupils of the new school. Riya also helped with the organization of the secret society which was set up for the financing of reformed teaching in Bukhara.31 After a long career as a qarc in many different locations of the western part of the Emirate, Riya played a prominent role in the tragic events which in Bukhara followed the revolution of February, 1917. Almost thirty years after his father, he was appointed qarc kalan of the Emirate, under pressure from the Russian Provisional Government, through Russia’s Political Agency in Bukhara, and under that of street demonstrations by the movement of the Young Bukharans. However, Riya remained in place for only a very short and tragic time: from March 29 to April 9, 1917 – i.e. between the proclamation, by the newly appointed qarc kalan himself, of the constitutionalist “Manifest” (I‘lan-nama) of the Emir ‘Alim Tan (r. 1910–20), and the beginning of political reaction, with the launching by the Emir of a fierce repression against the Young Bukharan and their sympathizers.32 As soon as repression began, Riya was dismissed from his post – although his official resignation was proclaimed only on July 31, 1917; he then reported sick and remained at home for three months and, in October 1917, was sent away from the capital to Qarshi, as qarc of that city.33 A second wave of repression followed, in March 1918, the failure of a military expedition launched against Bukhara by Feodor Kolesov, the Bolshevik president of the newly created Council of People’s Commissars of Turkestan, in Tashkent. Riya and his brother Paferlan Matdem, a sympathizer of the Jadid trend, were put in jail in Qarshi, and Riya’s personal papers were burnt before him.34 In spite of his terrible fear of being summarily executed, Riya was freed in early June, against the promise of a heavy financial guarantee, and sent out to a new post as a qarc of Shahr-i Sabz, far from the capital, under the close supervision of the local governor Akram Tan Tera, a paternal uncle (‘amm) of the Emir.35 68

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After the Emir was overthrown by the Bolshevik troops of Mihajl Frunze, and a People’s Soviet Republic (PSR) was proclaimed in Bukhara in early September 1920, Riya was again imprisoned by the Cheka, “without apparent motive” according to his own expression.36 Then he was appointed to the vice-presidency of the mar‘c court which was created by the Young Bukharan government, and presided over by Muftc Mugammad Ikram b. ‘Abd al-Salam, better known under his nickname Damulla Ikramka (1847– 1925).37 Among the people of the madrasas, Ikramka was quite commonly considered a leader of the Bukharan reformist current since his return from the hajj in 1312/1894, and the death of Danim in 189738 – so that Riya’s whole life, from his initial studies with ‘Isa Matdem to his final partnership with Ikramka, seems to have been placed (at least retrospectively) under the impeccable tutelage of the main figures of Ganafc reformist thought in Mawara al-Nahr. However, after the reassessment of Moscow’s direct control on the PSR of Bukhara, and the exclusion of the most prominent Young Bukharan leaders from the government in June 1923,39 Riya seems to have retired from all his previous positions. From that time on, the only trace that remains of his activity is the rewriting of those of his works which had perished in the fire at his house in 1918, and the composition of new, mainly memorialistic ones. Arrested during the campaign of gold collection launched by the Soviet authorities in 1931–2, and imprisoned, Riya died in jail, from typhus or typhoid fever, on April 24, 1932, one day after his imminent liberation had been announced to his family.40 Riya left behind him some sixty-five works of various length and content, gathered in eleven volumes,41 all of which remain unpublished, except a set of literary fragments and short texts in prose that had been gathered by their author under the title The Wonders of Riya, and which have recently been partly edited in Cyrillic by Riya’s youngest son and posthumous biographer Mugammadlan.42 Very few of his works have been systematically studied, and only the well-known catalogue of his library has been the object of more or less recent publications.43 In the literary mass made up by Riya’s works, the Rez-nama offers a special interest, thanks notably to the specific history of its text. The first two thirds of the narrative (which correspond to the period 1889–1918) were composed from 1907 on,44 but they had to be entirely rewritten after their destruction in April 1918. So this part is a reconstructed narrative, posterior to the events which are described in it. The “living part” of the diary concerns only the period from 1919 to 1929, in which Riya seems, however, to have been less preoccupied with writing his autobiography than with evoking the major events of contemporary history, and expressing his intellectual views. This relatively complex history of the text explains another specificity of the Rez-nama, if compared with Riya’s many other works: this specificity is made of the neighboring, and sometimes even the collage of very different styles and moods, with no great consideration for chronology. Such a 69

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characteristic suggests that in the 1920s Riya sometimes satisfied himself with recopying dispersed fragments of his previous memorialistic work, and passages borrowed from various sources. In any case, these rather obvious and easily discernible discontinuities of the text allow us to distinguish what belongs to Riya himself, and the numerous, sometimes very long passages which were imported from other sources and integrated into the Rez-nama with or without mention of the origin of these numerous “quotations.” This discontinuity and heterogeneity of our main source, and the chronological break of 1918 (with the destruction of the first, unique manuscript) are interesting for us. These characteristics allow us to see which elements of the history of Bukhara, and of the history of reformist movements in Mawara al-Nahr, were considered by Riya important enough to be transmitted to an uncertain posterity – at a moment when the author of the Rez-nama was understanding that he was probably condemned to inactivity and silence by the first purges and repressions of the mid-1920s. Discontinuity and heterogeneity of the R∞z-n¡ma Significantly enough, the chronological framework of Riya’s narrative goes from the death of his father Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker in 1889, to the deposition of the king of Afghanistan, Amanullah, forty years later in 1929. We may remark that this last date coincides also with the practical end of the “Basmachi” (under Riya’s pen basqekc )45 resistance in Central Asia, with the emigration of the main leaders of that resistance to China, Afghanistan and the Near-East, and with the launching of collectivization and “dekulakization” throughout the USSR. Although Riya says nothing of collectivization, this date of 1929 had a strong symbolic value for the author of the Rez-nama: it signified the final failure of a certain kind of effort at reform and modernization in Central Asia, and the complete submission of the whole region to the Soviet régime. It is probably not a pure coincidence if Amanullah’s deposition (the king of Afghanistan had been a political icon of Bukharan reformists) was the last event of the contemporary political life to be mentioned by Riya in any of his works before his own death three years later in 1932. The whole part of the Rez-nama which deals with the period prior to 1918 is characterized by abrupt changes of form and content – from passages where the narrative is written at the first person singular, day after day, sometimes even “hour after hour” (sa‘at ba sa‘at), to other, more explanatory or theoretical passages in prose or in verse, most of which are explicit quotations or unexplicit borrowings; this “text in the text” contains many digressions, and subsequently frequent repetitions of the Persian equivalent to the expression: “But let’s get back to the subject.” The properly autobiographical narrative is written in a conventional and formal prose, which is sometimes made heavy by opaque circumlocutions. 70

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These rhetorical artifices are probably tributes paid to the expression of the self. Riya’s evocation of his intimacy is dominated by the numerous bereavements of a long life saddened by many sorrows (the death of his father, numerous family bereavements, – including those of several adult children, the sadness of which Riya partly relieved through the psalmodiation of the Quran and heavy tears [talawat-i Qur’an wa gircstan-i farawan], as well as through regular visits to the dead [ziyarat-i ahl-i quber] ).46 The author of the Rez-nama also says that when, being freed from the Emir’s dungeon in 1918, and searching for the moral support of poetry, he realized that the terrible fear of death that he has felt in jail had made him forget for a while all the Persian verses that he used to keep in his memory.47 The events of Riya’s professional and social life are exposed in a much more sober style, but they give way to longer developments. The author of the Rez-nama describes himself in the exercise of his successive judicial posts throughout the westernmost regions of the Bukharan Emirate, in districts more or less directly adjacent to the capital Bukhara. For instance, he explains how, as the qarc of Kamat, he solved in 1901 a crucial problem of distribution of the water from an irrigation system.48 Some of these explanations of his role as a judge and mediator are not devoid of immediate political content, and they sometimes make explicit references to the current faction struggles in Bukhara. Such is the case, for example, when Riya relates how he has administered the bankruptcy of a group of Bukharan traders, the consequences of which could have been prejudicial for the faction of his personal rival of the time, Qarc Mcr Mulla Badr al-Dcn “Tailanc” (d. 1908), then the supreme judge (qarc kalan) of the Bukharan Emirate.49 A particularly interesting, although sporadic, sub-category of Riya’s narrative on his professional path is made of eulogies of a rather conventional style, but based on personal experiences, written by Riya in honor of his spiritual and intellectual masters – in particular Mulla Qiyau-Allàh Matdem Mudarris (d. 1895/6), a leading figure of the madrasa people50 – or in honor of his successive and occasional protectors among the umara’ (the military dignitaries who were identified by Danim, and sometimes by Riya himself, as “Uzbeks”).51 * As to the “intertext” of the diary, it is made of almost all the passages which are devoted to events external to the Emirate of Bukhara. The mention of the assassination of the shah of Persia Nahir al-Dcn in 1896,52 as well as more general considerations on the economic and cultural stagnation of Iran under the last Qajars are commonly borrowed from the modernist Afghan press of the time.53 About Iran, we also find borrowings and quotations from the Bukharan travelers who had visited that country during the Constitutional Revolution, such as the trader and polygraph Mcrza Siral al-Dcn Butarayc, tatalluh Gakcm (1877–1914), one of the rare Bukharan 71

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figures external to the madrasa people who is explicitly mentioned in the Rez-nama.54 The echo given by Riya to the early twentieth-century “events of the FarEast” (waqâyi‘-i marq-i aqua) occupies almost thirty folios of the manuscript. The whole passage comprises reflections by the author on the origins of the Russo-Japanese War, and on the significance of the Japanese victory for the “peoples of the East” (talqha-yi marq), as well as an laudatory biography of the Emperor Meiji.55 All these elements, as well as the abovementioned data on Iran, are directly borrowed from the modernist, anticolonialist and pan-Asiatic journal Siral al-atbar al-afpaniyya, which was published in Kabul by the Afghan lettré and statesman Magmed Iarzc (who after 1919 was to became a prominent minister of Amanullah’s).56 The amount of these digressions, and the variable toponymy used in the Rez-nama (we can find the orthograph “Oapen,” “Lapen” or “Kapen” for Japan, “Alman” or “Gcrmaniya” for Germany, etc.) commonly suggest that Riya made reconstitutions of the events that he could not observe for himself on the basis of various kinds of archive that he could save from his first library, or purchase in the 1920s on the markets of Bukhara. The decade 1919–29 has been dealt with through the Soviet press – like for example the accession to power of Rera Tan in Iran in 1921, which was first seen by Riya as the proclamation of a republic, and a consequence of the political changes which had occurred slightly before in Central Asia.57 Even in the years with exceptionally abundant political news, Riya prefers to mention events that he has himself observed, or the impact of which he has personally felt. In 1905, for instance – the year of the first revolution of Russia – the main event mentioned in the Rez-nama is the big earthquake which affected, that year, several provinces of the Emirate of Bukhara.58 Beside such data, the imported passages on the Russo-Japanese conflict, or on the Balkan wars look like late additions, especially in terms of their different style and mood. This “text in the text,” however, plays a very significant role in the Rez-nama, since it is in these passages borrowed from various sources that Riya has expressed the essential part of his political and intellectual credo: the credo of a reformist Ganafc theologian, who was hostile to the most conservative Ganafc factions identified with the mullahs from the eastern provinces of the Bukharan Emirate, but who was equally repulsed by those “Wahhabis” of the Arabic peninsula, who in the mid-1920s spoiled and ruined the holy places of Mecca and Medina (the disorders caused in the Twin Holy Cities by the Ikhwanis, in 1344/1925–6, are one of the key political events mentioned by Riya in the very last pages of the Rez-nama).59 This profession of faith is that of a reformist Ganafc theologian, who was little by little excluded from public life by the Bolsheviks, who knew that he would soon be condemned to silence, and seems to have hastily built a memorial to the political struggles of the past. This essentially retrospective 72

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view of Muslim reformism may be an explanation for Riya’s taste for quotations in the Rez-nama,60 in which his opinions are expressed mainly through his readings, with very few subjective comments. These views, and Riya’s general credo appear out of step with the framework of the autobiographical narrative. There Riya has expressed preoccupations of a totally different kind.

Vicissitudes and metamorphoses of a Bukharan faction From a protection system to a political faction The framework of Riya’s narrative in the Rez-nama as well as in his biography of his father, is for the most part based on the evolution of the author’s personal interaction – and before him that of his father ‘Abd al-Muker, and of his grandfather ‘Abd al-Rasel – with the leading ulama and umara’ of the Bukharan Emirate. This narrative is entirely articulated on the history and vicissitudes of a protection system that Riya designates alternatively by two main terms of Arabic origin: qawm and ia’ifa. This system is strongly characterized by both a territorial and clanic dimension: its origins are clearly and explicitly located in the Yersari tribe and territory61 – although Riya insists very much on the “multi-ethnic” character of his ancestors’ protection system, in which Turkmens used to neighbor with “Sarts” (i.e. non-tribalized, or de-tribalized Turkic- as well as Persianspeaking city-dwellers). The charismatic dimension of this protection system was established and constantly reinforced (or challenged) by the quality of the personal authority which was successively exercised on it throughout the nineteenth century by ‘Abd al-Rasel, then by his son ‘Abd al-Muker, and finally by the latter’s son Mugammad Marcf, alias Riya, through these three scholars’ successive careers in the Bukharan madrasas and courts. Their personal protection system was progressively extended from Yersari territory to Charjuy, then from Charjuy to the Wabkand district and finally to Bukhara itself, thanks to the protection given to them by the prominent mayts who were their successive mentors in the madrasas of Bukhara.62 Then ‘Abd al-Rasel, ‘Abd al-Muker, and Riya’s personal authority on their own protection system increased with the prominent judicial posts that they (especially ‘Abd al-Muker and Riya) occupied in various provinces, in the districts adjacent to Bukhara, and in the capital of the Emirate, up to their respective (durable or ephemerous) occupation of the supreme post of qarc kalan. As we suggested in the introduction, the functions of such a system of protection (gimaya) and patronage have already been studied through pre-modern examples. Central Asian qawms or ia’ifas, in the nineteenth as well as in the sixteenth century, were functioning as systems of personal protection and patronage, set up by a strong spiritual authority: the mayt of 73

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a mystical order, or a prominent figure of the madrasa system (those two figures often being one and the same person). Such a “faction” used to be made up of a vertical segment of society, whose members were held together by an essentially “negative loyalty” – that is the need to defend common interests against common enemies. Unlike a Sufi order, the system of protection was not based on a personal oath to the master (although the existing structures of a iarcqa could also be transformed into those of a ia’ifa).63 The very nature of gimaya depended on the one hand on the nature of both the charismatic power and social authority that were exercised by the leader of the system, and on the other hand on the intentions of the system’s members. Both may help to explain the extreme instability of these systems, and their endless fluctuations over time, sometimes over very short periods. * The figure of the common enemy is abundantly represented in Riya’s memorial works by the so-called Kelabcs (or Tailancs), from the name of the city of Kulab and the province of Khatlan, in the easternmost part of the Bukharan Emirate (now the southwestern part of Tajikistan). Another denomination of the Kelabcs, that of Kuhistancs, “mountain-dwellers,” can be found in Riya’s memories as well as in contemporary historical works. The city of Kulab appears in the Central Asian Persian sources of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries mainly as a semi-autonomous principality, dependent from the Khanate of Kokand. Its semi-autonomy allowed Kulab to play the role of a sanctuary for political fugitives from neighboring khanates.64 A new political situation was created in 1868 with the establishment of the Russian protectorate over the Emirate of Bukhara, and then in 1876 by the annexation of Kulab and the Khatlan to Bukhara, as a consequence of the destruction and annexation of the Khanate of Kokand, the same year, by the Russians. Massive emigration of local manpower then begun in Kulab and the Khatlan, but it was oriented mainly towards the Ferghana Valley, in the former Kokand Khanate, which then experimented with the rapid expansion of monoculture and a first industrialization.65 However, the territorial inclusion of Khatlan province into the Bukharan Emirate also gave way to the growing migration of Kulabi mullahs in search of posts to Bukhara. The appearance of a “Kulabi” faction in Bukhara in the mid-1870s occupies, in Riya’s narrative, a place which is more significant than in any other contemporary Bukharan source. The political faction of the Kulabis is presented by Riya as an emanation of the protection system of the Ibn Bayrà, a ulama dynasty from Kulab which between the 1860s and 1920 gave the Emirate three successive qarc kalan, Hadr al-Dcn (Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker’s rival), his son Badr al-Dcn and the latter’s son Burhan al-Dcn (Riya’s two successive personal foes). Significantly, the faction of the Temancs (or Butarcs), that of Riya and his father, appears in the Rez-nama, and in Riya’s biography of Qarc ‘Abd 74

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al-Muker, through a negative definition: the Tumani faction seems to have been made up essentially of anti-Kulabis. (The “Tumani” denomination itself is appealing: Temancs mean “vernaculars,” Butarcs “Bukharans” – a largely metonymic denomination, which was set up in order to differentiate the members of this large coalition from their Kulabi “significant others.” In this light, the main justification of the Tumani faction, according to one of the latter’s most prominent leaders, seems to have been the gathering of opponents to the Kulabis.) However, both Kulabis (or Khatlanis, or Kuhistanis) and Tumanis (or Bukharis) may have had a parallel evolution, and may even have exerted a deep influence on each other. Both groups offer us an invaluable example of the transformation of a system of personal protection and patronage into a political faction, if not into a political party – from a ia’ifa to a firqa,66 according to the terminology that is employed by Riya himself in his two main narratives.67 In the case of the Tumanis, this transformation is dated by Riya to the end of Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker’s life, in the late 1880s. (Riya often refers to his personal ia’ifa as well as to the Tumani firqa as “my father’s people”: ra‘aya-yi padarc.) It is not certain that Riya was always capable – or convinced of the necessity – of maintaining the cohesion of this group. In a way, the permanence of the conflict between the Tumanis and the Kulabis over more than 40 years, and the immobility of their antagonism may have resulted from the particular circumstances created by the establishment of Russian domination in Central Asia. Of couse, the importance of the role of the Kulabis may have been artificially exaggerated by Riya, in order to reinforce the legitimacy and cohesion of his own group to the eyes of his early Soviet contemporaries, and those of an uncertain posterity. Nevertheless, the mutual antagonism and reinforcement of the two main factions of the late Bukharan Emirate may also have been a consequence of the establishment of the Russian protectorate on Bukhara from 1868 to 1917. Two of the direct consequences of Bukhara’s military defeat against Russia, and of the establishment of the protectorate, especially after the Russian conquest and annexation of the rich province of Samarkand with its innumerable waqfs (pious endowments) in 1873, seem to have been a sensitive impoverishment of the religious institutions in the remaining territory of the Bukharan Emirate (a key motif in the writings of late nineteenth-century Bukharan religious figures), and a relative reinforcement of the power of the Emir against that of the ulama. The Manghit rulers were then in a position of taking political profit from the increased concurrence of judicial positions, to which were attached substantial benefits through the payments made for the “sceal” (muhr) on the occasion of notarious or judicial operations. The Russian conquest of Samarkand occurred only three years before the Bukharan annexation of the Khatlan province and, according to Riya, the appearance of the Kulabi faction on the Emirate’s political arena. The last 75

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three Bukharan Emirs may have profited from this new balance of power. They appear in Riya’s work as the main protagonists of the political game, notably through the turnover between the members of the two main firqas at the judicial posts of the Emirate. In such general circumstances, these evolutions of the inner cleavages among the Bukharan ulama may perhaps be reinterpreted in the framework of a general redistribution of power inside the Emirate of Bukhara, in connection with the overall process of the establishment and reinforcement of Russian domination in Central Asia. Elements for the history of a Bukharan faction But let’s get back to our subject, as Riya would have said in such circumstances. Due to the lack of a regular salary for the holders of the main judicial positions of the Emirate, the promotion of a protection system, over several generations, necessitated the existence of a solid “rear,” with a strong territorial and relationship content: on one’s qawm or ia’ifa, people could always rely in case of adversity, such as one of the numerous disgraces which used to go with a long career in Bukhara’s administrative or religious apparatus. These solidarities could then crytallize and transform themselves into a larger protection system, then a faction, when the central figure of that system came to be a notable with a key position at the center of the Emirate, from where various gifts could be redistributed towards more peripheral levels of that same qawm or ia’ifa. In Riya’s narratives, the protection given by a prominent Bukharan mudarris to young students from their qawm was a highly praised activity.68 Riya’s father Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker himself, after his appointment to the post of qarc kalan of Bukhara, continued to offer in his Bukharan house big regular banquets (iey) for the “Sart” and Turkmen members of his own qawm – that is people from Yersari territory, the place from where his family had departed two generations before him.69 The professional promotion of a special qawm against the others was not an easy job. Already in the 1870s, Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker’s personal rise had been hampered (if we refer to Riya) by the growing might of the Kulabi faction.70 The latter was then organized around the personal qawm of its main leader, the first prominent figure of the Ibn Bayrà lineage: the jurist Hadr al-Dcn Tailanc, whom the Emir Mujaffar al-Dcn had appointed qarc kalan of Bukhara just after his accession to the throne in 1860. (Because of this act, Mujaffar al-Dcn was generally considered an “ignorant” and a “depraved person” among later Bukharan reform-minded mullahs and ulama. Riya in particular, after Danim in the mid-1890s,71 considered the Emir responsible for the decay of the Bukharan madrasas, because of his appointment of this Kulabi leader to the top of the theological and judicial hierarchy of the Emirate.)72

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Decades before, when Riya’s grandfather ‘Abd al-Rasel was still a madrasa student, and was searching for personal protection among the leading mayts of his time, he had to face the jealousy of his fellow students from the “mountain dweller” (Kuhistancs) faction. These mountain dwellers – another denomination of the so-called Kulabis in late nineteenth- and early twentiethcentury Bukharan sources – then depended on the Kokand Khanate, so their own quest for patronage in Bukhara was still harder than for the “vernaculars” (even for those vernaculars whose family had recently come to Bukhara from a remote province of the Emirate, like ‘Abd al-Rasel himself).73 When the Khatlan province came to be annexed to the Emirate of Bukhara in 1876, the mullahs and ialabas from Kulab begun to enjoy stronger weight in the political balance among the Bukharan clergy. Riya insists very much on that fatal date of 1876 as the beginning of the great rivalry between the two factions, which would dominate the whole political life of Bukhara, and of their struggle for the main judicial positions, in both the center and the provinces of the Emirate: “Since that date [i.e. since the annexation of the oriental provinces to the Emirate in 1876] up till our days, although fifty years have passed, the posts of qarc kalan and ra’cs of the Emirate have served as a bone of contention between these two factions.”74 Far from disappearing during the revolutionary period, the cleavage between the Kelabcs and the Temancs was further reinforced between 1917 and 1920, if not during the years of the Basmachi resistance against the Red Army. In 1918, when he was freed from the Emir’s dungeon after his short imprisonment, Riya recounts how he was welcomed by a member of his qawm, who declared to him: “The people of Bukhara is now divided up in two factions (firqas): the Kuhistanc faction sides with the present qarc kalan [then Burhan al-Dcn, a grandson of Hadr al-Dcn Tailanc], whence all the Bukharans are behind you . . .”75 So the cleavage between the Temancs and the Kelabcs appears as a permanent feature of the history of Bukhara between the two fatal dates of 1876 and 1920. As we have already suggested, this feature can be explained by Riya’s will to enhance retrospectively the importance of the role of his own protection system and political faction. Nevertheless, Riya’s insistence on the significance of these two dates also gives us an element of reflection on the validity of chronological divides in the modern history of Central Asia. Of course, we do not intend here to relativize the significance of other, more universally recognized historical dates – most of which are linked with the history of Russia itself (like the conquest of Turkestan from 1864 onwards, the revolution of 1905 and the revolutions of 1917). It seems to us that the date of 1876 and the event of the annexation of the Eastern Bukharan provinces should perhaps be more taken into account by historians, for its importance in the history of political struggles inside the Emirate of Bukhara itself, and the memory of these struggles as it was

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transmitted at least up to the 1920s. Although the appointment of Hadr al-Dcn Tailanc to the post of qarc kalan was much anterior to 1876, the annexation of the eastern Bukharan provinces was clearly considered by Riya as the starting point of the fatal opposition between the Temanc and Kelabc factions. In this matter, our periodization should perhaps take into account the successive states of memory among the protagonists of the modern and contemporary history of Central Asia. * In this context, it appears that the Emirs of Bukhara themselves personally played a decisive role in the very shaping, and subsequent evolution of the rivalry between the two main factions for the control of the most lucrative religious and judicial posts. The Emirs’ policy of changover between the Kelabcs and Temancs, from 1860 to 1920, increased the essentially political character of the cleavage between the two factions. In Riya’s narrative, the strategies of the Temanc and Kelabc leaders changed according to the policy of the rulers, who sometimes tried to reactivate their mutual opposition, when this opposition was beginning to calm down. The half-century of rivalry between the Temancs and Kelabcs passed through several periods of mutual conciliation – especially the truce which was concluded through an intermarriage between the qawm of Hadr al-Dcn Tailanc and that of Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker in 1304 h. (Sept. 1886–Sept. 1887, i.e. when ‘Abd al-Muker was occupying the post of qarc kalan of the Emirate of Bukhara).76 The mutual hostility between the two factions passed also through moments of hesitation, to the point where a complete change of alliances could then appear as a real opportunity. According to Riya’s narrative, such was the case just after the death of Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker in 1889. Then his son and heir apparent Riya wondered if it would be better to side with the new qarc kalan Badr al-Dcn Tailanc, and risk cutting himself off from his “father’s people” (ra‘aya-yi padarc ). “After infinite hesitations” (ba‘d az taraddud-i tamam), Riya finally gave up his project of a strategic change, and decided to remain inside the Temanc faction: If I pass on the side of the current qarc kalan, as do other people, for sure the memory of my late father’s supporters will suffer from the fact that I sell off my admitted rights and my past links, and that without regard for my father’s people and for the proprieties of a filial behavior, I turn my face towards the present qarc kalan in the same way as others had previously turned their faces out of me. After many hesitations and endless reflections, I firmly decided never to join the party of the present qarc kalan.77 These hesitations, if they were sincere (let’s remember that Riya’s diary is largely retrospective), can be explained by practical preoccupations: in 78

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spite of the late Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker’s personal credit among the ulama, Riya had to face a dramatic changeover, with the loss of the post of qarc kalan by the Temanc faction, and the beginning of a long period of domination by the Kelabcs of the judicial aparatus of the Emirate. In the following decades, Riya had to face disgrace,78 and to satisfy himself with provincial posts of lesser significance. According to his narrative, some of these positions outside of – although not very far from – the capital made him lose former “clients” of his own protection system, for the profit of the Khatlanis’. The last Bukharan Emirs seem to have deliberately perpetuated this division and opposition to the Temanc and Kelabc factions. From the 1870s to the abolition of the Emirate in 1920, their appointments to judicial positions look like a big game of musical chairs, in which the Temancs and the Kelabcs succeeded each other in every post, according to a subtle rule of compensations established by the Bukharan rulers themselves. For example, in the late 1870s the Emir Mujaffar al-Dcn had dismissed from the post of qarc of the city of Qarshi a son of Hadr al-Dcn Tailanc, who was replaced by Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker; the latter himself was dismissed a year later, and replaced by his predecessor’s brother. (In the meantime, according to Riya, the Emir had feared that, after the death of the governor of Qarshi, Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker, who had taken control of the finances of that important city, could have concentrated in his hands too much power.)79 This example, as it was recounted by Riya, gives us an interesting illustration of the maintenance of balance between the ulama and the umara’, and of the rivalry between the antagonistic factions of the former. Later on, the Emir ‘Abd al-Agad (r. 1885–1910), against the advice of his qarc kalan Badr al-Dcn Tailanc, several times offered Riya lucrative provincial positions – sometimes in districts adjacent to Bukhara – which permitted the latter to keep a close eye on Bukharan politics and faction intrigues. In 1318/1900, following the principles of this unwritten rule of changeover and mutual balance of forces, Riya, then aged 35, replaced as the qarc of Charjuy Burhan al-Dcn Tailanc (Hadr al-Dcn’s grandson), who was then appointed ra’cs-i kalan of Bukhara.80 The promotion of the leader of one of the main aqwams of the Emirate seems to have been almost systematically followed by the transmission of his post to a representative of a rival qawm. As to the chiefs of each qawm or ia’ifa, they did their best to place their own peoples, and in this matter Riya was no exception. When he finally and unexpectedly rose to the post of qarc kalan in March 1917, as soon as he recovered from his surprise, he began to appoint people from his ia’ifa to the main judicial positions. The overall revolutionary circumstances and the new logics created by the abolition of the Russian monarchy81 did not prevent him acting according to a traditional strategy based on faction intrigues.82 79

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At the same time, the Emir ‘Alim Tan (r. 1910–20) was opening his treasury, and secretly financing an uprising of the Kuhistanis against the manifest that he had himself proclaimed under pressure. The signal of the beginning of the civil war in Bukhara was given by the clandestine recruitment of fighters by Burhan al-Dcn, in his province of Khatlan. At the same time, the ephemeral qarc kalan Hadr-i Riya and his companions had to face the first strike pickets set up by the Kulabi madrasa students of Bukhara (who several times organized week-long occupations of the Rcgistan – the city’s main open square – during the years 1917 and 1918).83 During the period of civil war and endemic terror against the Bukharan “Jadids” (1917–20), the oriental provinces of Qabadiyan and Kulab were often chosen by the Emirs for the deportation and execution of prominent figures and activists of the reformist and revolutionary trends.84 Then, in the years following the overthrow of the Emir in 1920, eastern Bukhara became a territorial sanctuary for the Basmachi (basqekc) resistance against the Red Army,85 while Temanc ulama were entering for a while the Islamic judicial institutions of the young People’s Soviet Republic of Bukhara.

Faction struggles as a paradigm for history writing Kinship and memory of the past: two Bukharan narratives It goes without saying that Riya’s discourse must still be put in perspective with other contemporary sources, which will help us to assess Riya’s truth (in particular on his personal role, and the role of his protection system inside the “Bukhari” firqa). A comparison between Riya’s memorial works and other contemporary or older sources will help us to measure the place of kinship in a specific memory of the historical past, as this memory was expressed in the early 1920s by the protagonists of the political struggles of the protectorate and revolution periods. It is a fact that among the memorialists of the early 1920s in Mawara al-Nahr, Riya is not the only one who uses the same categories. The Reznama, in particular, is not the first text in which the last half-century of the history of the Emirate of Bukhara was summarized under that same aspect of the rivalry between the “autochtonous” and “mountain” factions. We find exactly the same narrative scheme in a short polemical text about the Bukharan ulama during the Russian protectorate. That text was published in Turkey after the proclamation of the Turkestanian Autonomy in the Autumn of 1917 by ‘Abd al-Ra’uf Fiirat (1886–1937), a former pupil of the Medreset ül-Vaezin of Istanbul, and a leading ideologist of the Jadid movement and of the Young-Bukharan party.86 Like Riya, Fiirat makes a distinction among the Bukharan ulama, whom he divides into two clearly distinct and opposite categories, or parties (firqas): on the first side are the “Butarcs” (according to his definition, the ulama who had studied in the 80

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madrasas of the city of Bukhara – i.e. including those who used to come from various provinces), and on the second side are the “Kelabcs” (the newcomers who had flocked from the eastern provinces of the Emirate after the latter’s annexation in 1876). In Fiirat’s text, the opposition between the Butarcs and the Kelabcs becomes a global historical paradigm. Fiirat begins his narrative with a comparison between the half-century long opposition of these two parties, and the conflict between the Hashemites and the Umayyads in the first century of the Hijra. Fiirat also proposes a historical explanation for the antagonism between the Butarc and Kelabc factions: for him, the cause of that opposition was the former qarc kalan Hadr al-Dcn Tailanc’s custom of distributing to his people the product of Bukharan waqfs which remained after the loss of the Samarkand province; Fiirat also reproaches Hadr al-Dcn Tailanc for his policy of appointment of people from Kulab to all the religious and judicial posts of the Emirate. * Against Hadr al-Dcn Tailanc, Fiirat uses the same classical arguments as Riya: he accuses the founder of the Ibn Bayrà dynasty of having been ignorant of the Quran and Hadith. (Fiirat recounts how, under the Emir Mujaffar al-Dcn, the qarc kalan had made an erroneous reading of the first verse of a surat, in front of an assembly of Bukharan scholars, and had subsequently deserved public discredit.) However, the first Kulabi qarc kalan had managed to have his son Badr al-Dcn appointed as his successor.87 The latter had to face the opposition of the Butarc ulama; he continued his father’s policy of appointing “ignorant” Kulabis to the main religious and judicial posts, those (‘ilmc manhablar) usually reserved to former madrasa students. In this way, the Butarc ulama were deprived of their traditional professional prospects. Some of them, particularly exasperated by the new qarc kalan’s favoritism, “created against him a party” (enga qarme bir firqa kcqardclar). As leader of this new party (firqa), they elected first Burhan al-Dcn Tera, a genuine ‘alim – says Fiirat – from Samarkand, who had to face the endless intrigues of Badr al-Dcn, and died at an early age. This first leader of the Butarc faction was succeeded by Atend Mulla Piyau al-Dcn, a figure that Fiirat presents as his main spiritual master, and an ‘alim with an exceptional knowledge of religious and legal disciplines, as well as of kalam (dogmatic theology) and of Greek philosophy. According to his disciple Fiirat, Atend Mulla Piyau al-Dcn had also to face the personal hostility of the Emir Mujaffar al-Dcn, and he also succumbed to an early death like his predecessor. At this time, the Butarc ulama elected not one but three leaders at the same time: Baqa Twala (a younger brother of the late Atend Mulla Piyau al-Dcn, who would become qarc kalan after Badr al-Dcn’s death, from 1908 to 1912/3, before giving back this charge to Badr al-Dcn’s son, Burhan al-Dcn, in exchange of the post of mayt al-islam);88 Muhannif Matdem, 81

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who would become muftc-yi ‘askar after the revolution of February 1917;89 and our well-known (Mcrza Mugammad) Marcf Lan Matdûm b. Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker, alias Riya. As we can see, in Fiirat’s narrative, Riya’s personal lineage and protection system clearly appear in the history of the Butarc firqa some time after the creation of that party – in which, according to Fiirat, Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker had played no prominent role. Of course, if we still follow Fiirat, Riya’s lineage and protection system were actively present since the origins of the firqa, but their role appears much less central and decisive than in the Rez-nama, and in Riya’s biography of his father Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker. Fiirat’s narrative focused on the figure of Atend Mulla Piyau al-Dcn, and may have been written in order to lessen the recently dismissed qarc kalan Riya’s pretention to lead the whole Temanc faction after the events of March–April, 1917. Riya’s biography of his father may perhaps have been written, fourteen years later, in order to correct this retrospective distribution of the roles. A local variant: Samarqand£s against M£rak¡n£s Both Fiirat and Riya’s respective narratives stress the active role played by the Emirs in the geography and mutual opposition of the two main Bukharan factions. We find an analogous analytical scheme in a contemporary historical work, which is devoted to the inner conflicts of the ulama of Samarkand in the second half of the eighteenth century.90 This study was published in 1926, some nine years after Fiirat’s lampoon, at a moment when Riya himself was completing the final version of his diary, by another figure of the Jadid trend in Mawara an-Nahr: Gallc Mu‘cn b. Mukr-Allàh Kattaqurpanc, tatalluh Mihrc (1883–1942). On this author, we knew very few things until recently,91 except that he had been very active in the reform of the maktabs in Russian Turkestan in the early 1900s. Gallc Mu‘cn created a Jadid school in the guwar of Ruhrbad in Samarkand as soon as 1903, and authored several textbooks for the learning of the Arabic alphabet in Persian and in Turki. He also participated in the development of the “Muslim” press in Samarkand after 1906. After October 1917 he occupied several posts of responsibility in the Tajik and Uzbek press of the Soviet Socialist Republics of Turkistan and Uzbekistan. During the great purges of 1938, he was sentenced to ten years of forced labor for “espionage,” and he is supposed to have died four years later in a camp in the region of Perm, in the Urals.92 Gallc Mu‘cn was the author of a great number of papers on the reform of the Islamic educational system, and of dramas in favor of new “progressist” ideas imported from the Muslim communities of European Russia. During the winter 1917–18, he also published many papers which advocated the political autonomy of a united Turkistan, against the Bolsheviks and the Russian population of the Central Asian cities.93 In the 1920s, 82

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he authored several works and papers on the history and memory of Muslim reformism and its main figures in Mawara al-Nahr.94 In one of these papers (the one published in 1926), Gallc Mu‘cn recounts the conflict in Samarkand, under the first Manghit Emirs, between two factions that we are tempted to compare with Fiirat and Riya’s Kelabc and Temanc factions.95 In that paper, Gallc Mu‘cn praises a prominent Samarkandi ‘alim of the late eigtheenth century, Mcr ‘Abd al-Gayy Twala (d. 1819) – more famous under his nickname Qarc kalan-i Mal: the “Lame Supreme Judge” – for the protection that he used to grant to the most deserving madrasa students of that city. The praise is extended by Gallc Mu‘cn to Qarc kalan-i Mal’s son, Qarc Abe Sa‘cd, one of the most prominent theologians and jurists of Samarkand in the first half of the nineteenth century.96 Qarc Abe Sa‘cd used to teach in several of the large madrasas of Samarkand, among others in the Mcr-Dar, where he had among his disciples Mihab al-Dcn al-Marlanc, a talented reformist ‘alim from the Volga-Urals who, in his turn, later became in Bukhara a teacher of ‘Isa Matdem – one of Riya’s very first masters, if we refer to the Rez-nama. Primary sources have indeed kept the souvenir of these two figures, who occupied a special place in the pantheon of the great ancestors of modern Muslim reformism in Mawara al-Nahr – as the initiators of a movement that Marlanc would bear to its achievements in European Russia after his own return from Bukhara to Kazan in 1849.97 What is particularly relevant for us in Gallc Mu‘cn’s historical study is its insistence on a mutual rivalry over several generations between, on the one hand, a faction successively directed by the “Lame Supreme Judge” and by his son Qarc Abe Sa‘cd, and on other second hand another faction named the “Mcrakancs.” A second interesting element is the explanation – essentially economic – that Gallc Mu‘cn gives on the causes of this long-lasting opposition. * The key drama of the whole story seems to have been the selling at a loss of several orchards (bap ycrlar) to Qarc kalan-i Mal by the family of another Samarkandi qarc kalan, Mcr Mu‘ajjam Twala Mcrakanc. The sale was sealed after Mcr Mu‘ajjam Twala had been dismissed from his post of qarc kalan of Samarkand by the Manghit Emir Mah Murad (r. 1785–1800), and exiled to Twala Suktarc, a poor village in the western part of the teman of Wapanzc, situated some 20kms east of Bukhara. (Twala Suktarc was to become the birthplace of ‘Aync, who used to remember the close ties of his father with the Mcrakanc twalagan.)98 According to the narrative which was made to Gallc Mu‘cn by Qarc ‘Isa Tan, a grandson of Mcr Mu‘ajjam Twala, only one of the latter’s sons, Mcr Abe Nahr, had escaped the exile and been permitted to stay in Samarkand because of his simplemindedness. However, material difficulties had soon obliged Mcr Abe Nahr to sell, little by little, to the cunning Qarc kalan-i Mal, the profitable plots of land that his family had possessed until then in the oasis of Samarkand. 83

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Things went wrong, nevertheless, for the lucky buyer, when the Emir Gaydar b. Ma‘hem (r. 1800–26), after his accession to the throne in Bukhara, reinstalled in Samarkand Mcr Mu‘ajjam Twala and his “family” (for the latter, Gallc Mu‘cn uses the term ‘a’ila). Several episodes followed, under the Emir Gaydar, on which Gallc Mu‘cn keeps silent, except for a couple of words on a truce between the two factions, which was concluded through an inevitable matrimonial alliance between the two qawms.99 After the death of Qarc kalan-i Mal, his son Qarc Abe Sa‘cd had inherited his post as qarc kalan of Samarkand, but he enjoyed it for only a year before the Emir Gaydar b. Ma‘hem himself died. Under the latter’s successor Nahr-Allàh (r. 1826–60), Qarc Abe Sa‘cd could finally keep his position, because the new ruler was grateful to him for his role in the mobilization of the ulama and the populace of Samarkand during the succession struggle which had opposed Nahr-Allàh to his brothers. In return for Qarc Abe Sa‘cd’s intervention, Nahr-Allàh granted him the post for life. However, as soon as Qarc Abe Sa‘cd himself died, Nahr-Allàh appointed a Mcrakanc as the new qarc kalan of Samarkand, which obliged Abe Sa‘cd’s sons to leave the city, and to move to Bukhara.100 The maintenance of a strong political pressure on the holders of the religious and judicial posts seems to have been a characteristic of the Manghit Emirs in general, and more specifically of Gaydar b. Ma‘hem and NahrAllàh in the first half of the nineteenth century. Both Emirs used to hold with their ulama regular public theological and judicial discussions. In case of a “victory” of the ruler, or of one of his champions (who was usually chosen from a faction hostile to that of the scholar who was submitted to the royal test), the defeated ‘alim could lose his position, as well as the significant incomes which were often associated with it. Qarc kalan-i Mal and his son Qarc Abe Sa‘cd were themselves several times confronted with the painful experiment of having to answer to a deliberately specious opinion formulated by the ruler, or by one of his representatives, on a question of dogmatic theology (kalam) or mar‘c law. According to a tradition which was maintained by Qarc Abe Sa‘cd’s descendants, some day the Emir Nahr-Allàh himself had come to Samarkand together with a famous polemicist (munajarakc ) from Khujand, Mulla Gallc Bay, in order to organize a public confrontation between the latter and Qarc Abe Sa‘cd inside the Iilla-Karc madrasa (one of the biggest and most prestigious in Samarkand). However, the Samarkandi jurist remained master of the place: he refused obstinately to respond to the agitator’s questions, and finally answered the sovereign, who was questionning him on the reason for his silence: first, the laws of hospitality were forbidding him to give an abrupt answer to a guest from a distant city; then, the very law rank of the mullah from Khujand in the religious and judicial hierarchy made him a poor interlocutor for a titular Samarkandi mudarris; and last, but by no means least, the presence of the Emir definitively prevented 84

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any straightforwardness towards the man who presented himself as His Majesty’s travel companion . . .101

Conclusions The first lesson that we can extract from Fiirat and Riya’s narratives on the hostility between the Temancs and Kelabcs in late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Bukhara, then from Gallc Mu‘cn’s historical study on the conflicts between the Samarqandcs and Mcrakancs in late eighteenthand early nineteenth-century Samarkand is perhaps a confirmation of the essentially political dimension of these faction struggles. Another, consubstantial aspect of this first lesson is the prominent role which seems to have been played in the definition, and in the eventual evolution, of these faction struggles by the Manghit Emirs of Bukhara, from the first decades of the history of their dynasty in the mid-eighteenth century until the Emir ‘Alim Tan’s deposition in 1920. Riya, Fiirat and Gallc Mu‘cn offer us some new elements, if not a global paradigm, for the interpretation of the events of early modern history of Central Asia. According to Riya’s narrative, the same causes – that is the distribution of judicial posts by the Manghit Emirs between the rival Bukharan factions – were also the origin of such a significant event as the pogrom of the Shi‘a community of Bukhara in January, 1910.102 The Emir Nahr-Allàh, for fear of the tribal chiefs, had launched in the 1830s a tradition of entrusting Iranian wazcrs and administrators with considerable power at court.103 The hegemony that the Shi‘a community of Bukhara had acquired with the highest administrative posts of the Emirate had created grief among the military governors. That situation permitted the ambitious Sunni governor of Shahr-i Sabz, Mcrza Nahr-Allàh Bc Parwanakc, to appear as the champion of the Sunnis. The latter were then led by the chiefs of the Khatlani qawm, against Astana-Qul, the qembcgc 104 of Iranian origin, who was the protector of the Tumani firqa.105 The frequent “interethnic” (as we would say today) violence of the protectorate period (1868–1917) are commonly explained by the leading historiographs and memorialists of the Temanc faction and Young Bukharan party through these rivalries for the control of the central power. A regional faction such as the Kelabcs, or a more heterogenous coalition like that of the Temancs would probably not have experienced such a fixation had both not been oriented towards the control of the resources of a central Islamic state, the population of which was made up of an intricate medley of local, ethnic and religious communities. To summarize, Central Asian factions appear to us as extremely fluctuating entities (remember Riya’s alleged “hesitations” [taraddud] in 1889, and the frequency of marriages between the qawm of Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker and those of the Tailancs in Bukhara, between the Samarqandcs and the 85

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Mcrakancs in Samarkand), with several levels (that of the personal system of protection and patronage: qawm or ia’ifa, and that of the political faction: firqa) which often tended to merge, and were deeply influenced in their mere logics by the policy of the Emirs, as well as by the general political context of the protectorate. As we can see, we are far from the traditional image put forward by colonial literature on “clan struggles” with immutable outlines, the mutual confrontation of which would have been motivated by mechanical, inextinguishable and (let’s say the word) “transhistorical” hatreds. * Our second general observation concerns the apparent absence, or at least the weakness of the ideological considerations in our three narratives on the genesis and evolution of the faction struggles in nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Central Asia, written between 1917 and the late 1920s by several leading figures of the former Jadid and reformist trends. According to Riya, Fiirat and Gallc Mu‘cn the cause of these conflicts could be summarized by a combination of economic factors (distribution of waqfs, orchards’ selling at loss . . . ) and political considerations (the instrumentalization of concurrent protection systems by the successive Emirs of Bukhara, in both Bukhara and Samarkand, from the 1810s to the 1910s). However, the Temancs were explicitly identified by our sources with reform and modernization, and the Kelabcs with tradition and fanaticism. The theological and judicial conceptions that were advocated by the same three authors in their other works look like late additions in their respective historical narratives. Even the mention by both Riya and Gallc Mu‘cn of the Kazani ‘alim Mihab al-Dcn al-Marlanc as a great ancestor of the early twentieth-century Central Asian reformist thinkers, appears like a mere element of an intellectual and spiritual genealogy, with no discussion on Marlanc’s education beside Qarc Abe Sa‘cd in Samarkand, and his own innovative teaching during his stay in Bukhara in the 1840s. This preoccupation with intellectual genealogy, and in memory of the faction struggles of the recent past, seems particular to authors with a strong madrasa profile: Riya, Fiirat and Gallc Mu‘cn were all products of traditional Islamic education, although Fiirat had also attended the Medreset ül-Vaezin of Istanbul, and Gallc Mu‘cn the Russo-indigenous schools in Turkistan territory. Court historiographs and memorialists from the status group of the umara’ show totally different approaches.106 Perhaps is it also worth mentioning that the common treatment by Riya, Fiirat and Gallc Mu‘cn of the history of faction struggles seems typical of the literature posterior to the revolutionary changes of 1917. Beforehand, writing and diffusing in written form such considerations would have been hardly thinkable. With the beginning of the civil war in Bukhara in spring 1917 people could feel more free to settle their score and search for legitimacy for their own faction through history writing. 86

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Theological debates were only rarely the object of written literature in pre-revolutionary Bukhara: it was a matter of oral debates inside the madrasas, and literary jousting in Riya and other figures’ regular malalis. Moreover, as early as 1919 most of the madrasas were closed all over the territories under Bolshevik control, which gave way, for more than half a century, to a general shift in the location of intellectual debates inside the Islamic community, from the madrasas to private circles (malalis), from written to oral practice and transmission of learning. This displacement of intellectual speculation, the obsolescence of many theological controversies of the recent past (that on the collection of the zakat, for example) under war communism and even during the New Economic Policy (NEP) may explain the lack of theological arguments in the historical narratives and memorial works of the early 1920s. For these different reasons, these narratives represent a particular moment of the historical memory of Central Asia, and should perhaps be studied as such, although they also make up invaluable sources for the history of Islamic reformist trends in that region during the first decades of the Soviet period. * The narrative sources that we have briefly analyzed offer a diachronical approach to the events that they recount. This characteristic gives us a first advantage: they present a subjective periodization of the history of nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Central Asia, based on the memory which has been kept of it in the months and years that followed the revolution of February 1917. It is probably worth remembering that, according to Riya’s narrative, the most significant dates of that recent past were that of 1873 (the loss by the Emirate of Bukhara of the rich province of Samarkand, which was then annexed to Russia) and even more that of 1876 (the annexation of the province of Khatlan to Bukhara, as a consequence of the abolition of the Khanate of Kokand). These events had two contradictory consequences for the great “families” of the Bukharan ulama: the loss of very significant incomes from the innumerable waqfs which were concentrated in the province of Samarkand; and the massive arrival of the “Kulabi” mullahs on the impoverished job and position market of Bukhara. The narrative and diachronical character of our sources has another advantage for us: although these sources are naturally biased by the respective preoccupations of the different authors, that specificity gives us further keys for a general understanding of the functioning of protection systems and political factions in early modern Central Asia. All these narratives are very telling, as they reveal the constant evolution of the factions, and their permanent instability as their essential characteristic. Through these accounts, although the Kelabc faction is abusively caricatured as a mechanical coalition of purely regional interests, led by the ambitious Ibn Bayrà or Tailanc family, the Temancs (especially in Fiirat’s historical study on the 87

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Bukharan ulama) appear largely as a community of will made of many instable units. (After the Shi‘a qembcgc Astana-Qul’s disgrace in 1910, the Temancs began a rapprochement with their former enemy Mcrza NahrAllàh Bc Parwanakc, who until then had been allied with the Tailanc qawm.) A diachronical approach, through the confrontation of narrative sources, may be the key to a more sociological treatment of the Central Asian factions (through an in-depth analysis of the nature of the kind of authority that was exercised by the charismatic leader of each political faction), as well as to an anthropological appraisal (for instance on the functions of the kinship systems). One of our last conclusions is that in a system with no regular salaries for the holders of judicial posts, which was based upon permanent exchanges of favors, the authority and the social role of the qarc largely exceeded what was codified in the texts as jurisprudence, as well as what was described by foreign observers in the Islamic courts of Central Asia. At the same time the general political context, that of Russian protectorate, was marked by a relative and paradoxical reinforcement of the power of the Emirs in front of both umara’ and ulama. In such an overall framework, the inner segmentations of the former as well as the latter, as these divisions were preceived from within by the protagonists themselves, give us some new keys to questions linked to the general problem of religion and politics in Central Asia under Russian domination.

Notes 1 On these aspects, see Yuri Bregel, Notes on the Study of Central Asia, Papers on Inner Asia: 28 (Bloomington: Indiana University), 1996, repr. in Vostok 1997/5, 119–20; and my paper “Changements politique et historiographie en Asie centrale. L’exemple de l’Ouzbékistan et du Tadjikistan (1987–1993),” Cahiers d’études sur la Méditerranée orientale et le monde turco-iranien 16 (1993): 85–134. 2 The main contributions on this theme have been devoted to the Volga-Urals region, to the north of the Steppe territory, and to western Siberia: see in particular Michael Kemper, Sufis und Gelehrte in Tatarien und Baschkirien, 1789–1989. Der islamische Diskurs unter russischer Herrschaft (Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 1998), in part 324–54; Allen J. Frank, Islamic Historiography and “Bulghar” Identity among the Tatars and Bashkirs of Russia (Leiden – Boston – Köln: Brill, 1998), passim; eod., Muslim Religious Institutions in Imperial Russia. The Islamic World of Novouzensk District & the Kazakh Inner Horde, 1780–1910 (Leiden – Boston – Köln: Brill, 2001), passim; see also, by the same author, “Islamic Shrine Catalogues and Communal Geography in the Volga-Urals Region: 1788–1917,” Journal of Islamic Studies 7/2 (1996): 265–86; Allen J. Frank and Mirkasyim A. Usmanov, Materials for the Islamic History of Semipalatinsk: Two Manuscripts by Ahmad-Walî al-Qazânî and Qurbân ‘Alî Khâlidî, Anor 11 (Berlin: Verlag Das Arabische Buch, 2001), passim; on southern Central Asia through the twentieth century, see Stéphane A. Dudoignon, “Local Lore, the Transmission of Learning, and Communal Identity in Late 20th-Century Tajikistan. The Tuland-nama of ‘Arifjan Yahyazad Tulandc (1994),” colloquium Transmitting Learning in Muslim

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3

4

5 6 7

8

9 10 11

Northern Eurasia (Eastern Europe, Russia, the Caucasus, Central Asia, China) through the 20th Century, Paris: Carré des Sciences, November 12–13, 2001, to be published in the proceedings. See notably the partly unpublished Ph.D. dissertation by John Samuel Schoeberlein-Engel, Identity in Central Asia. Construction and Contention in the Conceptions of “Özbek,” “Tâjik,” “Muslim,” “Samarquandi” and Other Groups, Harvard University, 1994, in part 254–80. On modern Afghanistan (a field particularly favorable to this kind of analysis) see for instance Gabriele Rasuly-Paleczek, “Ethnic Identity Versus Nationalism: The Uzbeks of Northern Afghanistan and the Afghan State,” in Post-Soviet Central Asia, ed. Touraj Atabaki and John O’Kane (London – New York: Tauris Academic Studies, 1998), 204–30. For a tentative typology of the ruling political factions in late Soviet and early independent Tajikistan, see Stéphane A. Dudoignon, “Une segmentation peut en cacher une autre: régionalismes et clivages politico-économiques au Tadjikistan,” Cahiers d’études sur la Méditerranée orientale et le monde turco-iranien 18 (1994): 73–129; commented on in detail by Barnett R. Rubin, “Russian Hegemony and State Breakdown in the Periphery: Causes and Consequences of the Civil War in Tajikistan,” in Post-Soviet Political Order. Conflicts and State Building, ed. Barnett R. Rubin and Jack Snyder (London – New York: Routledge, 1998), 128–61. See also Parviz Mulladoanov, “Islam i politika v Tadoikistane [Islam and Politics in Tajikistan],” Maverannaxr (Moscow) 1 (1992): 15–21 (on the geographical origin and history of the “Gharmi” faction and Muhajir identity); Kirill Nourzhanov, “Traditional Kinship Structures in Contemporary Tajik Politics,” in Silk Road Studies II. Worlds of the Silk Roads, Ancient and Modern, ed. David Christian and Craig Benjamin (Brepols: Turnhout, 1998), 147–64 (on the different levels of contemporary protection systems in Khujand, and their articulation with political parties and institutions). See Jürgen Paul, “Forming a Faction. The Gimayat System of Khwaja Ahrar,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 23/4 (1991): 533–48. Cf. Georges Duby, L’histoire continue (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1991), 18. For a short and recent overview of nineteenth-century Bukharan court chronicles, see M. Èsonova, “Buxoro amirligi tarixnavislari (XIX asr ikkinki ãrmi – XX asr bomlari) [The Chronicle Writers of the Emirate of Bukhara (Second Half of the 19th – Beginning of the 20th Century) ],” Marqmunoslik 8 (1998): 177–89. Cf. my paper “Echoes to al-Manar among the Muslims of Russia. A Preliminary Research Note on Rira al-Dcn b. Fatr al-Dcn and the Mera (1908–1918),” in Intellectuals in Islam in the Twentieth Century: Transformation, Transmission, Communication, eds Stéphane A. Dudoignon, Hisao Komatsu and Yasushi Kosugi (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2004) in print. Cf. Michel Maffesoli, Le temps des tribus (Paris, 1998; repr. Paris: Editions de la Table Ronde, 2000), notably 18–22. On the case of Khujand (today in Northern Tajikistan), and the local and regional developments of Tulandc identity throughout the twentieth century, see Dudoignon, “Local Lore,” forthcoming. The present paper is the development of a chapter of an unpublished doctoral dissertation: Stéphane A. Dudoignon, Lectures de la modernité en islam centrasiatique. La réforme des institutions d’enseignement éthique, théologique et juridique dans le monde tatar et en Transoxiane, du “premier renouveau” à la soviétisation (1767–1937) (Paris: Université de Paris III Sorbonne-Nouvelle, December 1996), esp. 393–465.

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12 Cf. notably Muhammadoan Mukurov, “O Sadre Zië [On Hadr-i Riya],” Pamir (Dushanbe) 1990/4, 161–77; eod., Hadr-e Botara. Takk-e negamtc dar tagavvolat-e siyasc-eltema‘c-ye Botara-ye Marcf ieyy-e ncme-ye payanc-ye Emarat-e tanat-e Manpetiyye bar asas-e avar-e Marcf Lan Matdem Hadr-e Riya, atarcn qarc kalan-e Botara [A Bukharan Eminency. A View from Within on Bukhara’s Political and Social Upheavals at the End of the Manghit Period, through the Works of Marcf Lan Matdem Hadr-i Riya, the Last Supreme Judge of the Venerable City] (Tehran: Markaz-e Asnad va Tarct-e dcpldmasc, 1380 m./2002), 65 ff.; in most of his biographical works on his father, including his last book – and introductory study to the forthcoming publication of the Reznama – Mukurov relies on various twentieth-century sources such as the Bukharan memorialist ‘Aync’s writings, and to the personal souvenirs of his early childhood, as far as the very last years of Riya’s life are concerned. 13 See notably Gallc Ni‘mat-Allàh Mugtaram [d. 1920], Tawkirat al-mu‘ara [Repertory of the Poets], ed. Ahpar Lanfida (Dushanbe: Idara-yi namriyat-i Danim, 1975), 214–19; Afral Pcrmastc [d. 1915], Bap-i Iram wa afral al-tawkar fc wikr al-mu‘ara wa’l-am‘ar wa Tawkira-yi Nawa’c [The Garden of Paradise, and The Best of Repertories] (Tashkent: lit. G.X. Arifdoanova, [1918] ), 78– 81; Hadr al-Dcn ‘Aync [1878–1954], Namena-yi adabiyat-i talck, 300–1200 hilrc [Anthology of Tajik Literature, 300–1200 of the Hijra] (Moscow: Central’noe izdatel’stvo narodov SSSR, 1925), 399–405; eod., Butara inqilabc ta’rctc eken matäriyallar [Materials for the History of the Bukharan Revolution] (Moscow: Namrdawtalck, 1926; reed. from an autograph manuscript in Persian by Rahim Homim, Ta‘rixi inqilobi buxoro (Dushanbe: Adib, 1991), 23–4, 71, 141–4; eod., Yaddamtha [Memories], (Stalinabad [Dushanbe], 1947–54; reed. Sa‘cdc Scrlanc, Tehran: Entemarat-e Agah, s.d.), 225–45. 14 Mcrza Mugammad Marcf Hadr b. Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker, alias Riya, Reznama, autographic mss. No. 2277, Biruni Institute of Oriental Studies of the Academy of Sciences of Uzbekistan, Tashkent; cf. D.X. Xsupova and R.P. Doalilova, eds, Sobranie vostoknyx rukopisej Akademii Nauk Respubliki Uzbekistan. Istoriã [The Collection of Oriental Manuscripts of the Academy of Sciences of the Republic of Uzbekistan. History] (Tashkent: Izdatel’stvo “Fan” Akademii Nauk Respubliki Uzbekistan, 1998), 380. On this manuscript, and more generally on Riya’s unpublished works, see in particular: R. Xadi-Zade, Istokniki k izukenix tadoikskoj literatury vtoroj poloviny XIX veka [Sources for the Study of Tajik Literature of the Second Half of the 19th Century] (Stalinabad [Dushanbe]: Izdatel’stvo Akademii nauk Tadoikskoj SSR, 1956), 62–9; L. Èpifanova, Rukopisnye istokniki istorii Srednej Azii perioda prisoedineniã eë s Rossiej [Manuscript Sources to the History of Middle Asia in the Period of Its Reunion to Russia] (Tashkent: Nauka, 1965), 51–64. 15 Mcrza Mugammad Marcf Hadr b. Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker, alias Riya, Tarluma-yi agwal-i Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker, autographic mss. dated 1350/1931, No 1304/IV, Biruni Institute of Oriental Studies of the Academy of Sciences of Uzbekistan, Tashkent. 16 Cf. Mukurov, 161–177; by the same author, “Mammae az ruzgori Sadri Ziõ [A Brief Survey of the Life of Hadr-i Riya],” in Navodiri Ziõã, ed. M. Mukurov & S. Siddiqov (Dushanbe: Adib, 1991), 102–23; Stéphane A. Dudoignon, “Ziyâ,” in Dictionnaire des savants et grandes figures de l’islam périphérique, depuis le XIX e siècle, ed. Marc Gaborieau, Nicole Grandin, Pierre Labrousse and Alexandre Popovic, vol. 2 (Paris: EHESS, 1998), 49–50, bibliography. 17 Riya, Tarluma-yi agwal-i Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker, 98b. 18 Riya, Reznama, 18b–19a.

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19 Afral Pcrmastc, Bap-i Iram wa afral al-tawkar, 14–17; Mukurov, “Mammae,” 104. 20 According to Riya, one of these diplomatic missions, in the Khanate of Kokand, was particularly delicate, and ended up with more than a year of imprisonment of the Bukharan ambassador (Reznama, 20a–b; Tarluma-yi agwal-i Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker, 104a–b). 21 On this charge, see the late eighteenth-century treatise by Mcrza Badc‘ Dcwan, Malma‘ al-arqam (“Predpisaniã fiska”). Priemy dokumentacii v Buxare XVIII v. (Moscow: Izdatel’stvo Nauka, 1981), 87a (92 of the Russian translation); for a recent reappraisal of the significance of this source, and of its information on the ranks and titles in Bukhara under the first Manghit emirs, see Yuri Bregel, The Administration of Bukhara under the Manghits and Some Tashkent Manuscripts, Papers on Inner Asia 34 (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University, Research Institute for Inner Asian Studies, 2000), in part 6–19; Bregel concentrates on administrative charges, and devotes only a few lines, in passing, to religious positions. 22 Mukurov, Hadr-i Butara, 6. 23 On this great figure of the reformist current in Bukhara during the second half of the nineteenth century, see notably ‘Aync, Namena, 418–28. For more recent reappraisals, cf. A. Habibzoda, “Iso,” Ènciklopediai sovetii tolik (Dushanbe, 1981), 3: 32; S. Merova, “Iso,” Ènciklopediai adabiõt va san’ati tolik (Dushanbe, 1988), 1: 521–2; etc. 24 Ajnc, Ta’rixi inqilobi Buxoro, 15–16; see also Dudoignon, Lectures de la modernité, Chapter III; on Marlanc’s Bukharan period, see Michael Kemper, “Entre Boukhara et la Moyenne Volga: ‘Abd an-Nahîr al-Qûrhâwî (1776– 1812) en conflit avec les oulémas traditionalistes,” Cahiers du monde russe 37/1–2 (1996): 46–7. 25 Many examples of the content of these encounters are given in Navodiri ziõã, in part 62–101; ‘Aync, Yaddamtha, 227– 45. 26 See my biographical notice and bibliography on this figure in Dictionnaire biographique 3 (2004), in print. 27 For spare information about Riya’s maternal ancestors and the family tradition of calligraphy practice, Rez-nama, 61b–3b. A taste for calligraphy is still very much in evidence among the Makercs, as one of the elements of distinction inherited from their prestigious past. 28 He is generally praised for that by the main memorialists of the first half of the twentieth century: see Mugtaram, 214–15; ‘Aync, Namena, 405; eod., Yaddamtha, 225–6. 29 Among early modern studies on the judicial and social functions of the qarc in southern Central Asia, see notably D.N. Logofet, Buxarskoe xanstvo pod russkim protektoratom [The Khanate of Bukhara under Russian Protectorate] (Saint Petersburg: V. Berezovskij, 1911), 1: 307– 49; on Russian Turkestan, see A.K. Gejns, “Ob’ãsnitel’naã zapiska k polooenix i mtatam voenno-narodnogo upravleniã Semirekenskoj i Syr-Dar’inskoj oblastej [Explanatory Note on the Situation and Status of the Military and Civil Administration of the Semirech’e and Syr-Darya Regions],” in [A.K. Gejns], Sobranie literaturnyx trudov Aleksandra Konstantinovika Gejnsa, 2. Prilooeniã (Saint Petersburg, 1898): 3–83; G. Arendarenko, “Zerafmanskie zametki: O narodnom sude u tuzemcev [Notes on the Zarafshan: On the Popular Courts among the Natives],” Turkestanskie vedomosti 1879/14; 17 to 20; 23; 28; 29; repr. in G.A. Arendarenko, Dosugi v Turkestane 1874–1889 [Leisure Time in Turkestan, 1874–1889] (Saint Petersburg: Tipografiã M.M. Stasxlevika, 1889), 166–243;

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30

31

32 33 34 35 36 37

38 39 40 41 42

N. Filoetov, “Sudoproizvodstvo v musul’manskix sudax (sudy kaziev) Srednej Azii [The Administration of Justice in Muslim Courts [Qarc ’s Courts] in Middle Asia],” Novyj Vostok 23–4 (1928): 204–17; eod., “Sudy kaziev v sredneaziatskix respublikax [Qarc ’s Courts in the Middle Asian Republics],” Sovetskoe pravo 1927/1 (25): 132–46. The Sanskritic word “Sart,” with its initial meaning of “merchant,” was used in early modern Central Asia, by native authors including Riya himself, for the designation of non-tribalized Turkic- as well as Persian-speaking citydwellers; cf. W. Barthold [and M.E. Subtelny], “Sart,” The Encyclopædia of Islam, new edition, 9 (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1997), 66–8. Ajnc, Ta’rixi inqilobi Buxoro, 31–3; Stéphane A. Dudoignon, “La question scolaire à Boukhara et au Turkestan russe, du premier renouveau à la soviétisation (fin du XVIII e siècle–1937),” Cahiers du monde russe 37/1–2 (1996): 133–210, in part 174–9. These vicissitudes are described in detail by Riya in Rez-nama, 206a–25b. Ibid., 225b. Ibid., 1a; 226b sqsq.; Mukurov, “Mammae,” 118; according to ‘Aync (Namena, 402), the first manuscript of the Rez-nama had been lost earlier in 1917, during Riya’s exile in Qarshi. Rez-nama, 228b–30a; 231b; ‘Aync, Namena, 402. Rez-nama, 154a. Ibid., 257a. Interestingly, this aspect of Riya’s post-revolutionary activity has been completely “forgotten” by ‘Aync, as well as by Riya’s son M. Mukurov who, during perestroika, was mainly preoccupied with the rehabilitation of his father according to Soviet criteria of loyalty to Bolshevik authorities (cf. “Mammae,” 119). On Damulla Ikram, see the personal testimony by Mugammad ‘Alc b. Mugammad Sayyid Balluwanc, Ta’rct-i nafi‘c, Agrar Muttaref [Axrar Muxtarov] ed. (Dushanbe: ‘Irfan, 1994): 79. (Balluwanc’s narrative presents interesting variations, if compared with those of our authors of the Temanc faction, although their author was not a direct witness of most of the events that he recounts; the Ta’rct-i nafi‘c was begun in Samarkand in 1341/1923 and achieved in Baljuan [now on the southern boundary of Uzbekistan and Tajikistan] in 1346/1927; this text presents the viewpoint on the revolutionary period of a “Kuhistani” mullah who was favourable to reforms such as that of the Bukharan army, but who remained hostile to the Jadids, and faithful to the established authorities – among others to the last Khatlani qarc kalan, Qarc Mcr Mulla Burhan al-Dcn – up to the deposing of the Emir in 1920). See also Ajnc, Ta’rixi inqilobi Buxoro, 39, 47–8 (with interesting notations on Ikram’s unsuccess “among his own mullahs,” on subject such as the forbidding of the selling and rent of madrasas’ cells), 81, 105–106. See also a short biographical notice by R. Hodizoda, “Ikrom,” Ènciklopediai adabiõt va san’ati tolik 2: 497. Ajnc, Ta’rixi inqilobi Buxoro, 24. On the crisis of 1923, cf. Hélène Carrère d’Encausse, Réforme et révolution chez les musulmans de l’Empire russe (Paris: Presses de la Fondation Nationale des Sciences Politiques, 1966 [reed. 1981] ), 267–74. Mukurov, “Mammae,” 121–2; eod., Hadr-i Butara, 25. On them, see S. Siddiqov, “Merosi adabix ilmii Mariflon Maxdumi Sadri Ziõ [The Literary and Scientific Legacy of Marcflan Matdem Hadr-i Riya],” Malmeai ilmii aspiranthoi UTD (Dushanbe) 5 (1966): 28–37. M. Mukurov & S. Siddiqov, eds, Navodiri Ziõã (Dushanbe: Adib, 1991), 128 p (there is an edition in Arabic script, which is a mere, and mediocre, transcription

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43

44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54

55

56

57 58 59 60

from the Cyrillic publication: Hadr-i Riya, Nawadir-i riya’iyya, ed. Mcrza MukerZada [Tehran: Sorem, 1377/2002] ); according to Mukurov, who owns a copy of it, the text had been achieved by Riya as soon as 1904/5 (“Mammae,” 120); see also the mention of the manuscript Nawadir by ‘Aync in 1925: Namena, 402. See notably U. Hamroev, “Bir maxsij kutubxona va uning katalogi haqida [About a Personal Library and Its Catalogue],” Nauknye raboty i soob7eniã Akademii nauk Uzbekskoj SSR, Otdelenie obmestvennyx nauk 6 (1963): 387 –95; Shadman Vahidov and Aftandil Erkinov, “Le fihrist (catalogue) de la bibliothèque de Hadr-i Riyâ’: une image de la vie intellectuelle dans le Mavarannahr (fin XIXe–déb. XXe s.),” Cahiers d’Asie centrale 7 (1999): 141–74; Seyyed ‘Alc Mowlanc, “Ketabat va ketabdarc dar Botara [Book Copying and Book Keeping in Bukhara],” Malalle-ye moiale‘at-e Asiya-ye markazc va Qafqaz 22 (1377/2002): 205–17. Rez-nama, 135b. Ibid., 246a–47b. For instance after the death of his son Mcrza Mugammad Laicf (ibid. 100a– 3b), or that of his brother ‘Abd al-Pafer Matdem (ibid., 249b). Ibid., 229a–230a. Ibid., 52a–3b. Ibid., 95a–b. For a eulogy and a brief biographical sketch of this figure, see ibid., 53b–9a. For example Sayyid Ner al-Dcn Tera, also known under his tatalluh Gaya, who was the governor of Charjuy when Riya was qarc in that city: ibid., 23b–4b; see also Mugtaram, 102–5. Rez-nama, 51a. See for instance the comparison between the “progresses” in Afghanistan and “backwardness” in Persia: ibid., 166b. On Mcrza Siral’s action in Bukhara after his return in 1910, see Ajnc, Ta’rixi inqilobi Buxoro, 83. Cf. Mcrza Siral al-Dcn b. Mcrza ‘Abd al-Ra’uf Gakcm Butarayc, Tugaf-i ahl-i Butara (Samarqand, 1912; French translation, with an introduction and notes, by Stéphane A. Dudoignon: Souvenirs de voyage pour les gens de Boukhara, Arles: Actes Sud/Sindbad, 1998). Rez-nama, 110a–28b; 156b–64b (these two sets of pages have been lately inserted in the manuscript, after the final completion of the text, which is twice interrupted by these Far Eastern inserts; they contain notably portraits of the Emperor Meiji, a general description of early modern Japan, and laudatory considerations on the philanthropic activity and moral qualities of General Nuki – mostly borrowed from the Siral al-atbar). Riya admits that it is through the reading of the Siral al-atbar that he had heard, in 1912, about Meiji’s death: ibid., 157a. On the Siral al-atbar, see notably May Schinasi, “Sirâdj ul-Akhbâr. L’opinion afghane et la Russie,” Afghanistan 25/2 (1972): 9–41; by the same author, Afghanistan at the Beginning of the Twentieth Century. Nationalism and Journalism in Afghanistan. A Study of Serâj ul-akhbâr (1911–1918) (Naples: Istituto Universitario Orientale, 1979), passim. Rez-nama, 259a–60a. Ibid., 130a–1b. Ibid., 258b–9a. Retrospection is a key for the reformist literature which was written and printed in Central Asia during the first two decades of the Soviet period; see notably Stéphane A. Dudoignon, “Islam et nationalisme en Asie Centrale, au début de la période soviétique. L’exemple de l’Ouzbékistan, à travers quelques sources

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61

62

63 64

65

66 67 68

littéraires,” Revue des mondes musulmans et de la Méditerranée 95–8 (2002), 127–65. Riya remembers the blood connections of Mulla Nahr-Allàh – the ancestor who had migrated from Yersari territory to Charjuy – with a Turkmen clan of Yersari: “Mulla Nahr-Allàh az Tarakima-yi Yersarc beda and . . .” (Tarluma-yi agwal-i Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker, 98b). See for instance the significance, in Riya’s eyes, of the change of personal guidance which had been made by ‘Abd al-Rasel, who turned away from his first “patron” and spiritual master Cman Hefc Twala, and sided with Damulla Mcrza Halig A‘jam (Tarluma-yi agwal-i Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker, 99a). The death of this new protector, when his protégé was still a madrasa student, created many difficulties for ‘Abd al-Rasel, who was obliged to search for a new master. It took some time before Atend Damulla Gasan, the chief mudarris of the Kekaltam madrasa, authorized him to terminate the rasmiyya cycle of his studies. Finally Atend Damulla Gasan gave up to ‘Abd al-Rasel most of his teaching responsibilities in that famous madrasa, one of the most prestigious in the whole Bukharan Emirate (ibid., 99b–100a). Another protector of ‘Abd al-Rasel, the qarc kalan Damulla ‘Inayat-Allàh, opened to him the path of the judicial career, and later took under his protection ‘Abd al-Rasel’s son ‘Abd al-Muker, during the latter’s education in various madrasas: ibid., 100b–1a. On the material relations between the Bukharan students, especially those coming from various provinces, and their masters, see also ‘Aync, Yaddamtha, 170–1. See in particular Paul, “Forming a Faction,” 533–7. About the role of Central Asian semi-autonomous principalities as sanctuaries for political opponents from neighbouring khanates, see Eckart Schiewek, “À propos des exilés de Boukhara et de Kokand à Shahr-i Sabz,” Cahiers d’Asie centrale 5–6 (1998): 181–97. On Kulab, see for instance Mcrza ‘Abd al-‘Ajcm Samc, Ta’rct-i salaicn-i Manpctiyya (Istoriã Mangitskix gosudarej), ed. and trans. L.M. Epifanova (Moscow: Izdatel’stvo vostoknoj literatury, 1962): 64b, 84a, 93b, 103a–b, 109b (55, 84, 97, 110, 111, 119 of the Russian translation) [Samc’s narrative is interestingly centered on the figures of the umara, and although the author shows himself hostile to the most conservative elements of the Bukharan establishment, he remains favourable to the Ibn Bayrà family, and to the ‘Kulabis’ in general]; for more remote periods of pre-modern history, see Audrey Burton, The Bukharans. A Dynastic, Diplomatic and Commercial History, 1550–1702 (Richmond: Curzon, 1997), 173, 186. Cf. Timur Beisembiev, “Migration in the Qöqand Khanate in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries,” in Migration in Central Asia: Its History and Current Problems, eds Hisao Komatsu, Chika Obiya and John S. Schoeberlein (Osaka: The Japan Center for Area Studies, 2000): 35– 40; on the poverty of Kuhistan, and the massive migration of manpower towards the Ferghana Valley, see the considerations by Ajnc, Ta’rixi inqilobi Buxoro, 89. Gizb means primarily a “group, faction, a group of supporters of a man who share his ideas and are ready to defend him” (D.B. McDonald, “Gizb,” The Encyclopædia of Islam, new edition, 3 (1986), 513–14. On the Kelabc faction, see Rez-nama, 21a. Riya recounts the hospitality shown to the students and traders of his neighborhood by Damulla Mcrza Halig A‘jam, the second master of his grandfather ‘Abd al-Rasel; Riya also remembers the very significant ritual of the distribution of the mayt’s clothes – a highly symbolic favor, which was given by the mayt only to the worthiest of his disciples (Tarluma-yi agwal-i Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker, 99b).

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69 Ibid., 98b. 70 Rez-nama, 21a. 71 For an edition of the latter’s main historical work, see Agmad Matdem Danim, Risala ya muttaharc az ta’rct-i salianat-i tanadan-i Manpitiyya [The Epistle, or Abridged History of the Reign of the Manghit House], ed. ‘Abd al-Panc Mcrzayeff (Stalinabad [Dushanbe]: Namriyat-i dawlatc-yi Talckistan, 1960). 72 Tarluma-yi agwal-i Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker, 101b. 73 For instance Riya remembers attempts at destabilising Mulla ‘Abd al-Rasel in the Kekaltam madrasa, which had been undertaken through theological and judicial polemics by a “mountain dweller,” Mulla ‘Abd al-Ragman Giharc (from the Hissar Valley, which was then submitted to the Khanate of Kokand), who was disgraced by the head mudarris Atend Damulla Gasan (ibid., 100a). 74 Az an ta’rct ta ba cn dam ki panlah sal munqara muda, manhab-i qarc kalanc wa riyasat-i Dar al-Fatira dar bayn-i cn de iayifa nisbat-i mutakarrara gamta . . . (Rez-nama, 20b–1a). 75 Ahalc-yi Butara de firqa muda: iayifa-yi kuhistanc iarafdar-i qarc kalan-i gala, lama‘a-yi Butara hamtwah-i te muda (ibid., 226a). 76 Ibid., 37a–8b. 77 Simplified translation from the text: Agar ba iaraf-i aqra’l-qurat-i gala rawam, kinanki dcgaran mcrawand, lamakk ba-tatir-i ‘aiir-i qibligahc-garan twahad rascd ki guqeq-i uabita wa rawâbii-i sâbiqa-yi ma-ra kan lam ckun angamta, ri‘aya-yi padarc wa adab-i farzandc-ra ba-la nayawarda, ken dcgaran az iaraf-i man wa ba iaraf-i aqra’l-qurat-i gala rawan gamt. Ba‘d az taraddud-i tamam wa andcma-yi mala kalam, ba ted muhammam wa ba an muqarrar namedam ki ba-hcl waqt ra‘a-yi lanib aqra’l-qurat-i gala nisbat ba-wat-i mawla’c ba wamma-yi man lazim wa mutagattim natwahad mud. Ibid., 43b–44a. 78 The house of his father Qarc ‘Abd al-Muker seems to have been confiscated by the Emir ‘Abd al-Agad just after his death; Riya recovered it only after the events of the early spring, 1917 (ibid., 206a). 79 Ibid., 30a–b. 80 Ibid., 89a–b; on the post of ra’cs of Bukhara under the first Manghit Emirs, see notably Malma‘ al-arqam, 116. 81 The political reasons for his nomination were explained to him by his “companions” (baradaran); Rez-nama, 202b. 82 Ibid., 206b–7a. 83 Ibid., 209b–28b; see also Balluwanc, 38–52. 84 Rez-nama, 224b. 85 Ibid., 246a–7b. 86 Fiirat, “Butara ‘ulamasc,” Gurriyat 48 (Mugarram 30, 1336 [/November 15, 1917] ): 2. On Fiirat, see Komatsu Hisao, Kakumei no Ched Ajia. Aru Jadcdo no shdzd / Revolutionary Central Asia. Portrait of Abdurrauf Fiträt (Tokyo: Tdkyd Daigaku Shuppankai, 1996); Stéphane A. Dudoignon, “Fitrat,” in Dictionnaire biographique 2, 40–2. 87 For laudative comments on Qarc Mcr Mulla Badr al-Dcn as qarc kalan of Bukhara, see for instance Samc, 122 sqsq. 88 Rez-nama, 190a; Samc, 61. 89 Ajnc, Ta’rixi inqilobi Buxoro, 146. 90 Hâllc Mu‘cn, “Qazc Kalan-i Mal wa eniE balalarc [The Lame Supreme Judge and His Children], Ma‘arif wa eqetpekc (Tashkent) 2/1 [13] (March, 1926): 51–4 (in Turki transcribed in simplified Arabic script). 91 Cf. Alexandre Bennigsen & Chantal Lemercier-Quelquejay, La presse et le mouvement national chez les musulmans de russie avant 1920 (Paris – The

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92 93

94 95 96 97

98 99 100 101 102

103 104 105 106

Hague: Mouton, 1964), 167, 267, 271, 272; Edward Allworth, The Modern Uzbeks. From the Fourteenth Century to the Present. A Cultural History (Stanford, Cal.: Hoover Institution Press, 1990), 120, 122, 180. Muhammadlon Mahmudov, “Holi Muinning ilodij jnli [Gâllc Mu‘cn’s Creative Path],” Nzbek tili va adabiõti 1992/1: 49–54. See for instance Gallc Mu‘cn b. Mukr-Allàh Kattaqurpanc, “Lawab ba mas’alayi maktab,” Aycna (Samarkand) 7 (mugarram 22, 1332 [/December 21, 1913] ): 172–4; “Til birlamdermaq gaqinda,” ibid. 11 (hafar 21, 1332 [/January 19, 1914] ): 259–60; “Ihlag-i rasm lazim ast,” ibid. 18 (rabc ‘ al-atir 1332 [/March 8, 1914] ): 337–8; Cskc maktab yangc maktab (Samarkand: Tipo-litografiã B. Gazarov, 1916); “Samarqandda mu‘allimlar kerhc,” Gurriyat (Samarkand) 23 (mawwal 12, 1335 [/August 1, 1917] ): 4; “Balmcwcklar wa bcz,” Gurriyat 65 (rabc‘ al-atir 9, 1336 [/January 22, 1918] ): 1–2; “Alifbalarcmiz,” ibid. 3–4; etc. See also Muhrat Rizaev, Ladid dramasi [ Jadid Theater] (Tashkent: Marq matbaakoncernining bom tahririãti, 1997), 86–7, 99–100, 110–12, 113–15; and the edition of three of Gallc Mu‘cn’s theatrical works 245–316. Among whom was Magmed Twala Bihbedc, to whom Gallc Mu‘cn devoted in 1925 a commemorative drama, Ma‘arif qurbanlarc (Mahmudov, “Holi Muinning ilodij jnli,” 53). Hâllc Mu‘cn, “Qazc Kalan-i Mal wa eniE balalarc,” 51– 4. Cf. Kemper, “Entre Boukhara et la Moyenne Volga,” 47 (he is the figure identified here by the author as “un certain qarc Abe Sa‘cd”). For an early historical account, by a mullah from the southern Urals, on reformist movements in Bukhara, whose narrative is centered on the figure of Marlanc, see Abe ‘Abd al-Ragman ‘Abd-Allàh b. Mugammad ‘Arif b. Ma‘aw al-Awrc al-Butarc [a former pupil of the Bukharan madrasas, and the Imam of the 3rd Mosque in Orenburg], Ta’rct al-Butara wa tarlumat al-‘ulama [History of Bukhara and Biography of Its Scholars] (Orenburg: Dcn wa Ma‘cmat bahma-tanasc, 1908). ‘Aync, Yaddamtha, 128–30. Hâllc Mu‘cn, “Qazc Kalan-i Mal wa eniE balalarc,” 52. According to the oral narrative of Qarc ‘Isa Tan, son of Abe Sa‘cd (“Qazc Kalan-i Mal wa eniE balalarc,” 52–3). Ibid., 53. On this event, and its interpretations among the madrasa people, see in particular Rez-nama, 141b sqsq. (In Riya’s eyes, the wazir Astana-Qul was responsible for both the promotion of the Shi‘as, and for their open practice of the ‘Amera); ‘Aync, Ta‘rixi inqilobi Buxoro, 70, 149–50 (on the inclusion of both Jews and Shi‘as in the political repressions in Bukhara after 1906, and the alliance of the Jadids with the Bukharan Shi‘as in 1917). Cf. Khalid, “Society and Politics in Bukhara, 1868–1920,” Central Asian Survey 19/3–4 (2000): 367–97, in part. 369; Bregel, The Administration of Bukhara, 7–12. Since the mid-nineteenth century, the qembcgc was the chief administrator of the Emirate, a wazcr in the Persian sense of this term. Cf. Khalid, “Society and Politics,” 371. Dudoignon, Lectures de la modernité . . . , chapter VI; eod., “La question scolaire à Boukhara,” 172 sqsq. Èpifanova (supra note 14), 30 – on Samc’s view on the comparative role of Bukharan ulama and umara’ (a comparison favorable to the former) under the Russian Protectorate.

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5 ‘MAJORITIES’ AND ‘MINORITIES’ IN MODERN SOUTH ASIAN ISLAM A historian’s perspective Mushirul Hasan

1 Over the years Marxist and subaltern historians have introduced some major methodological departures in their writings on the Muslim communities in India. Yet their impact has not been profoundly felt in academic circles. The dominant trend, illustrated in part by the curriculum followed in most colleges and universities, is to dwell on the so-called Muslim mind, detail the ‘Muslim outlook’, and construe a unified ‘Muslim identity’ around the symbols of Islam. Many people still believe, despite evidence to the contrary, that the ulama represent ‘true’ Islam, and that liberal and modernist currents are either secondary or peripheral to the more dominant ‘separatist’, ‘communal’ and ‘neo-fundamentalist’ paradigms. Time and time again one is reminded of the pervasive impact of Islam on its followers, their enduring pan-Islamic links, and their unflinching devotion to the Quran and other religious texts. We are told that Muslims attach greater value to their religio-cultural habits and institutions; hence they are prone to being swayed by the Islamic rhetoric. In other words, ‘Islam’ is seen not just as a religion but a total way of life, providing a complete identity, explanation and moral code for Muslims’ actions. The mere fact of people being Islamic in some general sense is conflated with that of their adherence to beliefs and policies that are strictly described as ‘Islamist’ or ‘fundamentalist’. What these approaches share is the analytic primacy of culture and ideology and the privileged place assigned to Islam. It is thus commonly assumed, both in India and elsewhere, that Islam is not only distinctive but also inherently incompatible with western ideals of democracy and secularism. Islam as a religion is considered to be essentially different from all the 97

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others in that the concepts of beliefs and political rule are fused through the unity of din wa dawla, the Prophet having both revealed a religion and founded a state. Predicated on this statement is an assumed resistance to secularism. In reality, the commitment of some Muslim groups to specifically Islamic ideas and Islamic symbols does not indicate a unified structure of consciousness or community acting in unison. What should not be assumed is a monolithic conception of Islamic ideology and practice or teleology dictating the actions of the Muslims or a general acquiescence in the actions of few. We must bear in mind that the Muslim communities, like their counterparts in any other religious community, have multiple identities, with many acts to perform and many diverse roles to play. This explains why they, while remaining true to the faith, relate to the more immediate and pressing socioeconomic needs in broadly secular terms and have greater affinity with members of their class or caste and not just with their co-religionists. The debate on the depth and nature of this interaction would go on, but one should not at any rate be guided by the contemporary experiences of Hindu–Muslim relations. Equally, one should guard against a discussion centred around the notion of an absolute Muslim/Islamic consciousness and steer clear of the reification of Islam in the realm of political ideas. We should, instead, consider what political/social ideas particular groups of Muslims hold, and the relations between these and their social conditions and practice. The scholar Aziz al-Azmeh has pointed out: The very premises of Islamic studies are radically and thoroughly unsound; their very foundation, the identification and the construal of relevant facts, is based upon a political and cultural imagination . . . Any proper writing of Islamic history has to rest on the dissolution of Islam as an orientalist category . . . It has to liberate itself from Islam, and scrutinize Islamic histories, societies, economies, temporalities, cultures and sciences with the aid of history, of economics, of sociology, critical theory and anthropology. Only then will Islam be disassociated, and reconstituted as historical categories amenable to historical study.1 Who, then, are the Muslims? What, if any, specific identity is associated with them? Is it divinely ordained or related to features that have always been characteristic of Islamic governments and societies? How important is the community’s own self-image which is subtly moulded by a combination of ‘internal’ factors and external interventions? Is it the outcome of colonial images, of treating Muslims as an undifferentiated religious category? To what extent has the post-colonial state, too, viewed Muslims as a religious collectivity, who are also presumed to represent a separate political entity? 98

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First of all, identities in South Asian history and politics have seldom been unified; in colonial India they were increasingly fragmented and fractured. Indeed, they were not singular but multiple, and thus difficult to capture on a single axis. Constructed across different, intersecting and antagonistic sites, discourses and practices, they are subject to a radical historicization, and are constantly in the process of making and unmaking.2 Interestingly enough, when the first all-India census was tabulated and analysed in 1881, the enumerators found that Muslims numbered only 19.7 per cent of the population. They uncovered a geographically dispersed aggregate of Muslims forming neither a collectivity nor a distinct society for any purpose: political, economic or social. Out of a total population of about 50 million (or one-fifth of the computed total population of ‘British India’), the Muslims in Bengal spoke Bengali and those in Panjab used largely Punjabi as their language. Those living in Tamil Nadu spoke Tamil; those settled on the Malabar coast, mostly Mapillas, spoke Malayalam. They found Muslims whose religious rituals had a very strong tinge of Hinduism and who retained caste and observed Hindu festivals and ceremonies. As the historian Peter Hardy pointed out, the entry of Muslims into South Asia by so many and separated doorways, their spread over the subcontinent by so many different routes, over a period of centuries, and the diffusion of Islam in different forms from one area to another, ensured that this religion would present itself to the peoples of South Asia in many different epiphanies seen from different angles. Neither to its own adherents nor to non-Muslims in South Asia has Islam seemed monochromatic, monolithic or indeed mono-anything. It has indeed been said that Islam in South Asia has been united only by a few common rituals and by the aspirations of its scholars.3 Islam came to the subcontinent not in a single time span, but in succession, divided unevenly in different periods; consequently, its diffusion took place in a variety of forms from class to class and from one area to another. The difference in the phases in which people ‘experienced’ Islam brought with it variations in the nature of challenges facing its followers in different regions. In its local and regional specificity, therefore, the ‘essential’ core of Islam, so to speak, was not immune to changes by historical influences. Ordinary Muslims were not, as one is often led to believe, members of a monolithic community sitting sullenly apart, but were active participants in regional cultures whose perspectives they shared. They took their commitment to Islam not only as one among other values, but also as something which was itself differentiated internally into a number of detailed commitments. The noteworthy point is how, in the aftermath of independence and partition, the secular and democratic regime rather than the Islamic dimension provided the overarching framework to the religio-political leadership of the Muslims to forge new alliances and electoral coalitions. 99

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Those holding the reins of leadership located problems and found answers to contemporary dilemmas within the democratic and secular paradigms and sought adjustments not as members of a larger collectivity. They accepted state laws without insisting on the application of the Islamic Law, except in the case of marriage, divorce and inheritance. Although the obstinacy of resistance to this simple truth is in itself a matter of more than passing significance, it is nevertheless necessary for social scientists to spell out the nature and implications of these internal differentiations and the negotiated commitments flowing from them.4

25 The political scientist Rajni Kothari observed that ‘one way to think about India is as a people and a land made up of a series of minorities’. A recent book – India’s Agony Over Religion – talks of the process of ‘religionization’ in a great variety of cultural and social environments and in a great variety of movements and traditions that do not appear to be ‘religious’ in the pre-theoretical, conventional sense but, in fact, are profoundly ‘religious’ in a critical, theoretical sense.6 In a way, one can trace the origins of the majority versus minority debate to the 1880s, when the Indian National Congress demanded a share in governance. This fact in itself heightened the anxieties of the Muslim elites in north India, who wanted, as exemplified by the career of Syed Ahmad Khan and the establishment of the Muslim League in December 1906, their interests as a ‘minority’ to be safeguarded in the power structures. The cornerstone of Muslim politics was to secure weightages, or some kind of parity, for Muslims in the Muslim minority provinces.7 This was stoutly resisted in the rank and file of the Congress and the Hindu Sabhas. So that the majority-minority debate, translated into formal constitutional arrangements in the 1919 Act, ran its full course over the next four decades. Its most tangible outcome was the country’s partition on 14–15 August 1947.8 In effect, the critical issue, even in a great variety of social configurations, has been the size of a community. True, leaders like Maulana Abul Kalam Azad questioned the standard definition of a ‘minority’. They also argued that ‘their heads are held so high that to consider them a minority deserving special concessions, makes no sense’ and that ‘such a vast mass of humanity’ can have no legitimate fears in a free and democratic India.9 But their perspective could not obscure the fact that the strength of the Muslim population and its dispersal throughout the subcontinent mattered most to the raj in its imperial calculations. The government’s response to the Simla deputation (1 October 1906), as indeed to the introduction of separate electorates in 1909, was in recognition of the fact that major concessions had to be made to so large a community. The need to do so became all the greater with the growing success of the nationalist movement. 100

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Thus the majority-minority categories, though interpreted differently in political quarters, were pure political inventions and did not, in any significant way, reflect the nature of inter-community relations in pre-colonial India. What I wish to argue, though, is that the notion of a Muslim ‘minority’, as reflected in the colonial and nationalist discourses, flowed from a certain understanding of the histories of the Muslim communities in South Asia and their perpetuation by the Muslim elites to legitimize their own claims. Many scholarly studies are replete with instances of Islam’s representation as a hostile and aggressive force, of Muslim societies being caricatured as rigid, authoritarian and uncreative. British orientalists, some occupying high government positions, perpetuated a repertoire of such images, construing Islam as an emblem of repellent otherness, ‘the faith of a body of savage marauders and conquerors, who swept over the land . . . in a series of cruel raids, bringing rapine and destruction in their train’. Travellers, missionaries, administrators and ethnographers, too, portrayed Islam as static and dogmatic and its adherents as conservative, haughtily rigid, utterly contemptuous of things ‘modern’ and influenced by an obsolete system of education. Islam in the subcontinent was indelibly stamped by its early history, particularly by its original social carriers. Islamic values were viewed as being inherently hostile to the West and the British government. The call to wreak a special vengeance upon Muslims, especially in the wake of the ‘Wahabi’ movement and the 1857 revolt, demonstrated how things ‘Islamic’ was construed, located, categorized and connected. Quite a few British civil servants knew that many of their observations or reflections were not accurate. Yet they created myths and conjured up images of peoples and countries as part of the imperial design to fortify the ideological edifice of the Empire. Therefore, much of the knowledge and understanding derived from field experience was not reflected in concrete political decisions or translated in constitutional decrees. In fact, the colonial view was reflected in two major decisions – the legitimacy accorded to a deputation of thirty-five Muslims who met the viceroy at his summer capital in Simla on 1 October 1906, and the legislative enactments of 1909, 1919 and 1935. The viceroy did not ask them to establish their credentials. He merely assumed that the deputation expressed the ‘views and aspirations of the enlightened Muslim community of India’. In effect, the crucial issue is not whether the Simla deputation was a ‘command performance’ but the political consequences of acknowledging and decisively encouraging the nisus towards a separate Muslim personality. The Act of 1909, enacted to defuse the Congress demand for a greater share in administration and decision making, was a calculated masterstroke. The Montagu-Chelmsford Reforms (1919) were designed to serve the same objective, while the Act of 1935 implicitly endorsed the hitherto hazy notion of an incipient Muslim nation. Indeed if the British were to incline overmuch towards the Muslim League in the early 1940s, it was in part 101

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because their own political and institutional frameworks left them with little choice except to depend on its leaders. At another level, the structures of governance created by the British offered the Muslim League much greater space for articulating communitarian interests. Separate electorates, reservations and weightages gave birth to a religio-political entity in the colonial image of being unified, cohesive and segregated from the Hindus, and created space for reinforcing communitarian identities, a process which was, both in conception and articulation, profoundly divisive. Muslims were homogenized like ‘castes’ and ‘tribes’ and suitably accommodated within political schemes and bureaucratic designs. Self-styled leaders were thus emboldened to represent an ‘objectively’ defined community and contend with others for patronage, employment and political assignments. In effect, the legislative enactments from 1909 onwards challenged those assumptions, which guided many nationalists to cultivate a pan-Indian identity, and undermined, through a judicious mixture of concessions and guarantees, the multireligious foundations of Indian nationalism. The ideological contours of the future Pakistan were thus delineated by British opinion and policy makers long before Mohammad Ali Jinnah burst upon the political scene with his insistence on having a Muslim nation. The Muslims in the Congress were, on the other hand, awkwardly placed because their conception of nationhood had no place in the constitutional blueprint. The overall thrust of British policies led to their political isolation. A man of Dr M.A. Ansari’s stature was virtually prevented from attending the Round Table Conferences in London (1930–3), convened by the British prime minister, Ramsay Macdonald, to resolve the political deadlock in India. Rank communalists, on the other hand, were fêted, greeted with broad smiles and welcomed with open arms. People like Maulana Abul Kalam Azad were ‘the wrecking horse’, just because Jinnah, whose own status was far from assured, insisted on their exclusion from the important Simla Conference, held on 25 June 1945. Jinnah’s plea, not unheeded in official quarters, was that no one but a Muslim Leaguer could represent the Muslims. This moment in history must have been relished by the surviving architects of the 1909, 1919 and 1935 constitutions. In the final analysis, the colonial government bequeathed to the Indian Republic a truncated nation, a distorted perspective, a series of blurred images and a number of vague and undifferentiated categories. If, therefore, the history of the inter-community relations is to be rewritten, it has to steer clear of colonial paradigms and be freed from the stranglehold of an intellectual tradition, orientalist or otherwise. Likewise, the individual and collective experiences of Muslims need to be located in the subcontinent’s history and viewed afresh, not in the light of abstract and arbitrary categories, but on the strength of irrefutable evidence of their complex but long-standing, day-to-day interactions with various groups and communities. 102

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3 A rounded view of the vast and amorphous ‘nationalist’ literature reveals the uncritical acceptance of colonial constructions, their political legitimization through pacts, accords, ‘unity’ conferences and the inner religious and cultural tensions within the nationalist paradigm. In tangible terms, themes on communal amity and understanding, shorn of their rhetorical value, hardly constituted the major reference points in creating or articulating a truly national consciousness. This requires elaboration. First and foremost, the intellectual probing was in itself sketchy, superficial and marred by a Hinduized perspective. The upper castes, convinced of their own superiority in the realm of ideas and thought, considered Islam as a rather crude approach to the problems of philosophy and metaphysics. There were, consequently, no serious interpreters of Islam. Moreover, many nineteenth-century writers and reformers, who accepted the knowledge derived from medieval chroniclers, selectively translated by British historians, regarded the Muslim intrusion as an aberration or a break in the continuity of Brahmanical traditions. They equated Indian culture with Vedic culture, Indian philosophy with Vedanta, Puranas and the Upanishads, and Indian religions with Hinduism. Most accounts focused on Muslim ruling elites, their military exploits and glittering durbars and ignored the subtle fusion of ‘little’ traditions at the Sufi shrines particularly, and in the rural hinterland generally. No attempt was made to detail how the Islamic dogmas and tenets were gradually incorporated into regional and local belief structures and rituals; how most Muslims, who were converted to Mohammad’s religion at different points in time and for different reasons, were closely integrated with the rest of the population. Islam was mistakenly viewed as part of the ‘Great Tradition’ – codified, rigid, unchanging, insular and close to external influences. Whether converted or not, its followers were cast in a specifically Islamic mould and their identity was understood, defined and described, regardless of economic status, caste, language or region, in strictly textual terms. Islam’s militancy and inflexible doctrinal structure was a major concern for Swami Dayanand Saraswati, the founder of the Arya Samaj. He was a relentless critic: his text, Satyarth Prakash, the basis of anti-Islamic polemics in Panjab. Major literary writers, though by no means all, contrasted the glory of pre-medieval India with the oppressive character of ‘Muslim’ dynasties and commented on the overall degradation of Hindus and the pernicious influence of Islam on their social life. They represented medieval rule as a story of rape and abduction of Hindu women, the slaughter of sacred cows and the defilement of temples. Thus the Bengali writer Bankimchandra Chatterjee (1838–94) looked upon medieval India as a period of bondage and interpreted the Hindu chieftains’ resistance to the Mughals as national resistance. Muslim rule, according to him, brought

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neither material nor spiritual improvement to India. He saw in Islam a quest for power and glory, devoid of spiritual and ethical qualities, irrational, bigoted, devious, sensual and immoral, and a complete antithesis of his ‘ideal’ religion. Romesh Chandra Dutt (1848–1909), who wrote a major exposé of British economic policies, disclaimed the familiar portrayal of Muslims as innately wicked and bloodthirsty. Nevertheless, the picture of Muslims as alien emerges just as strongly in his novels and fictions. They were not quite ‘one of us’; they were enemies of ‘our’ country and religion. In general, the Bengali intelligentsia read and absorbed the spirit of such writings. ‘Nothing was more natural for us’, commented Nirad C. Chaudhuri, ‘than to feel about the Muslims in the way we did’. They were told, even before they could read, that the Muslims had ruled and oppressed the Hindus, spread their religion with the Quran in one hand and the sword in another, abducted Hindu women, destroyed temples and polluted sacred places: ‘As we grew older we read about the wars of the Rajputs, the Marathas, and the Sikhs against the Muslims, and of the intolerance and oppression of Aurangzeb’. Bengali thinkers and reformers, according to Nirad Chaudhuri, based their life-work on the formula of a synthesis of Hindu and European currents. Islamic trends and ‘Muslim sensitivities’ did not touch the arc of their consciousness. They stood outside as an ‘external proletariat’. If they wanted to enter the Bengali cultural world they could do so ‘only after giving up all their Islamic values and traditions’. In this way, the new Indian/Bengali culture of the nineteenth century built a perimeter of its own and put specifically Muslim influences and aspirations beyond the pale. According to Chaudhuri, ‘we became conscious of a new kind of hatred for the Muslims’ during the Swadeshi movement. A cold dislike for them ‘settled down in our heart, putting an end to all real intimacy of relationship’. Such representations of Muslims did not augur well for the nationalist agenda of welding various communities into a unified nation. For this reason, Nehru rightly observed that ‘only by thinking in terms of a different political framework – and even more so a different social framework – can we build up a stable foundation for joint action’. Yet despite Nehru’s attempts, many nationalists, particularly those in the Congress, assumed that Muslims constituted a separate religious and political entity. They dealt with their ‘leaders’ accordingly, and legitimized their status as the spokesmen of the ‘community’. In so doing, they perpetuated the communal categories created by the colonial government, aided a potentially divisive process, jettisoned their own moral authority to challenge the assumptions outlined in the Acts of 1919 and 1935 and created the space for certain strident sectional claims to be accommodated in the political agenda. In fact, the political language within which the Congress sought accommodation with Muslim political activists or the basis on which the 104

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Mahatma established an entente with the pan-Islamic leaders during the Khilafat movement in the early 1920s had far-reaching consequences. The energy derived from recognizing Muslims as a distinct religious and political unit implied that the basic terms of reference precluded any lasting solution to the communal tangle. The Congress was sensitized to this reality after the Muslim outcry over certain policies adopted by its ministries (formed under the Act of 1935 during 1937–9) in the United Provinces, Bihar and Bombay. But it was too late in the day to retrace its steps. Various political currents, which could have been managed earlier and harnessed for nationalist goals, developed their own independent energy and began to flow in several different directions. The Congress agenda could no longer be written afresh in the postwar years without the Muslim League, the votaries of a Hindu nation and the British, who still held the scales. There were not just ‘two parties’, as Nehru haughtily announced in 1937, but as many as four parties in the fray. The Muslim League, having burst onto the political scene in 1940 with its demand for a separate Muslim nation, was one of them. Naïve political observers would have expected the majority–minority issue to be settled in 1947; the histories of India and Pakistan over the past five decades suggest that this was not to be. Pakistan, created on the strength of Muslim solidarity, gave birth to its own minorities: the Bengalis in east Pakistan (now Bangladesh), the Muhajirs in Sindh, the Baluchis and Pathans in the North-West Frontier province. Each of these collectivities defines its linguistic regions as its homeland. Regional and linguistic diversities have provided, through much of Pakistan’s turbulent history, the highest common denominator of the multi-faceted grievances of the people of Pakistan, denied as most of them have been of basic, much less equal, rights of citizenship. The declaration of the Ahmadiyyas as a ‘minority’ in the 1970s served to create a precedent for exclusion, exposing the Pakistani state’s claim of inclusionary nationalism. Exclusive nationalism, argues Ayesha Jalal, is no substitute for nationalism based on equal citizenship rights which is the nation state’s main claim to legitimacy. The real problem in Pakistan, she points out, is that the structures inherited from the colonial state were not realigned with the dominant conceptions which had fired the Muslim struggle for equality, solidarity and freedom. Mohammad Iqbal’s lofty equation of Islam and civil society had been lost sight of in the litany of confusion surrounding conceptions of national identity and state sovereignty.10 Notice the following lament by a leading Pakistani writer: . . . Pakistan meant more than just territory, more than a defined area with boundaries. Pakistan meant a culmination of a Muslim movement rooted in history, the quest for a mystical homeland, a Pakistan, a land of the pure. That is why the reality of the violence, corruption, nepotism, mismanagement and materialism of Pakistan 105

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in the 1990s is so painful. Mosques are not sacred, public places, private homes, nowhere are safe especially in its main city Karachi.11 What next? Ayesha Jalal calls for sustained debates on citizenship rights towards forging a collective ethos as a nation state, and a national dialogue to create the necessary consensus to begin rebuilding anew. At present, with a general holding power, it may not be easy for a consensus to emerge in Pakistani society. India’s problems are of a different nature, but there are some longstanding difficulties that have not been addressed with any degree of seriousness. For example, successive governments have failed to resolve the Kashmir issue or diffuse the growing disaffection in the north-east. Today, more than five decades after the republic, the minorities – Muslims, Sikhs and Christians – are concerned over their future in an otherwise democratic and secular polity, while the majoritarian view, stridently expressed by the sangh parivar, threatens to undermine the national consensus envisaged by the founding fathers of the constitution. The real dangers stem from the ‘ideology of homogenization’ advocated by religious nationalists,12 as also from the century-old debates over minority rights that may take an ugly and violent form in a country with scarce resources. Today, the stakes are much higher than ever before. At a time when majorities are becoming more self-aware, a sense of territorial nationalism is heightened among both majorities and selected minorities. If, as some argue, education is increasing aspirations, economic growth is enlarging economic opportunities and political democracy is increasing politicization, then one can expect more, not less, competition among India’s ‘majority’ and the minorities.13 Already, serious moves are afoot among some Muslim groups, in Bangalore, Hyderabad and Delhi, to launch not just one but several Muslim political parties. Who knows, the bubble may burst sooner than later. If not, this may turn out to be an ominous trend. My fears are based in part on past experiences and in part on present-day social and political realities. Among other things, I recount the fate of the Majlis-i Mushawarat (in the 1960s) in Uttar Pradesh and the imminent collapse of similar outfits that surfaced thereafter. Democratic institutions, though easy to work with, do not always lend themselves to being effectively used or manipulated by religious collectivities. Also, the Muslim share of the votes is small in most constituencies, though they can still tilt the balance in some parliamentary and assembly seats. So, Muslim political activists, regardless of their tall claims, have not carried much influence in decision-making processes. Nor have they succeeded in acquiring the profile of the backward caste leaders in Uttar Pradesh or Bihar. The caste configuration in these states has not only altered the political landscape but also ensured that Muslims play second fiddle to the more dominant caste alignments. Although politicians of all hues, including the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) have tried courting 106

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Muslims for electoral gains, the steady decline of the Congress has gradually diminished the value of the ‘Muslim vote’. In effect, Muslim leaders, unless tied to progressive political formations, remain minor players in any electoral or political arrangement at the centre or in the states. What they can do best, more so after the collapse of the Congress hegemony, is to make their choices from a large number of secular options available in the political market-place and hitch their fortunes with secular combinations. This strategy is workable and has paid off in recent decades, though perhaps not to everybody’s satisfaction. When all is said and done, Urdu has earned its rightful place in Bihar, despite the lukewarm approach of the Congress and the stout opposition of the BJP. An Urdu University was set up in Hyderabad by the United Front government. Similarly, non-Congress governments in several southern states have initiated various compensatory programmes, including reservation in certain sectors, and have backed various community initiatives in education. The broad-based alliances with secular parties in Bengal, Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh, though periodically strained, have paid rich dividends. The moral of the story is that the Muslim communities must work out, as they did soon after independence, cross-community linkages, not communitybased ones. In other words, the secular and democratic regime rather than the Islamist dimension must provide the overarching framework to build new political networks. Taking refuge in or drawing sustenance from fundamentalist organizations, some of which are unwittingly perpetuating the community’s backwardness through their ill-conceived Islamist agenda, is a recipe for disaster. Their visibility in certain areas, such as Andhra Pradesh, Karnataka and Kerala, is alarming: their activities must be curbed by the collective will of the community before they get out of hand. The scholar Fazlur Rahman pointed out in the early 1980s that the slogan (in Islam religion and politics are inseparable) is employed to dupe the common man into accepting that instead of the state serving the long-range objectives of Islam, Islam should come to serve the immediate and myopic objectives of party politics. Nobody takes exception to the pursuit of one’s faith. Nobody objects to Muslims starting schools and college, including madaris, reforming charitable endowment (auqaf ), improving the status of Muslim women, generating employment and energizing many of the defunct Muslim institutions. Such activities have been successfully carried out by the Al-Ameen Educational Society in Bangalore, the Islamic Foundation in Madras, the Muslim Education Society in Kerala and the Hamdard Foundation in Delhi. Ideally, many more such groups should surface elsewhere and learn a lesson or two from the constructive engagements of several Christian missions, the Arya Samaj and the Ramakrishna Mission. One is, surely, aware of the growing role of ethnic mobilization in several developing and developed countries,14 yet the demand for cultural rights or 107

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socioeconomic empowerment cannot be fulfilled by an exclusive Muslim political front. Serious and fundamental issues of poverty, education and social emancipation afflicting the Muslim communities cannot be resolved by flexing one’s muscles. Generally speaking, it is risky to foreground community-based politics, for it carries seeds of discord and dissension.

Notes 1 Aziz Al-Azmeh, Islams and Modernities, 2nd edn. (London, 1996), 181–2. 2 I have discussed this point in my edited book, Islam, Communities and the Nation: Muslim Identities in South Asia and Beyond (Delhi, 1998). 3 Peter Hardy, ‘Islam and Muslims in South Asia’, in The Crescent in the East: Islam in Asia Major, ed. R. Israeli, (London: Humanities Press, 1982), 39–40. 4 Akeel Bilgrami, ‘What is a Muslim? Fundamental Commitment and Cultural Identity’, Economic and Political Weekly, 16–23, May 1992. 5 Some parts of the following two sections are based on my Legacy of a Divided Nation: India’s Muslims Since Independence (London: Hurst, 1997). The references to various statements are cited therein. 6 Gerald James Larson, India’s Agony Over Religion (Delhi: OUP, 1997). 7 See my Nationalism and Communal Politics in India, 1885–1930 (Delhi: Manohar, 1991). 8 See Mushirul Hasan, Nationalism and Communal Politics in India, 1885–1930 and the collection of essays in India’s Partition: Process, Strategy and Mobilisation, ed. Mushirul Hasan (Delhi: OUP, 1994). 9 Congress Presidential Address, in India’s Maulana: Abul Kalam Azad, ed. Syeda Saiyidain Hameed, (Delhi: Vikas, 1990), 159. 10 Ayesha Jalal, ‘Ideology and the Struggle for Democratic Institutions’, in Old Roads New Highways, ed. Victoria Schofield, (Karachi: OUP, 1997), 135, 136. 11 Akbar S. Ahmed, Jinnah, Pakistan and Islamic Identity: The Search for Saladin (Karachi: OUP, 1997), xviii. 12 On this point, see the incisive discussion in T.K. Oommen, Citizenship, Nationality and Ethnicity (London: Polity Press, 1997), 83–90. 13 Myron Weoner, ‘India’s Minorities: Who are They? What Do They Want?’, in State and Politics in India, ed. Partha Chatterjee, (Delhi: OUP, 1997), 459. 14 On this point, see Jyotirindra Das Gupta, ‘Ethnicity, Democracy, and Development in India: Assam in a General Perspective’, in India’s Democracy: An Analysis of Changing State–Society Relations, ed. Atul Kohli, (Princeton, NJ: University Press, 1988), 144–68.

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6 THE POLITICS OF A PARTITION RIOT Calcutta in August 1946* Nakazato Nariaki

1 Calcutta was plunged into a fury of Hindu–Muslim clashes exactly one year before India and Pakistan gained independence. They started early on the morning of 16 August, 1946 and continued for five days. The British authorities managed to quell the disturbances only after resorting to emergency measures that had never been taken in the long history of the colonial city. A curfew was imposed for the first time and the military was called in to regain control. The police and the military fired 876 and 1,916 rounds of ammunition respectively during the five days of rioting. The police used about 500 tear gas shells and grenades.1 Thirty thousand people had to be evacuated to safer places.2 When the surges of rioting passed, it became clear that, even on a conservative official estimate, 4,000 people had been killed and 10,000 injured.3 Some 2,531 people were arrested prior to 6 September.4 Due to this alarming number of casualties and the unprecedented intensity of the rioting, the Calcutta Communal Riot of 1946 is often referred to as the ‘Great Calcutta Killing’.5 The Calcutta disturbances marked a very crucial turn in the political developments during the last days of British rule.6 By the end of 1945 it had become obvious that the British had no choice but to grant independence to India. The visit of the Cabinet Mission to India in March 1946 with concrete proposals for India’s independence confirmed this widely prevalent impression. British influence was decidedly on the wane, while the victory of the All-India Muslim League in the elections held during the winter of 1945/6 added a new dimension to nationalist politics. The Indian National Congress and the Muslim League became embroiled in a hard political struggle over framing the future independent state(s). The immediate political target was to gain the upper hand in the process of setting up an interim government. At the same time, the swelling tide of mass movements 109

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was beginning to scare the colonial authorities and the nationalist leadership alike. Aside from a massive wave of strikes by workers, Bombay experienced a mutiny among the ratings of the Royal Indian Navy in February 1946, which was strongly supported by civilians, while Calcutta was rocked twice, in December 1945 and in February 1946, by huge and militant demonstrations against the trials of officers of the Indian National Army. As a result, a singularly fluid situation developed in 1946. It was in the midst of this political crisis that the Muslim League declared 16 August its Direct Action Day. The aim of such a bold tactic was to push its demand for Pakistan as well as to protest about the manoeuvres of the British and Congress regarding the formation of the interim government. The political offensive launched by the Muslim League met with a very hostile reaction from the supporters of the Congress and resulted in a tragic Hindu–Muslim riot, which erupted in the prime city of British India. The repercussions of the Calcutta riots were tremendous. Not only did they touch off a series of communal clashes (Partition Riots as they are sometimes called) which stormed Bihar, East Bengal (Noakhali and Comilla in particular) and the Panjab, but they also brought Hindu–Muslim antagonism to the point of no return, making any compromise between the Congress and the League virtually impossible. Some important research has recently appeared on the subject of Partition Riots.7 As regards the Calcutta disturbances of 1946, Suranjan Das has made a detailed study on the basis of new archival material and has attempted to situate them in the history of communal riots in Bengal.8 He points out that along with the Dacca Riots of 1941, the Calcutta disturbances five years later marked a new stage at which elite communalism converged upon popular communalism, the elite playing as active a role as the masses. On the other hand, Max Zins has attempted to analyse it as a case of ‘ethnic cleansing’ and thereby suggests a way to place South Asian experiences of Partition Riots in a broader, global perspective.9 The present paper constitutes part of an attempt to enquire into the ‘inner’ structure of the Calcutta disturbances, and by extension, of Partition Riots in general, with an emphasis on the political and social aspects. As briefly described above, communal riots formed a significant factor in the political process that resulted in the partition of India. A great amount of research has already been done to situate them in the course of events between 1945 and 1947, and to discuss their causes and the repercussions that they had on subsequent events. However, in my opinion, not enough attention has yet been paid to the political and social dimensions of Partition Riots as such. There are two problems here. First, the space of partition riots formed an arena in which the established political forces, such as the Congress, the Muslim League and the British raj, struggled for influence, survival etc. So one should ask in what manner and with what aim these three powerful forces conducted themselves during the riots. 110

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In particular, little is known about the third factor, the British raj, despite the fact that it was by no means a mere arbitrator between the two nationalist parties, but pursued its own political interests. Second, social and political implications, or symbolic meanings, of the various forms of action taken by the riotous crowds should be carefully enquired into. It is my hope that the ‘inner’ structure of the Calcutta disturbances will be better revealed by pursuing the above two questions and that new links will thereby be found between communal riots and institutional politics and social movements. This is not to say that the latter can be reduced to the former. The aim is rather to situate Partition Riots more deeply in the political and social context of the late 1940s. I will confine myself here to discussing the first problem, leaving the second one to a separate article. As briefly shown above, the Calcutta disturbances broke out in a highly fluid, unstable situation. It was a historical event which took place in the power vacuum that was being created by impending decolonization. The British were bound to go and systemic breakdown was inevitable; but a nationalist political system to take their place was yet to assume a definite shape. When considering the Calcutta Riots, and their political aspect in particular, one needs to seriously take into account the problem of instability peculiar to such a transitional period.

2 It was on 29 July, 1946 that the Muslim League adopted two resolutions on the Cabinet Mission’s proposals and Direct Action at its council meeting in Bombay.10 The council resolved to withdraw its acceptance of the Cabinet Mission’s proposals that provided a political framework by which the Congress and the Muslim League could form an interim coalition government. At the same time, the council declared in its resolution on Direct Action that ‘now the time has come for the Muslim Nation to resort to Direct Action to achieve Pakistan . . . and to get rid of the present British slavery and the contemplated future Caste-Hindu domination’. It appealed to the Muslim masses ‘to be ready for every sacrifice’ and directed the Working Committee to prepare ‘a programme of Direct Action . . . and to organise the Muslims for the coming struggle’. To give a concrete form to their anger toward the British, it called upon Muslims ‘to renounce titles conferred by the colonial government’. Underlying the wording of the resolutions was a sense of deep indignation at what the League regarded as a breach of faith and double-dealing on the part of both the Congress and the British. Nevertheless, the Congress and the British, who also had their cases to make, agreed to go ahead with the Cabinet Mission plan. On 10 August Nehru accepted the viceroy’s invitation to form an interim government, and there followed detailed exchanges between the Congress and the British about membership of Nehru’s cabinet. It was under these highly 111

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charged circumstances that Direct Action became the focus of intense political speculation. However, the meaning of Direct Action was, intentionally or accidentally, left ambiguous. A British newspaper reporter, who conducted a private interview with Jinnah on 30 July, got the impression that the Muslim League had ‘not worked out what they were going to do’. Jinnah reportedly referred to ‘a mass unconstitutional violence’; but his secretary disclosed that the only thing that they had decided was to organize ‘a universal Muslim hartal [stoppage of all work] on Friday, 16 August, and mass meetings in every town and village, where the resolutions passed at Bombay would be explained to the people’.11 As a military intelligence officer told a staff member of the American consulate in Bombay, this was most probably because the League was ‘not organised in such a way that it could initiate any form of mass revolt throughout India’.12 It was beyond the political resources available to the League to organize a mass protest movement nationwide. However, the League was in power at least in one of the most important provinces of British India, Bengal, where it had successfully consolidated a strong mass base. There was no other place in India where ‘it could initiate any form of mass revolt’, and the task fell on H.S. Suhrawardy, the then chief minister.13 Suhrawardy was ‘in the forefront of events’ in preparing for Direct Action Day.14 The final programme hammered out for the day was: (1) Complete hartal and general strike in all spheres of civic, commercial and industrial life save and except the essential services . . . (2) Processions, ‘Kafelas’ and ‘Akharas’ with music bands and Tabaljungs will start from all mohallas in Calcutta, Howrah, Hooghly, Matiaburz and 24-Parganas and converge at the foot of the Ochterlony Monument between 3 and 6–30 PM. (3) Joint mass rally and meeting of Calcutta, Howrah, Hooghly, Matiabruz and 24-Parganas will be held at foot of Ochterlony Monument from 3 PM. on Friday the 16th August . . . (5) Every ward and branch league must . . . depute three workers in every mosque on Friday the 16th August to explain the new policy and action plan of the League before JUMA prayers . . . (6) Special Munajat (Prayer) should be offered in every mosque on Friday after Juma prayers for the freedom of Muslim India, the Islamic world and the people of India and the East in general . . .15 It is evident from the official programme that the Bengal Provincial Muslim League more or less offered the standard repertoire of nationalist politics in the Indian subcontinent. The programme did not differ very 112

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much from the plan suggested by Jinnah’s secretary. Although in concluding paragraphs it tried to appeal to the Muslim masses by making free use of the militant religious symbols such as ‘jihad’, ‘the Battle of Badr’ and the conquest of ‘Mecca’, the underlying tone was remarkably moderate. It is interesting to note that in the last item reference was made to freedom not only for Indian Muslims but for the people of India and Asia in general. However, there was nothing in this document befitting the aggressive slogan of Direct Action. At the same time, however, there ran a very strong militant current in which the Muslim masses were emotionally and religiously called upon to sacrifice their lives for the founding of Pakistan. The appeal from the central leadership of the League which appeared on the morning of 16 August read as follows: Today is Direct Action Day. Today Muslims of India dedicate anew their lives and all they possess to the cause of freedom. Today let every Muslim swear in the name of Allah to resist aggression . . . Today let every Muslim also take this pledge of sacrifice in the cause of national freedom . . . Pakistan is ours . . . We shall fight for it. We shall die for it. Take it we must, or perish.16 Thus, the programme for Direct Action as framed by the Muslim League leadership was a strange amalgam of a moderate action plan and highly emotional religious discourse. One gains the impression that emotional idioms were purposefully used to compensate for the League’s failure in building up a sufficiently strong mass base to launch a radical movement. Nonetheless, the Direct Action resolution was keenly received by the Muslims of Bengal, and preparations for Direct Action Day were pushed forward in Calcutta in earnest throughout the first fortnight of August.17 The police reports help one catch a glimpse of the activities in which various groups were engaged under the vague umbrella of Direct Action. The Bengal Provincial Muslim League was far from a monolithic centralized organization, as diverse, and sometimes conflicting, tendencies were at work among its activists. Reflecting the militant mood of the central leadership, Khwaja Nazimuddin, the former premier of Bengal, announced that ‘the Muslim population of Bengal know very well what direct action would mean and so we need not bother to give them any lead’. He is also reported to have said that ‘the Muslims would not be confined to nonviolence’.18 The Muslim National Guard, the volunteer organization of the Muslim League, performed quasi-military drills in several locations in the city. Nazimuddin and Suhrawardy attended a few of the gatherings of the National Guard held in such places as the Calcutta Madrassa and the Muslim Institute Hall. The audience were urged ‘to get ready to make sacrifice for the 113

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achievement of Pakistan’, while a leader of the Guard was seen visiting Muslim business magnates to collect donations.19 Some of the Bengali newspapers and pamphlets carried highly inflammatory articles. One of them, Asre Jadid, claimed in its editorial that ‘if the Muslim nation is not yet dead, they will not let the Pundit and the “Bania” [tradesmen] Government [the interim government headed by Nehru] go on even for a moment’ and that if bloodshed ensued, the entire responsibility would rest with the ‘British-Bania conspiracy’.20 At the same time, it should not be ignored that there were quite a number of Muslims who held more sober views.21 At a meeting in north Calcutta, speakers described Direct Action as ‘a revolution against the British and the Hindus’. They asked the Muslim public ‘to observe complete hartal on 16.8.46 from which date all Muslims should feel free men having no concern with the British’.22 At a meeting of the Calcutta Muslim Students League held at the Islamia College Hall, speakers appealed to Muslims to prepare themselves for ‘their coming struggle against British imperialism at the cost of maximum sacrifice’ and ‘warned the Congress not to be an ally of the British Government’. Abul Hashim, Secretary of the Bengal Provincial Muslim League, who attended this meeting, remarked that ‘it was in the fitness of things that the Muslim League had bidden adieu to constitutionalism and negotiations’. He further stated that the Muslim League ‘had declared war against British imperialism and did not want to launch a struggle against any other political party’, but that ‘if the Congress allied itself with Great Britain they would consider it their enemy’. He also claimed that ‘the establishment of Pakistan would liquidate all exploitation and domination from the world’.23 At another meeting chaired by Abul Hashim, speakers criticized the British and the Congress for their anti-League activities and urged the audience ‘to be ready for any sacrifice’. At the same time, however, they also warned Muslims ‘not to create any trouble on 16th August and not to take any provocation from any quarters’.24 It can be seen from the above citations that a wide range of political views was afloat and different strategies were being discussed by the Muslims of Calcutta during the first half of August 1946.25 They ranged between heroic sacrifice and social revolution, open violence and tactical restraint, emphasis on military tactics and stress on mass mobilization etc. Cutting across these different views lay strong undercurrents of resentment against economic exploitation by the Hindu Banias. There were even echoes of the ‘idealistic zeal’ that was displayed by the Muslim students who played an active role in the election campaigns of 1945/6.26 And it is interesting to note that Nazimuddin and Suhrawardy, arch rivals in the Muslim politics of Bengal, appeared to be competing against each other for mass support by taking militant postures. Nazimuddin was an influential zamindar and represented the aristocratic ‘old guard’ of the League, while 114

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Suhrawardy had his faithful followers among the seamen, dock workers and factory workers of Calcutta and was a new generation leader.27 Because of his power base, the latter was at times called the leader of the Calcutta goondas (hoodlums) by his political opponents.28 It is also interesting that Abul Hashim was deeply involved. A proponent of ‘Islamic socialism’, Hashim had played a central role in transforming the Bengal Provincial Muslim League into a modern political party with a broad mass base. He was an old ally of Suhrawardy.29 Being hollow in practice, the slogan of Direct Action served as a political umbrella for accommodating diverse views among the Muslims. And all of these streams flowed into a mammoth political rally held in the Maidan on 16 August, in which 6 to 10 lakh Muslims were said to have participated.30 Although the number of participants differs widely according to the sources, it was by far the largest rally ever organized by the Muslims of Bengal. On the platform at the rally were Suhrawardy, Nazimuddin, Abul Hashim, Lal Mia and other prominent Muslim leaders. It goes without saying that this rally furnished an ideal occasion to make a display of solidarity. It is reported, however, that Nazimuddin made ‘a woolly speech’, while Suhrawardy’s speech sounded ‘Laodicean’.31 The rally also began later and dispersed earlier than scheduled. In point of fact, it could not be otherwise, because rioting had already spread to most parts of the city. A senior police officer recalled that before going to the Maidan, Suhrawardy told him: ‘I shall make my speech a very brief one. Tell them all to go off home as soon as possibly (sic)’.32 Here is the report of his address to the audience in Urdu: He [Suhrawardy] urged the audience to follow the League and the lead of Mr. Jinnah conscientiously and not to do so blindly . . . The Cabinet Mission had bluffed the Muslim League before they left India . . . he wanted to throw a challenge to Pandit Nehru that he and his Government in Bengal refused to be ruled by him. He had no mind to detain the audience longer. This day would prove to be the first step towards their struggle for emancipation. They should return home early for Aftar. He had found the Muslims peaceful in course of visit to Mahallas in the morning, when he made arrangements for volunteers. He had seen to Police and Military arrangements who would not interfere. The audience should move in groups and defend their co-religionists.33 It is the italicised portion of the above quotation that F.J. Burrows, governor of Bengal, singled out to condemn Suhrawardy for extending ‘an open invitation to disorder’ to ‘an uneducated audience’.34 However, one gets a different impression when considering the speech in the light of his conversation with the police officer before going to the meeting. It appears 115

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that in his speech Suhrawardy tried to give the Muslim masses two contradictory messages: he told them to follow the League’s militant line, while he tried to persuade them to go home peacefully in groups. The Congress tried to use the crisis to its own political advantage. Rather than confronting the Muslim League’s protest about the Cabinet Mission proposals head-on, it opted to duck the issue by tactfully shifting the battle line. Governor Burrows declared 16 August to be a public holiday and this provided the Congress with an ideal foothold for launching a counteroffensive. The Enquiry Commission revealed later that a public holiday was not the brainchild of the Muslim League ministry, but was suggested by a British high official, R.L. Walker, the then chief secretary of Bengal. According to Walker, Suhrawardy was not certain at the start, but agreed with him after discussing the matter.35 Burrows gave his assent ‘fairly readily’.36 Walker testified before the Commission that he made this proposal with the hope that the risk of conflicts, especially those related to picketing, would be minimized if government offices, commercial houses and shops remained closed throughout Calcutta on the sixteenth.37 The Congress saw the problem quite differently. If a public holiday was observed on the sixteenth, its supporters would have no choice but to close down their offices and shops, and thus be compelled against their will to lend a hand in the Muslim League’s hartal. In their view, the action of the Bengal government was a misuse of their power to bolster the self-interest of the Muslim League. In addition, the question of prestige was also involved. The monopolistic position that the Congress had hitherto enjoyed in imposing and enforcing hartals, strikes, etc. was being challenged.38 The Congress took the matter to the Council House, where its motion criticizing the government’s action was defeated by thirty-one to thirteen votes on the fifteenth after acrimonious debate.39 At the same time, the Congress decided to hold a mass meeting in south Calcutta on the fourteenth. Surendra Mohan Ghose, president of the Bengal Provincial Congress Committee, delivered a fiery speech. K.S. Roy, leader of the Congress Party in the Legislative Assembly, remarked that ‘it [a public holiday] would create trouble . . . as Hindus who wished their shops to remain open would be forced to close them, and so there would be a clash’, and called upon Hindus to ‘keep their shops open and continue business and not submit to a forced hartal’. Another speaker said that ‘Nazimuddin who advocated violence . . . should know that the people of Bengal who could ascend the gallows and brave the British bullets smilingly were not afraid of the hollow threat of the Muslim Leaguers’ daggers’. Recalling the 1926 riots, a Sikh speaker stated, ‘if riots started again the Sikhs would go with the Congress and beat the Muslims’. There was a Gurkha speaker, too, who declared that ‘if Government did not care to have any regard for the sentiment and civil liberty of the people, the Gurkhas would rise to a man and oppose it’.40 The chairman of this meeting, Surendra 116

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Mohan Ghose, was a veteran politician who belonged to the powerful Bengal revolutionary group, Jugantar, and had a large number of ‘volunteers’ under his command. Moreover, he recalled later that Shyama Prasad Mookerji, president of the Hindu Mahasabha, had helped him a lot in organizing rescue work.41 Shyama Prasad Mookerji had built up the Hindustan National Guard, which he is said to have put against the Muslim National Guard during the riots.42 It was through this bitter controversy over the issue of a public holiday that the national question of the Cabinet Mission proposals and the interim government was placed in the context of Bengali provincial politics. A breach of faith in the Congress and the British at the centre, of which the Muslim League made a political issue, was set against the misuse of government power by the Muslim League at the provincial level, to which the Congress took the greatest exception. The Calcutta disturbances had a two-tiered political structure which was charged with burning indignation at betrayal and foul play. It was within this structure that national and provincial issues reinforced each other with increasing intensity and sharp sectarian antagonism between Hindus and Muslims developed with a degree of momentum no one had expected. At any rate, it may safely be said that both the Muslim League and the Congress entered upon Direct Action Day fairly well prepared. They had successfully mobilized the masses along highly emotional as well as ideological lines. There is considerable evidence to show that a section of the citizens had responded to the militant appeal from the party leadership by bringing such crude and readily available weapons as lathis (bamboo sticks) and brickbats.43 Both parties had also called upon their volunteer organizations to stand ready, and they contacted some of their goonda elements.44 Nevertheless, this does not mean that either side was preparing itself to engage intentionally in a violent sectarian clash from the start. It has already been noted that there were moderate Muslim groups that advocated restraint. In the Jorabagan area of north Calcutta there was a group of Muslims who became so apprehensive as to go to the local police station for advice on the night of the fifteenth.45 Furthermore, the weapons, (swords, for example) which were brandished by Muslim processionists, frightening Hindu citizens, were mostly mock swords used on festive occasions like Moharram.46 Nonetheless, there is no denying that both parties were pursuing a dangerous policy of brinkmanship. Thus the atmosphere of Calcutta on the morning of the sixteenth was found to be unusually tense. One police officer gave this graphic account of the situation on Cornwallis Street, a high street in north Calcutta: . . . there were so many crowds that we could not have a good sight at the shops and the surroundings. All over Cornwallis Street there were crowds . . . They were loitering this way and that, they had 117

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no intention as to where they would go, some were sitting in the verandahs, some were standing; they were excited.47 The first rioting broke out soon after 7 am in the north-east corner of the city at the Maniktola Bazaar located at the crossing of Upper Circular Road and Vivekananda Road.48 Most shops ignored the Muslim League’s directions and were open in such shopping quarters of north Calcutta as Shyambazar, Hatibagan and Cornwallis Street.49 Muslims asked shopkeepers to close their shops in the Maniktola Bazaar. Upon their refusal, the Muslims tried to loot the shops and rioting immediately began. Within fifteen minutes, the police had been informed of clashes from as many as six locations in north Calcutta. The situation was explosive. The riots began to sweep through Calcutta at an alarming speed. The police first fired at a rioting crowd at 10.00 am.50 They fired on twenty-four occasions on the sixteenth alone, spending 144 rounds altogether.51 It was at 2.30 pm that D.R. Hardwick, commissioner of police, realized that the situation had become completely out of hand and asked the chief secretary to contact the army to seek their assistance.52 At 4.15 pm the army headquarters at Fort William issued a code word RED, indicating that ‘incidents were prevalent throughout Calcutta’.53 At this moment the mammoth rally on the Maidan had just begun. It was anybody’s guess what would happen when the huge crowd began to disperse. Around 5.30 pm a sergeant fired twenty-five rounds from a sub-machine gun to disperse a mob on Burman Street.54 Now let us look at how the Indian political leaders reacted to such an alarming situation. On the morning of the sixteenth, Kaizor Ahmed, secretary of the Muslim League, obtained information that a communal riot had been started at the crossing of Upper Circular Road and Vivekananda Road. He made a phone call to the officer in charge of the Amherst police station around 7.00 am. This was the first report on the Calcutta disturbances given to the police. Two hours later Osman, a Muslim League leader and the mayor of Calcutta, drove up to this troubled spot in a car. He tried to pacify the crowd only to be stoned.55 At the same time Surendra Mohan Ghose of the Congress was also in a car inspecting the situation from Chowringhee Road up to Bagh Bazaar in north Calcutta. In an interview he recalled that ‘in certain places there was very great tension. Muslims and Hindus were poised against each other’, and he thought that ‘by evening, the whole of Calcutta would be ablaze’. He said that he rang up Nazimuddin and Suhrawardy to consult about what could be done to bring the situation under control. He was told by Suhrawardy to come to Bowbazar crossing.56 Suhrawardy turned up at the crossing of Bowbazar Street and Lower Circular Road at 11.35 am, followed by a fleet of private cars including a few press cars. In Suhrawardy’s own car were also seated D.N. Mukherjee, chief whip of the Congress, and Bhupesh Gupta of the Communist Party 118

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of India. This area had been a scene of serious rioting, and a riot squad and armed police were trying to disperse the crowd. Nevertheless, Suhrawardy insisted on going down Bowbazar Street. He was immediately blocked by a big Hindu crowd consisting of ‘middle class, educated persons’ and ‘a much lower class’ of people, such as shopkeepers, traders and coolies. He got out of the car. And ‘with the aid of Dhirendra Narayan Mukherji . . . he attempted to address the mob’. However, ‘they were apparently in no mood to listen to him and the tumult rose as certain members in the mob began to accuse the Chief Minister of wrongly declaring the day as a public holiday’. They started throwing brickbats, one shattering the windscreen of Suhrawardy’s car, another hitting him on the shoulder.57 Surendra Mohan Ghose said in his interview, however, that Suhrawardy did not come to the rendezvous point. Perhaps he reached the crossing too late, after Suhrawardy had left; but he suspected ‘some deliberate plan’ behind this unfortunate incident. He said that on the following day he saw ‘certain scenes which I cannot describe’. He could not maintain his balance any longer. He then withdrew the order he had given to the volunteers to ‘give all [equal] protection to Muslims and Hindus alike’. Instead he issued instructions to ‘organise themselves for resistance’.58 What happened on 16 August, particularly the small episode involving Suhrawardy and Ghose, shows more clearly than anything else the way in which established Indian nationalist leaders were carried off and swallowed up by a mass upsurge which they themselves had stirred up for their own political gain. They seriously miscalculated the internal momentum of popular upsurge. In the beginning, it appears, they were confident. They seemed to believe that drawing upon the long tradition of Bengali provincial politics, they could easily patch up differences among themselves and intervene to bring any disorder under control as and when the situation, according to their knowledgeable assessment, had crossed the threshold. They appeared to take it for granted that the techniques of nationalist mass politics they had developed over the last few decades would work even under the explosive situation of August 1946. Soon, however, they were compelled to realize that they had opened up a Pandora’s box, the lid of which they did not know how to close. They were forced to retreat from the scene where people were actually fighting. In fairness to them, however, it should be noted that they did make another attempt to intervene. K.S. Roy of the Congress, Shamsuddin Ahmed of the Muslim League and Mohammad Ismail of the Communist Party addressed a crowd on European Asylum Lane in central Calcutta on the morning of the seventeenth.59 They also held a conference in the assembly chamber on the same day and issued a statement that was signed by the Congress, the Muslim League, the Communist Party and other parties;60 but the bitter truth was a complete lack of response from the people of Calcutta. 119

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The commissioner of police might have had some reasonable grounds to tell a subordinate that ‘he had the assurance from the high level that no great trouble was apprehended’.61 Another senior police officer remarked: ‘I do not believe that the leaders of any of the parties expected serious disturbances’.62 One study of the riots done in the early 1950s suggested that Suhrawardy only intended to hold a large rally and processions with any occasional outbreaks of violence being quickly controlled by the police.63 Whatever political miscalculation might have been made, when the situation did get out of control, recourse had to be made to the security machinery of the state apparatus, the police and the military. However, Indian political leaders appear to have made another miscalculation about this factor, too. Both were under the control of the British and quite unreliable in the last phase of colonial rule.

3 The urgent telegram that F.J. Burrows, Bengal governor, sent to London to report the outbreak of the Calcutta riots concludes: ‘Disturbances so far have been markedly communal and not, repeat not, in any way anti-British, anti-[omission] or anti-Government’.64 This short observation most patently shows what the colonial administration feared most when Direct Action was declared. For the raj the crucial question was whether or not Direct Action would be targeted at the British; and there was, as stated above, more than enough substance in the words and actions of the Indian political leaders to cause apprehension. It was the Calcutta police and the Eastern Command of the Indian Army that were directly responsible for the maintenance of public peace and order in Calcutta. Let us see how they responded when they were confronted with the unprecedented situation that broke out on 16 August. Based on the bitter experience of INA (Indian National Army) Day in November 1945, the Calcutta police had introduced at the beginning of 1946 a new scheme to deal with large-scale disturbances.65 It was called the ‘Emergency Action Scheme’ and was a system based on centralized operations as opposed to the old system of zonal control. Under the new scheme armed police, traffic police and mounted police were to be concentrated at the police headquarters in Lalbazar to form a strike force, while at the local level, constables were to remain in the police station compound with the exception of a few plainclothes men, who were to collect information on the streets. Lalbazar would keep in touch with and take control of the local police forces from a central control room equipped with a new telephone exchange system; and it would despatch riot squads and armed police to wherever trouble occurred in the city. On Direct Action Day, the Emergency Scheme was put into operation at 8.00 am. The immediate result was ‘to denude the streets of Calcutta of all police force except a few traffic directors’.66 120

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There was strong criticism of the Emergency Scheme among senior Indian police officers. They believed that an open show of police force, such as police pickets at strategic points that had been implemented under the old zonal system, was essential to nip a riot in the bud.67 For the top British officers, however, the problem lay in whether the Calcutta police had sufficient forces to deploy at every sensitive point in the metropolis. They knew from the experiences of INA Day in November 1945 and Abdul Rashid Day in February 1946 that it was dangerous to send out or post small parties of less than fifteen policemen. Rioting crowds were becoming so bold that such a small unit might well be attacked and overwhelmed by them.68 The day before the Emergency Scheme was put into operation to deal with Direct Action, the police had obtained important intelligence about the routes, gathering places and slogans prescribed for the Muslim League processionists. This information was passed on to police stations throughout Calcutta, but it is strange that they made no prior arrangements to station pickets on those streets and crossings clearly specified in the instructions of the Muslim League.69 It was only on the seventeenth that pickets were posted at nine mosques, including the Nakhoda Mosque; no Hindu temples were protected.70 When information on Hindu–Muslim clashes started arriving in floods on the morning of the sixteenth, Lalbazar rushed riot squads to the troubled spots. Local police units also hastened to the scenes. But by the time they arrived, much destruction had already been done on the streets of Calcutta, which had been denuded of all police presence. It is said, for example, that no police were seen on the morning of the sixteenth on Dharamtolla Street, an arterial road through which a great number of Muslim League processionists were expected to pass on their way to the Maidan.71 The Calcutta police fell hopelessly behind the feverish pace of rioting and were never able to catch up with it. The Calcutta police were widely considered to be a corrupt organization at that time.72 During the disturbances, some British sergeants and Indian constables were found participating in the looting.73 A few senior officers were criticized for taking money from wealthy Marwari businessmen for protection.74 They were not only corrupt but cowardly as well. Frightened by the widespread violence, many constables dared not leave the police station without lorries, which sped along the streets lest policemen be entangled in violent incidents.75 Three or four police stations became unusually inactive, their constables spending most of their time inside the thana building, even at the height of the rioting.76 On top of all this, communalism had already infiltrated the police organization.77 Moreover, the Special Branch, an intelligence cell of the Calcutta police, actually had a hand in instigating the violence. Some of its members, including a staff officer, were ‘found to be exciting people for the purpose of committing riots’.78 Thus, it is no wonder that harsh criticism was directed towards the Calcutta police after the riots.79 However, the largest and costliest of their 121

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blunders appears to have been the inflexible implementation of the Emergency Scheme; that is, the problem of systemic breakdown rather than corruption and malfeasance. As to the military, they had also drawn important lessons from the experiences of Abdul Rashid Day in February. They came to realize that ‘the police could no longer be expected to control widespread disturbances and therefore the army must be ready to intervene much earlier in any future riots’.80 On the other hand they had noticed by the beginning of 1946 that Indian units of the army were ‘in a touchy and highly strung condition’. In addition to the famous IRN Mutiny in Bombay, there was another mutiny near Calcutta in late February, in which two of the Indian Pioneer units refused to obey orders.81 There was restlessness in the Gurkha regiments, too, concerning their future in independent India.82 Many Indian ex-soldiers who had been demobilized after the cessation of hostilities were having immense difficulties in resettling themselves.83 It was in July that F. Tuker, the then army commander of the Eastern Command, ordered that reinforcements be sent to Calcutta so as to bring the total number of British battalions to four and Gurkha to one.84 Considering that the Direct Action Resolution was passed after this troop movement, this precautionary measure might not have been employed in anticipation of the troubles on Direct Action Day, but rather on Remembrance Day, which was to be observed on 9 August in commemoration of the Quit India movement. Be that as it may, it is important to note that the army had a sufficient force on standby to deal with civil disturbance in their Calcutta garrison on 16 August. Nonetheless, they displayed the greatest reluctance to come out in aid of the civil authorities. The long delay in the army’s action forms another important feature of the Calcutta riots along with the breakdown of the police system. As stated before, Commissioner of Police Hardwick asked for military assistance from Chief Secretary Walker at 2.30 pm on the sixteenth. Ten minutes later Governor Burrows gave his approval to Walker. Meanwhile, Suhrawardy had agreed with Hardwick that ‘the troops should be called in’ and went out to attend the meeting on the Maidan at 2.45 pm.85 At 2.50 pm Hardwick reported to Burrows that ‘the Chief Minister had already agreed to the calling in of troops’.86 Suhrawardy had given his consent to military intervention before he spoke to the Muslim masses. In other words, he delivered a ‘Laodicean’ speech, knowing that the army would soon come in to control the situation.87 On the other hand, Sarat Chandra Bose, the leader of the Bengal Congress, had gone to the governor on the same day to ask him to take immediate action.88 At 3.00 pm Burrows and Hardwick met E.K.G. Sixsmith, area commander, and another general. The four British high officials made a tour of the city for an hour to appreciate the situation. They found the streets ‘peaceful’, seeing no rioting, no dead bodies and no injured persons. If 122

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Calcutta looked ‘peaceful’ at all at this moment, it was mainly because of the mammoth rally which had attracted a huge number of Muslims to the Maidan. Nevertheless, they accepted the transient calmness at face value and drew the erroneous conclusion that ‘the situation was improving’.89 Although Hardwick looked unhappy,90 Burrows was of the opinion that the situation did not justify immediate use of troops. It was around 4.15 pm that they came to an agreement that ‘the situation was not such that the time for military aid to the civil power had come’.91 At the same time they decided on a precautionary measure: ‘the troops should be brought into the Rest Camp at Sealdah Station, whence they could put out mobile patrols to relieve the police in keeping open certain big streets’.92 It would be worth recalling here that, as pointed out earlier, the army reckoned exactly at the same time that the whole of Calcutta was ablaze. Anyway, the advice of the experienced police officer which enjoyed the chief minister’s support was turned down by the governor and army generals. Suhrawardy, who was still on the Maidan, was not taken into consultation and no attempt was made even to obtain his approval ex post facto.93 When the rally dispersed, Suhrawardy went to the Police control room in Lalbazar and stayed there until 4.00 am the next morning. Surrounded by his coterie, he obstructed police work, when the whole of Calcutta was ablaze, by making so much noise, issuing so many whimsical instructions and making no attempt at hiding his communal bias.94 At the same time, however, he put forth a great deal of effort to bring reluctant British officials around.95 He met Sixsmith at 5.30 pm. He was very anxious to tell him that ‘there should be a widespread military aid in the form of small parties of soldiers protecting areas where trouble might occur’. This meant that he wanted the army to carry out what the police had failed to do. Sixsmith declined to comply with Suhrawardy’s demand, pointing out that ‘picketing . . . would lead to undue dispersion of his limited troop resources’.96 That is to say, the military stuck fast to the same line of thinking as the police. At about 7.00 pm an Indian senior police officer, H.N. Sircar, was sent out from Lalbazar ‘to see what the situation was like and to decide if the military should be called out’. He was given the requisition form for calling out the military with instructions to sign it and hand it over to the battalions at Sealdah Rest Camp, if he was convinced that the situation was so bad as to justify military intervention. He found that ‘the streets were full of violent and variously armed mobs’. He saw looting, fighting, arson etc. on the streets. Convinced that the military should come in, he went to Sealdah to submit the requisition. While he was talking to Hardwick over the telephone about his evaluation of situation, J.P.C. MacKinlay, fortress commander, showed up. He wanted to speak to Hardwick. He reported that ‘the situation was not any worse and [he] did not want the military to come out at once’. Immediately after that Walker and Sixsmith made their 123

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appearance. It was decided then and there that ‘it was too early to call out the military’. Sircar was told to patrol the streets.97 When he returned to the control room, Sircar reported to Suhrawardy what had happened in Sealdah. Suhrawardy is said to have held back all the officers in the room and insisted that the military should be called in. He also made ‘a very pertinent remark saying why there has been so much hesitation, why there is being so much hesitation about calling the military’. At about 10.30 pm, however, Walker wanted to leave. Suhrawardy reportedly told him that ‘I do not think you can go just now, before making a decision about the military’.98 A serious assessment of the situation seems to have begun to be made only after this showdown. Suhrawardy, Walker, MacKinlay and Hardwick finally agreed at 11.30 pm that ‘the military would patrol the area of Calcutta already designated to aid the police to maintain order in the thoroughfares, leaving the police free to operate elsewhere and in the smaller roads within the area patrolled’.99 This decision was communicated to Sealdah around 12.30 am. But it was only at 1.45 am that the first patrol headed for the streets.100 The area earmarked for the army patrol covered no more than half of north Calcutta, bounded by Strand Road to the west, Bowbazar Street to the south, Upper Circular Road to the east and Vivekananda Road to the north. Moreover, the British soldiers merely passed through the thoroughfares of this small area on lorries. They did not open fire at all, although they saw many bands of men on the streets in spite of the curfew that was imposed at 9.00 pm. Above all, it was in the dead of night that they began to patrol. Very few people took notice of their movements. It was natural that such a half measure should have only ‘a mild damping effect’ at most.101 Walker, who was very disappointed with the army, recollected that when he asked the military to step in, he took it for granted that ‘they knew what we wanted’ and expected that ‘they had every intention of giving us the assistance once they came up’. However, they had no intention of taking any action beyond what was called for in the document they received from the civil authority.102 At 11.00 am on the seventeenth, Burrows, accompanied by Walker, Sixsmith, MacKinlay and Hardwick, went out on a tour through north Calcutta to assess the situation. They noticed that ‘there was a different attitude about the crowd’. They saw arson and dead bodies. When they drove up to the corner of the Nakhoda Mosque on Lower Chitpore Road, they were stunned by an unbelievable incident: . . . they saw a man beaten to death eighty yards away. They ordered the police to take action at once, but the police showed themselves slow to get out of their vehicles. Before they had taken action three people had been beaten to death but as soon as a British Police Sergeant fired one shot the mob dispersed.103 124

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It was at this moment that ‘one Muslim from the crowd said to the Chief Secretary: “But you must not fire, you will disturb the peace of our city” ’.104 The situation was so bad that they had to give up the tour. They hurried back to Lalbazar and ordered the army to ‘dominate’ the area they had been merely patrolling since midnight. At the same time they made arrangements for more reinforcements of British soldiers from Barrackpore and Darjeeling.105 At 1.30 pm the military patrol was withdrawn from the city to regroup for an all-out operation, which marked the beginning of the worst phase of the disturbances. At 3.30 pm three British battalions entered the area bounded by Strand Road, Bowbazar Street, Upper Circular Road and Vivekananda Road. They took over police stations, carried out a sort of mopping-up operation and secured control of the sector by 5.30 pm. They fired 922 rounds on the seventeenth alone, killing 100 and wounding 65 civilians. Later that night three tanks were allotted to each battalion.106 Yet the situation did not improve much. The whole of Calcutta, including suburban areas like Metiaburz, had been engulfed in intense rioting since early morning on the seventeenth in the absence of effective police and military action. The domination of merely half of north Calcutta, three square miles in area, by the military meant little in the light of the unprecedented seriousness of the situation. Far from subsiding, rioting was beginning to spread to new areas, such as the dock area, and it was feared that it would swallow up Barrackpore and Naihati, the main industrial belt, at any moment. Troops had to be despatched to the Dock at 2.00 am on the eighteenth and to Barrackpore and Naihati again at 10.00 am on the same day. The rioting mobs were so hostile as to give the impression that small parties of troops would be attacked.107 It was not until midday of the eighteenth that an all-out effort to regain control of the whole of Calcutta was made. F.R.R. Bucher, army commander, arrived in Calcutta from Ranchi early on the morning of the eighteenth and began to exercise strong leadership in completely changing the army’s strategy.108 He arranged to bring in reinforcements and attended a meeting at 11.30 am, where Indian cabinet ministers including Suhrawardy and British officials met together to deliberate for the first time since the outbreak of the disturbances. It was decided that military pickets would be placed at important points throughout Calcutta. This meant a virtual reversal of the lukewarm stance previously adopted by the British high officials, including military generals.109 Bucher then took Burrows, Suhrawardy and Walker on a comprehensive tour of Calcutta. When they entered the northernmost part of the city, Upper Chitpore Road, which had been excluded from the military operation, they found communal fighting still going on. They were hemmed in by crowds front and back, although they were accompanied by a strong military and police escort. There were also a great number of people on the roofs.110 Their general attitude was threatening, so 125

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Bucher and his party immediately got out of the area and ordered a reserve battalion to rush into Upper Chitpore Road with a squadron of fifteen to twenty tanks.111 It began operations around 4.30 pm. The soldiers proceeded with two light tanks at the head. They found 150 bodies at the crossing of Upper Chitpore Road and Grey Street, but that was only the beginning. They were to observe many horrible scenes during their operations.112 It transpired later that Upper Chitpore Road was the place where the riots took their most violent form. The troops also faced resistance from the rioters. Bucher said before the Enquiry Commission: ‘Even firearms were used against the military; on one occasion a sub-machine gun was used’.113 It was not until the early morning of the nineteenth that the army was able to establish control over the areas between the Hooghly River and Central Avenue in north Calcutta.114 On the same day a few shops opened, while a special operation to clear away corpses was launched during the night. On the twentieth a limited bus service between Russa Road and Howrah Station was resumed. The city began to muster a semblance of normality, although the exodus of citizens and isolated stabbings continued.115 Reluctance and dishonourable delaying tactics, as was clearly revealed by a small occurrence in the Sealdah Rest Camp on the night of the sixteenth, underlay the manner in which the military dealt with the massive riots which Direct Action Day triggered. Why so much reluctance and so much delay? Sixsmith, who was in command of the army in the Calcutta area, wrote a few years after the riots: ‘Although the first incident might well be communal, I considered, and it was my impression that others considered, the most likely turn would be Anti-Government and Anti-British’.116 He was repeating here the same view that he expressed before the Enquiry Commission in January 1947: [Question] 210 . . . Don’t you think that if the military had been called in and given a task which would have the effect of making it appear to the people that the forces of law and order were at hand, don’t you think that the future course of the unhappy events would have been different?/Undoubtedly they would have been different. 211. And that would have prevented the enormous loss of life and property?/That I am not certain of. 212. It would have diminished?/You are asking me a hypothetical question. I cannot answer how the mood would have altered. It might have altered against the army or against the police. 213. I entirely agree. If the disturbances had been anti-Government?/ It might have turned the situation on the 16th. Premature use of military might have turned these crowds. 214. You mean turning Muhammadans against Government?/ I am not speaking of Muhammadans turning against the Government any more than Hindus. I am not communal. 126

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215. Therefore are you suggesting that if the military had been called in earlier, the populace would have turned against the Government?/‘Populace’ is wrong. 216. Well, the people?/I am suggesting that we knew the situation on the 16th, that might have developed into anti-Government riots.117 Having arrived in Barrackpore only in July 1946, Sixsmith had little experience in India. He had to be advised by such senior generals as Bucher and MacKinlay about how to deal with the possible ‘troubles’ on Direct Action Day.118 One may therefore feel justified in assuming that Sixsmith’s view was not necessarily his own, but originated from a sort of consensus shared by the generals of the Eastern Command. And when one recalls that speeches and statements made by the Muslim League leaders prior to Direct Action Day were full of anti-British rhetoric and that Remembrance Day was observed on 9 August to commemorate the Quit India movement, it is no wonder that the army generals were deeply apprehensive about anti-British and anti-government riots. By the same token, it may be reasonably presumed that civilian officials also had similar misgivings. However, it soon became apparent that the ‘troubles’ were more of a communal nature than anti-British or anti-government, although it would be wrong to ignore the latter features. The question, therefore, persists as to why experienced politicians and administrators like Burrows and Walker as well as military commanders like Sixsmith and MacKinlay continued to display so much reluctance to call in the military on a full scale until the arrival of Bucher on the eighteenth. A few plausible reasons can be offered, although they do not seem to provide us with a final settlement of the question. First, the army was responsible not only for Calcutta but also for the Dock Area and ‘the whole of the mill area, in which they [sic] are very mixed communities’.119 And in point of fact, one can establish a relationship between rioting and industrial disputes in some cases.120 The army had justifiable cause to avoid dispersing its forces. Second, it should be specially noted that the British attitude toward India had undergone a fundamental change in the mid-1940s, especially after the visit of the Cabinet Mission in March 1946. P.D. Martyn, the then additional secretary to the Home Department, recalled that ‘by this time [i.e. 1946] the British presence was largely irrelevant’.121 He went on to observe: As the war dragged on – with Singapore and Burma and all that that meant (my wife and I unofficially played our part in meeting and putting up a series of refugees coming out of Burma), with the horrors of the Bengal Famine and the efforts of the Bengal Civil 127

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Supplies Department to cope with an almost impossible food situation and with the inability of Whitehall to begin to formulate constitutional proposals that faced the reality of the HinduMuslim situation – I (but not only I) certainly sensed that we had come to the end of the road. We were drifting.122 Thus it was not the British raj of the past which was deeply committed to ruling India, but a fatigued power waiting to go home sooner or later that tried to put down the Calcutta disturbances. After all, for the British of the 1940s, the Great Calcutta Killing was ‘someone else’s battle’.123

4 A little action on the first day would have saved the 2,500 lives I am sure, but the administration was breaking down.124 From the viewpoint of institutional politics, the Calcutta disturbances possessed a distinguishing feature in that they broke out in a transitional period which was marked by the power vacuum and systemic breakdown. It is also important to note that they constituted part of a political struggle in which the Congress and the Muslim League competed with each other for the initiative in establishing the new nation-state(s), while the British made an all-out attempt to carry out decolonization at the lowest possible political cost for them. The political rivalry among the major nationalist parties in Bengal took a form different from that in New Delhi, mainly because of the broad mass base those organizations enjoyed and the tradition of flexible political dealing in which they excelled. At the initial stage of the riots, the Congress and the Muslim League appeared to be confident that they could draw on this tradition even if a difficult situation arose out of political showdown. Most probably, Direct Action Day in Calcutta was planned to be a large-scale hartal and mass rally which they knew very well how to control. However, the response from the masses far exceeded any expectations. The political leaders seriously miscalculated the strong emotional response that the word ‘nation’, as interpreted under the new situation, had evoked. In August 1946 the ‘nation’ was no longer a mere political slogan. It was rapidly turning into ‘reality’ both in realpolitik and in people’s imaginations. The system to which Bengal political leaders had grown accustomed for decades could not cope with this dynamic change. As we have seen, it quickly and easily broke down on the first day of the disturbances. Immediately after the riots, Sarat Chandra Bose floated the idea of setting up an all-party government to overcome the crisis that the Calcutta disturbances created; but neither the Congress’ nor the Muslim League’s national leadership supported it. Far from it. In fact, a second opportunity for a showdown was set, when the Congress brought forward a nonconfidence motion against the Muslim League government.125 This marked 128

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a second turn in the rapidly changing political tide. Not only were political leaders unable to deal with the new situation, but they also began to follow the new political trend instead of taking the lead in mass politics. On the other hand, the British raj became an ailing administration during the last few years of its rule in India. Especially after the end of the Second World War, it was forced to cope with huge economic, political and social pressure with only limited human and material resources at its disposal. In the area of public peace and order, the riots that occurred on INA Day in November and on Abdul Rashid Day in February posed a serious problem to the raj. It appears that the British came to realize that they did not have enough police or military forces to meet every possible situation, and concluded that they should concentrate their limited resources on a few carefully selected political targets. What the case of the Calcutta disturbances strongly suggests is that they had attached greater importance to the prevention of anti-British riots, in other words, protection of British interests, than to other concerns such as the suppression of communal riots. It is only in this context that the Emergency Action Scheme of the Calcutta police and the stubborn opposition displayed by such British high officials as Sixsmith and Walker to military intervention make any sense. What they feared most was that police and troops on the streets might become the targets of angry crowds. Dharamtala Street, denuded of policemen in the morning of Direct Action Day, furnishes the best illustration of such a British posture. We cannot emphasize enough that this Partition Riot should be seen as a political struggle among the three major political forces, in which the British consistently pursued their own political interests.

Acknowledgement An earlier version of this paper was read at an international conference ‘Living Together Separately: Cultural India in History and Politics’ held in New Delhi between 19 and 21 December, 2002. I want to thank Mushirul Hasan and Ashim Roy for inviting me to the conference. I am grateful to D.A. Low, Rajat K. Ray and Gyanendra Pandey for their comments. Special thanks are due to Riho Isaka who went through my draft and gave me constructive suggestions.

Notes 1 Government of Bengal, Report of the Commissioner of Police on the Disturbances and the Action Taken by the Calcutta Police between the 16th and 20th August Inclusive (Alipore, 1946) (hereafter as RCPD), 136–8, No File No./46, Home (Political) Confidential Files, West Bengal State Archives, Calcutta [hereafter WBSA]; [Eastern Command], ‘Report on the Muslim-Hindu Conflict in Calcutta Following “Direct Action Day” 16th August 1946’ (hereafter RMHC), Appendix C, No File No./46, Home (Poll) Confl., WBSA. The total number of casualties is unknown, but the army confirmed that they had killed at least 152 and wounded 115 (ibid.).

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2 ‘Report of the Officer-in-Charge, Rescue Organisation’, 10, File 351/46 Part B II, Home (Poll) Confl., WBSA. This figure covers only five days. The total number was estimated at ‘not less than 35,000’. 3 These figures were given by the British Government in a ‘Written Answer to a Parliamentary Question’, in The Transfer of Power 1942–7, ed. Nicholas Mansergh and Penderel Moon, Volume VIII (London, 1977) (hereafter TP, viii), 303. Wavell, the then viceroy, gave Pethick Lawrence, secretary of state, another set of figures: 4,400 dead, 16,000 injured and over 100,000 homeless (TP, viii, 323). As to the administrative process for arriving at these figures, see ‘Riots and Disturbances in India: Casualty Figures’, L/P&J/8/575, India Office Records and Oriental Collections, The British Library, London (hereafter IOL). The number of corpses collected from streets, houses, manholes, etc. and disposed of by the government and the Hindu and Muslim volunteer organizations came to 3,173 (Government of Bengal, Miscellaneous Reports on the Calcutta Disturbances, August 1946 (Alipore, 1946), 20, No File No./46, Home (Poll) Confl., WBSA. And it was widely believed that a considerable number of dead bodies had been thrown into sewage and the Hooghly river. Twelve hospitals admitted 4,561 patients between 16 and 28 August, of whom 2,322 were Hindus and 1,832 Muslims (ibid., 3–6). The degree of arson is not known. However, the commissioner of police reported that the fire brigade had received eighty-five calls on the first day alone (‘C.P.’s Report: Fires and the Work of the Fire-Brigade’, File 351/46 Part B/IV, Home (Poll) Confl., WBSA. 4 ‘C.P.’s Report regarding Number of Persons Arrested, etc.’, File 401/46, Home (Poll) Confl., WBSA. This figure consisted of 1,227 Hindus and 1,304 Muslims. Further arrests were made up to 21 September, bringing the total number of arrests to 4,602. 5 This emotive phrase was coined by a leading Calcutta newspaper, The Statesman, immediately after the riots (The Statesman, 23 Aug. 1946). 6 An excellent account of this period may be found in Sumit Sarkar, Modern India 1885–1947 (New Delhi, 1983), 426–39. 7 The latest one is Gyanendra Pandey, Remembering Partition: Violence, Nationalism and History in India (Cambridge, 2001). For a list of recent work, see ibid., 3, footnote 3. The term ‘Partition Riots’ was coined by Suranjan Das. See his Communal Riots in Bengal 1905–1947 (Delhi, 1991), 161. A pioneering work on Partition Riots is Richard D. Lambert, ‘Hindu-Muslim Riots’ (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Pennsylvania, 1951), which contains valuable information the author collected by interview. On communal violence in South Asia, see Veena Das, ‘Introduction: Communities, Riots, Survivors – The South Asian Experience’ in Mirrors of Violence: Communities, Riots and Survivors in South Asia, ed. Veena Das (New Delhi, 1990). There is a large body of literature on partition. A general view is provided in Mushirul Hasan, ed., India’s Partition: Process, Strategy and Mobilization (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1993); and S. Settar and Indira B. Gupta eds, Pangs of Partition, 2 vols (New Delhi: Manohar, 2002). 8 Das, Communal Riots, Ch. 6. 9 Max Jean Zins, ‘The 1947 Vivisection of India: The Political Usage of a Carnage in the Era of Citizen-massacres’, in The Unfinished Agenda: Nation-building in South Asia, eds Mushirul Hasan and Nakazato Nariaki (New Delhi, 2001). 10 ‘Text of the Two Resolutions Passed by the All-India Muslim League Council at Bombay on 29 July 1946’, TP, viii, 135–9. 11 ‘Minute by Mr. Scott and Field Marshal Viscount Wavell, 1–2 Aug. 1946’, TP, viii, 174.

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12 H. Donovan, American Consul General to Secy. of State, Despatch No. 3060, 19 Aug. 1946, 845.00/8-1946 CS/A, Central Decimal Files of the Department of State, USA, Record Group 59 (Microfilm of the Confidential US State Department Central Files: India, Internal Affairs 1945–49, Part 1: Political, Governmental, and National Defence Affairs [hereafter SDCF] ). 13 Suhrawardy joined the Swaraj Party and became a lieutenant of C.R. Das. After a brief attempt at organizing his own party, he joined the Muslim League. His political assets were in the trade union movement among the seamen, dock workers and factory workers of Calcutta. He became chief minister of Bengal in April 1946. Begum Shaista Suhrawardy Ikramullah, Huseyn Shaheed Suhrawardy: A Biography (Karachi: Oxford University Press, 1995), 20–8; Mohammad H.R. Talukdar ed., Memoirs of Huseyn Shaheed Suhrawardy with a Brief Account of His Life and Work (Dhaka: The University Press, 1987), 6–27. 14 ‘Memoirs of P.D. Martyn’, Eur. MSS. F180/13 (Indian Civil Service [District Officers] Collection), IOL. 15 ‘Programme for Direct Action Day’, The Star of India, 12 Aug. 1946 (enclosed in S.J. Fletcher, American Consul General, to Secy. of State, Despatch No. 1033, 20 Aug. 1946, 845.00/8-2246 CS/HH, SDCF). 16 Dawn, 16 Aug. 1946. 17 ‘Secret Report on the Political Situation in Bengal for the First Half of August, 1946’, L/P&J/5/153, IOL. 18 Ibid. 19 ‘Extract from the Report by the Commissioner of Police, Calcutta, on the Political Situation and Labour Unrest for the Week ending 10th and 17th August 1946’ (hereafter ERCP), No File No./46, Home (Poll) Confl., WBSA. During the Second World War, political parties and other organizations vied with one another in building up volunteer forces, termed ‘private armies’ in official parlance. The Muslim League National Guard had 3,500 members in Bengal as of mid-1946, Khaksars 100, R.S.S. Sangh 100, and Azad Hind Dal (an organization under Forward Bloc) 3,372. (P.D. Martyn, Addl. Secy., Bengal Govt. to Secy. to Home Dept., Govt. of India, No. 891, 27 Sep. 1946, File 25/4/46 Poll (I), Home (Poll.) Confidential Files, National Archives of India, New Delhi [hereafter NAI] ). Concerning the Muslim League National Guard, see ‘Constitution & Rules of Muslim National Guard’, File 1331, Quaid-iAzam Papers, National Archives of Pakistan, Islamabad. 20 ERCP, 17 Aug. 1946. As regards the details of the propaganda campaign by both the Muslim and Hindu leadership, see Das, Communal Riots, 167–70. 21 Das appears to have failed to pay due attention to the moderate and reserved views reported in ERCP. See Das, Communal Riots, 166. 22 ERCP, 10 Aug. 1946. 23 ERCP, 3 Aug. 1946. 24 ERCP, 17 Aug. 1946. 25 Concerning party politics inside the Bengal Provincial Muslim League in the 1940s, see Ian Talbot, Provincial Politics and the Pakistan Movement: The Growth of the Muslim League in North-West and North-East India 1939–47, second impression (Karachi: Oxford University Press, 1990), Ch. 3; Shile Sen, Muslim Politics in Bengal 1937–1947 (New Delhi: Impex India, 1976), Chs. 4 and 5. 26 Mushirul Hasan, Legacy of a Divided Nation: India’s Muslims since Independence (Boulder: Westview Press, 1997), 114–15; Talbot, Provincial Politics, 73–6.

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27 Nazimuddin belonged to the Dacca Nawab family, which was from Kashmir and owned one of the largest zamindari estates in Bengal. The family was also known for sponsoring the first session of the Muslim League in Dhaka. For Suhrawardy, see Note 13 above. As regards the Dacca Nawab’s Family Estate, see Nakazato Nariaki, Agrarian System in Eastern Bengal c.1870–1910 (Calcutta: K.P. Bagchi, 1994), 159–60, 170–1. 28 Ikramullah, Suhrawardy, 27. In fairness to Suhrawardy, it should be pointed out that such an influential Congress leader as Subhas Chandra Bose also had ‘riff-raffs’ among his followers (Joya Chatterji, Bengal Divided: Hindu Communalism and Partition 1932–1947 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 134. 29 Taj ul-Islam Hashmi, Peasant Utopia: The Communalization of Class Politics in East Bengal, 1920–1947, first Bangladesh edn (Dhaka: The University Press, 1994), 226; Talbot, Provincial Politics, 70–3. 30 Minutes of Evidence of the Calcutta Disturbances Commission of Enquiry, 11 vols (Alipore, n.d.) (hereafter CDCE), vol. ii, 82 (Evidence of D.R. Hardwick). One lakh is 100,000. An army intelligence officer gave a smaller figure of 3 to 4 lakhs (CDCE, iv, 108 [C.E.C. Gregory] ). The reporter of Star of India put the figure at 100,000 (Burrows to Wavell, 22 Aug. 1946, TP, viii, 297). The Calcutta Disturbances Commission of Enquiry was appointed by the Government of Bengal on 11 September 1946 to enquire into the causes and the course of the disturbances in Calcutta and into the measures taken to deal with them, and dissolved on 20 July 1947, about one month before Partition, ‘in view of the present political situation’ (TP, viii, 347; Tyson to Walker, 13 Sep. 1946, Home (Poll) Confl., File No. 414/46, WBSA; Resolution No. 2577, Home (Poll) Dept., 17 July 1947, Home (Poll) Confl., File No. 303/47, WBSA). It consisted of Patrick Spens, chief justice of India and president of the Commission, Saiyid Fazl Ali and B. Somayya, and held the first sitting on 15 November 1946. Witnesses were thoroughly cross-examined by a team of three counsels representing the Congress, the Muslim League and the CPI. When it adjourned sine die on 8 July 1947, it had not even finished hearing official testimony. Witnesses actually examined can be divided into three groups: (1) high officials of the government of Bengal, (2) army officers and (3) police officers. See also CDCE, i, 3–5, 20–1 (Patrick Spens), Home (Poll) Confl., No File No. /46, WBSA. 31 Burrows to Wavell, 22 Aug. 1946, TP, viii, 297. 32 CDCE, iv, 260 (P. Norton-Jones). 33 ‘Extract: 16 Aug. 46 – Direct Action Day’, 2, Home (Poll) Confl., No File No./46 (in the same file as that of ERCP), WBSA. Italics are mine. See also RMHC, 1. 34 Burrows to Wavell, 22 Aug. 1946, TP, viii, 297. 35 CDCE, iii, 65–6 (R.L. Walker). 36 Tyson to Folk, No. 364, 17 Aug. 1946, Tyson Collection, MSS. Eur. E341/40, IOL. 37 CDCE, iii, 67–9 (R.L. Walker). 38 RMHC, 1. 39 Statesman, 16 Aug. 1946. 40 RMHC, 1; ERCP, 17 Aug. 1946. 41 ‘Oral History Interview with Shri Surendra Mohan Ghose, New Delhi, 27 Feb. 1968’, 290, Oral History Transcript, Nehru Memorial Museum and Library, New Delhi (hereafter NMML). See also Adhir Bhattacharjee, Great Revolutionary Leader Surendra Mohan Ghose (Calcutta, 1976), 53.

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42 Bal Raj Madhok, Portrait of a Martyr: A Biography of Dr. Shyama Prasad Mookerji, centenary edn (New Delhi: Rupa, 2001), 78. On the Hindu volunteer organizations, see Chatterji, Bengal Divided, 233–9. 43 More deadly weapons were employed in the later stages of the riots. An overview of various preparations is given in Das, Communal Riots, 176–80. 44 For example, Rajab Ali, a well-known goonda of Belliaghatta, was seen ‘in the company of the Chief Minister’ during the riots (CDCE, v, 151 [S.N. Mukherji] ). 45 CDCE, vii, 201 (S. Ahmed). 46 CDCE, viii, 140 (G.D. Bose); xi, 169 (Shakurul Hossain). 47 CDCE, viii, 62 (A.K. Mukherjee). See also CDCE, xi, 54 (Michael Bullock). South Calcutta was tense in a reverse way. One army officer who was viewing the city with binoculars from a building in Fort William was struck with ‘a curious stillness in the air’, with both Maidan and the Chowringhee Road being completely deserted. (L.A. Livermore, ‘Calcutta Cameo’, 1, 71/21/3/12, Papers of Sir Francis Tuker, Imperial War Museum, London [hereafter IWM] ). Part of this memoir is reprinted in Francis Tuker, While Memory Serves (London, 1950; reprinted in India under the changed title of India’s Partition and Human Debasement, Delhi, 1988), 597. 48 CDCE, ii, 68, 84 (D.R. Hardwick); v, 125, 132 (S.N. Mukherji); vi, 88 (J.B. Dutta); vii, 136 (F.H.J. Lehaney). This riot was preceded by a few minor incidents. See CDCE, ix, 110 (A.K.M. Fazlul Kabir Chowdhury); v, 142 (S.N. Mukherji); vii, 238 (N.K. Roy Chowdhury); and RCPD, 1. 49 CDCE, viii, 49 (A.K. Mukherjee); ix, 13 (C.R. Smith). 50 CDCE, iii, 48 (D.R. Hardwick). The news of police firing seems to have also spread like wildfire. It reached Metiabruz in the suburbs of Calcutta as early as 2.15 pm, at which time Muslim inhabitants began to arm themselves (RCPD, 105). 51 RCPD, 136. 52 CDCE, ii, 69 (D.R. Hardwick). 53 RMHC, 5. 54 CDCE, v, 310 (P.K. Chatterji); vi, 186 (F. Smith). 55 CDCE, vi, 101–102 (J.B. Dutta); vii, 20 (N.H. Khundkar). 56 ‘Interview with S.M. Ghose’, 289–90, NMML. See also Bhattacharjee, Great Revolutionary Leader, 53. 57 CDCE, iv, 126 (C.E.C. Gregory); vi, 182, 189–91, 232–4 (F. Smith). 58 ‘Interview with S.M. Ghose’, 291, NMML. 59 CDCE, v, 40 (P. Norton-Jones). K.S. Roy lived in European Asylum Lane (CDCE, 211 [R.L. Walker] ). 60 CDCE, iii, 208 (R.L. Walker); iv, 207–8 (E.K.G. Sixsmith). 61 CDCE, v, 73 (H.N. Sircar). 62 CDCE, v, 41 (P. Norton-Jones). 63 Lambert, ‘Hindu-Muslim Riots’, 171. It is interesting to note that Lambert states that Jinnah rang up Suhrawardy on the seventeenth and ordered him to stop the rioting (ibid.). 64 Governor of Bengal to secy. of state for India, Tel. No. 192, 16 Aug. 1946, L/P&J/8/577, IOL (reproduced in TP, viii, 239–40). Burrows repeated this view in his report to Wavell, governor-general of India. See Burrows to Wavell, 22 Aug. 1946, TP, viii, 298, 302. 65 CDCE, ii, 150–1, 167–9 (D.R. Hardwick); iv, 220–33 (P. Norton-Jones). This scheme was drafted by Philip Norton-Jones, deputy commissioner, Calcutta police headquarters. On INA Day student demonstrators broke the

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66 67

68 69 70 71 72

73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89

police cordon and entered Dalhousie Square, the nerve-centre of British rule. This was followed by a widespread disturbance, in which a general strike of public transport was declared, important streets were barricaded, and military (including US Army) and government vehicles were attacked by demonstrators. (Governor’s report dated 21 to 23 Nov. 1946, L/P&J/5/152, IOL). As regards Abdul Rashid Day in February 1946, see Gautam Chattopadhyay, ‘The Almost Revolution: A Case Study of India in February 1946’, in Essays in Honour of Prof. S.C. Sarkar (New Delhi: People’s Publishing House, 1976). CDCE, iv, 231 (P. Norton-Jones). CDCE, v, 66–71 (H.N. Sircar). See also CDCE, v, 198 (S.N. Mukherji); viii, 28–9 (N.K. Roy Chowdhury); xi, 147 (Shakurul Hossain). H.N. Sircar remarked in his testimony before the Enquiry Commission: ‘it was madness on the part of any experienced policeman to put such a scheme into operation to denude the streets of all policemen’. CDCE, iv, 246–247 (P. Norton-Jones). CDCE, vii, 323–6 (N.K. Roy Chowdhury). CDCE, iv, 258–9 (P. Norton-Jones). The first attack on a mosque had taken place at 10.15 am on the sixteenth (ibid.). CDCE, v, 93 (S.N. Sircar). ‘The Calcutta Police Force’, 71/21/4/6, Tuker Papers, IWM; CDCE, iii, 205–6 (R.L. Walker). In this connection, a police officer remarked before the Enquiry Commission that ‘the morale of the Calcutta Police was lower than it had been for many years’ (CDCE, iv, 257 [P. Norton-Jones] ). RCPD, 59, 69; CDCE, ii, 93–4 (D.R. Hardwick); iv, 271, 281, 284 (P. NortonJones), v, 80, 96, 109 (H.N. Sircar). CDCE, ii, 137 (D.R. Hardwick); v, 249 (P.K. Chatterji). CDCE, viii, 29 (N.R. Roy Chowdhury). See also Tyson to Folk, No. 370, 29 Sep. 1946, Tyson Collection, IOL. CDCE, v, 340 (A.M. Gupta); ix, 58–9 (A.K.M. Fazlul Kabir Chowdhury). This problem will be discussed in a separate paper. CDCE, iii, 43 (D.R. Hardwick). Gandhi seems to have noticed that agents provocateurs were at work behind the scenes of the riots. See ‘Mr. Gandhi on the Calcutta Riots’, L/P&J/8/577, IOL. ‘Calcutta Disturbances Enquiry Commission: Allegations against the Police’, File 390/46, Home (Poll) Confl., WBSA. M.D. Wainwright, ‘Some Account of the Part Played by Lieut. General Sir Francis Tuker in the Events of 1946–7: From his Private Papers’, 9–10, 71/ 21/4/7, Tuker Papers, IWM. Ibid. The leaders were court-martialled in utmost secrecy. Ibid. See also India Command, ‘Fortnightly Security Intelligence Summary’, No. 3 of 1 Feb. 1946, L/MIL/17/5/4276, IOL. ‘Fortnightly Security Intelligence Summary’, No. 2 of 18 Jan. 1946, L/MIL/17/ 5/4276, IOL. Wainwright, ‘Tuker’, 10; CDCE, ii, 13–14 (T.L. Binny); iii, 2 (F.R.R. Bucher); iv, 178–9 (E.K.G. Sixsmith). CDCE, ii, 69, 83 (D.R. Hardwick); iii, 115–16 (R.L. Walker); Burrows to Wavell, 22 Aug. 1946, TP, viii, 296. Burrows to Wavell, 22 Aug. 1946, TP, viii, 296. As to Suhrawardy’s speech, see p. 115 above. Abul Kalam Azad, India Wins Freedom: An Autobiographical Narrative, complete version (Bombay: Orient Longman, 1988), 169. CDCE, ii, 69 (D.R. Hardwick).

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90 91 92 93

94

95 96 97

98 99 100 101 102

103 104 105

106 107

CDCE, iv, 144 (E.K.G. Sixsmith). RMHC, 4. CDCE, ii, 69 (D.R. Hardwick). CDCE, iii, 57–8, 97–103, 115–16, 141–4, 155 (R.L. Walker); ii, 69, 198– 200 (D.R. Hardwick); iv, 136 (E.K.G. Sixsmith); RMHC, 4; P.D. Martyn, ‘Diary Prepared from Rough Notes Kept during the Disturbances of August 16th–20th, 1946’, 2, MSS Eur F180/13 (Indian Civil Service [District Officers] Collection), IOL; E.K.G. Sixsmith, ‘Note on the Calcutta Riots’, 2–3, 71/21/3/ 12, Tuker Papers, IWM; Burrows to Wavell, 22 Aug. 1946, TP, viii, 295–6. CDCE, ii, 70–1, 115–9 (D.R. Hardwick); iii, 127–8 (R.L. Walker); iv, 261–2 (P. Norton-Jones). Hardwick said before the Enquiry Commission that his chief minister’s behaviour in the control room was such that he never had any peace (CDCE, ii, 119 [D.R. Hardwick]). It is also said that Suhrawardy and his followers drove Hardwick and his staff ‘nearly mad by sitting for hours together . . . in the “riots control room” ’ (Tyson to Folk, No. 365, 23 Aug. 1946, Tyson Collection, IOL). CDCE, v, 15–16 (P. Norton-Jones). CDCE, iv, 136 (E.K.G. Sixsmith); RMHC, 5. CDCE, v, 60–1, 78–9, 111 (H.N. Sircar). MacKinlay testified before the Enquiry Commission that he did not recollect seeing Sircar at Sealdah, while Walker seemed to remember only very vaguely. But Sixsmith remarked that ‘I cannot believe that he [MacKinlay] did not meet him [Sircar], because that was the purpose of his visit’. According to Sixsmith, the three British officials met at Sealdah and came back in the same car. As to their versions of this incident, see CDCE, iii, 116–18 (R.L. Walker); iv, 30, 32 (J.P.C. MacKinlay); iv, 171–4 (E.K.G. Sixsmith). See also CDCE, ii, 129–30 (D.R. Hardwick); v, 121 (L.A. Livermore). CDCE, v, 94 (H.N. Sircar). Walker’s version can be found in CDCE, iii, 125– 6. See also CDCE, ii, 1998–9 (D.R. Hardwick). Martyn, ‘Diary’, 4, IOL. Martyn, ‘Diary’, 4, IOL; CDCE, v, 116 (L.A. Livermore); ii, 70 (D.R. Hardwick); iii, 58, 119–120 (R.L. Walker); iv, 137 (E.K.G. Sixsmith). Martyn, ‘Diary’, 4, IOL. Martyn, ‘Diary’, 4, IOL; CDCE, iii, 133–4 (R.L. Walker); v, 116–18, (L.A. Livermore); v, 320 (C.F. Scott). As to the curfew order, see CDCE, iii, 58, 195–8 (R.L. Walker). Incidentally, Burrows was opposed to enforcing a curfew for fear that people’s confidence in the government might be completely shaken, as happened in Palestine (CDCE, iii, 38 [D.R. Hardwick]; Burrows to Wavell, 22 Aug. 1946, TP, viii, 297–8). RMHC, 6. E.K.G. Sixsmith, ‘Note on the Calcutta Riots’, 4, 71/21/3/12, Tuker Papers, IWM. RMHC, 6; Sixsmith, ‘Note on the Calcutta Riots’, 4, IWM; CDCE, iv, 137, 185 (E.K.G. Sixsmith); iv, 9–10 (J.P.C. MacKinlay); iii, 58 (R.L. Walker); Burrows to Wavell, 22 Aug. 1946, TP, viii, 298. In his book Tuker mixes up the incidents of the seventeenth and the eighteenth. Compare his account on 161–2 in While Memory Serves with Sixsmith’s ‘Note’. CDCE, iv, 9–10 (J.P.C. MacKinlay); RMHC, 7, Appendix C. RMHC, 9. See also ‘Report in Connection with the Recent Disturbance in 24-Parganas, for the Commission of Enquiry’, File 392/46, Home (Poll) Confl., WBSA; and ‘24-Parganas: Chronological List of Incidents which Occurred from the 16th August Onwards’, File 393/46, Home (Poll) Confl., WBSA.

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108 CDCE, iii, 9–10, 13, 16 (F.R.R. Bucher); Anonymous (Mrs. F.R.R. Bucher), ‘Arrival in Calcutta – 18th August 1946’, 7/21/4/2, Tuker Papers, IWM. 109 RMHC, 9. 110 CDCE, iii, 9 (F.R.R. Bucher). 111 RMHC, 9–10; CDCE, iii, 9–10, 13, 16 (F.R.R. Bucher); Burrows to Wavell, 22 Aug. 1946, TP, viii, 299–300. 112 L.A. Livermore, ‘Calcutta Cameo’, 2–3, 71/21/3/12, Tuker Papers, IWM; CDCE, v, 117 (L.A. Livermore). A portion of Livermore’s memoir is reproduced in Tuker, While Memory Serves, 162–4. 113 CDCE, iii, 16 (F.R.R. Bucher). The use of a sub-machine gun has not been fully verified. See CDCE, iv, 95–6 (C.E.C. Gregory). 114 The army did not attempt to take over Upper Chitpore Road until the morning of the nineteenth, ‘owing to uncertainty whether the area was completely quiet’ (CDCE, iv, 12 [ J.P.C. MacKinlay] ). 115 RMHC, 12–14, 16. 116 Sixsmith, ‘Note’, 1, IWM. 117 CDCE, iv, 155 (E.K.G. Sixsmith). Italics added. See also CDCE, iv, 136, 141, 178 (E.K.G. Sixsmith). 118 CDCE, iv, 136 (E.K.G. Sixsmith). 119 CDCE, iv, 165 (E.K.G. Sixsmith). 120 This point will be taken up in a separate paper. 121 ‘Memoirs of P.D. Martyn’, IOL. 122 Ibid. 123 Tyson to Folk, No. 370, 29 Sep. 1946, Tyson Collection. 124 M.M. Stuart, ‘Memoirs: 1946 to the End’, MSS Eur. F180/15 (Indian Civil Service [District Officers] Collection), IOL. 125 Leonard A. Gordon, Brothers against the Raj: A Biography of Sarat & Subhas Chandra Bose (New Delhi: Viking, 1990), 568.

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7 MUSLIMS IN WESTERN EUROPE Sociohistorical developments and trends Felice Dassetto

Introduction The history of the presence of Muslims in Europe involves three distinct processes of population activity. The earliest, occurring in the seventh– eighth century, is the result of the arrival of Muslim armies in Sicily and Spain, places from which they were eventually driven out. Of this occupation, architectural tracts remain (Granada and Córdoba in Spain, Palermo in Sicily are examples), but there are also traces upon the collective memory of peoples, chiefly but not exclusively upon the memory of Muslims. The myth of ‘al-Andalus’ (Andalusia) recalls a flourishing period for Islam in Spain, a time of high civilization and culture. The reconquista (reconquest) by Christian armies accomplished in the fifteenth century attempted at the same time to erase this legacy in Europe. Today a more balanced interpretation of the period is preferred. It represents for Muslims and non-Muslims a quasi-mythical reference which does not always conform to the strictly factual reality; a reference to the possibility of a peaceful and fruitful cohabitation for populations of different religions and cultures, side by side. A second step of the process of Muslim implantation in Europe – concentrated this time on Eastern Europe – occurs in the Balkan region1 and in Central Europe more generally, and is connected to the military expansion of the Ottoman Empire beginning in the fifteenth century.2 The Ottoman expansion reached Hungary, the Adriatic Sea, Transylvania and Moldavia. The number of Muslims inserted into these areas varies. This presence ceased to expand at the beginning of the twentieth century when the Ottoman Empire, after a period of deterioration, finally expired. But the implanted Muslim community has maintained itself, cohabiting as so often before with Christian Eastern Orthodox or Roman Catholic communities. The third stage of Muslim implantation is connected to the arrival of ‘guest-workers’, immigrant labourers, in many countries of Western Europe, following the signing of agreements concerning immigration between 137

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the Western European countries and the countries of the Maghreb, Turkey, and countries in West Africa, which occurred during the 1960s. The United Kingdom was also the destination for many Commonwealth natives who were Muslims (from Pakistan, India, East Pakistan and, later Bangladesh). Some of these first journeyed to English colonies in East Africa.3 The previous stages of encounter between Islam and Europe were all connected to military campaigns (Arab invasions, Ottoman expansion, Christian reconquest in Spain, colonial conquest). This stage occurred in a completely peaceful way, through immigrant workers. There are thus two distinct Muslim communities in Europe. One is several centuries old, found in Eastern Europe and in the Balkans. There, Islam lives in the heart of the Slavic world and the Orthodox religion. The other, only a few decades old, is found in Western Europe, extending from the south of Italy to the Scandinavian countries, from Scotland to Berlin. Up to the end of the 1980s it was possible to speak of two parallel histories. Today, after the fall of communism, and a period of religious globalization, the two histories tend to converge. At all events, Western Europe and Eastern Europe, which themselves may be in the process of coalescing into a single Europe, are both included in geopolitical terms in an Islamic space, an Islamic world. Christian Europe threw Islam out of Spain and stopped its advance at Sarajevo (in the Middle Ages); but today Islam is a living presence within the European political space. I will limit my presentation to the implantation of Islam in Western Europe. The new Muslim populations in Western Europe are distributed throughout all countries of the European Union (with the sole exception of Luxembourg) and the European Free Trade Association. That means that the arrival of these populations is linked to the growth of the market economies created after the Second World War (1940–5), and to labour immigration movements demanded by these economies, notably after the 1960s. As a consequence of this, for the first time in a thousand years, Europe willingly received a foreign population on its territory. This set an implantation process in motion which is far from completed. The geography of the Muslim world changed too: the arc of the Islamic circle, which ran through the south of the Maghrebin side of the Mediterranean basin to Bosnia, comes to be duplicated by an arc in the north, from Vienna to the Iberian peninsula, extending as far north as Scandinavia.

From immigrant Islam to European Islam European countries had experienced their encounter with Islam in different ways. Spain, Italy and France had the oldest contacts following the Arabic conquest. The Austro-Hungarian Empire, on the other hand, was constantly contending with Islam along its frontiers with the Ottoman Empire. And finally, there were the colonies and protectorates, associated with France, 138

MUSLIMS IN WESTERN EUROPE

the United Kingdom, Holland, Italy or Spain. The modern Muslim presence in Western Europe was very limited until the 1960s. Some natives of the Arabic peninsula were present in Britain; a group of Tatars was present in Finland. Groups of Algerians were present in France, having arrived after the First World War. But in a great number of Western European countries, the major ‘Muslim’ immigration flow occurred after 1960, during the European economies’ golden decade. At the end of the 1960s, immigration agreements were concluded with the Maghrebin countries which had gained independence, and with Turkey, where the agrarian reform of the 1950s, including various forms of deregulation, upset the equilibrium of traditional rural agriculture and made traditional agricultural practices impossible. At the same time, Muslims from the Indian peninsula or from East Africa joined Muslims who were already in the United Kingdom. A second wave of Muslim immigration to Europe took place between the end of the 1960s and the moment when the closing of borders was decreed in all northern European countries following the first petroleum crisis in 1974. It is an important period from the quantitative point of view, during which family regroupings took place and illegal aliens arrived, who were regularized in all European countries during the decade of the 1970s. These freshly arrived populations were confronted with a deepening social and economic crisis, worsened by unemployment and what was felt to be an ambient hostility to foreigners. At the same time, the closing of borders made them aware of their definitive implantation in European space and, more quickly than in the cases of other periods in the history of migrations, put an end to the illusion of a return to the home country after the few years which would be all that was needed to allow them to ‘make their fortune’. A third wave of Muslim immigration began after the 1970s and is essentially still in progress. This wave has different sociological characteristics. In Northern Europe it was based upon family regroupings and marriages. At the same time, new immigration flows, frequently illegal, began to focus on Italy and Spain (and from these countries to the other European countries), though significant numbers of political refugees also gained entry to other European nations. During the 1990s, at the time of the war in the former Yugoslavia, Muslims from Bosnia, Albania or Kosovo managed to reach Western Europe. The passage of time has also brought an increase, not just in immigration, but in the frequency of circulation within the European space. Greater and greater numbers of Muslims have acquired the nationality of their adopted countries, and they travel as citizens of the European Union. To this number of Muslims coming to Europe from outside, and to the ever-increasing number of Muslims born in Europe, we can add the number of persons of European descent who have been converted to Islam. These great waves of arrival of Muslim populations are referred to here in order that we may take note of their stratification, according to the 139

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length of their stay in Europe and the rhythm of their implantation; we make reference also to their stratification as regards the equilibrium between generations, because while the migrants of the first period have been grandparents for some years now, those in the following phases are only at the first stage of their familial recomposition. Finally, there is stratification in the equilibrium between generations, to the extent that the most recent wave of immigration continues, for the most part, to involve single males. Yet the moment of the migratory process is a factor of relative importance as regards practices, and the formulation of expectations with regard to religion.

Muslim populations in Western Europe As a result of the above mentioned immigration, followed by natural demographic dynamics, we can conclude that there are actually present in Europe about 9 million persons we term ‘of Muslim ascription’, meaning that they are from Muslim countries or born into a family of Muslim origin. That doesn’t mean that these persons are actively involved in the Muslim religious life (see below). It is difficult to establish these figures exactly, in so far as an increasing part of this population has since acquired the nationality of the country they live in. Thus these people cannot be identified on the basis of censuses which do not (at least up to the present time) gather data on the basis of ethno-religious belonging, but on the basis of nationality alone. The United Kingdom is the sole exception – a disturbing state of affairs. Besides, if one intended to carry out an exhaustive census of Muslims, one would have to include persons of European origin converted to Islam. This is another statistic that is difficult to establish, for which there are no reliable sources, the existing Muslim or journalistic sources having a tendency to amplify the phenomenon for various reasons. The number of Muslims is a controversial point. Muslim sources usually try to place the total as high as 15–17 million (see for instance T. Ramadan 1997). We try to calculate the number on the basis of the census, modified by an estimate of the number of naturalizations (cf. Dassetto 1996 and Table 7.1). It’s interesting to observe that about 9 million Muslims are in the Balkans. This means that through the recent waves of immigration, a population of Muslims has been implanted in Western Europe whose numbers roughly equal the number of Muslims present in the eastern part of Europe, at least in historical terms.4 It can be estimated that 2–3 per cent of the European population has some level of self-identification as Islamic. But this global figure reflects the significance of the presence rather poorly, inasmuch as the Muslim implantation is above all urban. In this way, cities like Marseilles, Brussels, Cologne, Birmingham and many others have a perceptible Muslim influence 140

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Table 7.1 Level of Muslim population (based on ascription) in Western Europe (beginning 2000)5 Country

Estimated Muslim population (×1000)

Estimated % of total population

France Germany United Kingdom Netherlands Belgium Austria Italy Spain Switzerland Sweden Denmark Finland Norway Ireland Total for Western Europe

4000–4500 3040 1400 700 370 200 600 300 250 300 150 20 23 7 11,000–12,000

+/− 5.5 3.5 2.5 3.5 2.9 2.6 0.7 0.6 1.1 1.2 1.4 0.8 0.5 0.2 2.6

or atmosphere. This is why we speak, no longer of a transplantation or of immigration, but of a real grafting and implantation, in the sense in which a graft changes the root stock! This implantation has taken place according to spatial modalities which are the consequences of the European urban development, and under actual conditions of the process of immigration itself. There are three main types of implantation of Muslims in Europe. In one group of typical cases, Muslim immigrants are steered to old city centres (the British ‘inner cities’), which have been abandoned by local populations, so that housing vacancies occur while the area awaits more extensive rebuilding. The second typical case is that of the French banlieu (suburb). Social housing is located in open or underdeveloped suburban land as a result of voluntarist government policy. The third type is related to cases of clandestine, illegal immigration: marginal persons live in the gaps of the urban landscape, in vacant lots, in deserted houses or factory buildings. The distribution of Muslim populations in Europe according to origin gives us some indication of long-term tendencies in spatial relations and of the historical connections among spaces. On the more continental and non-Latin side of Europe – that is, Germany, Austria and Sweden – the dominant Muslim population is Turkish and Balkanic. On the Atlantic side – in France and Spain – the main presence is Maghrebin and African. Belgium and the Netherlands are between the two, as border areas which have a mixed Turkish and Moroccan population. The Italian Muslim population is much more varied; the Muslims there are Maghrebin, Senegalese 141

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or Egyptian. The British reality is quite different, with a Pakistani, Indian and Bengali (Bangladesh) population.6

The variety of the Muslim population Transplanted/implanted Islam in Europe is characterized by its extreme variety, and one might say that on the scale of the Muslim world, the European experience constitutes a novelty for Muslims and for Islamic thought. The reason is that, in a stable manner, Muslims are living out an internal interculturality and a certain dimension of the universality of the Oumma, that which is experienced, exceptionally, during the pilgrimage to Mecca. Other novelties include the fact of living in a minority situation and in pluralistic societies. The majority of European Muslims come from Sunnite areas of Islam: the Maghreb, Turkey, the Indian peninsula or sub-Saharan Africa. Certain populations belonging to Shi‘ism should, however, be pointed out: for example in Scandinavian countries or in Italy, linked to the student movement and political refugees. Very peculiar, but not related to Shi‘ism, is the presence of members of the Alawite community among populations coming from Turkey. Different cultural and national origins Within the greater Muslim community and the unique faith, Islam reveals itself through its cultural and linguistic traditions: the Arab-Maghrebin, the Turkish, the Indian, the Balkan and the black African. They multiply the juridical and ritual differences proper to Sunnite Islam: the Malekism of the Maghreb, the Hanefism of Turkey, Pakistan and India. These classical divisions of Islam are also multiplied by those introduced by nation-states after independence. And to the extent that Islam is used to cement countries together or bolster up regimes, these new countries have ‘nationalized’ their Islam. Among the new generation (second or third generation), among persons born in Europe, the distinctions related to nationality or culture are not as important as they were for the first generation, the original immigrants. Many young Muslims define themselves as German, Belgian, British, French and so on. But their relations to the culture and society of their parents is far from completely rejected. In part, young Muslims find themselves ‘in between’ Islamic and family socialization on one side and European careers on another (contextual socialization). But it is also true that young Muslims have begun a reappropriation of the culture of origin, creating a subtle tension between the local Islamic culture of their parents, the universal relation to Islam and the local demands placed on them by the European culture where they live. And in some cases, as a consequence of 142

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the form of implantation of Muslims in the European towns, the European culture is partially filtered through the ‘Muslim-ethnic town’ where they live, that is, through the cultural ambiance of the Muslim area in Birmingham, Brussels, Berlin or Lyon. Personal belonging and a typology of belonging But among European Muslims, other differences concern their subjective adherence to Islam, the result being that it is quite wrong to speak simply of 12 million Muslims. One should rather speak of persons originating directly or indirectly from countries where the Muslim religion is dominant or in the majority. Hence our use of the notion of an ‘ascribed Muslim’. In Muslim countries, the intensity and type of reference to Islam is already varied, even if the landscape is relatively homogeneous in appearance because consensus must be maintained, or because the stigmatization and muscled repression of all public forms of affirmation or refusal of Islam makes it so, etc. Even more explicitly, the forms of adherence to Islam are relatively differentiated in the migratory context, where individuals are torn from their society and led to redefine their social adherence and to update the set of references from which they draw their identity. In Europe, being Muslim became a question of choice, partially open and free, but under a certain social control or social conformism. We can suggest the following general typology of belonging. Some Muslims, fewer today than twenty years ago, explicitly declare their agnosticism. Many others observe a sort of silence, not pronouncing themselves publicly on the question of belonging to the faith, all the while continuing to more or less respect its interdicts and traditions. Others, in particular the younger generations, value above all reference to Islam as a cultural fact. They thus manifest a hyphenated culture – for example, Arab-Muslim or Turkish-Islamic: a type of identification which is increasing and which confirms a community and familial solidarity, able to resist hostility toward Islam, and which also replaces the absence of solid identities within the European context. All those persons mentioned so far refuse the question of faith, or place it on a level not directly concerned with everyday life. Others, on the contrary, go out of their way to affirm their religious adherence explicitly. This distinction becomes obvious when we look at individual, domestic practices of prayer and gestures linked to the faith (observing Ramadan, pilgrimages to Mecca, etc.). In the case of the first generation, loyal observance is frequently associated with a traditional and ritual vision of religion. But we observe today among the younger generation of women and men a great effort of reinterpretation regarding what it means to be Muslim in Europe and in contemporary society. We observe, in such cases, a kind of spiritualization of Islam. 143

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Others, in contrast, are led by their affirmation of faith to want to build or at least to participate in associative structures, to set up places of worship and teaching, to express the presence of Islam within the European institutional and symbolic landscape. It is above all through such people that Islam becomes visible and affirms itself in Europe within a network of an extraordinary number of associations. A number of them are an extension of associations common to the Muslim world – for instance the Muslim Brothers, the Jamaat at Tabligh, the Milli Görüs, the Suleymancilar. There are also extensions of the traditional brotherhoods of Islam – the Naqshabandiyya, the Qadiriyya, the Tijaniyya, the Murids, the Allaouiyya and so on. Among the young generation we can observe the effort to create new and original forms of associations as a way of participating in the European context, and as a way of generating meaning in existence. Examples: the Muslim Scouts, the Youth cultural house, Muslim publishers, Muslim media associations. Given the present state of research, it is impossible to statistically divide up the population of Muslim origin according to the types of adherence that we have just sketched out. As a relative approximation, on the basis of preliminary research,7 we can say that the Muslims who, with more or less intensity, make their Islam visible on the public scene as a belief system probably number around a quarter of the population of Muslim origin; to be exact, we may speak of a quarter of the male population, the business of public display of Islam being above all, at least until quite recently, just as in Muslim countries, a man’s business. Within this fraction of males, the younger generations are not absent. In reality, the borders are porous between the world of active believers, that of domestic believers and that of belief in parentheses. Interchanges take place. Above all one observes the subterranean sentiment, which certain circumstances or events bring out in the open, of belonging to a greater community, half-real and half-utopian, which the Oumma stands for. In any case, the future of transplanted European Islam is above all going to be played out in reference to active Muslims. The gender question of Islam We just noted that raising the public profile of the practice of Islam is still largely a man’s affair. But some important changes are arriving in Europe among young Muslim women. First, they are having an impact on the public image of Islam by wearing the Islamic scarf. In doing so, they are not only expressing the will of a man (father, brother, husband etc.) but also their personal identities; it is their expression of Islamic femininity in Europe. It’s therefore important to point out the double significance of the use of the scarf. In one sense, that which is a virtual flag of Islamic faith 144

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becomes also an expression of individual personality. But on the other hand, the widespread wearing of the scarf encourages its assimilation as a sort of fashion accessory and causes the scarf to become de-Islamized to some extent. But there is another way in which women are contributing to the heightening of public consciousness or awareness of Islam: they are taking their place more often in Islamic associations, in Islamic teaching and media. At this time prayer and preaching are still male-only activities. At any rate it seems clear that in Europe (as in many Muslim countries today) women will play more and more of an active role in organizations, in education and in the media. The question for the future will be: at what point will this increased participation begin to look and feel like a subversion of the male order?

The stages of increased awareness and public consciousness of Islam: raising the public profile The inclusion of Islam in the European context must be conceived as a result of a process. That means that the question of integration of Islam must not be conceived as a status or as a formal situation but as a process through which a progressive reciprocal adjustment and inclusion of Muslim and non-Muslim takes place. It is striking to observe that the process of raising the public profile of Islam in Europe has gone through nearly identical stages in all the countries involved. Four periods can be identified. A forgotten and silent presence During the 1960s, the Muslim populations, composed mostly of original immigrants, expressed their adherence to Islam rather feebly. They defined themselves and were perceived above all on the basis of their culture and language. Signs of belonging to Islam appeared on the occasion of a death or a marriage; even Ramadan was lived more in the festive than in the devotional aspect. Places of worship, which are a useful indicator of properly religious interest, numbered not more than fifty at the beginning of the 1970s in all the countries we are considering. The reasons for this weak demand for Islam had much to do with the heavy demands placed on immigrants – the need to work very hard in order to carve out a stable life in Europe. But during part of this time it must be said that adherence to Islam also seemed to take a back seat in the Muslim world itself to the rush to political independence.

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Raising the public profile of Islam in pubic spaces: organizations and institutions An important change took place at the beginning of the 1970s. The desire to create a stable existence in Europe progressed beyond the bare necessities of life. Stabilization in Europe began to mean setting up infrastructures and, particularly, places for religious socialization for the younger generations. Thus, above all on the initiative of fathers of families, prayer rooms were opened simultaneously in all European countries, with closely associated Koranic schools. This creative activity was able to flourish thanks to the vast autonomy and responsibility in the promotion of the faith which Islam assigns to every believer. But the desire for socialization was not the only reason which stimulated the creation of places of worship. Adult Muslims also sought a place for solidarity in the crisis context, or further, a symbolically pure place within the infidel city. Or again, the fathers of families hoped to find in these new centres the confirmation of an authority they were losing within the family. Still others tried to give new meaning to an emigration which had failed on the material level. This internal demand of immigrant populations, linked to a particular moment of their migratory dynamic, went hand in hand with the ‘return to Islam’ in Muslim countries. It fed and underlay political-religious logics: Saudi Arabia, Libya and Pakistan developed worldwide strategies, with Europe taken into account, by counting on the immigrant populations. These ‘centres’ of Islam financed associations, opening prayer rooms or starting publications. But despite all this, it seems that their contribution was secondary in comparison with the financial effort and activities organized by immigrant populations themselves. During these same years, the Islamist movements, having got a second wind, also sought to re-Islamize the Muslim populations of Europe. Active in this regard were movements of the Muslim Brotherhood tendency, as well as the Pakistani Jamaat-i-islami, the various Turkish Milli Görüs or the Jamaat-at Tabligh missionary movement. At the end of this process, toward the mid-1980s, some 2000 prayer rooms had been opened in Europe. There were almost 3000 by the beginning of the 1990s. To do this, Muslims used existing facilities: abandoned stores or workshops, garages or obsolete public baths. The Muslims mobilized every local resource to implant an Islamic presence into their neighbourhoods. Linked with this implantation, symbolic issues have arisen: one was the demand for public signage which included explicitly Islamic symbols (as mosques, for example) on European streets and in public buildings. At the beginning of the 1990s, with some few exceptions, the question of this high-profile Islam at the level of visible public indicators seems to have been placed on the back burner for the time being – as if Muslims themselves had decided not to press this demand for the present.

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During this same period, Muslims began to make claims on institutions,8 in particular in terms of the teaching of Islamic religion and opening Islamic schools. They met mitigated and hesitant responses. At the same time, other demands, linked in particular to religious restrictions concerning foods served and their preparation, including prohibitions, were complied with, for example in schools and hospitals. Even the armies organized the distribution of meals cooked with permitted foods. Globally speaking, the Muslims’ approach will now be to demand that individual countries give Islam a status equal to that of other religions. In certain countries this equalization has been sanctioned by law: as in Austria, due to an old law; or in Belgium, which was the first European country to grant Muslims a status analogous to Protestantism and Judaism (1974); or in Spain where the state concluded an entente with the Islamic communities in 1992. Thus, by such demands, Muslims show the difference between their implantation and other immigrant implantations. Portuguese, Italians, Spanish and Greeks attempted to make themselves unnoticed, to fit one by one into public space, while at the same time maintaining the culture of their origins in familial and community space. On the contrary, right away and rather rapidly, Muslims demanded their specific integration as a group within European societies. The issues they raise are not only social and cultural but equally political or even philosophical. And certain issues, open and unresolved, may pose new questions, more difficult to solve than preceding ones. Those linked to family law are the most striking.9 During this period non-Muslim populations and authorities in Europe have learned something about Islam, its symbols, rites and organizations. Unfortunately this first acquaintance coincided with the rise of militant Islam, with the Iranian revolution, and with forms of economic crisis (unemployment) which did not necessarily make the sight of Islamic immigrants a comforting one for non-Muslims. Between universal Islam and the Islam of fathers Since the mid-1980s, Muslim populations, taken as targets by the media and subject to unfavourable public opinion which mistakenly connected them with events in Iran or the Middle East, and placed in the forefront by the Rushdie affair or the foulard Islamique (Islamic headscarf) issue, have generally preferred to fall back upon their community life. The mosques and associations have thus become anchors at the local level for the re-Islamization of ascriptive Muslims, in particular youth, boys and girls, who find in Islam a building block for personal identity or a beacon guiding their moral life. The mosques and associations take a ‘do it yourself’ attitude to their Islamic training, combining lectures, conferences, audio cassettes and videos with participation in training sessions. Active Islam has 147

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partially succeeded in getting itself carried on to the next generation thanks to youth, or through young recruits who have arrived with the new waves of immigration or by marriage, who were socialized in Islam in their countries of origin. An Islam of the fathers is in the process of being supplanted by an Islam of the sons (and daughters) and sons-in-law. The new Islamic presence of the 1990s From the beginning of the last decade of the twentieth century, things have been more complex than a simple raising of public profiles. The attitude of the media and of public opinion concerning Islam is less prejudiced, more balanced. There are at least three reasons for this new attitude. The first is the fact that at the end of the 1980s we saw electoral success for extreme Right parties using, among other things, the argument of the necessity for closing ranks against Islam. The media have since come to understand that over-coverage of the ‘Islamic danger’ plays into the hands of the extreme Right. Second, in the Islamic world, a new vision of Islamic politicization began to supplant the familiar and intransigent revolutionary vision.10 A more quiet Islam appeared (as in Turkey for instance), positively engaged in social, economic and political life. Third, and probably most important, a new generation of leaders is appearing in Europe. Young intellectuals (like Tariq Ramadan) became leaders of associations, authors, journalists and television commentators.11 They present a new image of Islam, through a new discourse that uses categories and rhetoric more familiar to Europeans. Such communicators are more and more able to rectify the global image of Islam, to negotiate with public authorities, and to reflect and practice the new forms of Islam in Europe. This process is far from finished, but we can already conclude that we are observing the beginning of a new phase of the process of co-inclusion of Islam.

Perspectives While in the last thirty years Europe has seen an increasing dynamic in adherence to Islam and its increasingly successful implantation, nothing seems definitive and the situation remains entirely open. We can at best sketch the parameters which should guide its development. The dynamics of development 1

One trend of the development of Islam in Europe is inherent to the immigrants’ dynamic of entry into an arrival area. Step by step, they cross the gap which separates them from the people of the host country: culture and daily sociability, organizations and institutions, past 148

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3

and future. Moreover, this process is hard, in the European context at least, and, unlike the American experience in which immigrants quickly shed their old identities, the process of acculturation appears to last for two or even three generations. The second trend is internal to the Muslim world. This dynamic is affected by four parameters. A leadership parameter: here it is a matter of knowing what the profile of future leaders of Islam will be. Until now, ‘natural’ leaders coming from the first generation have dominated, in addition to leaders imported from Muslim spaces or Europeans converted to Islam. We have said that a new generation is beginning to emerge. What model of Islam will it endorse? What project will it invest its energy in? Will these new Muslims cope effectively with their existence as a statistical minority, an unprecedented status for Muslims, in a pluralistic and secularized society? And more generally, to what extent will European Muslims be capable of producing a leadership equal to the social, cultural and institutional challenges which will arise? A second parameter is organizational and partly linked to the preceding: the local and regional federative organizational capacity of European Muslims has been considerable. Will they manage or will they want to take the new steps?12 A third parameter is cultural: it is sufficiently clear that the younger generations are causing the Islam they have received from their parents to adapt and acculturate. The question of its content and form remains open. What will it, what can it mean to be Muslim in Europe? European Muslims are proceeding to a new formulation of Muslim identity using references to the tradition, as well as the repertoire of progressive concepts existing in Europe: human rights, categories of psychology, fulfillment, individual choice, categories of philosophy. European Muslims are thus obliged to clear a way between the general process of secularization on one side and the process of ethnic identification (as Arab, Turk, Pakistani, African etc.) on the other. Finally, the fourth parameter concerns Muslim countries. Beyond events and economic trends, it seems sufficiently clear that in these countries the dynamic of the collective and public attestation of Islam is not going to die out, even if it is difficult to envisage the orientations that will prevail in the years to come. But it is certain that for European Muslims these ‘centres of Islam’13 are significant realities from the point of view of symbols, ideas and organizations. The third dynamic is linked to the social situation of Muslim populations and to relations with non-Muslim Europe. Regarding the social situation, the question is to get to know whether and in what way, above all for the second and third generations, Islam will be an instrument of social positioning or even of social mobility. But the future and, above 149

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all, the form of European Islam will also be constructed in terms of reactions, positions and reciprocal images which will prevail in the years to come.14 It is important to note the role played by European unification on the one hand and by contemporary means of communication on the other. Many Muslims now have the nationality of a European country and can travel around Europe freely and easily. It is about the same for those who do not have or have not yet obtained a new citizenship, despite the travel limitations due to the necessity of obtaining visas for certain categories of foreigners. Elsewhere, fax, video and audio electronic communications have sped up the circulation of information. Finally, the last dynamic concerns the situation and development relative to the place of religion within European society. On this subject, the various European nation-states do not take the same attitude towards religion. They differ due to their history, their past experience of religious pluralism (intra-Christian) or of religious struggles, but equally due to the role they attribute to the construction of public space and relations between the civil society and state. In each European country, Muslims are obliged to take positions on specific questions relating to state and society. For instance, in France the question of ‘lay vs. religious status’ is one which affects many areas of ordinary life (e.g. education of children). Muslims participate in the national effort to reflect on such questions, and consequently the relationship between state and religion, or between state and society, is one that they have considered well. In Belgium or in Britain the main question is the ability of institutions to manage religion. The same is true in Spain, but the question occurs in the framework of a peculiar vision of religion and of Islam in Spain. In Germany this question is paired with the question of nationality. Obviously, in such debates non-Muslims and Muslims are equally concerned. But it’s clear that the presence of Islam has obliged European societies to think more seriously about these questions, about religion and the public life. In France after the affaire des foulards there has been a new start for the debate about lay status. And in other countries there’s a new willingness to examine the privileged status of traditional European religions. Hypotheses relating to the implantation of Islam

Various models for the implantation of active forms of Islam do seem possible. They are probably not exclusive of one another. We could proceed to sketch out an empirical typology on the basis of tendencies currently at work. It will easily be seen that multiple forms of the insertion of Islam into Europe are in operation. 150

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1

2

3

4

5

6

7

De-Islamization/acculturation proceeds in parallel with a movement observable in European space. Muslims progressively abandon their references to Islam as a religion, perhaps maintaining references to it as a fact of culture and civilization. A significant number of the populations of Muslim origin, especially as regards the second and third generations, follow this model of implantation, thus forming a part of the movement of secularization which still affects large portions of the population of Europe. Assimilation to western models of religion, which signifies that Muslims draw their inspiration from the dominant model of religions in Europe and develop a privatized and spiritualized Islam, which is elaborated within a perspective of autonomization of the religious sphere. If one considers the developments which have taken place up to now, this model may appear rather improbable; but this spiritualization of Islam, copied from the model of contemporary Christianity, does not seem to be regarded negatively by younger Muslims. So it is a possible model of development for the future. Externalized integration: Muslims want to achieve institutional integration into European life, but retain cultural and normative references and inspirations from the whole Muslim world. This model corresponds to one deriving from the Catholic Church in the modern period. A sort of tension arises here between two references, two loyalties or two interests: between the strategy of insertion into European space and the maintenance of a living connection to Islamic spaces. Cosmopolitan integration: this is a variant of the preceding model, more oriented to the global cultural integration of Islam. Muslims are intent on achieving an institutional integration of Islam and are developing a European Islamic discourse, while maintaining cultural and symbolic ties with worldwide Islam. Dependent geopolitization: Muslims consider themselves and are considered as an appendix, an expression of geopolitical strategies developed on the basis of centres of Islam. From the viewpoint of its generalization, this model seems the least probable, but it could exist and be advanced, for instance, by quasi-diplomatic actors, elected by the central powers of Islam, based on their strategies of religious geopolitics. Protest implantation: in this case Islam becomes a tool of social protest for groups which are or just perceive themselves as ‘minorities’; it draws its inspiration from and is linked with Islamic expressions of protest. It falls in with a refusal of the West and its models. The Islam of Malcolm X might seem to be a sort of paradigm of this model, but here more fully articulated and with dynamics similar to what is going on in the Muslim world. The Diaspora network: Muslims above all worried about being regrouped are not in the least concerned about the question of their 151

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8

implantation in the context. Their prior social horizon is constituted by all the connections which link them to groups, associations and brotherhood movements. Islamization: Muslims might envisage a massive investment in European space in order to bring it into the Islamic fold. This model would thus tend to reverse the present situation.

Many of these models will probably coexist in the future. Some of them seem less probable today (for example the Diaspora network). But beyond this plurality of forms, it is striking to observe a relative convergence of Muslim dynamism. From the point of view of sociological categories, it is not correct to speak of a Muslim ‘community’. The notion of community is used in reference to social groups having intense face-to-face emotional relations, founded on tradition. For the moment, the sociological categories to name this social and cultural entity, which is in the process of constituting itself in Western Europe, are lacking. One might, by partial analogy with historical processes, speak of a nation, or better, of a ‘European Muslim nativization’.

Conclusion Europe has thus become an area which definitively includes an important Muslim component, thus giving rise to a major encounter of civilizations. This took place unintentionally, initially. It was propelled by often illiterate populations, living and practising a popular Islam, caught up in the crossfire of symbolic issues or political strategies which often go beyond their intentions and their ability to understand. Be that as it may, despite the inevitable tensions and conflicts, until now the development of Islam in Europe has taken place peacefully, which is an important novelty in relations between the West and Islam. Summing up the results of the analyses conducted so far, we arrive at the following conclusions: 1

2

During the past thirty years the Muslim populations transplanted to Europe through immigration have succeeded in transplanting Islamic institutions as well. They have introduced new cultural and symbolic dimensions into Europe. This is a new and extraordinary fact as regards the encounter between, or clash of, cultures. In order to understand this reality it is important to take a constructivist view, admitting that the situation is still in flux and filled with dynamism. The implantation of Islam in Europe is a process and it is far from fully achieved. On the other hand it is important to take into account the internal differentiation among the various Muslim populations in Europe. They maintain different cultural/national origins; they belong to the great 152

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4

Islamic traditions in different ways; they maintain contact with the religion of Islam in different ways; and they develop different ways of affirming their self-identity. In the past thirty years, Europe has seen an increase in the number of people adhering more or less strictly to Islam, and an increase in the intensity of that adherence. If we look at the past thirty years, we can observe different stages in a process of raising the public profile of Muslims in Europe. During the 1960s, they are an unseen and unheard presence. From the 1970s through to the mid-1980s, we see the profile of the Muslim community progressively raised in European social space, and their presence acknowledged more readily by representatives of European institutions. But subsequently (since the mid-1980s) Muslim populations too often were taken as targets by the media, and an unfavourable public opinion became attached to them in general, the fault of a confusion between Muslims in general and those connected to events in Iran or in the Middle East. During these years many Muslims preferred to fall back upon their community life. However, since the beginning of the last decade of the twentieth century, we have seen some improvement in the positive awareness of Muslim populations in Europe – partly as a consequence of change in the Islamic world itself, and the dynamics of its situation in the world generally, but also as a result of the increasingly self-assured political action by emerging Islamic leaders from the second and third generations of immigrants. We can, at best, sketch the trends which are likely to rule the future developments of Islam in Europe. The first trend concerns the immigrants as immigrants, and the dynamic of their entry into a new country. The second trend exists within the Muslim world as well as in the European context: the immigrant populations must choose internal leaders, reinterpret their cultural situation and organize to maintain their identity etc. The third trend is linked to the social situation of Muslim populations as well as to their relations with non-Muslim Europeans. Finally, the last trend concerns the situation and development of these populations relative to the place of religion within European society.

According to the effect of one or another of these trends we can suppose different models of implantation that we have called variously de-Islamization/culturalization; assimilation to western models of religion; dependent geopolitization; externalized integration; cosmopolitan-integration; protest implantation; the Diaspora network; and Islamization. Many of these models will probably coexist in the future. But they are all included in the general process of constitution of a European social entity which is also a Muslim social entity. 153

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Notes 1 ‘Balkan’ in the Turkish language means ‘mountain’. This term designates in general a territory in the shape of a quasi-peninsula, crossed over by mountain chains (Rodhopes, Carpathians, Balkans, etc.), and located between the Black Sea, the Aegean Sea and the Adriatic. 2 A few relevant dates – 1453: fall of Constantinople, which becomes capital of the Ottoman Empire under the name of Istanbul. 1467: end of Albanian resistance. 1521: capture of Belgrade. 1526: beginning of a century-long occupation of Hungary. 1529: siege of Vienna. Consult R. Mantran ed., Histoire de l’empire Ottoman (Paris: Fayard, 1989) for a historical overview, among others. 3 We should add that between the second and third stages, Europe also encounters Islam in the course of its colonial development: France in the Maghreb, in West Africa and in the Middle East; England in Egypt, India, the Middle East and in the Arabian peninsula; Italy in Libya, etc. 4 On the basis of different sources, especially G. Nonneman et al., Muslim Communities in the New Europe (Reading: Ithaca Press, 1996). The authors admit the existence of divergent estimates. 5 In the countries of Central Europe, the numbers have fallen very low. Poland: 3,000; Hungary: 3,000; Czech Republic/Slovakia: 2,000. 6 For an overview of the European situation, see F. Dassetto and A. Bastenier, Europa nuova frontiera dell’islam (Roma: EL, 1988, 2nd edn 1991); W.A.R. Shadid and P.S. van Konigsveld eds, The Integration of Islam and Hinduism in Western Europe (Kampen: Kok Pharos Publishing House, 1991); J. Nielsen, Muslims in Western Europe (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1992); F. Dassetto, La construction de l’islam européen. Approche socio-anthropologique (Paris: L’Harmattan, 1996). 7 F. Dassetto and A. Bastenier, L’islam transplanté (Brussels/Antwerp : EVO/EPO, 1994); IFOP/Le Monde/RTL/La Vie, L’islam en France (survey), 20 November 1989; J.M. van der Lans and M. Rooijakers, ‘Types of Religious Belief and Unbelief among Second Generation Migrant Turks’, in Islam in Dutch Society: current developments and future prospects, eds. W.A.R. Shadid and P.S. van Koningsveld (Kampen: Kok Pharos Publishing House, 1992); M. Tribalat, Faire France. Une enquête sur les immigrés et leurs enfants (Paris: La Découverte, 1995). 8 On these stakes see J. Nielsen, Muslims in Western Europe; for France see B. Etienne, La France et l’islam (Paris: Hachette, 1989); J. Baubérot, La laïcité, quel héritage? (Genève: Labor et Fidès, 1990). 9 See J.Y. Carlier and M. Verwilghen, Le statut personnel des musulmans. Droit comparé et droit international privé (Brussels: Bruylant, 1992). 10 I don’t agree with those colleagues who announced the end of ‘political Islam’ (O. Roy, L’échec de l’islam politique (Paris: Seuil, 1992). To me, it is a question of new political practices added to the revolutionary practices. 11 See F. Dassetto ed., Islamic Words. Individuals, Societies and Discourse in Contemporary European Islam (Paris: Maisonneuve-Larose, 2000). 12 We have expressed doubts on this subject. See F. Dassetto, ‘Islam en Belgique: espace mi-ouvert et institutions fermées’, in L’islam et les musulmans dans le monde. Tome I – L’Europe Occidentale, eds M. Arkoun, R. Leveau, B. el-Jisr (Beirut: Centre Culturel Hariri, 1993), 269–89. 13 According to the expression in the journal Hérodote, n. 36, 1985. 14 We prefer to formulate the question in terms of reciprocal images rather than in the more current terms of majority-minority relations. This last formulation

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hints at a relation of rather heavy-handed domination of one group by another. Now of course the position of Muslims in Europe has certain attributes of a minority position. But the Muslims’ logic of action lends itself more to Moscovici’s concept of an ‘active minority’: Psychologie des minorités actives (Paris: PUF, 1979). On the other hand, the logic of action of the ‘Muslim minority’ does not unfold uniquely as a reaction to the definition of the majority, as is the case in situations of strong domination. It also proceeds from European Islam’s own internal or external dynamic.

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8 COMMENT 1: SYMBIOSIS AND CONFLICT Reflections on Andalusi history and historiography Manuela Marín

The Oslo panel was organized around the general subject ‘Symbiosis and conflicts in comparative aspects’ within the framework of Islamic societies. It may be assumed, from the panel’s title, that there is an opposition between a positive aspect of historical developments (symbiosis) and a negative one (conflict). A first question is thus related to the meaning of symbiosis (and, secondly, of conflict) and how these concepts are used for the present discussion. What do we understand by ‘symbiosis’? Do we use this concept mainly because we appreciate it as one of the more positive aspects of Islamic culture? Would we use it in the same way when dealing with Western culture? In the past, concepts such as ‘influence’ have been profusely employed to signal a historical hierarchy between cultures. The replacement of ‘influence’ by other terms, like ‘mutual contacts’ or ‘symbiosis’, is an indication of a more subtle approach to the whole problem, but it will remain as a mere terminological change if we are not able to make an accurate definition of the concept we are using. To analyse a process of cultural symbiosis, historians should take into account variables such as who is taking what and from whom, how the absorption of cultural signs affects individuals and communities, where and why the process of symbiosis meets opposition or not, etc. In a similar train of thought, ‘conflict’ may be, in itself, a consequence rather than a contrary of ‘symbiosis’. Conflict can be of a creative nature, and it is rarely solved without some proportion of symbiosis being accepted, even when violence is used to put an end to it. The choice of a field of historical research depends heavily although not exclusively on the circumstances in which the historian is placed. Much of what is written by contemporary Western scholars on other cultures reflects current issues in the West, and it is not by chance that there is a growing literature on questions such as multiculturalism, migrations, ethnic and 156

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religious minorities, conversion, religious and cultural confrontation and so on. If social sciences is the privileged field for the analysis of these questions, history is also becoming a useful tool in approaching them, especially from the perspective of Islamic studies. Islamicists are frequently requested to give their opinions on contemporary matters, as if their knowledge of the past makes them better able to explain the problems of today.1 While specialists in Greek philosophy are not expected to analyse contemporary Greek politics, it is fairly common to ask academics specialized in medieval Islamic history and thought about present developments in Muslim countries. It would be easy to explain this situation as a corollary of the ‘orientalist’ pretence to comprehend Islamic societies as changeless historical entities. The debate on orientalism and its flaws has produced some salutary results. More than twenty years after the publication of the pioneering work of Edward Said, no scholar working on Islamic societies nowadays will hold such outdated opinions as those picturing the Islamic world as a motionless and fixed entity, held in thrall by a set of religiously ordered social norms, uniformly followed by Muslims through history and geography. We all have learned and appreciated that Islamic societies have reacted and do react in different ways to a variety of problems and that individuals within these societies act and have acted according to gender, economics, class and ethnic conditioning, just as much as their counterparts in Western societies. Blaming orientalism can be reduced, however, to an exercise in self-deprecation or accusation, depending on who, westerner or oriental, expresses it. Going beyond the debate on the epistemological legitimacy of the observer,2 we are still faced with a set of questions regarding the interpretation of Islamic societies for which historians may have, at least, only partial answers. The papers presented at this panel covered a wide range of geographical and chronological settings. They go from fourteenth century Mamluk Syria to contemporary Muslims living in European countries; in between, their locations are Central Asia, North and West Africa and the Indian subcontinent in a period going from the middle of the nineteenth century to our own day. Conflict is described, in some of these papers, in a context of majority/ minority relationships, and it nearly always involves a confrontation between Muslim and non-Muslim, that is, a Muslim population living under a nonMuslim political power. Russian and French colonialism put a majority of Muslims in Central Asia or in Northwestern Africa under the rule of a Christian minority; on the other hand, Muslims in India under Hindu rule were and are a minority, as are Muslims in contemporary Europe. Powerful minorities have been known in many historical periods, in which we can see small ethnic or religious groups dominating a society, either politically or economically. But, generally speaking, no Muslim minority has ever held this position over a non-Muslim society, with the exception of the early period of Islamic expansion (and, later on, in the Indian context). 157

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Eventually, however, the Mediterranean societies where Islam experienced this expansion became Islamic societies, through a process of conversion to Islam of the majority of the population.3 It can be suggested, then, that when a Muslim minority rules over a non-Muslim majority a process of cultural and religious symbiosis is put in place through which, while leaving room for a variety of minorities (as is shown in Professor Sato’s contribution), some degree of homogeneity will be attained. This is, of course, a generalization which has to be nuanced, but even as a hypothesis it may help us to understand conflicts and problems resulting from the interaction of the majority/minority duality. Reflecting on the contemporary situation of Muslims in the Indian subcontinent, A.S. Ahmed gives voice to the collective fears of a Muslim minority: Can Muslims with memories of political domination live as a minority group with honour and in security in a larger nonMuslim society? Or must Muslims be in the majority to order their lives satisfactorily? . . . Indian Muslims would tend to answer the first question in the affirmative. Pakistan, on the other hand, was created by Muslims who said ‘yes’ to the second question.4 A similar alternative was presented to Muslims in the medieval Iberian peninsula. After many Andalusi cities were conquered by the Christians, strong Muslim communities lived under Christian political rule, participating actively in the economic life and even in the artistic development of the kingdoms of Castilla and Aragón during the thirteenth–fifteenth centuries. At the same time, jurists and theologians advocated that Muslims living in these conditions should abandon their country and migrate to North Africa or other regions of the Muslim world, this being the only possibility for them of leading a proper Muslim life.5 In fact, historical chronicles and biographical dictionaries record carefully the migrations of the learned elites from Andalusi cities newly conquered by the Christians, even when agreements with the conquerors would allow them to stay in place. The great biographical dictionary by Ibn al-Abbar (d. 658/1260) can be read as a ‘dictionary of migrations’, as it conscientiously records the movements throughout al-Andalus of Muslim scholars, chased from their places of origin by the Christian conquest.6 Similarly, after the independent Muslim state of Hyderabad was absorbed by India in 1948, the lower Muslim classes remained behind, while the middle classes of doctors and academics migrated to Pakistan.7 The parallel between Hyderabad and al-Andalus shows to what extent minority status is resented differently by the educated and by the common people, and how the threat to the religious identity of a Muslim minority may provoke a reaction of seeking refuge in a predominantly Muslim society.8 On another level, the status of non-Muslim communities in Muslim societies has attracted a good deal of attention, 158

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both from historians and from publicists claiming tolerance as a fundamental value in Islamic culture. Even those who deny vehemently that religious and ethnic minorities enjoyed equality in medieval Muslim societies acknowledge that, from a comparative perspective, the fate of these minorities was much better under Islam than it was in other societies.9 The role of Jews and Christians in the development of science and culture in the world of Islam is frequently emphasized as a proof of the opportunities opened to the members of these minorities, as is the fact that discriminatory measures against them have been scarce in the history of Islam and usually caused by reactions against external threats.10 The interplay between majorities and minorities is not only a source of possible conflicts. It may also produce different levels of symbiosis. In fields such as language, dress, food and festive occasions it is relatively easy to find proof of mutual influences, due to the ‘neutral’ aspect of these activities. Rigourists from both sides would regret the erasing of boundaries between communities implied in these cultural loans, but history records systematically their frequency. Muslims would attend Christian festivities in al-Andalus11 or ancient Egyptian ceremonies in Faiimid Cairo;12 Western Christian cooking adopted Arab recipes,13 and troubadors’ poetry was, directly or indirectly, influenced by Arabic poetry.14 Sciences are held, however, to be the most significant aspect of the cultural symbiosis between Islam and the West and the volume of scholarship produced on this subject is too huge to be mentioned here. The role of the medieval translation movement in the Muslim east and west has been established as decisive in the development of modern European science, as well as the Arab-Muslim own production in fields such as astronomy, mathematics or chemistry. Also, it has to be remembered that Greek philosophy was mainly preserved by Muslim commentators – like Averroes – whose work was translated into Latin in the Middle Ages.15 The history of scientific symbiosis between Islam and the West is doubly rewarding. Free of religious taints and full of common human endeavour, it overcomes historical oppositions and polemics. From the superior stand of leading scientific powers, it is not problematic for westerners to acknowledge the Arab-Muslim past contribution to the history of the world’s progress. On the other hand, this contribution can be used by Muslims as an evident proof of the high intellectual standards favoured by Islam. An idealistic picture of purely scientific exchanges between members of different religions and cultures is conveniently drawn for different – and equally well-intentioned – purposes. History, while demonstrating that exchanges did occur, outlines details not covered by this general picture. From a Western point of view, the significance of the medieval Muslim scientific contribution is outstanding, but for the medieval Muslims themselves, the ‘sciences of the ancients’, as they called them, were secondary to the mainstream of intellectual activity, centred around ‘Islamic’ sciences, such as Quranic 159

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studies, law and Arabic language. Moreover, different standards are applied to scientific exchange, depending on who is borrowing knowledge and techniques and when. Medieval Muslims are praised for their open-mindedness in accepting the legacy of Greek, Persian and Indian science, and so are medieval Europeans who gladly received this legacy through Arab translations. But Western travel accounts to the Muslim world during the colonial period usually comment contemptuously on the efforts to incorporate European inventions into domestic or social life. A revealing topic in this respect is the remark about Muslims’ relish for European clocks, a totally useless machine for people without a clear conception of time.16 * So far, the history of al-Andalus has appeared briefly in these pages. It may be useful to consider it in some detail, as its interpretation by contemporary Spanish scholarship is a good example of the ways in which concepts such as conflict and symbiosis reflect the changing interests and biases of historiography. The medieval history of the Iberian peninsula stands out in European history by a fact which made it totally different from the rest of the continent. From the beginning of the eighth to the end of the fifteenth century, part of the peninsula belonged to the world of Islam, its inhabitants were Muslims and Arabic was their common language. This people called their country al-Andalus. Until the end of the tenth century, al-Andalus, which then covered three quarters of the peninsula, was the main power in the western Mediterranean lands, north as well as south of the Straits of Gibraltar. Embassies sent by the German and Byzantine emperors were received by the caliph of Córdoba, the capital of al-Andalus, which was then the most important city in Europe. The artistic and cultural splendour of this period may be represented by the mosque of Córdoba, one of the major architectural works in the history of Islamic art.17 A century later, however, the situation was radically altered. The small Christian kingdoms located in the north of the peninsula began to advance upon al-Andalus. The Christians took advantage of the internal divisions in the Islamic territories after the fall of the Córdoban caliphate. At the same time, these Christian kingdoms, and especially Castilla, organized themselves in order to become an expanding military power. As a consequence, and from the end of the eleventh century the political map of the peninsula underwent a substantial change. Al-Andalus experienced a continuous series of territorial losses, stopped only occasionally with the help of North African armies. By the beginning of the fourteenth century, all that remained of the Islamic power was the kingdom of Granada, in the south-east corner of the peninsula. When Granada was finally conquered in 1492 by a Castilian army, its Muslim inhabitants were allowed to stay in the land and keep their religious and cultural traditions.18 Shortly afterwards, this agreement between conquerors and conquered was declared void, and Muslims were 160

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reduced to choosing between forced conversion to Christianity or leaving Spain. All who stayed in the country were finally expelled at the beginning of the seventeenth century. If the Christian conquest of Granada has been the historical end of al-Andalus as a political autonomous entity, this expulsion marked the disappearance of any Islamic cultural presence in the Iberian peninsula. This long history of nearly eight centuries is traditionally known in Spanish history as the ‘Reconquest’. The advance of the Christian armies towards the south of the peninsula was based upon the idea of recovering a territory. Muslims were seen as invaders of a land which had previously belonged to a Christian realm, although, by the eleventh century, when the Reconquest made its first important advance, the majority of the Muslim population in al-Andalus were descendants of the indigenous population converted to Islam during the two previous centuries. Notwithstanding that, the ideological background of the Reconquest was based upon the necessity of recovering the land from its unlawful occupants. And so, the medieval history of the Iberian peninsula, both from the Christian and the Muslim sides, is the history of the struggle for a land which was claimed by two different political and religious entities. In this struggle, al-Andalus lost and disappeared as such. The Christian kingdoms won not only the land but, even more importantly, the capacity of unifying themselves and eventually becoming, in the process, a modern nation state: Spain. The centuries shared by al-Andalus and the Christian kingdoms in the Iberian peninsula cannot be reduced, however, to a history of battles and conquests. For one thing, periods of peace were longer than those of war and conflict. Secondly, neither of the two opposing parties lived in total isolation from the other. When Muslim Arabs and Berbers first established themselves in the peninsula, they were only a small minority in regard to the total population. They were based in the cities, from where they exercised the fiscal and military control of the country. The overwhelming majority of the population was Christian, with a more reduced presence of Jews. Gradually, in a slow process which needed nearly three centuries to be completed, this population converted to Islam. It is only at the end of the tenth century that al-Andalus may be considered as a truly Islamic country. In the cultural making of al-Andalus, however, religion was simply one of the many elements which distinguished it from other contemporary Islamic societies. There converged an Arab and Islamic cultural system brought from Egypt, Iraq and the Arabian peninsula with a powerful substratum of local customs and traditions. The merging of these two cultures, one imported from the eastern Mediterranean lands and with a strong Arab component, the other firmly attached to a Latin/Roman and Visigothic past, produced remarkable results, as was the case in other Islamic countries, like Iran. As has been noted, after 1492 all the territories of the Iberian peninsula were under the political control of a Christian monarchy. The leading power 161

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in this rush for the conquest of the land had been the Crown of Castilla, now unified with the Crown of Aragon through the marriage of their respective queen and king. The making of the modern state of Spain was thus founded upon the elimination of Islamic traces in the peninsula, a fact which had an enormous importance for the subsequent historiography of al-Andalus, as we will now see. Spain was the dominant power in the West during the sixteenth century. In Europe, the Crown of Spain controlled, at this time, the Iberian peninsula, part of Italy and the Low Countries. Beyond the ocean, Central and South America were also Spanish possessions. When the kingdom of Portugal was incorporated, for sixty years, into Spain, Portuguese colonies in Asia became a new addition to the empire. But this period of splendour was, for reasons which fall outside this essay, of short duration. During the following centuries, Spain entered a phase of decline not only in terms of political power, but also in terms of economic and social development, opening a gap between Spanish society and that of northern European countries. From the eighteenth century onwards, Spanish intellectuals and thinkers began to enquire into the reasons for this decline. Many were the possible answers to the crucial question of what had stopped the historical development of the country, but an obvious line of work was to research the history of Spain and try to find what had made it different from countries like France and England, the successful rivals of Spain. To locate this difference was an easy task, because no other country in Europe had experienced, during the Middle Ages, a similar contact with the world of Islam. The next step in this trend of thought was, not surprisingly, to link the Islamic presence in the peninsula with the profound causes of Spanish decadence.19 Traditionalist historians from the 19th century to the present day have widely accepted this view of things. But at the same time, they were trying to define what was and is the essence of Spain and upon which foundation the Spanish nation was founded. Looking to the past, they found the period of splendour to which I have already alluded: the near-mythical sixteenth century, inaugurated by the conquest of Granada and the expulsion of Islam from the peninsula. That was the apex of Spanish history, when the country unified itself in political and religious terms. Arab and Islamic cultural traditions were totally foreign to the ‘real’ essence of Spain, based upon a Roman, Visigothic and Christian tradition. In short, al-Andalus was considered by these historians as an unfortunate accident, which did not deeply affect Spanish history. The refusal to accept al-Andalus as a part of this history served another useful purpose, that of assimilating Spain to the mainstream of European history.20 It is in this context that, at the end of the nineteenth century, a group of Spanish Arabists began the arduous task of making a science of the study of al-Andalus.21 Things were not easy for them, faced as they were with the traditionalist approach I have just described. Their main problem was to 162

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legitimize the object of their work and make it acceptable to academic circles in which, as we have seen, there was a wide consensus about the marginality of al-Andalus in Spanish history. Besides this formidable obstacle, another difficulty lay in what I would call the ‘orientalistic’ view of al-Andalus history. In the wake of the Romantic movement, writers of all sorts, novelists, poets and amateur historians had resorted to an exotic view of medieval Spain in which al-Andalus played a great part. Still present today, this image of the Islamic past of the Iberian peninsula had an obvious attraction for a wide public, who relished the legendary tales of sultans and concubines, located in fabled palaces like the Alhambra. Totally dismissing, of course, this exotic and superficial image, Spanish Arabists at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth century devoted themselves to the more serious task of writing the history of al-Andalus according to a modern and scientific methodology. Such a design in itself should have awarded them the acknowledgment of the academic establishment. But, in fact, this was not enough and, from the beginning, the Arabists had to prove that their endeavours were not futile and unnecessary because of the supposed unimportance of their object of study in the history of Spain. In this context, the first aim of these Arabists was to make the history of al-Andalus a part of the history of Spain. Many of their published works emphasize an interest in deepening the knowledge of al-Andalus in order to improve the knowledge of Spain itself. For instance, the fact that the Spanish language contains a large number of words deriving from Arabic justifies the need of philological studies of Arabic. Similarly, the study of the many place names of Arabic origin in the peninsula required historical and philological skills only provided by Arabists. A further step was taken by some of these scholars, who firmly believed that the outstanding characteristic of al-Andalus was its assimilation into the Spanish national essence. The inhabitants of al-Andalus, in this view, happened to be Muslims and spoke Arabic, but in fact they were of Spanish stock, since the Arabs and Berbers who came to the peninsula in 711 were few in number and were rapidly absorbed by the indigenous society through marriage into local families. This approach to al-Andalus history allowed some of the Arabists to claim that what had made al-Andalus unique was, in fact, its Spanish character. The intercultural exchange between Christian and Islamic cultures in the Iberian peninsula became a favourite field of research. But in this formative period of Arabic studies in Spain, when their legitimacy within the academic circles was not easy to achieve, the insistence on the Spanish elements in Andalusi culture was mainly an intellectual tool meant to gain this legitimacy. Arabists did not use, then, the word ‘al-Andalus’. Instead, they wrote about ‘Muslim Spain’, intending in this way to make a parallel with ‘Visigothic’ or ‘Roman Spain’. In the words of Julián Ribera, 163

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one of the most important Arabists of this period, ‘Muslims in the Peninsula were Spaniards by race, language, character, tastes, inclinations and creativeness’.22 The response of the first Spanish Arabists to the adverse conditions in which they developed their pioneering work had dramatic consequences for subsequent generations. The term al-Andalus is still struggling to replace the old-fashioned expression of ‘Muslim Spain’, reflecting the uneasy and troubled relationship between Spain and its Islamic past. Arabic studies in Spain have been, at least until recent times, nearly restricted to al-Andalus history, literature, arts and sciences, either stressing the importance of the Andalusi contribution to Spanish and European culture or the weight of the Spanish elements in the formation of al-Andalus. This double and complementary track is one of the most remarkable characteristics in the work of Miguel Asín Palacios (1871–1944). Asín was undoubtedly the best known Spanish Arabist in his own country and abroad, and his intellectual contribution left a powerful impact both in his time and the present day. Two of his many books and articles can be quoted as best illustrating his position as an scholar of Islam. In the first, published in 1919, Asín presented his daring theory of Islamic influence on the Divina Commedia by Dante.23 His book caused an international debate and brought Asín recognition as a leading European Islamicist. As in other previous or later works, Asín was not only producing high quality scholarship, but he also vindicated the role of Islam in the formative period of European culture. The second of these two books appeared in 1931, under the title El Islam Cristianizado. It was, in fact, a study of Sufism through the works of Ibn al-‘Arabc, but the title itself reveals the programme of its author. To ‘Christianize’ Islam was a form of making it acceptable for a Western audience. Under cover of religious and cultural symbiosis, it was also a way of denying Islam its own capacity of developing an autonomous mysticism. In 1948, Américo Castro, a Professor of Spanish Literature who was obliged to go into exile after the Spanish Civil War (1936–9), published his España en su historia: Cristianos, moros y judíos. As in other later books, Castro propounded a new vision of Spanish history, in which the ‘Semitic’ element was at least as important as the ‘Hispanic-Roman-Catholic’. This line of interpretation was not accepted by traditionalist historians, who denied vehemently that the essence of Spain could have been affected by a culture as extraneous to it as Islam. Castro’s theories, however, were the origin of a significant new tendency in the understanding of Spanish history. Closely related to the rejection of the exclusiveness of a uniformly Catholic Spain – and some of its more extreme forms such as the Inquisition – this tendency tried to discover the hidden agenda in the history of the country, populated by the unorthodox, the marginal and the rebellious. In many cases, these historical figures happened to be Muslims, fighting to preserve their cultural identity under Christian domination, or obliged to 164

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leave the country under duress even after their conversion to Christianity, as was the case of the Moriscos.24 Traditional historiography understood the cultural symbiosis in al-Andalus as the meeting of two world views, one of superior quality and native to the land (the Christian), the other foreign and inferior (the Islamic) which was finally expelled from the realm, leaving only ‘traces’ of its presence in language, art and literature. In the process of counteracting the massive presence of an exclusively Hispanic-Catholic past, revisionist historiography put the accent on the centrality of these ‘traces’ for a proper understanding of Spanish history. The coexistence of Muslims, Christians and Jews would have produced a cross-bred Spain, a unique medieval model of religious and cultural tolerance, annihilated by the Reconquest and the religiously unifying policy which reached its peak with the Moriscos’ expulsion at the beginning of the seventeenth century. As has been noted, the anti-traditionalist school has produced a revitalizing and fruitful reconsideration of the history of Spain. Ironically, however, its insistence on the Arab-Muslim component of Spanish culture represents yet another form of ‘Spanization’ of al-Andalus.25 Symbiosis in medieval times in the Iberian peninsula is contemplated as the model opposed to a monolithic Christian society, but only in respect of the history of Spain. Al-Andalus itself, with its own inner conflicts, remains vaguely in the background. * Having to deal with a specific period of the history of their country, Spanish scholars reacted, as we have seen, in a variety of ways, closely linked to their ideological and political positions. Cultural symbiosis could be enhanced for the benefit of opposing views and, at the same time, similar situations would be interpreted as divergent examples of conflict. The existence of al-Andalus has been described as a violent rupture of the Christian essence of Spanish history, an image reversed by the longing for a mythical time in which a tolerant Muslim power harboured religious minorities and attained a splendid cultural level. In the current state of affairs in Europe, where societies are becoming more and more multicultural and multiethnic, the second of these two images is increasingly widespread and brought forward as a model of cultural symbiosis. It is a useful and convenient password to gain acceptance from a great variety of audiences; unfortunately, it remains to be confirmed by historical evidence. The past is there to be understood inasmuch as it conditioned the present, but not to be revived. Leaving aside its contemporary interpretations, the history of al-Andalus provides an interesting case study for the problems raised in the Oslo panel. As it would be impossible to analyse here the whole of Andalusi history, I shall limit myself to the formative period of al-Andalus and to the acculturation of its urban elites. This involved two separate and not always coincidental processes, one of ‘Arabization’ and another of ‘Islamization’. The latter has been recently the object of a study,26 and therefore what 165

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follows concentrates on the former, although references to the process of Islamization are unavoidable. By ‘Arabization’ I understand the process by which a society or a part of it adopts Arab social and cultural patterns, one of which may be, but not necessarily, religious. It is known that Christian communities in al-Andalus were strongly Arabized, as was the case with Copts in Egypt, without being Islamized. The Arab model in al-Andalus had an undeniable ethnic basis, as long as the Arabs established in the country were the embodiment of this model as well as the dominant social elite. Two aspects of the dissemination of Arab social and cultural models among the urban Andalusi population deserve to be examined, as they represent forms of cultural symbiosis placed outside the majority/minority interaction. This symbiosis was produced among Muslims, and was not free of some degree of conflict, as we shall see. The first aspect is related to the Arab genealogical system. This system was adopted by converts to Islam, as reflected in the rich biographical literature from al-Andalus. In many cases, short or longer genealogical chains identifying scholars or officials end with an Arab nisba, but discussions about the authenticity of this genealogical symbol or Arab ethnicity were frequent and date from an early period.27 There were, as in other Muslim countries of the period, official records of the Arab tribal groups established in al-Andalus, although it is not known if non-Arabs (i.e., mawalc ) were incorporated in these records. Be that as it may, it is significant that converts to Islam felt that to become members of the ruling elites they should adopt an onomastic sign of obvious Arab meaning, in a narrowly ethnic sense more than a broader cultural one.28 Personal names also reflect the different tendencies and undercurrents in the process of Islamization and Arabization, according to the variety of social groups. Ulama tend to adopt personal names of a more Islamic character than strictly Arabic. The latter kind of name is, on the contrary, more frequent among the civil administration and the military.29 There we find, again, the tension between Arabs and mawalc, as exemplified in a text preserved by the great historian Ibn Gayyan: A group of mawalc of the Caliphs [the Umayyads of al-Andalus] adopted Arab names. The emir censured them and forbade them to do it. One of the emir’s mawalc, freed by his father, was called Mugammad. When Mugammad had a son, he called him Masrer, because of the emir’s prohibition.30 Masrer b. Mugammad (d. 238/852 or 288/900) eventually became judge of Cordoba, thanks to his personal qualities and virtues. The text quoted by Ibn Gayyan, however, indicates clearly that at least for the entourage of the Umayyad princes, personal names were marks of identity establishing 166

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social origin. The case of the Berbers is also illuminating in this respect, and shows the varying degrees of Arabization depending on the duality urban centres/frontier regions. While in the cities Berbers soon lost their onomastic ethnic identity, but they preserved it when living in the military settlements of the periphery of al-Andalus.31 Ethnicity and social origins were thus important elements in the process of onomastic Arabization and the building of urban elites in al-Andalus. Intermingled with Islamization, this process is more or less acute according to the positions enjoyed by different social groups. Not surprisingly, it is in the scholarly milieu where ethnic identities tend to be superseded by the Muslim ascription, in onomastics as well as in other levels. The case of Masrer b. Mugammad is far from unique.32 Linguistic and cultural Arabization is the second aspect of the process which will be briefly examined. It is generally agreed that Arabic was not the predominant and general language of al-Andalus until the middle of the fifth/eleventh century.33 But from the earliest times of Andalusi history Arabic became the linguistic model for urban elites, spreading down through the different layers of society, Islamized or not, as the language of power and administration. Linguistic Arabization affected equally Christians and Muslims, Berbers and the Hispanorroman population converted to Islam. In fact, Arab origins were not a guarantee of a proper knowledge of classical Arabic, while specialists in this field could be Berbers or local converts, as attested by biographical dictionaries. To belong to the intellectual elite, a sound knowledge of Arabic and of Arab poetry was indispensable, and so it became a means for social upward mobility among the ‘middle’ class groups. Another text recorded by Ibn Gayyan shows to what extent the prestigious Arab model of the poet as spokesman for his community had permeated through Andalusi society by the end of the third/ninth century. The text belongs to a long and detailed report on the military conflict between Arabs and local non-Arabs in the region of Ilbcra. Both sides had at their disposal a poet who defended their cause and attacked the enemy’s. For the nonArabs, the poet was a certain ‘Abd al-Ragman b. Agmad al-‘Ablc, while for the Arabs, he was Mugammad b. Sa‘cd b. Mukhariq al-Asadc, from the Bane Asad b. Khuzayma. Both were, naturally, Muslims. Al-‘Ablc received this nisba because of his place of origin, a hamlet near Granada, while alAsadc belonged to an Arab tribal group. Their activities, however, were exactly the same, according to Ibn Gayyan: ‘Both exhorted their people [to fight], struggled for them and described to them the ignominious deeds of the enemy, and both wrote many verses on these matters’.34 Throughout the second/eighth and third/ninth centuries, ethnic identity played an important role in the social construction of al-Andalus. Although progressively diluted – especially in the circles of the ulama – the conscience of this identity and of belonging to groups defined by it was always present. 167

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Situations of conflict favour the outcrop of this conscience, more difficult to trace in times of peace. Historical sources record different examples of ethnic conflicts in which a mediator is chosen because he belongs to an outside party. In Écija, a Berber was appointed as imam when non-Arabs refused to have an Arab as director of the Friday prayer; in Beja and in Jaén, a non-Arab was sent to put an end to the conflict between different tribal Arab groups. Latent – and not so latent – ethnic and political conflicts in Andalusi society erupted violently towards the end of the second/ ninth century, and it was not until the middle of the following century when the joint processes of Arabization and Islamization began to crystallize in a Muslim social formation. Symbiosis among the opposing and fighting elements of the previous centuries was only possible within Islam, not only in the strict religious sense, but also and mainly because it gave a common identity to the different actors of society. * The case of al-Andalus is far from unique, both in terms of history and of historiographical interpretation. Comparing it with those analysed by the participants on the Oslo panel, common patterns can be clearly appreciated, linking this medieval society to other Islamic social constructions in different historical periods. Beyond the particular circumstances of time and space, common trends can be identified in the ways Islamic societies have reacted against external or internal threats. Muslims in al-Andalus had to deal, for most of their history, with the threat of Christian domination. This provoked different reactions, ranging from submissive and ‘collaborating’ attitudes to calls for inner regeneration under very precise Muslim standards of behaviour which would give society the capacity of resisting the external threat. In this respect, two of the papers presented on this panel show how answers to European colonialism follow a pattern with common aspects despite their variety. Both in Uzbekistan and in northwestern Africa, Sufism played a dominant role in the reaction against a non-Muslim political power. Although in Africa not all the religious brotherhoods maintained a belligerent position against the invaders, some of them channelled, as in the case of Central Asia, forms of resistance and struggle and, eventually, jihad. It has been observed that historically, Sufi and millenarist movements have easily found support among tribal or rural populations. Mahdis are not an infrequent figure in this kind of rebellious uprising, aimed at restoring the ideal of justice and recovering the purity of Islam, threatened by internal or external attacks.35 On the other hand, urban populations would have identified themselves with a more normative Islam, more adaptable, also, to changing circumstances and external pressures, such as the presence of a foreign power. The ulama, seen as voluntary ‘collaborators’ with the political establishment, would have been the reverse of the Sufis, potentially subversive of the social order and always on the edge of orthodoxy. In moments of crisis, like the colonial 168

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and other external threats, radical Sufi movements could emerge as a catalyst of popular unrest. This brings me to one of the recurrent themes in all the papers presented to the Oslo panel, namely, the definition of what is ‘true Islam’. How have Muslims, in different societies through history, identified themselves in religious terms? The question is more complex than it appears at first, and anybody familiar with the enormous corpus of Islamic juridical literature can attest to the richness of the solutions offered to Muslims, over the ages, when trying to define and redefine themselves according to changing circumstances. Muslims in Europe, as can be seen in Chapter 7, react in very different ways to the challenges of living in a non-Muslim society. And yet, in all cases they consider themselves as ‘true Muslims’. Tracing borders between an ‘orthopractic’ and normative Islam (urban) and a popular and mystical Islam (rural and tribal) perhaps follows too closely the quest for the ‘true Islam’, a concept carrying in itself the stigma of essentialism and of the orientalistic changeless entity. But we should not forget that norms, though worked and adapted to different situations, were taken as an ideal horizon of social order and that it was always against these norms that rebels or conformists had to be measured. Chapter 5 insists rightly on the fact that Islam, as a religious ascription, cannot be the main element for analysing what we call, for lack of a better term, ‘Islamic societies’. These societies, Mushirul Hasan claims, should be researched not from the exclusive point of view of their religious creed but, as any other, through the analytical tools created by a variety of scientific disciplines such as anthropology, economics, sociology or history. Being totally in agreement with this opinion, I ask myself why, then, in venues all over the world, Islamic or Middle Eastern subjects still require a separate space where specialists do not share their findings with sociologists, historians or anthropologists working on other Asian, European or American societies. Once we have clearly established the lack of exceptionality in Islamic societies towards other societies and the use of universal means of analysis, we should be careful not to erase completely from the whole picture the capacity of Islamic societies for generating their own systems of social and political control. Chapter 3 will enlighten the problem I am thinking of. When reading Komatsu’s chapter, I was struck by the similarity between phenomena in nineteenth-century Central Asia and events well documented in North Africa and al-Andalus in medieval times. The use of a religious complex of buildings to establish a network of solidarities; the making of a religious leader through travel and contacts with other Sufi masters; the establishment of a reputation as master and guide for disciples; the appeal to uprising based upon the call for justice and tribal support; and, finally, the Mahdi-label of the leader, all conform to a sequence of events clearly recognizable in the Maghreb – and not only there.36 Can we identify this sequence as a product of Islamic culture? If the answer to this question 169

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is positive, we should perhaps think again on the problems of unity and variety in an Islamic context.

Notes 1 See J. Dakhlia, Le divan des rois. Le politique et le religieux dans l’islam (Paris, 1998), 13–14. 2 See E. Gellner, Postmodernism, Reason and Religion (London, 1992). 3 N. Levtzion ed., Conversion to Islam (New York, 1979); R.W. Bulliet, Conversion to Islam in the Medieval Period: An Essay in Quantitative History (Cambridge, Mass., 1979) and M. Gervers and R.J. Bikhazi eds, Conversion and Continuity: Indigenous Christian Communities in Islamic Lands (Toronto, 1990). 4 A.S. Ahmed, Discovering Islam: Making Sense of Muslim History and Society (London, 1988), 159. 5 See P.S. van Koningsveld and G.A. Wiegers, ‘The Islamic Statute of the Mudejars in the Light of a New Source’, Al-Qaniara, 17 (1996): 19–58 and M. Marín and R. El Hour, ‘Captives, children and conversion: a case from late Nahrid Granada’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient, 41 (1998): 453–73. 6 See M. Marín, ‘Des migrations forcées: les savants d’al-Andalus face à la conquête chrétienne’, in La Méditerranée occidentale au Moyen Age, ed. Mohammed Hammam (Rabat, 1995), 43–59. 7 A.S. Ahmed, Discovering Islam, 165. 8 See M. Fierro, ‘La emigración en el islam. Conceptos antiguos, nuevos problemas’, in Comunidades islámicas en Europa, ed. M. Abumalham (Madrid, 1995), 71–84. 9 See F. Halliday, Islam and the Myth of Confrontation: Religion and Politics in the Middle East (London, 1996), 112. 10 See B. Lewis, The Jews of Islam (Princeton, 1987). 11 See F. de la Granja, ‘Fiestas cristianas en al-Andalus (materiales para su estudio)’, Al-Andalus, 34 (1969): 1–53 and 35 (1970): 119–42. 12 M. Espéronnier, ‘Les fêtes civiles et les cérémonies d’origine antique sous les fatimides d’Egypte. Extraits du tome III de Hubg al-a‘ma d’al-Qalqamandc’, Der Islam, 65 (1988): 46–59. 13 See M. Rodinson, ‘Les influences de la civilisation musulmane sur la civilisation européenne médiévale dans les domaines de la consommation et de la distraction: l’alimentation’, in Convegno Internazionale (9–15 aprile 1969): Oriente e Occidente nel Medioevo. Filosofia e scienze (Roma, 1971), 479–99. 14 See R. Boase, ‘Arab Influences on European Love-Poetry’, in The Legacy of Muslim Spain, ed. S. Kh. Jayyusi (Leiden, 1992), 457–82. 15 See J. Vernet, Ce que la culture doit aux arabes d’Espagne (Paris, 1985) and D. Gutas, Greek Thought, Arabic culture: the Graeco-Arabic Translation Movement in Baghdad and Early Abbasid Society (London, 1998). 16 J. Dakhlia, Le divan des rois, 56–8. 17 The classic work on this period is E. Lévi-Provençal, Histoire de l’Espagne musulmane (Paris-Leiden, 1950–3). See also H. Kennedy, Muslim Spain and Portugal: A Political History of al-Andalus (London, 1996), and M. Marín ed. The Formation of al-Andalus. Part I: History and Society (Aldershot: AshgateVariorum, 1998). 18 For the period between the eleventh and fifteenth centuries, see the volumes of the M.J. Viguera ed. Historia de España Menéndez Pidal, vols. VIII/1–4

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19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

(Madrid, 1994–2000); D. Wasserstein, The Rise and Fall of the Party-kings: politics and society in Islamic Spain 1002–1086 (Princeton, 1985) and L.P. Harvey, Islamic Spain: 1250 to 1500 (Chicago, 1990). See M. García-Arenal, ‘Historiens de l’Espagne, historiens du Maghreb au 19eme siècle: comparaison des stéréotypes’, Annales. Histoire, Sciences Sociales (1999), 687–703. The classic work on this is C. Sánchez Albornoz, España, un enigma histórico (Buenos Aires, 1956). More recently, see J. Vallvé, ‘Al-Andalus como España’, in España: Reflexiones sobre el ser de España (Madrid, 1997), 77–94. For the history of Spanish Arabism, see J.T. Monroe, Islam and the Arabs in Spanish Scholarship (Sixteenth Century to the Present) (Leiden, 1970). As quoted in M. Marín, ‘Arabistas en España: un asunto de familia’, Al-Qaniara, 13 (1992): 379–93. La escatología musulmana en la Divina Comedia (Madrid, 1919). See F. Márquez Villanueva, El problema morisco: desde otras laderas (Madrid, 1991). See F. Rodríguez Mediano, ‘Religiosidad en Al-Andalus: el hombre santo en el Islam occidental’, Revista de Dialectología y Tradiciones Populares, 54 (1999): 145–68 (esp. 146–7). See M. Fierro and M. Marín, ‘La islamización de las ciudades andalusíes a través de sus ulemas (s.II/VIII-comienzos s.IV/X)’, in Genèse de la ville islamique en al-Andalus et au Maghreb occidental, ed. P. Cressier and M. García-Arenal (Madrid, 1998), 65–97. The previous study by A.G. Chejne (‘Islamization and Arabization in al-Andalus: a general view’, in Islam and Cultural Change in the Middle Ages, ed. S. Vryonys Jr. (Wiesbaden, 1975), 59–96 is rather superficial. See M. Fierro, ‘Árabes, beréberes, muladíes y mawalc. Algunas reflexiones sobre los datos de los diccionarios biográficos andalusíes’, Estudios OnomásticoBiográficos de al-Andalus, 7 (Madrid, 1995), 41–54. See the case of Egypt, as analysed by I.M. Lapidus, ‘The Conversion of Egypt to Islam’, Israel Oriental Studies, 2 (1972): 248–62. On the civil administration, see M. Meouak, Pouvoir souverain, administration centrale et élites politiques dans l’Espagne umayyade (IIe-IVe/VIIIe-Xe siècles) (Helsinki, 1999). Ibn Gayyan, Al-Muqtabis min anba’ ahl al-Andalus, ed. M. ‘A. Makkc (Beirut, 1973), 50. See H. de Felipe, Identidad y onomástica de los beréberes de al-Andalus (Madrid, 1997). See L. Molina, ‘Un árabe entre muladíes: Mugammad b. ‘Abd al-Salam al-Jumanc’, Estudios Onomástico-Biográficos de al-Andalus, 6 (Madrid, 1994), 337–51. See D. Wasserstein, ‘The Language Situation in al-Andalus’, in Studies on the Muwammag and the Kharja, ed. A. Jones and R. Hitchcock (Oxford, 1991), 1–15, and F. Corriente, Árabe andalusí y lenguas romances (Madrid, 1992). Ibn Gayyan, Al-Qism al-Valiv min Kitab al-Muqtabis, ed. M. Martínez Antuña (Paris, 1937), 63. See A. Kaddouri ed. Mahdisme. Crise et changement dans l’histoire du Maroc (Casablanca, 1994). See F. Rodríguez-Mañas, ‘Charity and Deceit: the Practice of the ii‘am al-ia‘am in Moroccan Sufism’, Studia Islamica, 91 (2000): 59–90.

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9 COMMENT 2: A DISCUSSION INCLUDING THE MIDDLE EAST Abdul-Karim Rafeq

In his keynote address as organizer of the panel on ‘Muslim societies over the centuries: symbiosis and conflict in comparative perspectives’ at the 19th International Congress of Historical Sciences in Oslo, 7–13 August 2000, Professor Sato Tsugitaka drew a distinction between two themes; namely, ‘Muslim societies in Islamic and Middle Eastern studies’, and ‘Muslim societies in the Middle East and its adjacent regions’. He chose the first for the panel because he wanted emphasis to be placed on how scholars in Islamic and Middle Eastern studies view the relationship between majorities and minorities in Islamic societies. Do they view minorities objectively within a given historical context, or do they emphasize symbiosis over conflict, or conflict over symbiosis among communities? Given the spread of conflict nowadays among ethnic and religious communities in many parts of the world and the different interpretations offered by historians, it would be useful to have a fresh look at how majorities and minorities have related to each other in Muslim societies over the centuries. Professor Sato gave examples of historians who emphasize coexistence among the religious communities and others who only see conflict. He agreed with Shlomo Goitein and Bernard Lewis, both of whom emphasize symbiosis over conflict. In his monumental work entitled Mediterranean Society,1 Goitein highlights partnerships among Jews and Muslims in commercial activities. Bernard Lewis, on the other hand, states in his book, The Jews of Islam that ‘With few exceptions, whatever was creative and of significance in Jewish life happened in Islamic lands’.2 Lewis chose to call his book The Jews of Islam, rather than the more common ‘The Jews under Islam’ in order to emphasize the contributions the Jews made and the well-being they enjoyed in Islamic society, especially when compared to the intolerance they encountered in European societies. Lewis also dismisses most of the restrictions imposed on non-Muslims in Muslim societies as having ‘a social and symbolic rather than a tangible and practical character’. For him, ‘The only real economic penalty imposed on the dhimmis (the non-Muslims) was fiscal’.3 172

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Professor Sato rightly points to the destabilizing effect of the Crusades on the relations between Muslims and Christians in the Middle East. Before the Crusades, the majority of Syria’s population were Christian.4 When the Arab Muslims conquered Syria and Egypt, the Christians in both countries welcomed the conquerors because they shared with them a common culture and emancipated them from the oppressive rule of the Byzantines. According to André Raymond: l’hostilité profonde de la plupart des indigènes au pouvoir byzantin, doublement oppressif, et étranger, l’épuisement des Byzantins, patent dans leur conflit avec les Sassanides expliquent le succès rapide des envahisseurs arabes, porteurs d’un message religieux dont certains éléments étaient familiers pour des chrétiens et affirmant une large tolérance pour les ‘gens du livre’ (chrétiens et juifs): leur venue pouvait faire augurer une liberté religieuse que les coptes n’avaient pas connue depuis un siècle.5 The Byzantines had persecuted the local Christians politically and religiously and considered several of their religious communities heretical because their beliefs deviated from the dogma of the ecumenical councils. During the Crusades (1097–1295), however, it was the Muslims who accused the local Christians of collusion with the Crusaders. The triumph of Halag al-Dcn (Saladin) over the Crusaders in 1187 and the liberation of Jerusalem from Latin rule were followed by the defeat of the Mongols in 1260 and the elimination of the remnants of the Crusaders by the Mamluk rulers of Egypt and Syria. These victories increased the confidence of the Muslims who called for vengeance against the local Christians, which generated waves of Christian conversions to Islam.6 The Mamluks, many of whom were pagan before their conversion to Islam, do not seem to have objected to these mass conversions and their number eventually made Christians a minority in Syria and in Egypt, though they continued to play major roles in the culture, economy and administration of the country. Professor Sato gives the names of two Coptic converts to Islam, Taj al-Dcn al-Iawcl and As‘ad al-Shaqqc, who held high positions in the Egyptian administration during the reign of the Mamluk Sultan al-Nahir (1311–41). The status of non-Muslim minorities within the states ruled by a Muslim majority has been the topic of a multitude of books, some of them objective, others biased. The status of the Muslims as a minority in nonMuslim countries has also attracted the attention of many writers, as has the reaction of Muslims to European colonial rule. These and other topics were addressed in the papers presented to the panel in Oslo. Islamic movements have played important roles in the resistance to European rule. Studies of these movements are currently increasing in number due to the growing importance of Islam as a political power. Some authors, 173

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however, emphasize economic interests as the motivating force behind these movements. But one cannot deny the role of Islam in providing the resistance with a wider appeal, legitimacy and leadership.7 Whether in Central or South Asia, the Middle East or Africa, Sufi leaders were always in the forefront of the resistance to foreign rule. To counter Sufi opposition, European rulers either used excessive force against them, split the Sufi brotherhoods from within to weaken them, bought them off or created rival brotherhoods serving their interests. In Chapter 3, Professor Komatsu examines the role of the Sufi leader Dukchi Ishan in starting the Andijan Uprising against Russian rule in 1898. The interference of Russia and China in the affairs of the Muslims in Central Asia met with strong Muslim reaction at the time. A Naqshbandi Sunni shaykh, Dukchi Ishan established a religious movement known as Ishanism, which represented Sufi, popular Islam and orthodox Islam. Professor Komatsu traces in detail the career of Dukchi Ishan and the establishment of his brotherhood or order (iarcqa). His movement was directed as much against Russian rule as it was against the corruption of the local administration that was supported by the Russians. It also attacked the ignorance of the ulama. It appealed as much to the common people as it did to the notables and the higher religious establishment. Professor Komatsu describes this movement as ‘neo-Sufism’, because it called for jihad against foreign rule and for a purer Islam. Ishanism was only one of several neo-Sufi movements on the western periphery of the Muslim world, such as the Sanusiyya in Cyrenaica, Libya, and the Tijaniyya in Algeria and Morocco who rose up against European rule. Ishanism’s uprising against Russian rule in Andijan, in the eastern Ferghana region of Turkistan, was not the only revolt against foreign rule in that region. It was preceded and followed by other similar movements. Although the Andijan Uprising ended in failure, it also made Russian scholars more aware of the Islamic dimension of the revolt and the rootedness of Islam in Central Asia. When Dukchi Ishan called on the Ottoman sultan-caliph for help against the Russians, Sultan Abdul-Hamid II (1876–1909) seized the opportunity to further his policy of pan-Islamism, nominated Dukchi Ishan his representative in Turkistan and sent agents to Turkistan to promote pan-Islamism. Sultan Abdul-Hamid reached out to all the Muslims under European rule in a bid to coerce the European powers into granting concessions to him. Germany obliged by supporting the pan-Islamic policy of the sultan to further its influence in the Ottoman Empire and create problems for the European colonial powers. Even though the Ishans had failed in their uprising against the Russians and their leader Dukchi Ishan was executed, the movement revealed the extent of Muslim anger at the Russians and the local governments cooperating with them, and promoted the idea of a Muslim state. Professor Komatsu’s 174

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analysis of the Andijan Uprising and its significance is a major contribution to the field of Islamic studies in Central Asia. He examines Ishanism as a neo-Sufi movement that professes a pure Islam similar to that advocated by the Salafiyya movement. He compares Ishanism with Mahdism in the Sudan that occurred about the same time and challenged Anglo-Egyptian rule. North Africa also witnessed a resurgence of Sufi movements that worked to establish state structures and led the struggle against colonial rule. In Chapter 2, Knut S. Vikør deals basically with the establishment of a state structure built around a Sufi order. The relations between the Sufi orders in North and West Africa and the European powers, according to Vikør, were not always confrontational. The strategy of the Sufi orders was to reach out to people by introducing reforms, improving economic conditions largely by safeguarding trade routes, giving the people a role in the administration and eventually establishing a state. Some orders ignored the European powers so long as they did not encroach upon their interests. Others sought accommodation with them out of self-interest and also because they were unable to challenge them. Jihad was always an option when the interests of the parties clashed. Vikør chooses as case studies a number of Sufi orders spread over North and West Africa, who were active in the nineteenth and the early twentieth century. He examines the relationship between the orders and the traditional socioeconomic and political structures of their regions, the kind of state they were able to establish, the type of reforms they introduced and their reaction to European rule. The Sanusiyya order, established in Cyrenaica in the 1840s, is singled out as both a state-building order and a major enemy to European rule. The Sanusiyya started by establishing its control over the Beduin Arab tribes in Cyrenaica and the adjoining regions. They did this by spreading Islamic practices among the Beduin, promoting their welfare by encouraging them to work, and enlisting their support in establishing peace and safeguarding the trade routes. The Sanusiyya had thus been able to establish a viable state structure. Once this had been achieved early in the twentieth century, the Sanusiyya clashed with the French who were expanding from Algeria and the Niger regions and threatening their interests. But the major enemy the Sanusiyya had to confront were the Italians who occupied Libya in 1911. The Sanusiyya finally triumphed in the mid-twentieth century and were able to rule in Libya under their own king. Contemporary with the Sanusiyya was the Tijaniyya Sufi order under the leadership of al-Hajj ‘Umar Tall who was able to recruit both Muslims and non-Muslims in support of the regime he established south of the Sahara. Fearing the threat of the Tijaniyya, the French colonialists moved against it, using the small Sufi orders as allies. They had found this method successful in Algeria when they fought the Sufi tribal leader Amir ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Jaza’irc and they continued to use it after his downfall. 175

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Vikør’s analysis of the Sufi orders deals with the circumstances that made one Sufi order resist foreign rule, while another in the same region chose to make peace with it. It was not ideology or religion, according to Vikør, that shaped the policy of the Sufi orders, but rather it was local circumstances, tactical strategy and self-interest that dictated their political behaviour. In North and West Africa, as in Central Asia and the Middle East, responsibility was thrust on the Sufi orders, especially those established in the rural regions, to lead the struggle against foreign rule. A combination of factors enabled them to rise in revolt, including the rugged nature of the terrain which favoured guerrilla warfare, the tribal and Sufi solidarity of the combatants and loyalty to family and religion. Urban political organizations, which had fewer followers, engaged in political rather than military action. Dealing with the relations between majorities and minorities in South Asia, with special reference to Hindu–Muslim relations, Professor Mushirul Hasan, as an insider, brings much insight to the discussion. He begins Chapter 5 by dispelling the prejudice of those who maintain that Islam is incompatible with Western ideals of democracy and secularism. He explains that in the aftermath of India’s independence and partition, the Muslim political leadership in India identified with the secular and democratic regime and did not insist on the application of Islamic law. The origins of the majority versus minority debate between Muslims and Hindus, according to Hasan, go back to the 1880s, when the Indian National Congress demanded a share in governance, a demand that could only increase Muslim fear. The establishment of the Muslim League in 1906 was intended to guarantee their interests. The political difficulties between the Hindus and the Muslims, some of which were created or exploited by local interest groups as well as by the colonial government, ultimately led to the partition of the country in 1947. Professor Hasan calls for a fresh study, independent of colonial paradigms, to re-examine inter-community relations on the Indian subcontinent before partition and study Muslims in their everyday interaction with the other communities. It is time, Hasan maintains, to discard the prejudice that Islam constitutes an intrusion into the continuity of Indian traditions, and to consider it as an integral part of those traditions. He recognizes that even after partition, both India and Pakistan continue to have ‘minority’ problems. Muslim political leaders are becoming more active in India, seeking parliamentary representation through Islamic political parties. Professor Hasan sees no success for them if they keep lobbying on their own. They will do better, he maintains, if they join ranks with progressive political groups that are committed to the general welfare and not the welfare of any one community to the exclusion of the others. While he approves of Muslim communities engaging in educational and charitable activities for the benefit of their members, he rightly considers these 176

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activities as supplementing rather than replacing government action that is more broadly based and not limited to any one community. ‘The secular and democratic regime rather than the Islamic dimension provided the overarching framework to the religio-political leadership of the Muslims to forge new alliances and electoral coalitions’, he remarks. Community-based politics, no matter how well intentioned, carry seeds of discord, while crosscommunity linkages undertaken by the state bring communities closer together, points that are as relevant to the relationship between communities and state in the Middle East as they are to India. Do Muslim communities in western Europe constitute a threat to the secular societies in which they are implanted, or are they simply another religious variant in European pluralistic societies? Professor Felice Dassetto addresses this question in Chapter 7. France, Britain, Belgium and the Netherlands, the former colonial powers, have since received large numbers of immigrants from their former colonies. Muslims constitute the majority of immigrants in France; their numbers vary in other countries. Most of the earliest of these immigrants have been reasonably well assimilated into the economic and social structures of the host countries. However, as the number of Muslim immigrants to Europe continues to increase, the difficulties they encounter in settling down and the unwelcoming, even hostile, attitude towards them make them all the more conscious of their Islamic religion as their identity. This growing religious consciousness often leads to strained relations between them and the host countries. A case in point is the debate in France over the scarf (foulard) worn by Muslim girl students in French schools which raised the question of religious symbolism in a secular society. The immigration of millions of Muslims from Turkey and other Middle Eastern countries to Germany and Scandinavia as ‘guest workers’ or political refugees in the last few decades has also caused tremendous problems of adjustment to the immigrants and the host countries alike. Large sums of money are provided by Muslim countries to the immigrant Muslim communities to build mosques, schools and charitable institutions for the communities’ benefit and to maintain their Islamic identity. This makes it more difficult for Muslims to be integrated into European secular societies. Large numbers of Arab Muslims, especially from North Africa, have been absorbed into European societies, notably in France, where they have a long history. A majority of the French people have accepted them as full citizens and appreciate their contribution to French society. A case in point is the popular and official acclaim given in France lately to Zinedin Zidan, born in Marseille of Algerian parents, who scored two goals against Brazil and won the World Cup for France. France’s Muslim population is currently over 4 million, 2 million of whom are French citizens. Islam is now France’s second religion. Indians, Pakistanis and others from the British Commonwealth countries have also been integrated in English society, and some of them have been 177

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appointed to high positions, including membership of the House of Lords. One can speak nowadays about French Muslims or English Muslims as fully-fledged citizens. This is hardly the case in Germany, where Muslim immigration is more recent. Germany had no Muslim colonies. When, after the Second World War, the Germans needed labourers to rebuild Germany, large numbers of Turkish workers and their families came to Germany to satisfy the demand. Living isolated in their new environment and not accepted by the majority of the Germans, the Muslim immigrants are having a hard time, partly because they were originally supposed to be temporary. Professor Dassetto rightly concludes that Europe now includes an important Muslim component that is giving rise to an encounter of cultures. The fact that many of the immigrants practise a sort of popular Islam that varies from one community to another and is not appreciated by the local population increases their alienation and consequently decreases their chances of acceptance and integration. In the United States, where there are over 6 million Muslims and Islam is considered the fastest growing religion, Muslims neither pose nor encounter the same challenges as they do in the nation states of Europe. America is after all a nation of immigrants. It is thus easier for Muslims, whether immigrants or natives, to be integrated in the local society. The well-being of the Muslim communities in the West in general depends on their readiness to accept acculturation that will eventually lead to assimilation. Much also depends on the changes affecting their countries of origin and the relations they maintain with them. The triumph of liberalization and democracy in these countries could set a good example for the immigrant communities and encourage them to integrate into the democratic, secular states they live in. It will also help them shed their conservatism and better their lives. Immigrant Christian communities, like the Muslim communities, also encounter problems of adjustment. They belong to a variety of oriental churches many of which differ in their liturgies and rituals from Western denominations. Christian immigrants are keen on retaining the same spiritual life they enjoyed in their countries of origin. The creation of clubs and political organizations that bring Christian and Muslim immigrants together is helpful in eliminating discord among and within the communities. Joint action also promotes common cultural activities among the communities and maintains the best of their past traditions. The Oslo panel papers and the discussion shed light on Muslim societies in Central Asia, North Africa and Europe. The Middle East, home to the three world monotheistic religions, is central to any study dealing with the relations among them. All the Arabic-speaking communities regardless of the religion they adhere to have contributed to Arabic culture throughout history. The classical age of Arab-Islamic civilization under the Umayyads and the Abbasids 178

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bears witness to the coexistence and cooperation of the religious and ethnic communities. Under the Mamluk and Ottoman rule that followed, the coexistence of the communities continued as before. The Syrians, the majority of whom were Sunnis, were not integrated into the Ottoman state even though both were Sunni. Very few Syrian ulama learned Turkish. Arabic remained the language of the Sharia courts. Each party kept its own identity and looked to its own interests. From the very beginning of Ottoman rule in Syria (1516–1918), the Syrian ulama, biographers and chroniclers referred to the Ottomans as Rem, the name the early Arabs used for the Byzantine Greeks. The Turkish pilgrims who came to Syria to join the Damascus pilgrim caravan to the Hijaz were called Rem or Arwam. The Syrians also referred to the Ottoman sultan as Sulian al-Rem or Malik al-Rem and to Anatolia as Bilad al-Rem. They referred to their own country as Bilad al-‘Arab. It was evident to the Arabs at the time that the seat of Islam had for the first time moved away from Arab territory and that the sultans no longer lived, died and were buried in their lands as they always had been. The Ottoman sultan was rarely referred to as caliph, a title that the sultans themselves did not regularly use until the reign of Sultan Abdul-Hamid II (1876–1909), who was the first to officially proclaim himself caliph. Constantinople was still referred to in Syrian writings by the Arabic Qusianicniyya, which the Ottomans also used on their coinage, along with Islambul (city of Islam) and occasionally Dar al-Khilafa (the seat of the caliphate). The sultan in turn kept his distance from the Arabs. Only one sultan ever visited the Arab lands after the Ottoman conquest; the exception was Sultan Abdul-Aziz who visited Egypt in 1863 during the rule of Isma‘il on whom he bestowed the title of khedive. No Ottoman sultan ever went on the pilgrimage to Mecca, one of the five pillars of Islam. The conquest of the Arab lands was nevertheless of great importance to the Ottomans because it legitimized their rule in Islam and provided them with economic resources to finance their conquests in Europe. The Syrian ulama opposed the Ottoman laws that conflicted with the Sharia and defended the peasantry who were oppressed by Ottoman officials. They also offered advice (nahcga) to the Ottoman sultan, urging him to observe the Shari‘a by word and by deed, to stop the exploitation by governors and troops of civilians and to care for their well-being. When the Damascene Shafi‘i mufti and biographer Najm al-Dcn al-Ghazzc (1570–1651) sought the causes behind ‘the backwardness of this umma’ (asbab ta’khcr hadhihi al-umma), he seems to have meant the Arab Islamic umma because the Ottomans at the time were still at the peak of their power. The remedy Ghazzi prescribed for the umma to overcome their backwardness was to imitate the good people of the past, meaning the early Arab Muslims.8 The famous Damascene Sunni mufti and Sufi shaykh ‘Abd al-Ghanc al-Nabulsc (1641–1730) elaborated on Ghazzi’s ideas and voiced 179

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similar concerns about the well-being of the Arab Islamic umma. He also advocated coexistence with the non-Muslim minorities and defended them against their detractors. For example, Nabulsi took issue with a Remc ‘alim on the status of non-Muslims in the hereafter after the Remc asserted that Muslims would all go to Paradise, but non-Muslims were doomed to go to Hell.9 Nabulsi responded that by paying the jizya (poll tax), which benefits Muslims, non-Muslims made themselves eligible for Paradise as well, and there they would become Muslim (committed to God). To support his point of view, Nabulsi quoted Hanafi muftis and scholars who differentiated between the wa‘d (promise) of Paradise given to Muslims and the wa‘cd (threat) of Hell directed against the non-Muslims, which, according to Nabulsi and his authorities, could be eliminated because non-Muslims paid the jizya and because God was generous. Nabulsi’s accommodation of the non-Muslims in Arab-Islamic society and in Paradise reflects his liberalism and tolerance. He was also very influential among the Muslims and had his own followers and disciples in Damascus and elsewhere. Nabulsi practised the tolerance he preached. During his journey to Palestine in 1693, he accepted an invitation from the monks in Bethlehem to spend the night with them. He wrote poetry in their praise, lauded them for their hospitality and enjoyed listening to the music they played on the organ (called al-urghuna by Nabulsi), which he likened to the singing of a nightingale.10 On his two journeys to Palestine in 1690 and 1693, Nabulsi visited Judeo-Christian as well as Muslim sites. In another work by Nabulsi entitled Ta‘icr al-anam fc ta‘bcr al-manam (Perfuming humanity by explaining dreams), which he completed in 1096 (1685), he wrote at length about the benefits and goodness of seeing Jesus in a dream.11 In an article on the ‘Dreams of Jesus in the Islamic tradition’, Annemarie Schimmel quotes Nabulsi as saying, ‘Someone who sees Jesus in his dream becomes a blessed person full of goodness . . . he will become a pious person prone to asceticism, satisfied with but little, and given the knowledge of medicine’; ‘If a pregnant woman dreams of Jesus, she will give birth to a boy who will become a physician’.12 Other Muslim ulama of earlier periods spoke in similar terms about seeing Jesus in a dream. Like the ulama, who exhibited an awareness of their identity, a tolerant, rational interpretation of Islamic Law and an affinity with non-Muslim Arabs, the eighteenth-century Damascene chronicler, a Greek Orthodox priest named Mikha’il Breik, in his history of Damascus (Tarckh al-Sham, 1720–1782), prided himself on the appointment of members of the local ‘Azm family, whom he called awlad ‘Arab, as governors in ‘our country’ (biladina), as he put it.13 He spoke highly of their tolerant attitude towards the Christians and considered their coming to power in 1720 the second of three reasons for beginning his history from that date (the first was his awareness of events around him and the third was the spread of 180

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Catholicism). It is significant that Breik gave priority to the emergence of the ‘Azms, the awlad ‘Arab, over the spread of Catholicism which was undermining his Greek Orthodox community and drawing converts from its ranks. It is also significant that Breik identified the area extending from Antioch in the north to ‘Arish in the south as al-Bilad al-‘Arabiyya just as the Muslims did.14 Breik seems to have been aware of the ‘Arabness’ of the ‘Azms through the struggle that was taking place at the time in the Greek Orthodox community between the upper clergy who were Greeks and the lower clergy who were Arabs. In 1724, when the Greek Orthodox community in Damascus chose Cyril Tanas, a native, as patriarch over a rival Greek Cypriot patriarch in Aleppo called Sylvester, Breik commented that Cyril was the first to be ordained from the awlad al-‘Arab.15 Cyril, however, became Catholic and was banished by the Greek Orthodox, but his successors in ‘exile’, who continued as patriarchs for the locally unrecognized Greek Catholic community, known as Melkites, were all nominated from among the Arab bishops.16 The Greek Orthodox patriarchs in Damascus, on the other hand, continued to be appointed from among the Greeks, until the early years of the twentieth century when Arabs finally replaced Greeks as Greek Orthodox patriarchs. Arab identity that applied to all Arabic-speaking peoples, Muslims and non-Muslims alike, brought the religious communities together. Coexistence and integration among the various communities was evident in everyday life. In the workplace, for example, many guilds had mixed membership. Expertise in a guild was more important than religious affiliation when qualifying for membership of a guild and rising in its professional ranks. Both Christians and Muslims, for instance, figured in the guilds of spinners (fattalcn) and weavers (giyyak). Jews and Muslims monopolized the guilds of druggists or pharmacists (‘aiiarcn) and butchers (qahhabcn). All three communities were represented in the guilds of dyers (habbaghcn) and blacksmiths (gaddadcn). The delegations representing the mixed guilds before the law court reflect the extent of the participation of each community in the guilds’ affairs. The delegation which represented the weavers in Aleppo before the law court on 23 February 1658, for example, consisted of twenty-one members, thirteen of whom were Muslims and eight Christians. The delegation of druggists in Aleppo who appeared in court on 8 February 1660 included nine Muslims and eight Jews.17 (Specimens from the court records about the composition of the delegations are reproduced in Figures 9.1, 9.2 and 9.3). The communities cared about the well-being of their poor. In 1588, the Jewish butchers in Aleppo were allowed by the Muslim head of the butchers’ guild (shaykh al-qahhabcn) to sell meat at a price slightly higher than that allowed to Muslim butchers in order to help the poor among the Jews. The judge and the mugtasib (market inspector) concurred with this arrangement.18 In the ceremonies marking the promotion of craftsmen from 181

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Figure 9.1 Law court records, Aleppo, vol. 27, p. 50, case dated 17 Rabi’ I 1068 (23 December 1657).

Figure 9.2 Law court records, Aleppo, vol. 27, p. 71, case dated 9 Jumada II 1068 (14 March 1658).

Figure 9.3 Law court records, Aleppo, vol. 27, p. 71, case dated 10 Jumada II 1068 (15 March 1658).

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one professional rank to another, the appropriate rituals were performed according to the member’s religion. If the promoted person was a Muslim, the fatiha was repeated. For a Christian, the Lord’s Prayer was recited, and for a Jew the Ten Commandments were read.19 In the specialized markets, where sellers of the same commodity were neighbours, a common culture of civility and neighbourliness was shared by all merchants irrespective of their religious affiliation. In social centres, such as coffee houses, people from the same profession, or from the same neighbourhood, mixed together. The residential quarters included inhabitants from a wide range of communities whose proportions in the population varied from one quarter to another. Although some quarters and streets were named after a religious group, such as garat al-Nahara (the Christian quarter), or garat al-Yahed (the Jewish quarter), or zuqaq (alley) al-Turkoman and zuqaq al-Gawarcna, none of these locations was limited to a single community, and no religious community lived in a ghetto. As Bernard Lewis writes, ‘Though Christians and Jews tended on the whole to form their own quarters in Muslim cities, this was a natural social development and not, like the ghettos of Christian Europe, a legally enforced restriction’.20 The law court records of Damascus, like those of Aleppo and Hama, clearly indicate the mixing of communities in residential quarters.21 The members of the same community, it is true, preferred to live next to each other because of family connections and also to be close to their places of worship. But alongside them and occasionally sharing the same house with them were members of other communities. The Sharia courts, likewise, were open to all the communities, and justice was administered to them on an equal basis. Prior to the French and industrial revolutions, mercantilist Europe carried on its business with the traditional economy and society of Syria and the Middle East.22 The European states safeguarded the interests of their nationals and merchants through a treaty with the Ottoman Empire, known as Capitulations. Locally, the work ethic and the division of labour that dominated the guild system ensured stability in the workplace. Individual initiative was encouraged and partnership was discouraged for fear of bringing about monopolies and a rise in prices. The judge in the Sharia court, for example, ordered the members of the guild of saddlers (sarrajen) in Aleppo in 1640 to work independently and not resort to partnership because, as he put it, it was harmful to the Muslims (yashtaghil kullu wagid minhum fc dukkan mustaqill wa-la yashtariken fi’l-‘amal li-anna fchi fararan li’l-Muslimcn).23 Thus the economic resources of the craftsmen were balanced and the opportunity to accumulate wealth was limited. This stability largely explains why no socioeconomic riots between the haves and the have-nots of the type that occurred in mid-nineteenth century Syria had taken place in the preceding three and a half centuries. The court injunction banning partnerships to prevent monopolies was again 183

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voiced by the Higher Consultative Council in Damascus in the mid-1840s.24 The economic situation had changed by then with alarming consequences. Capitalist Europe in the nineteenth century devastated the traditional economies and societies of the Middle East. To compete with Europe, Syrian manufacturers imported European machinery, including the French jacquard loom, and established partnerships across the communal divide to consolidate capital and manufacture products imitating European goods and fashions.25 The guild system began to fracture. A proto-bourgeoisie acting as middlemen and agents for European producers began to emerge. Cheap European goods began to flood the local markets, causing a sharp disparity in wealth between the labouring poor and the nouveaux riches, many of whom happened to be Christians, but not to the exclusion of Jews. The majority of the Jews, however, were poor and the few rich among them took care to hide their wealth, while the Christians were quick to show it off. Layoffs, bankruptcies and clashes between journeymen and masters in the guilds over wages became the order of the day and eventually triggered riots and attacks on the rich Christians. Collusion on the part of Ottoman officials, including the Ottoman governor of Damascus and the head of the local militia, who were both executed by the Ottoman authorities, and military intervention by Napoleon III in the affairs of Lebanon in 1860 added to the worsening situation.26 However, neither the Jews,27 nor the poor Christians,28 were affected by the riots, indicating that the motives behind them were not basically religious, even though fanaticism was used as a catalyst to whip up the emotions of the crowd. The events were truly the aftermath of Syria’s incorporation into the capitalist world market.29 Shortly afterwards, the people put these events behind them and returned to their former coexistence in the workplace. Arab national consciousness made headway in Syria at the time, and a renaissance (nahfa) began to emerge, bringing together the various communities. The motto, ‘Love of one’s fatherland [waian] is an act of faith’, was spread by newspapers and soon adopted by societies. The Salafi Islamic movement that started in Damascus at the time also fed into the nahfa by appealing to the purity of Islam under the Arab ancestors. After the demise of the Ottoman Empire in 1918 and the establishment of an Arab state in Damascus under King Faysal, attempts were made to establish a nation state. Communal coexistence was the hallmark of this endeavour despite attempts by the mandatory powers to implement the policy of divide and rule. After Armenian refugees settled in Aleppo during the First World War and formed a pool of cheap labour, economic competition grew up between them and the local population, and occasionally escalated into clashes. To calm the situation, King Faysal gave a speech in the Arab Club in Aleppo in June 1919 in which he said, ‘As for myself, I can say that we have no majority and no minority. There is no division among us except when we are buried’.30 184

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Figure 9.4 The Hashemite calendar issued in Damascus for the year 2001.

A new Arab calendar was issued in 1918 by a Damascene ‘alim and bookseller Ahmad ‘Ubayd. It is still published in the same format under the name al-Taqwcm al-Hashimc (The Hashemite calendar). It begins with the first of January according to the Gregorian calendar and gives on every page the equivalent dates according to the Gregorian, the Hijri, the Julian (still used by Orthodox Christians) and the Hebrew calendars. At the bottom of each page the religious feasts for all the communities are listed (the first page of the calendar for 2001 can be seen in Figure 9.4). The calendar is a small but meaningful example of a long history of coexistence that continues to this day.

Notes 1 S.D. Goitein, A Mediterranean Society, 5 vols. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967–88). 2 Bernard Lewis, The Jews of Islam (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984), 67. 3 Ibid., 26. 4 Kamal S. Salibi, Syria Under Islam, vol. 1. Empire on Trial, 634–1097 (Delmar, NY: Caravan Books, 1977), 27. 5 André Raymond, Le Caire (Paris: Fayard, 1993), 17. 6 Louis Pouzet, Damas au VIIe/XIIIe Siècle. Vie et Structures Religieuses dans une Métropole Islamique (Beirut: Dar El-Machreq, 1988), 305–29.

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7 For Islamic resistance movements, see Edmund Burke, III and Ira M. Lapidus ed., Islam, Politics, and Social Movements (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988). 8 Najm al-Dcn al-Ghazzc, Gusn al-Tanabbuh li-ma Warada fi’l-Tashabbuh, 7 vols, MS. No. 9030, Jahiriyya/Assad Library, Damascus, vol.1, ff. 3a, 14a–15b. 9 ‘Abd al-Ghanc al-Nabulsc, Hadha Kitab al-Qawl al-Sadcd fc Jawaz Khulf al-Wa‘cd wa’l-Radd ‘ala al-Remc al-Jahil al-‘Anid, MS, No. MQ 1581, Berlin Staatsbibliothek, ff. 29a–46b. 10 ‘Abd al-Ghanc al-Nabulsc, al-Haqcqa wa’l-Majaz fi’l-Rigla ila Bilad al-Sham wa-Mihr wa’l-Gijaz, ed. Ahmad Hreidi (Cairo: al-Hay’a al-Mihriyya li’l-Kitab, 1986), 125. 11 ‘Abd al-Ghanc al-Nabulsc, Ta‘icr al-Anam fc Tafscr al-Aglam, 2 vols. (Beirut: al-Maktaba al-Thaqafiyya, a reprint in one volume with no date). Nabulsi’s work is arranged alphabetically. Dreams of ‘Issa (Jesus) appear under the word ‘Issa, vol. 2, 75. 12 Annemarie Schimmel, ‘Dreams of Jesus in the Islamic Tradition’, Bulletin of the Royal Institute for Inter-Faith Studies (Jordan: Amman), 1/1 (Spring, 1999): 207–12. 13 Mikha’il Breik, Tarckh al-Sham, 1720–1783, ed. Qusianicn al-Basha (Lebanon: Harisa, 1930), 2, 3, 62. 14 Ibid., 35, 68, 69. 15 Ibid., 3. 16 For more details about these events, see, François Abou Mokh, Évêque, Les Confessions d’un Arabe Catholique (Paris: Centurion, 1991), 51–3; Bernard Heyberger, Les Chrétiens du Proche Orient au Temps de la Réforme Catholique (Rome: Ecole Française de Rome, 1994), 86, 263, 315, 397, 399. 17 Abdul-Karim Rafeq, ‘Craft Organizations and Religious Communities in Ottoman Syria (XVI–XIX Centuries)’, in La Shi‘a Nell’Impero Ottomano (Roma: Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, Fondazione Leon Caetani, 1993), 25–56. 18 Law Court Registers (LCR), Aleppo, vol. 6, 265, case dated end of Safar 996 (29 January 1588). 19 Abdul-Karim Rafeq, ‘Craft Organizations, Work Ethics, and the Strains of Change in Ottoman Syria’, Journal of the American Oriental Society, 111/3 (1991): 495–511, see 509. 20 Lewis, The Jews of Islam, 28. 21 Abdul-Karim Rafeq, ‘The Social and Economic Structure of Bab al-Musalla (al-Midan), Damascus, 1825–1875’, in Arab Civilization, Challenges and Responses, Studies in Honor of Constantine K. Zurayk, eds George N. Atiyyeh and Ibrahim M. Oweiss (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1988), 272–311; see also Abraham Marcus, The Middle East on the Eve of Modernity, Aleppo in the Eighteenth Century, paperback edition (New York: Columbia University Press, 1989), 317. 22 Bruce Masters, ‘The 1850 Events in Aleppo: An Aftermath of Syria’s Incorporation into the Capitalistic World System’, International Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, 22 (February, 1990): 3–20. 23 LCR, Aleppo, vol. 22, 248, case dated 14 Ramadan 1049 (8 January 1640). 24 LCR, Damascus, Majlis Shera al-Sham al-‘Alc, vol.1, 382, case dated 20 Shawwal 1261 (22 October 1845). 25 Abdul-Karim Rafeq, ‘The Impact of Europe on a Traditional Economy: The Case of Damascus, 1840–1870’, in Economie et Sociétés dans l’Empire Ottoman (fin du XVIIIe Siècle–Début du XXe Siècle), eds Jean-Louis Bacqué Grammont and Paul Dumont (Paris: CNRS, 1983), 419–32; ‘New Light on the 1860 Riots in Ottoman Damascus’, Die Welt Des Islams, 27 (1988): 412–30.

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26 Leila Fawaz, An Occasion for War (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 108–31. 27 Mikha’il Mishaqa, Mashhad al-‘Iyan bi-Gawadith Seriyya wa-Lubnan, eds Mulhim ‘Abduh and Andrawus Hanna Shakhshiri (Cairo, 1908), translated into English by Wheeler M. Thackston as Murder, Mayhem, Pillage, and Plunder: The History of Lebanon in the 18th and 19th Centuries (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1988), 253. 28 Rafeq, ‘The Social and Economic Structure of Bab al-Musalla’, 272–311. 29 Masters, ‘The 1850 Events in Aleppo’, 3–20. 30 Faysal’s speech is reported by Sati’ al-Husri, Yawm Maysalun, translated from the Arabic by Sidney Glazer as The Day of Maysalun (Washington, 1966), 113; see also Abdul-Karim Rafeq, ‘Arabism, Society, and Economy in Syria, 1918– 1920’, in State and Society in Syria and Lebanon, ed. Youssef M. Choueiri (Exeter: Exeter University Press, 1993), 1–26, see 14.

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INDEX

INDEX

‘Abd al-Agad 67, 79, 95 ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Jaza’irc 18, 175 ‘Abd al-Rasel 66, 73, 77, 94, 95 ‘Abd al-Muker 64, 66, 67, 68, 70, 73, 74, 75, 76, 78, 79, 82, 85, 95 Abdul Rashid Day 121, 122, 129, 134 Abdülaziz 179 Abdülhamid II 41, 42, 174, 179 Abul Hashim 114, 115 Ahmadiyya 105 Ahmed, A.S. 158 Atend Mulla Piyau al-Dcn 81, 82 al-Andalus 137, 158, 159, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164, 165, 166, 167, 168, 169 ‘Alawcs 3 al-Azmeh, Aziz 98 Algeria 18, 23, 169, 174, 175 Alhambra 163 ‘Alc b. Abc Ialib 3, 5, 31, 33 ‘Alim Tan 68, 80, 85 Allaouiyya 144 aman 2 Amanullah 64, 70, 72 Andijan 29, 30, 34, 38, 39, 40, 42, 43, 46, 47, 50, 51, 54, 174 Andijan Uprising 29, 30, 37, 42, 44, 45, 47, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 174 Arabization 165, 166, 167, 168 Aravan 33 Arya Samaj 103, 107 As‘ad al-Shaqqc 7, 173 Asaka 33, 39 ‘ascribed Muslim’ 143, 147 ‘Ashera’ 44, 45

Asín Palacios, Miguel 164 Atabekoghli, Fazilbek 30, 33, 37, 39, 40, 43, 46, 52, 53 ‘Aync 67, 83, 92 Azad, Abul Kalam 100, 102 ‘Azms 181 Babadjanov, Bakhtiyar 29, 35, 41, 45, 53, 55 Badr al-Dcn Tailanc 71, 74, 78, 79, 81, 95 Baljuan revolt 62 Balkans 24, 138, 140 Bartol’d, V.V. 50 Basmachi resistance 70, 77, 80 Baybars 4, 6 Berbers 161, 163, 167 Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) 106, 107 Bir Alali 14 Bornu kingdom 13 Bosnia 138, 139 Breik, Mikha’il 180, 181 British raj 110, 111, 128, 129 Be Sa‘ada 19 Bukhara 31, 44, 47, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87 Bukharan Emirate 63, 64, 66, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 80, 87, 94 Bukharis 74, 75, 80, 81 Burhan al-Dcn Tailanc 74, 77, 79, 80, 82, 92 Burkina 16, 18 Burrows, F.J. 115, 116, 120, 122, 123, 124, 125, 127 Byzantines 173

188

INDEX

Calcutta Communal Riot 109 caste 98, 99, 102, 103, 106 Castro, Américo 164 Chandra Bose, Sarat 122, 128 Charjuy 66, 73, 79, 94 cholera 34 Christians 2, 4, 6, 15, 50, 106, 158, 159, 160, 165, 167, 173, 180, 181, 183, 184 Communist Party of India 118, 119 conflict 1, 2, 7, 11, 13, 15, 16, 18, 19, 66, 72, 75, 81, 83, 85, 86, 113, 116, 152, 156, 157, 158, 159, 160, 161, 165, 166, 167, 168, 172, 179 Copts 1, 6, 7 Córdoba 137, 160, 166 Crusades 6, 173 Cyrenaica 12, 13, 174, 175 Dacca Riots 110 Danim 67, 68, 69, 71, 76 Das, Suranjan 110, 130 dawla 9 dhimma 2 dhimmcs 2, 6, 7, 172 dcn 9 Direct Action 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 117, 120, 121, 122, 126, 127, 128, 129 Druzes 2 Dukchi Ishan 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 174 Dukchi Ishan Vaqeäsi 30 Dukhovskoi 47, 48, 49, 50 Eastern Europe 137, 138 European Free Trade Association 138 European Muslims 142, 143, 149 European Union 138, 139 Fafilcya 19 fatwa 5, 6 Faysal 184, 187 Fazlur Rahman 107 Ferghana Valley 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 37, 38, 40, 42, 43, 44, 53, 54, 55, 74, 94 ferman 42 firqa 63, 65, 75, 76, 77, 80, 81, 82, 85, 86

Fiirat, ‘Abd al-Ra’uf 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 85, 86, 87, 95 foulard 147, 150, 177; see also scarf lama‘a 63, 65 Gandhi, Mahatma 105 Gasprinskii, Ismail Bey 48, 49, 50, 68 gäzat 40 Ghana 18 al-Ghazzc, Najm al-Dcn 179 Ghose, Surendra Mohan 116, 117, 118, 119 Goitein, Shlomo Dov 1, 2, 172 Granada 137, 160, 162 grand marabout 17 Great Calcutta Killing 109, 128 guest-workers 137 Gallc Mu‘cn b. Mukr-Allàh Kattaqurpanc 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 96 Gamah Allah 17, 18 Gamallcya 16 Hanafi school 11, 51, 53 Hardwick, D.R. 118, 122, 123, 124 Hardy, Peter 99 hartal 112, 114, 116, 128 Gasan b. ‘Azzez 18 Tailancs 74, 85; see also Khatlanis Gaydar b. Ma‘hem 66, 84 hijra 11 Hinduism 99, 103 Hindu–Muslim clashes 109, 121 Hindu–Muslim relations 98, 176 Hindu–Muslim riot 110 Hindus 53, 54, 102, 103, 104, 114, 116, 117, 118, 119, 126, 176 Hindustan National Guard 117 Hindustani, Muhammadjan 53, 54 Hyderabad 106, 107, 158 Ibn al-Abbar 158 Ibn al-‘Arabc 164 Ibn Bayrà 74, 76, 81, 87, 94 Ibn Gayyan 166, 167 Ibn Taymcya 5, 6 Ibrahim, Abdurreshid 51, 52 Ibrahcm b. Adham 3 ‘Ibrat al-Ghafilcn 29, 30, 31, 32, 34, 35 INA (Indian National Army) Day 120, 121, 129, 133

189

INDEX

Khatlan 74, 75, 77, 80, 87 Khatlanis 75, 79; see also Tailancs Khilafat movement 105 khiiab 4, 5 Khujand 84, 89 Kokand Khanate 30, 31, 37, 39, 41, 74, 77, 87, 91, 95 Kokart 33, 38, 39, 43 Kosovo 139 Kothari, Rajni 100 Kufra 13, 14 Kuhistanis 74, 75, 77, 80 Kulab 74, 77, 80, 81, 94 Kulabis 63, 65, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 81, 83, 85, 86, 87, 94 Kurds 2

Indian National Congress 100, 101, 102, 104, 105, 107, 109, 110, 111, 114, 116, 117, 118, 119, 122, 128, 132, 176 Iqbal, Mohammad 105 iqia‘ 4 Iranian revolution 147 ‘Isa Matdem b. Mulla Niyaz Mugammad 67, 69, 83 ishan 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 39, 41, 46, 49, 51, 54, 55 Ishan Madali 29, 30; see also Dukchi Ishan Ishanism 29, 30, 31, 55, 174, 175 Islamization 30, 36, 39, 44, 55, 56, 147, 152, 154, 165 Isma‘cl Hafavc 11 Isma‘clcs 4

Lalla Zaynab 19 Lewis, Bernard 1, 2, 172, 183

Jabala 3, 4, 5 Jadid movement 55, 80 Jadid trend 68, 82, 86 Jadidism 49, 62 Jadids 80, 92, 96 Jaghbeb 13 Jalal, Ayesha 105, 106 Jamaat at Tabligh 144, 146 Jamaat-i-islami 146 Jerusalem 2, 6, 173 Jewish-Arab symbiosis 1 Jews 1, 2, 6, 35, 159, 161, 165, 172, 181, 183, 184 jihad 6, 11, 12, 15, 16, 18, 19, 20, 21, 23, 31, 40, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 49, 52, 53, 54, 55, 65, 113, 168, 174, 175 Jinnah, Mohammad Ali 102, 112, 113, 115 jizya 2, 180 Jugantar 117 kafir 5 Kamilov, Muzaffar 53 Kano 21 Kashghar 30, 39, 42, 55 Kashgharis 31, 32, 54 Kaufman, K.P. von 36 Kazan 47, 83, 86 Ketmentepe 33, 38, 39 khalifa 31, 36, 40 khanäqah 33, 35, 37, 43 kharaj 2

Ma’ al-‘Aynayn 19, 20 madhhab 10, 11 mahdc 18, 22, 23, 34, 168 Mahdi (of Sudan) 18 mahdi-saint 34 mahdism 18, 22, 175 Malcolm X 152 Mali 15, 17, 18 Mamluk sultanate 3 Mamluks 2, 173 al-Manar 64 Manz, Beatrice F. 30, 39 al-Maqrczc 5, 7 al-Marlanc, Mihab al-Dcn 67, 83, 86 Marghilani, Muhammad ‘Aziz 52 Margilan 30, 39, 40 Masrer b. Mugammad 166, 167 mawalc 166 mazar 33, 46 “militant” Islam 19, 147 Milli Görüs 144, 146 Mingtepe 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 46, 54 Mcr Mu‘ajjam Twala Mcrakanc 83, 84 Mcrakancs 82, 83, 85, 86 Mongols 6, 173 Montagu-Chelmsford Reforms 101 Morocco 19, 174 Muhammad ‘Ali Bay 40, 41 Muhammad ‘Ali Sabir 30; see also Dukchi Ishan

190

INDEX

Mugammad b. Abc ’l-Qasim 19 Mugammad b. al-Gasan al-Mahdc 3, 5, 6 Mugammad Fafil 19 Mugammad Idrcs 15 Muhammad Sabir 30, 31, 35 Mugammad Marcf 64, 66, 67, 68, 73, 82; see also Riya Mukherji, Dhirendra Narayan 119 Mulla ‘Abd al-Wasc’ 62 murid 31, 32, 34, 35, 36, 37, 39, 42, 50, 52, 55 Murids 144 Muslim Brothers 144 Muslim identity 97, 149 Muslim immigration 139 Muslim League 100, 101, 102, 105, 109, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119, 121, 127, 128, 131, 132, 176 Muslim ‘minority’ 101 Muslim National Guard 113, 117 Muslim Scouts 144 Muslims in Europe 137, 141, 153, 155, 169 Mujaffar al-Dcn 67, 76, 79, 81 muzhik 37, 40, 43, 46

Pact of ‘Umar 2, 6 Pahlen, C. 42, 45, 46 Palermo 137 Pan-Islamism 42, 47, 48, 174 Partition Riots 110, 111, 130 People’s Soviet Republic of Bukhara 69, 80 perestroika 29, 55, 62, 92 pilgrimage 31, 32, 39, 142, 143, 179 pir 31 Poklovskii 38 Popular Sufism 6 Pulatkhan 38, 44 qabcla 63, 65 Qadircya 18, 19, 20, 21, 144 Qalandariyya 44 Qashgharlik 30 Qasim ‘Abduh Qasim 2 qawm 63, 65, 73, 76, 77, 78, 79, 84, 85, 88 Qayrawan 1 Qarc Abe Sa‘cd 83, 84, 86 qarc kalan 67, 68, 71, 73, 74, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 83, 84, 92, 94, 95 Qarc kalan-i Mal 83, 84 Qipchaqs 44 Qiriay 3, 5 ‘quietist’ Islam 19 Qyrghyz 31, 32, 33, 37, 38, 39, 41, 42, 43, 44, 46, 54, 55

al-Nabulsc, ‘Abd al-Ghanc 179, 180 Nafia 18 nahfa 184 Namangan 38, 40, 51 Naqshabandiyya 144 Naqshbandiyya-Mujaddidiyya 31, 55 al-Nahir 3, 4, 6, 7, 173 Nahirc cadastral survey 4 Nahr-Allàh 66, 84, 85, 94 Nazimuddin, Khwaja 113, 114, 115, 116, 118, 132 Negro slaves 2 Nehru 104, 105, 111, 114 Nehru, Pandit 115 neo-Sufism 55, 61, 174 Nicholas II 47, 49 Niger 12, 14, 175 non-believers 5, 6 Nuru Tall 17, 19 Nuhayrcs 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Ragmancya 18, 22 Ramadan, Tariq 148 Ramakrishna Mission 107 ra’is 36, 37, 40 al-Rawk al-Nahirc 4 Raymond, André 173 Reconquest 137, 161, 165 Ribera, Julián 164 al-Rimag 15 Roy, K.S. 116, 119 Russian Revolution 53 Russo-native school 37, 50 Rez-nama 64, 65, 66, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 75, 80, 82, 83

orientalism 157 Osh 33, 38, 39, 40, 50 Ostroumov, N.P. 54

Sa‘d Beh 19 Hadr al-Dcn Tailanc 74, 76, 77, 78, 79, 81

191

INDEX

Said, Edward 157 Salafiya 55 Halag al-Dcn 6, 173 Samarkand 31, 32, 41, 43, 44, 75, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87 Samarqandcs 82, 85 Sami, Mirza ‘Abd al-‘Azim 50, 51, 52, 53 al-Sanesc, Agmad al-Sharcf 15, 21 al-Sanesc, Mugammad b. ‘Alc 12, 13, 14, 15 Sanescya 12, 13, 15, 20, 21, 174, 175 “Sart” 32, 68, 73, 76, 92 mayt 73, 77, 82; see also shaykh scarf 144, 147, 177; see also foulard Schimmel, Annemarie 180 Selim I 4 Senegal 15, 16, 17, 19 Shamil 47 Sharia 10, 35, 36, 40, 42, 45, 48, 55, 179 Sharia courts 179, 183 shaykh 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 31, 36, 174; see also mayt Shc‘c states 11 Shc‘ism 10 Shukurov, Muhammadjon 66 Sicily 137 Sikhs 104, 106, 116 Simla Conference 102 Simla deputation 100, 101 Siraj al-Din 51 Spanish Arabists 162, 163, 164 Stillman, N.A. 2 Sufi brotherhood 10, 11, 17, 20, 21, 174; see also Sufi order and iarcqa Sufi order 10, 12, 30, 74, 175, 176; see also Sufi brotherhood and iarcqa Sufism 10, 12, 21, 22, 29, 47, 49, 164, 168 Suhrawardy, H.S. 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 118, 119, 120, 122, 123, 124, 125, 131, 132 Sukhareva, O.A. 44 Suleymancilar 144 Sultankhan Torä 31 Sunnism 10, 21 Syed Ahmad Khan 100 symbiosis 1, 2, 7, 156, 158, 159, 160, 164, 165, 166, 168, 172

ia’ifa 63, 65, 73, 74, 75, 76, 79, 86 Taj al-Dcn al-Iawcl 7, 173 Tajiks 32, 54 taqcya 11 iarcqa 10, 36, 37, 39, 47, 54, 74, 174; see also Sufi brotherhood and Sufi order Tashkent 31, 32, 42, 44, 50, 55, 68 Tatars 47, 48, 139 Terjuman 50 Tijancya 15, 16, 20, 21, 144, 175 trans-Saharan trade 13 Tripoli (Libya) 13 Tripoli (Syria) 3, 4 Tumanis 63, 65, 74, 75, 77, 78, 79, 82, 83, 85, 86, 87, 92 Tunisia 18, 19 Turkistani pilgrims 31 “Turks” 32, 50, 54 ulama 2, 5, 6, 7, 35, 37, 41, 51, 53, 63, 65, 67, 73, 74, 75, 76, 79, 80, 81, 82, 84, 87, 88, 96, 97, 166, 167, 168, 174, 179, 180 ‘Umar b. al-Khaiiab 2 ‘Umar al-Mukhtar 15 ‘Umar Tall 15, 16, 19, 20, 175 umara’ (pl. of amcr) 71, 73, 79, 86, 88, 94, 96 unity of dcn wa dawla 98 Usman Akhund Sudur 31 Uzbeks 32, 41, 54, 68, 71 Wadai 13, 14 ‘Wah[h]abi’ movement 101 Wahhabis 72 Walker, R.L. 116, 122, 123, 124, 125, 127, 129 Wasserstrom, Steven M. 2 Western Europe 137, 138, 139, 140, 152 Ye’or, Bat 2 Young Bukharan party 68, 80, 85 Jahircya 22 Zins, Max 110 Jiya 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 85, 86, 87, 92, 93, 94, 95 Zoroastrians 2

192