Performing Islam: Gender and Ritual in Iran (Women and Gender: the Middle East and the Islamic World) (Women and Gender: the Middle East and the Islamic World)

PERFORMING ISLAM

WOMEN AND GENDER THE MIDDLE EAST AND THE ISLAMIC WORLD EDITED BY

MARGOT BADRAN AND VALENTINE MOGHADAM

VOLUME 4

PERFORMING ISLAM Gender and Ritual in Iran BY

AZAM TORAB

LEIDEN • BOSTON 2007

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Torab, Azam. Performing Islam : Gender and Ritual in Iran / by Azam Torab. p. cm. — (Women and gender, the Middle East and the Islamic world ; v. 4) ISBN-13: 978-90-04-15295-3 ISBN-10: 90-04-15295-4 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Muslim women—Iran—Social conditions. 2. Women in Islam—Iran. 3. Women—Iran—Social conditions. I. Title. HQ1735.2.T67 2006 305.48’6970955—dc22 2006049202

ISSN 1570-7628 ISBN-13: 978 90 04 15295 3 ISBN-10: 90 04 15295 4

© Copyright 2007 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Brill provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910 Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. printed in the netherlands

To my father Hassan Torab 1923–1979

CONTENTS

Preface ........................................................................................ Acknowledgements ...................................................................... Notes on Language .................................................................... Calendars ....................................................................................

ix xiii xv xvi

Introduction ................................................................................

1

Chapter One

Blurring Boundaries ......................................

31

Chapter Two

Women’s Caring Labour ..............................

68

Chapter Three A Well-Adjusted Misfit ..................................

92

Chapter Four

The Morality of Self-Interested Exchange ... 115

Chapter Five

Rites of Masculinity ...................................... 139

Chapter Six

Girls’ ‘Initiation’ Ritual ................................ 169

Chapter Seven

Reversal and Licence .................................... 194

Chapter Eight

The Head and Heart Tangle ...................... 223

Conclusion .................................................................................. 242 Glossary ...................................................................................... References .................................................................................... Author Index .............................................................................. Subject Index ..............................................................................

251 261 281 286

PREFACE

The objective of this book is to provide an account of the diversity of ritual activity and their significance for gender constructions in Iran today. Much has been written on the social and political functions of men’s public street processions and passion plays during the month of Muharram. But women’s ritual activities have not had the attention they deserve. These are the main focus of my study, although I also look at men’s rituals in one of the chapters as a means of shedding further light on women’s very rich ceremonial life. But my main objective in studying ritual performances is to develop an understanding of how gender is constructed and understood. In this sense, this book is neither a conventional anthropological community-focused study, nor intended as a sociological or historical account, although it does bear elements of both. I have tried to capture the sense of the period in which I conducted the fieldwork, which took place in 1992–93, in the early years after the Iranian revolution of 1978–79. Rituals flourish in periods of rapid change and in Iran they have always been part of the political process, in particular in the context of the social, economic and political instability that characterized the aftermath of the Iranian revolution. The post-revolutionary era has been extraordinarily complex with regard to gender politics. Gender ideas are undergoing rapid change, with controversial and contradictory trends mapped in an increasing body of literature, feature films and documentaries. Opinions about these developments by observers and writers both within Iran and outside the country are diverse and fragmented, as is the case about the political situation more generally. My focus is on rituals because these are powerful forums where ideas develop, or where rules, symbols and discourses are contested. My aim is to understand how gender views, ideas and beliefs were being formed or projected through ritual activities at the time of my research in the early 1990’s. This was a particularly important time in respect of the resurgence of feminist debates within the Islamic Republic. Significantly, some clergymen, religious thinkers and Islamist women were among the key players in these debates.

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preface

These developments form an important context for this book. However, I am not concerned with the issues and debates around feminism or the much debated ‘Islamic feminism’ as such. ‘Feminism’ can mean a concern with ‘women’s subordination’ or ‘male dominance’, or the more recent broader definitions that include a general concern with increasing women’s rights, opportunities and choices. I certainly adhere to this latter objective for women (but also for men who are oppressed) wherever they may be, but these issues are neither the aim nor the analytical framework for this book. My concern is not with ‘women’ or ‘men’ or gender roles or relations as such. Rather, my principal concern is perhaps more radical (at least in the context of Iranian scholarship). It is to dislodge the very categories ‘man’ and ‘woman’ in order to understand how they come to assume the fixity that they do by a study of ritual activity. I explore how gender ‘difference’ is formed through specific actions, for which I have chosen ritual performances, which have a particularly rich symbolic content. I believe the scholarship relating to Iran has not yet taken this approach. The studies that focus on women or gender are mainly concerned with women’s status, roles, or gender relations or the ways in which social, political and historical processes shape gender discourses, thereby shaping women’s and also men’s roles and status. I must acknowledge here the feminist or feminist-inspired scholarship on Iran nonetheless, for providing the very grounds and the necessary material that make my study possible in the first place. But for inspiration, I am in particular indebted to a few works to which I have made extensive reference in the book, not just for the material, but for their interpretations and analyses. Each chapter relates to a particular ritual. The approach and style of presentation I have adopted in general is to provide a straightforward account of the ritual proceedings as taken directly out of my field notes written at the time (with subsequent editing as required) followed by my comments and analysis. The aim is to differentiate between my observations and my analysis. I want to underline that alternative readings are possible, although I acknowledge that even ethnographic ‘description’ is not free from theory. The subject index, which is fairly extensive, forms an additional guide to the book’s theoretical focus. My fieldwork context and experience as both an Iranian (or ‘insider’) doing fieldwork at ‘home’, while being also an

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‘outsider’, having spent most of my life from my formative years on abroad, is touched on briefly at the end of the introduction, but there is much excellent literature on this topic to which I have referred. Finally, I should add that the manuscript for this book was completed in the beginning of 2004, although I have since made some appropriate alterations and included references of relevant literature that appeared after that date.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book took shape with thanks to many people to whom I am deeply indebted. My profound gratitude goes to my mentors and teachers in Basel and London. As an undergraduate at the Department of Ethnology at the University of Basle, I was taught by Meinhard Schuster, who first introduced me to ethnology, and Brigitta HauserSchäublin and Florence Weiss who first introduced me to gender studies. I am greatly indebted to Nancy Lindisfarne (formerly Tapper) and Richard Tapper who co-supervised my dissertation, out of which this book grew. I want to thank them for their generous guidance. Nancy Lindisfarne has been a great inspiration for developing my understanding and ideas on gender. To Richard Tapper I owe very special thanks for his continued support and confidence in my work. I also thank Judith Okely and Sami Zubaida, both for their perceptive comments on my dissertation and support since. I gratefully acknowledge a Research Associateship with School of Oriental African Studies (SOAS) which began in 1998. From 1999 to 2004 I held a Research Fellowship at Clare Hall in Cambridge, which allowed me to complete the book in a most stimulating and congenial environment. I was given the opportunity to teach and present papers related to this book in the Department of Anthropology in Cambridge and at SOAS in London, which helped clarify my ideas. While I was writing my book I also had the opportunity to present papers based on this research at seminars, workshops and conferences across the UK and on the Continent. These often challenging occasions helped formulate and shape my ideas. Parts of Chapter 1 and Chapter 4 are published in different versions (Torab 1996, 2002, 2005). Most abundant thanks to Ziba Mir-Hosseini, for friendship, support and intellectual enthusiasm as well as generous hospitality over the years. I have benefited greatly from her research and from discussions with her. I also enjoyed many useful conversations and discussions with Gabriele vom Bruck. I thank both for drawing my attention to material I might have missed and for reading parts of this book at various stages. Their suggestions and comments have made this a better book.

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acknowledgments

Others who have read earlier papers related to this research and from whose critical comments I have benefited in the early stages of writing include: Susan Drucker-Brown, Mary Hegland, Anna Laerke and in particular Susan Wright, whom I also thank for support and confidence. My special thanks to Dale Eickelman for taking an interest in my work at an early stage and encouraging me to go to press with my research. I would like to express special appreciation to Margot Badran for editorial input as series editor at Brill and Trudy Kamperveen for making it possible to get to press despite unforeseeable delays. I want to thank everyone in Tehran who helped me define the focus of my research. In the beginning of my fieldwork, Jaber ‘Anassori allowed me to attend some of his lectures on ‘popular culture’ ( farhang-e 'ammeh) at the Faculty of Arts in Tehran University, which familiarised me with research in Iran. To my late sister-inlaw, Khadijeh Kheradpir (Kay as she liked to be called) I have a debt that I can never repay. She sadly died just before going to press. Her intimate knowledge of the city and its people brought me into contact with the women’s interlocking ritual circles. My most profound debt is to Mrs Omid and her daughter Mariam for their invaluable support during my fieldwork, but also to all the other women who are the subjects of this book. They tolerated me generously in their midst with good humour, warmth and kindness. They made the research for this book not only possible but also enjoyable. David Halford, a longstanding friend, and Elizabeth Loving, kept up my spirits with plans and outings throughout the gestation of the book. I thank them for their friendship. To Tanya Harrod, a most loyal friend of many years, I am deeply grateful for generously giving her time and reading many drafts, as well as the very final manuscript with a perceptive eye and precision. I cannot adequately put into words the meaning for me of her friendship. I owe a unique debt to my husband Mohammad Hossein Kheradpir (Kourosh) for his care, affection and constant encouragement, and for giving me the peace of mind to carry this project through.

NOTES ON LANGUAGE

The majority of my transcriptions and translations from Persian (Farsi) to English are from spoken rather than written Persian. My concern, as much as possible, is to convey how the words are spoken and pronounced by the subjects of this study. For that reason my transcriptions are phonetic. All non-English terms are in italics, as is direct speech. Persian (Indo European language) and Arabic (Semitic language) both use the Arabic alphabet. Many Arabic words are used in Persian, but they are often Persianized. This means they are often pronounced differently, and thus have a different transliteration. They may also have a slightly different meaning to the Arabic. My translation and usage of all Arabic derived loan words corresponds to the way they are understood and pronounced in everyday spoken Persian. Examples are barakat, bed'at, niyyat, 'elm, vozu, rowzeh, Reza, which correspond to the Arabic baraka, bid'a, niyya, 'ilm, wodu, rawda, Rida. Diacritical marks are omitted, except for 'ayn (') and hamzeh ("), although in Persian there is virtually no difference in sound between them. Similarly, the alphabets gh (q ‘gheyn’) and q (c ‘qaf ’) sound the same in Iran (except notably in Yazd). For the other similar sounding Persian letters I use ‘s’ for ◊ s -, ‘t’ for t … and ‘z’ for N ¿ „ z. They may sound different in Arabic, but not in Persian. Some terms of Arabic origin, such as fuqaha and faqih, the standard Arabic transliteration is retained but without diacritics. However, whenever possible I have used the familiar English forms of Persian and Arabic, such as chador, hajj, Ayatollah, and Ramadan. Finally, many honorific titles such as Hazrat (Excellency) are used in written Persian, but they are often omitted in day to day speech to indicate closeness not disrespect, and I follow local usage.

CALENDARS Iranian diaries display three calendars. One is Gregorian (ad or ce). The Shamsi (“solar”) calendar is the official Iranian civil calendar. It begins on 21 March, the Persian New Year ('eyd-e nowruz). The months are Farfardin, Ordibehesht, Khordad, Tir, Mordad, Shahrivar, Mehr, Aban, Azar, Dey, Bahman, Esfand. The Qamari (“lunar”) calendar is the Islamic calendar. It marks significant events in the Islamic traditions and history. Both the civil and the Islamic calendars date from the year of the Prophet Muhammad’s emigration (hejrat) from Mecca to Medina in the month of Muharram ad 622. The “lunar” year has 354 to 355 days, ten to eleven days shorter than the “solar” year. The research for this book was conducted in ad 1992–1993 or 1371–1372 AHS (Anno Hejri Shamsi ) and 1413–1414 AHQ (Anno Hejri Qamari).

calendars

xvii

Significant dates on the Shi'a Islamic “lunar” calendar in Iran Muharram Safar

Rabi'al-Awwal

9 10 20 28 29 9 17

Rabi'al-Thani Jamadi al-Awwal Jamadi al-Thani

Rajab Sha'ban Ramadan

Shawwal Dhi al-Qa'da Dhi-al-Hajja

13

Tasu'a, eve of Imam Husseyn’s martyrdom, the 3rd Imam 'Ashura, Imam Husseyn’s martyrdom (d. ad 680) Arba'eyn, 40th following Husseyn’s death Death of the Prophet (d. ad 632) Death of Imam Reza, the 8th Imam (d. ad 818) Death of the Sunni Caliph 'Omar (d. ad 644) (not marked on formal calendars) Birth of the Prophet Muhammad (ad 570) (12th with Sunni)

Death of Fatemeh (according to some sources) (d. ad 632) 3 Death of Fatemeh (according to some sources) (d. ad 632) 20 Birth of Fatemeh (“Woman’s day” in the Islamic Republic) 13 Birth of Imam 'Ali, the first Shi'a Imam 27 Mab'as, the beginning of the Prophet’s mission 15 Birth of the ‘Hidden’ 12th Imam, the Mahdi (b. ad 868) 19 Wounding of Imam 'Ali 18–21 Night vigils for al-Qadr (first ‘revelations’ of the Qur"an) 21 Death of Imam 'Ali (d. ad 661) 1 'Eyd-e fetr 25 Death of Imam Ja'far-e Sadeq, the 6th Imam (d. ad 765) 11 Birth of Imam Reza 10 'Eyd-e Qorban (feast of sacrifice) 18 'Eyd-e Ghadir-e Khumm (the Prophet designates 'Ali as his successor ad 632)

INTRODUCTION

Subject, Focus and Context of the Study This is a study of gender and ritual at a particular juncture in the history of contemporary Iran. It is based on anthropological fieldwork conducted between 1992 and 1993 among circles of devout women and men in the lower middle class quarters of south Tehran, a social stratum that makes up a large proportion of the city’s population. Each chapter focuses on a particular ceremony—conventionally called ‘ritual’ by anthropologists—held to mark religious anniversaries and life-course events, such as coming of age, illness and death.1 These ritual activities are rich in scope and symbolism. They are a key to understanding social, economic, political and cultural processes, in particular the values, beliefs and mechanisms that underpin gender constructions at the level of everyday practice in the complex society that is Iran today. For the subjects of the study, the rituals play an important part in their daily lives, offering them social and political possibilities, as well as fulfilment for personal piety. The theoretical relevance and premise of this study is in the field of social anthropology. The question that is pursued is how, exactly, is gender difference produced, secured and performed in Iran today through ritual activity. In other words, how are the power and legitimacy of prominent versions of femininity and masculinity maintained and renewed when undermined and contradicted by so much of daily life experience? Central to the analyses are questions about the dynamics of gender as products of power and politics, not simply of meaning or culture. The main argument of the study is that through ritual, and the ambiguous and metaphorical language of ritual, gender ideologies can be at the same time projected and renewed,

1

The debate in the academic literature as to how the word “ritual” should be used is extensive. For helpful overviews see, Bell (1992), Humphrey & Laidlaw (1994: 64–87) and Lewis (1980). For instance, Humphrey & Laidlaw (1994) define ritual as a mode of (possibly any) action that is ritualized rather than as a distinct class of event, while Goody (1977: 25–35) prefers to do away with the word ritual altogether. I use the term merely as a convenient pointer for the designated ceremonies.

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yet also challenged, destabilized and ridiculed. These processes, it is argued, reveal that gender itself is inherently unstable and ambiguous, providing possibilities for self-expression, innovation and incremental change in gender constructs. When attention is given to multiple voices and a wide range of rituals, diverse interests are revealed. This study suggests that religious practice takes on a different sense when lived experience is in conflict with the powerful gender narratives. The study thus demonstrates how religious practice becomes a site for negotiating the relationships between self, society, politics and the transcendent. A vast amount of literature exists on Islam and gender. My work has been enormously facilitated by this scholarship, in particular the shift from a concern with ‘women’ in ‘Islam’ to analyses of a wide range of contexts where gender ideas, roles and relations are contested and produced within a broader Islamic framework. Examples include poetry (Abu-Lughod 1986), speech genres in the market (Kapchan 1996), literary culture (Baron 1994, Malti-Douglas 1991), biographies (Najmabadi ed. 1990, Booth 2001), the state (Kandiyoti ed. 1991), nationalist politics (Baron 2005 a), family law courts (MirHosseini 1993 a), marriage (N. Tapper 1991), temporary marriage (Haeri 1989), modernity (Abu-Lughod ed. 1998, Moghadam 1993, Najmabadi 2005), employment (Poya 1999), citizenship (Botman 1999, Joseph ed. 2000), political processes (Paidar 1995), piety and politics (Mahmood 2005), everyday lives (Bowen and Early eds. 1993, Early 1993, Fernea 1965, Friedl 1989, Hoodfar 1997 a, Lindisfarne 2000) and public debates on gender by feminists (Islamic and secular Muslims) (Adelkhah 1991, Afshar 1998, Al-Ali 2000, Badran 1995) and by religious thinkers and clergymen in contemporary Iran (MirHosseini 1999, Mir-Hosseini and Tapper 2006). These studies challenge the notion of Islam as a simple determining factor in the gender constructs and provide valuable insights into the “Shifting Boundaries in Sex and Gender” (Keddie and Baron eds. 1991) in the varying contexts of Iran and elsewhere in the Muslim Middle East. This study looks at gender through the lens of collective rituals or ceremonial life in contemporary Iran. The contribution of the study is not simply to extend the range of contexts in which gender can be analysed, but rather to demonstrate the significance of using gender as an analytic category to elucidate wider social, cultural and political processes through ritual activities. Some important earlier studies of ritual in the Muslim Middle East demonstrated the need

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for adopting a gender perspective (see, Boddy 1989, Combs-Schilling 1989, Holy 1988, Lewis 1986, N. Tapper & R.L. Tapper 1987). Subsequently, a number of informative studies of ritual activity in Islamic contexts appeared in the form of articles or essays in edited volumes where gender perspectives are involved. But there is still a dearth of extended research with ritual and gender as the main focus. Those that do consider ritual activity are primarily concerned with the history, or the social and political functions of the men’s Muharram rituals commemorating the martyrdom of Imam Husseyn (AD 680) (for example Aghai 2004, Chelkowski 1979, Thaiss 1973), or they may discuss gender roles or ideologies as projected or reproduced in ritual contexts (for instance Abu-Zahra 1997, Buitelaar 1993, Mahmood 2005), rather than being concerned with gender as an analytic category in the sense undertaken here. It is inevitable that studies of gender and ritual can deliver different results, depending both on how gender itself is understood and used for the analyses and also on the kind of ritual theory underpinning the study. I analyse gender, following Marilyn Strathern (1988), in a metaphorical sense as category differentiation encompassing many aspects of life, which include (but are not limited to) gender identity, roles and relations (see below).2 It is argued that gender in this widest sense is produced as a result of specific activities that people undertake in everyday life, but most powerfully (though not solely) through activities that anthropologists conventionally call ritual. Ritual may be viewed primarily as communicating, reflecting or affirming prior concepts or ideologies (Geertz 1973, Turner 1961), as an instrument for social control (Bloch 1986, 1989 a), or as a means for resolving tensions in the social or symbolic system (Bateson 1958, Gluckman 1963, Lévi-Strauss 1963).3 This study follows the more recent, performative approaches to ritual as an activity (Bell 1992, Gerholm 1988, Hughes-Freeland 1998, Humphrey & Laidlaw 1994, Schieffelin 1985). It examines how people construct gender through ‘doing’ in line with the social and political realities in which they

2 See, also Joan Wallace Scott (1988) on gender as an analytic category in terms of how it constructs difference, which structures all aspects of life, including history and class, which Scott analyzes in detail. 3 For a helpful succinct overview of these theories, see Bell (1992: Ch. 2, pp. 30–47).

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live. The significance here is that gender is a product of ritual activity rather than its cause. Class as well as gender are central to people’s conceptualizations of social life. In Iran social class (tabaqeh-ye ejtema'i) has always been strongly associated with lifestyle and economic factors. The book is based on field research in the lower middle class quarters of south Tehran. The primary subjects of this study are the wives, mothers and grandmothers of small shopkeepers, lower-level employees, artisans and traders, with little or no education beyond their early teens. However, in Chapter 5 I look at men’s rituals as a means of shedding further light on women’s ritual life (cf. N. Tapper and R.L. Tapper 1987: 72). In the aftermath of the revolution of 1978–79 that brought an end to the Shah’s regime, the population living in the lower middle class areas had high expectations for social and economic welfare and improvement in their living standards. The Islamic regime in turn sees the lower middle classes as key supporters. The women I knew best supported the revolution and regarded the particular changes brought about by the Islamic regime as an endorsement of their traditional style of life.4 Women’s support of the government and their understandings of gender and religion are of crucial importance to the Islamic regime that uses gender issues to ground much of its legitimacy. At the time of this research (1992–93), almost a decade and a half after the revolution, the country was still struggling, not only with the aftermath of the revolution, but also with the disastrous effects of the long war with Iraq (1980–88) that began almost as soon as the Islamic Republic was established in 1979. The war produced numerous casualties, who were designated as “martyrs”. They had been recruited mostly from the poor and the lower middle classes. The effects were felt particularly by women. Many of the women I met had lost a husband or son, and shouldered the consequences of this loss. There were grave economic and social problems, especially concerning healthcare and widespread unemployment, due in part also to the economic sanctions by the West.5 Not sur-

4 See, also Patricia Higgins (1985 a, b) on the impact of the revolution on lower middle class women. 5 Since this research was conducted, and at the time of going to press, despite many contradictions and widespread dissatisfaction with the clerical rule, there have been many positive social and economic achievements, notably in rural develop-

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prisingly, this was the beginning of widespread disillusionment with the hopes that the revolution had raised with the maxim of justice and social equality ('edalat-e ejtema'i), which is attributed to Ayatollah Khomeini as a challenge to prevailing social differences. This was also the early post Khomeini era. With Khomeini’s death in the summer of 1989, disputes had begun at the highest levels over the legitimacy of the conflation of political and religious leadership, known as the “guardianship (or government) of the jurist,” (velayat-e faqih, an expert in jurisprudence, fiqh). The early 1990’s can be characterized as a period of lively political debates and the emergence of an increasingly vocal dissident group of religious intellectuals, who paved the way for the emergence of the popular reformist government of Mohammad Khatami after the presidential elections of 1997 (see, Mir-Hosseini and Tapper 2006: 10–38). The intervening period was a time of economic hardship, political instability and rapid change without a charismatic leader like Khomeini to allay the anxieties of the masses. Among the religious circles of this study, this situation was fertile ground for the resurgence of the millennial belief in the imminent reappearance of the Mahdi, the (Hidden) Twelfth Imam (imam-e ghayeb, b. 255 AHQ/AD 868) to bring justice. The women of this study were increasingly critical of the widening gap between the revolutionary promises and the realities in which they lived. Many among them also criticized the autocratic methods used by the clerical rulers to control the daily lives of individuals, as well as the conflation of religion with the institutions of state. Others were government supporters. In either case, they were becoming increasingly politicized. I use ‘politics’ in the widest sense as a bargaining process among several forces or contending groups over rules, symbols and discourses (Eickelman and Piscatori 1996: 7). Rituals are important arenas for the women in their crucial struggle over social accomplishment and the legitimate definition of their social reality. The early 1990’s was a particularly important moment in the post revolutionary era with regard to gender issues. Islamic and secular women and a few men had begun to be increasingly vocal in

ment and healthcare. There have also been moves towards more gender equity in education and employment (Kian-Thiébaut 2002, Poya 1999) as well as an impressive flourishing in cultural and intellectual affairs, such as the arts, film (R. Tapper ed. 2002) and political and religious discourse (Mir-Hosseini and Tapper 2006: 9–38). For a succinct overview see, Keddie (2003: Ch. 12).

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articulating a gender progressive discourse within an Islamic framework (now commonly referred to as “Islamic feminism”). Much of the gender activism was conducted by an educated class of women through the medium of feminist oriented magazines, such as the influential, self-described “feminist” journal Zanan (“Women”), which was launched in 1992 (Mir Hosseini 1999: xiv–xvi; 1996 a & b; cf. Najmabadi 1998). This magazine included articles by secular Iranian feminist lawyers, academic Iranian scholars from abroad, but notably also reformist male clerics, who presented novel, egalitarian interpretations of Qur"anic verses relating to gender issues. Perhaps the most significant development in Iran in the early 1990’s in respect of the theme of this study was an upsurge in women’s religious activism. In the years leading up to the revolution of 1978–79, women’s religious circles had increased rapidly. Women’s religious meetings as well as being venues for prayer and worship became forums for demonstrating political affiliations, resulting in fragmentation among the circles (Torab 2002). There was an astonishing increase in female preachers with large numbers of followers among women’s interlocking religious circles. These circles, proliferating at a fast pace, were socially diverse and had different political leanings and loyalties.6 Their main concern was with internal social and political issues and with developing new understandings of the religious texts. The clergymen leaders had encouraged higher religious education for women as soon as they had established their regime, and they opened access to religious seminaries, providing thereby unprecedented opportunities for women to gain positions of religious leadership and authority, privileges traditionally reserved for men. Advanced education goes hand in hand with religious activism (Eickelman 1992). No matter how conservative or ideologically Islamist this religious education might be, it inadvertently opened prospects for feminist thought.7 Women, irrespective of their

6 See, Adelkhah (1991: 131–155), Kamalkhani (1993, 1996, 1998), Torab (1996; 1998: 62–82; 2002). Cf. Paidar, who notes the politicisation and mobilisation of religious activities, including women’s rituals, as forms of grassroot networks that played an important role in the success of the Revolution (cf. Paidar 1995: 207). 7 For the debates on the tensions between Islam and feminism, see Afshar (1996 & 1998), Badran (1991, 1995), Hegland (1999), Higgins (1985 a, b), Mahmood (2001, 2005), Moghissi (1999), Najmabadi (1998), Poya (1999), Tabari (1986), Tohidi (1994) and Torab (2001). See also Mir-Hosseini, who rightly notes, “the general acceptance in Middle Eastern studies of a modernization paradigm, with its implicit

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political loyalties, education and class positions reacted strongly to the limits on women’s rights introduced in the first years of the revolution.8 This included the middle aged and older women in the religious circles that I knew best. They too advocated their own gender interests. Their concerns were, however, not expressed as women’s rights as such, but in terms of social justice, welfare and a practical piety, which addressed their everyday needs and helped them make sense of their daily lives. Having participated in revolutionary politics, they were fully aware of their political potentials.9 The rituals presented here took shape in this wider social and political context. It is to be emphasized that while educated and middle class women (secular or Islamic) discursively make explicit gender rights and freedoms within Islam, the women of this study, who are of an older generation with little or no education, and of the lower middle class, act out in their daily lives this “feminism” (Islamic or otherwise), through their ritual practices, even if this has gone unnoticed, much as women (in varying ways) have been doing for a long time everywhere. Although the women I knew well never adopted the feminist label themselves, and were even hostile to it, my use of it is more in line with Margot Badran’s (1995: 19–20) sense of a “feminist consciousness”, derived from the lived experience of the individuals concerned, rather than from activist engagement.10 Rituals are shaped not just by the personal experiences of the individuals concerned, but also by the historical circumstances in which they occur. Because of perceived threats from a hostile West, the Iranian authorities made attempts to redraw social and political

progressive and activist approach, combined with an uncritical adoption of theories of women’s movements in the West, continue to blur the actual experiences of women and the politics of gender in the contemporary Muslim world” (1999: 8–9). 8 As Margot Badran states, “To simplistically conflate women’s concerns with the interests of men of their class robs women of agency” (1995: 21). On the convergence of women across class, both secular and Islamic, in present day Iran, see Kian-Thiébaut (2002) and Poya (1999). Paidar also questions the presumed political unity of women from the same economic class in her analysis of women’s massive participation in the anti-Shah movement (1995: 212), and refers to similar comments by Bauer (1983) and Hegland (1983 b). 9 See, also the studies by Hegland (1991) and Higgins (1985) of conservative, lower middle class Iranian women’s participation in revolutionary politics and their perspectives on women’s rights issues. 10 Cf. Patricia Higgins (1985) and Janet Bauer (1983). See, also Fn. 7 above for studies on the tensions between Islam and feminism.

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boundaries. Not only are these developments evident in existing rituals, but significantly they also led to the invention of new rituals. The diversity is striking. No two ritual performances are the same. Every occasion is different in its social circumstances and as regards the issues at stake. Each has a momentum and mood (hal) of its own, with improvisation and, at times, argument as to what should or should not be done, depending on the personal preferences, preoccupations or perspectives of those involved. This creativity is contingent on underlying cultural assumptions, which are themselves subject to interpretation and manipulation. Any attempts at classification would fail adequately to account for the wide spectrum of rituals that exists in Iran today. More generally, people use specific designations for each ritual, rather than a more generic equivalent majles, which in Persian (as in Arabic) means gathering. Significantly, distinctions are not made according to whether a ritual is ‘religious’ (mazhabi) or ‘secular’ (doniyavi ), but according to whether it is intended as a celebration ( jashn) or as a mourning ('azadari), although in practice all these elements are variously present at the same event. I follow local usage and avoid using the label ‘religious ritual’ deliberately because the boundaries of the ‘religious’ and the ‘secular’ are fluid. Rituals are a key to understanding some of the most crucial social, economic, political and cultural processes in Iranian society. Through an examination of the ritual activities of the subjects of this study, we confront issues of gender, class, religion and politics. All the rituals are performed within contexts of piety (taqwa), in the sense of basic moral and ethical behaviour, prayer, worship, submission to God, belief in afterlife and observance of religious prescriptions as defined by the religious authorities. But the mores of expression of that piety are variable and at times starkly contrasting. Anthropologists agree that it is reductive to view piety as having any essential features. The pious women of my study would concur with this view. Piety was a subject of serious contemplation in the women’s religious meetings and when asked, they generally associated it with narrowly specified kinds of behaviour. But their enactment of piety in practice was highly flexible and at times highly controversial, and could be used ideologically or as political markers of difference among the religious circles themselves.11 11

Cf. Tapper (1984: 247) on how claims to piety are used politically and ideo-

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To a reader unfamiliar with Shi'a Muslim practices, the rituals may appear culturally ‘exotic’ (Said 1978). But there is much that is familiar, not least when cultural practices are analysed by examining issues of politics, power and inequality—class, gender and other systematized difference. Distancing mechanisms based on contrasting images of the ‘other’ are also used locally with politically charged labels such as ‘superstition’ (khorafat), or un-Islamic ‘innovation’ (bed'at) when referring to certain rituals. Declarations of difference such as these serve to hide relations of power and privilege, and attempts to monopolize religious discourse. The purpose here is to inquire into the social, economic and political processes and relations of power that produce, reproduce and shape these ‘cultural’ practices and articulate people’s everyday implicit assumptions and representations of the world about them. In particular, this study assesses how the categories of male and female are produced and understood. To do this, it is necessary to first disclose the assumptions underlying my use of the analytical constructs ‘gender’ and ‘ritual’. The reflexive turn in anthropology (Marcus & Fischer 1986, Clifford 1986) makes it clear that analysis is not neutral, but “a trope for the representation of knowledge” (Strathern 1988: 18). Even ethnographic ‘description’ is not free from theory and the fuzzy boundary between theory and data needs to be acknowledged.

An Approach to Gender and Ritual Rethinking Gender In social anthropology today we no longer assume the categories of female and male to be self-evident, but rather as contextually specific constructions encompassing many aspects of life beyond simply gender identity, roles and relations (MacCormack & Strathern 1995, Moore 1991: 7, Ortner & Whitehead 1989). In this wider sense, gender is seen as a metaphorical base on which difference itself may

logically to mark differences both within and between rival communities. See also Mahmood (2005) on the intersection of piety and politics. See, also Loeffler’s study of the diversity of religious beliefs in a village in Iran, and in particular his theoretical commentary on studying “Islam in practice” (1988: 245 ff.).

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be understood. This includes, “those categorizations of persons, artefacts, events, sequences, and so on which draw upon sexual imagery— upon the ways in which the distinctiveness of male and female characteristics make concrete people’s ideas about the nature of social relationships” (Strathern 1988: ix). The rethinking of gender as category differentiation means that gender constructs are not simply about men and women or their relations. Rather, “though the imagery of difference is sexually based, it orders a wide range of values and ideas” (Strathern 1989: 170).12 An increasing body of literature has challenged the sex/gender divide by considering the gendering of body parts, substances (such as food, blood, milk) and social acts.13 It opened the way for a radical rethinking of gender as flexible, with detachable attributes, which in turn questions the notion of ‘boundedness’ implied by the concept of the ‘individual’. Marylin Strathern suggests that persons are ‘permeable’ and multiply constituted of the relationships that produced them.14 The notion of gender multiplicity or instability does not mean the disappearance of powerful discourses that seek to inscribe fixed gender identity, but rather their dispersal and realignment under contest in performance. Gender as ‘Performance’ Judith Butler (1990 a, b, 1993) coined the notion of ‘gender performativity’ following Foucault’s (1990: 154) argument that ‘sex’ itself is an effect of discursive practices, rather than an origin, ‘produced’ through regulatory processes, practices and structures.15 Responding to the criticisms of voluntarism, Butler (1993) argues that gender

12

Strathern (ibid.) acknowledges similar remarks made by La Fontaine (1977) and Ortner (1974). 13 See Butler (1990 a & b, 1993), Cornwall & Lindisfarne (1994), Del Valle ed. (1993), Moore (1991, 1994), Strathern (1988, 1989). 14 In her discussion of ‘partibility’, Strathern (1988: 13) refers to Marriott’s (1976: 111) analysis of South Asian theories of the person as ‘dividual’. 15 Foucault says: “. . . the notion of ‘sex’ made it possible to group together, in an artificial unity, anatomical elements, biological functions, conducts, sensations, and pleasures, and it enabled one to make use of this fictitious unity as a causal principle, an omnipresent meaning, a secret to be discovered everywhere: sex was thus able to function as a unique signifier and as a universal signified” (1990: 154, cited also in Moore 1993: 197). Cf. Jordanova (1995) on how the combination of physiology, anatomy, psychology, sociology and anthropology produced the supposedly ‘biological facts’ of sexuality in Western medical discourses.

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‘performativity’ is not to say that people are free to ‘perform’ or change their sex at will (hence her use of the term ‘performativity’). Rather, “that the gendered body is performative suggests that it has no ontological status apart from the various acts which constitute its reality” (Butler 1990 a: 336). She argues that the disciplinary production of gender is discursively and institutionally sustained within the obligatory frame of reproductive heterosexuality (ibid.: 335). The power of such discourse is such that gender coherence is desired and idealized, so that gender discontinuities are concealed.16 Since it is impossible to embody gender coherence with any regularity, the ‘failure’ to perform the model highlights its contingent nature and inadvertently offers the possibility to contest the gender constructs (Butler 1990 b: 141). In other words, the regulatory norms are paradoxically enabling (Butler 1993: 109).17 This agency by default explains the fact that unitary gender must be constantly affirmed, hence the “iterative nature of gender performance” on which Butler’s (1990 a, b) argument rests. It reveals that unitary gender is just that, an ideology that competes with other conceptions. Judith Butler’s approach to gender recognizes the taken-for-granted structures (or ‘doxa’, Bourdieu 1992), but also allows for the possibility of challenge and change in the gender constructs. Gender Distinction in Iran In Iran, gender ( jens, jensiyat) is generally understood in the sense of gender identity, roles and relations, premised on the binary categories ‘man’ (mard ) and ‘woman’ (zan). Gender distinction is crucial to an Islamic worldview and plays an important role in the organization of everyday life in Iran today. The convergence of religious and political authority in the Islamic Republic means that gender distinction operates not just within the realm of religious ‘belief ’ or cultural ‘symbols’, but also at the level and core of state institutions.

16

This is similar to Bourdieu’s (1992) concept of ‘symbolic violence’, whereby people participate in their own domination by the systems that produced them. 17 Butler (1993: 109) refers here to Foucault’s point in the History of Sexuality (vol. 1, 1990), that the regulative law provides the ‘discursive occasion’ for resistance and potential self-subversion of that law, so that the relations of power are, above all, productive.

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This means that the whole political process is gendered (Mir-Hosseini 1999: 273).18 Views on gender roles and relations may be diverse, contested and undergoing rapid change in today’s Iran.19 But, the conservative views of leading clerics, religious thinkers and scholars are entrenched in the Islamic traditions and are particularly well-known and discussed in the feminist scholarship on Iran.20 The argument they present is that gender is God given and biologically fixed; even in the case of hermaphrodites, a surgeon’s role is to discover its ‘real’ sex, not create it (Mir-Hosseini 1999: 35–37; Najmabadi 2005 a).21 They have gone to great lengths to avoid gender ambiguities, rigidly prescribing the boundaries between the sexes with legal codes and rituals pertaining to the minute details of everyday interaction. This is based on the construct that women and men have different mental and emotional capacities, which are in turn linked to ideas about agency, autonomy and morality. These naturalistic assumptions are used to justify and sustain inequalities in rights and responsibilities. In their view, gender equality is contrary to Islamic law (shari'a) (Mir-Hosseini 1999: 23). They advocate at best a model of complementarity between the sexes, but this usually implies asymmetry as well. In short, the apparently benign role of gender complementarity is inherently political. Women and men may be equal before God, but the conservative forces construct them as different sorts of citizens.22 18 On the links between gender and state, see also Connell (1990) and Kandiyoti (1991). 19 On the changing debates among religious thinkers, and both conservative and reformist clerics in contemporary Iran, see Mir Hosseini (1999, 2002 a, b, c), MirHosseini & Tapper (2006: 163–172). On the debates among Islamic feminists in Iran, see Mir-Hosseini (1996 a & b), Najmabadi (1998), Paidar (1996) and Rostami Povey (2001). On secular feminist movements in Iran, see Afkhami (1994) and Azari (1983), and on questions of gender and modernity in relation to Islamism, cf. KianThiébaut (2002), Moghadam (1993), Moghissi (1999) and Tohidi (1994). For critical assessments of the feminist scholarship in relation to Islamic discourses see, De Groot (1996) and Kandiyoti (1996). For brief overviews and further references, see Mir Hosseini (1999: 283–285) and Torab (1998: 35–41). 20 See, Mir-Hosseini (1999, 2002 a, b, c) for current debates with leading conservative scholars, whose arguments on gender issues are derived from the influential teachings of leading clerics like Allameh Seyyed Mohammad Hosein Tabataba"i (d. 1981) and Ayatollah Mortaza Motahhari (d. 1979). 21 Similar views were held in Medieval Islam, where hermaphrodites with ambiguous genitalia were thought to have a ‘true sex’ that was concealed and extensive precautions were taken in rules of behaviour to ensure that the gender boundary was not breached (Sanders 1991: 77). 22 Clearly, gender discrimination is not limited to religious discourse. It was also

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Central implicit metaphors for gender distinction in the discourses of conservative religious thinkers are the complementary concepts of 'aql (reason, rationality) and nafs (the animal part of human nature, lust, passion). The words themselves are polysemic, with many implicit meanings, and must be interpreted and put into context, as shown by a number of authors in various contexts of the Muslim Middle East with regard to their gender implications.23 They may also have very different connotations in the Sufi and mystical dimensions of Islam.24 But in Iran, 'aql is generally associated with the realm of order, control and morality, while nafs is associated with the realm of disorder, lack of control and passion or desire. The conservative forces construct 'aql as primarily masculine, associating it more with men and valuing it above nafs, which they construct as feminine and associate more with women. Clearly, these constructs are subject to contextual evaluation. But the view resonates with the familiar Cartesian legacy of mind/body in some Western discourses that value the mind or rationality above the body or passion (Gatens 1991, Lloyd 1984). It is not so much that women themselves are devalued. Rather, it is what they supposedly represent, although a bias against women is often an effect of such conceptualisations. Binary constructs are often asymmetrical, especially with regard to gender imagery and sexual symbols and form a crucial basis for ideological conceptions.25 The concepts of 'aql and nafs are homologous

entrenched in social and political discourses under the secular regime of the Shah, as well as in the Constitutional Revolution in the early 20th Century in Iran. Afsaneh Najmabadi argues, for instance, that despite claims to the contrary, the constitutionalist discourses constructed women as second-class, weak citizens; this construct was not legitimized through recitations of Qur"anic verses, but through a political language of grievance against the autocracy of the previous regime in order to demand a just constitution and manly citizens to provide protective custody for women victims (1993 a: 56). 23 See, for example, Abu-Lughod (1986: 90–91), Anderson (1982: 405–409, 1985), Boddy (1989: 53, 116, 142); Eickelman (1998: 197–198), Kapchan (1996: 104, 107, 116), Najmabadi (1993), Rosen (1984: 31–47), N. Tapper (1991: 15 ff.), N. Tapper & R. Tapper (1988), R. Tapper & N. Tapper-Lindisfarne (n.d. ca. 1990), Torab (1996). Abu-Lughod (1986: 283–84 n. 6) rightly notes a need for a systematic comparative analysis of the notion of 'aql. Most gender analyses in the Middle East, however, are based on the ‘honour/shame’ complex (e.g. Delaney 1987, 1991, Pitt-Rivers 1977, 1966, Peristiany 1965, Wikan 1984, cf. Abu Lughod’s 1986 ‘honour and sentiment’; Bauer 1985 ‘morality and social responsibility’). For an assessment of some of this literature, see Eickelman (1998: 195–196, 241–246). 24 See, Schimmel (1975), Murata (1992). 25 Hertz (1973), V. Turner (1967) and Bourdieu (1992) examine asymmetry in

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with a range of other troubling conceptual dualities that are gendered and often biased against women in the discourses of conservative religious thinkers. Chief among them are formal Islam/un-Islamic novelties (rast-dini, Islam/bed'at) or superstition (khorafat), spirit or soul/body (ruh/jesm), spirituality or morality/materiality (ma'naviyat/ maddiyat) and pure/impure ( paki/nejasat). Feminist scholarship has long questioned the use of binaries as explanatory terms or empirical realities.26 This applies equally to the notions of 'aql and nafs and their homologies, which are highly variable and contextually specific. The rituals in this book serve to demonstrate that the relations within and between these concepts are not fixed, but contested, reshuffled and blurred as they resurface repeatedly in the performances, which include anecdotes, parodies, dramatic mimes, or song and dance. The hierarchical valuations of gender must compete with alternative versions that are derived from the lived experience of those concerned. The gender variations that the women produce in their ritual performances cannot be attributed to an ‘alternative female model’, which is based on a dualistic, mutually exclusive model of gender.27 Rather, they reveal tacitly, implicitly or explicitly the shifting ground in both the dissolution and production of unitary gender, with all its instability, paradoxes and illusions. There is no overall consistency apart from a constant effort to reproduce the gender oppositions. Gender constructions are inherently flexible and ritual activity is a powerful means for interpreting and managing the relations within and between the symbolic gender oppositions, so that a range of possibilities emerges in performance, even while the oppositions are upheld.28 systems of homologous contrasts, including the deceptively simple opposition of right and left (Bell 1992: 102–104). 26 See Mac Cormack & Strathern (1995) for an early critique of analytical categories like nature/culture (Ortner 1974) and public/private (Rosaldo 1974). Even earlier, Cynthia Nelson (1974) challenged the public/private dichotomy in the context of Middle Eastern studies. 27 In anthropology, the ‘female model of the world’ is frequently attributed to Edwin Ardener’s (1975) early influential model of ‘muted groups’, which he proposed as a corrective to the male bias in academic research. The model has its roots in Simone de Beauvoir (1972). It continues with the school of “l’écriture feminine”, initiated by French feminists associated primarily with Hélène Cioux, Julia Kristeva and Luce Irigaray, who sought to revalorize the ‘female experience’ in protest against a male-centred rationalist discourse. For a discussion of these versions, see Joy et al. (2002) and Moore (1991 & 1994, both Ch. 1). 28 Moore (1999 a) makes a similar comment in her introduction to a study of African ritual symbolism.

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Single-sex rituals are a dramatic means of reinforcing gender distinctions and correspond to the pervasive separation of the sexes in many spheres of social life in Iran. But, separation creates the conditions for connection (Strathern 1988). Indeed, Anderson’s (1982) argument in an early study on veiling, conducted before veiling became politicized as an oppositional tool in Islamist identity politics, is that the veil is primarily a means of gender separation intended to manage cross-sex interactions and create relations between the sexes rather than sever them. A prominent theme running through this book is that a unitary gender only becomes so through particular activities. Gender specific rituals are the very means whereby groups of women and men each create a unitary identity as a sphere of political agency.29 Much of this insistence on separation is over concerns with human reproduction, social regeneration and the renewal of life. For instance, ideas about renewal and regeneration are masculinized through the trope of blood shed by devout men’s self-flagellation in semblance of sacrifice (Chapter 5), or feminized through the trope of votive food as a channel for barakat (blessing) with women as the recognized conduits (Chapter 4). Sexual segregation need not imply relations of domination, but the construct of male blood as regenerative is linked to the notion of patrilineal descent and the political authority of men. By contrast, women may be powerful agents of renewal symbolically, but are discriminated against sociologically. The symbolic constructs are powerful, but defy any simple correspondence with the social realities (Harris 1995, Moore 1999a: 26 ff., 1999b: 152). Moreover, symbols are ‘multivocal’ (V. Turner 1967) and subject to interpretation by diverse actors according to their lived experience. To remain persuasive, ideas must be constantly renewed and ritual activity is a powerful medium for creating reality. The power of ritual rests partly on the imaginative use of metaphors and symbols, especially when they are naturalized in terms of blood, or mental and emotional capacities, or when they are claimed to be from God. Paradoxically, it is precisely because the boundaries of female and male are unstable that appeals to

29 See, Strathern (1988: 158–159) on collective identification as a sphere of political agency in Melanesian ceremonial exchanges.

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naturalistic assumptions and the transcendent become necessary to legitimize gender dichotomy. This may then be ideologized in terms of relations of complementarity or hierarchy. To focus on gender identity, roles and statuses alone is therefore limiting. It inadvertently reinstates the gender fixity it seeks to dismantle because it takes for granted that gender is about ‘men’ and ‘women’ or their relations, thus remaining within the naturalistic framework. It simplistically assumes that once the material determinants change, ‘the problem of women’ is resolved. In this study, the categories ‘male’ and ‘female’ are themselves brought into question. I examine the ways in which sexual images are linked to ideas about the body, reproduction, descent, morality and aspects of selfhood, all of which emerge in various transformations in the ritual performances. Same-sex rituals do not simply tell us about women or men, but about much wider issues that concern the ‘absent’ sex as well. These issues need not be about cross sex relations, nor necessarily imply hierarchy. More significantly, by looking at how the gender categories are themselves produced, ideologized and legitimized in ritual contexts makes it also possible to see the ways in which change can come about, not just at the level of scholarly texts and public debates among the educated and learned, but also at the quotidian level of gender performance in ritual activity. Gender and Class Gender is but one strand among other salient markers of difference such as class, race, ethnicity, age and sexuality which intersect in complex ways (Fraser & Nicholson 1990: 35). Such classifications are of course problematic. They are not intended to inscribe identities, but to indicate how people themselves understand their relations to others. As Donna Haraway writes, there is nothing about being ‘female’ or ‘being’ female that naturally binds women divided by forced consciousness of class, race and so on (1990: 197). Similarly, ‘patriarchy’ makes no sense when a man’s position in the household is not confirmed by his experiences of race or class. Feminist scholarship has long explored the implications for political action given the multiple differences within as well as between the genders. Small face to face units, such as those formed around ritual activities, are particularly effective for creating coalitions, based on “‘fictive’ affinities” (Haraway ibid.) such as neighbourhood, reli-

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gion, political orientation and class, as well as unitary gender. Such “imagined communities” (Anderson 1993) are formed as a sphere of political agency at the expense of suppressing alternative perspectives. Indeed, the subjects of this study form ritual alliances to promote their own interests, despite being individually complex. In Iran, class has been an important factor in people’s conceptualisations of social life, tied up in complex ways with the West in the politics of cultural ‘authenticity’.30 It has been argued that inequalities of class were among the key factors that led to the revolution of 1978–79.31 Revolutionary rhetoric challenged the prevailing social differences with oppositional slogans like oppressed masses/powerful elite (mostas'afin/mostakbarin), party of God/idol worshippers (hezbollahi/taghuti), downtowner/uptowner ( pa"in-shahri/bala-shahri ).32 The north/south social and economic axis of Tehran is well documented, but despite attempts to desegregate the city after the revolution, the divisions are still in place.33 Following the revolution, many of the secular middle classes and the ruling elite left Iran. A new middle class, many from the more well-to-do traditional, religious and trading sectors, has taken their place. So, despite a certain amount of mobility, the social and economic divisions are left intact, although the composition is new. Added to these social tensions are high unemployment, inadequate state provisions for social security and healthcare, as well as the continued lack of freedom of speech.34 These work particularly to the disadvantage of those whom the revolution was intended to benefit. This study offers glimpses of these social tensions at the time the research was conducted. It points to the ways in which class intersects 30 See, Kandiyoti (1991) and the contributions in Abu-Lughod (1998) for the complex intersection of gender, class and national identity. See, also Bauer’s (1985) study of the intersection of class, education, age and other contextually specific factors in relation to concepts of self and morality among women in the lower income neighbourhoods in Tehran, based on large scale interviews with women. 31 The literature on the complex issues that led to the revolution is substantial. See, for instance, Akhavi (1980, 1986), Arjomand (1988, 1984 a, b), Bauer (1983), Farsoun & Mashayekhi (1992), Fischer (1980), Keddie (1981), Keddie & Hooglund (1986), Momen (1985: 286–89), Najmabadi (1987), Zubaida (1993: 64–83). See, also Martin, who provides further useful references (2000: xiv–xv). 32 See, Arjomand (1988: 93–97, 103–105), Gheissari (1994: 239–247), Paidar (1995: 212–217). 33 See, Adle & Hourcade (1992), Hourcade (1987) 34 See Fn. 5 above for reports on various positive developments in more recent years.

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with gender as seen through the lens of ritual activity. Appeals to the transcendent, whether through vows to the supernatural agents and saints (Chapters 2 & 4), or through dreams and visions of the Mahdi (Chapter 3), provide the women with possibilities for reclaiming the revolutionary promises of justice and equality. A newly invented girl’s initiation ceremony (Chapter 6) is not simply a means for resistance to a perceived cultural onslaught from the West, but also a disguised metaphor for ongoing class differences internal to Iranian society itself. Far from suggesting that people necessarily became more pious with the establishment of the Islamic regime, this book provides an insight into how individuals negotiate the world about them by resorting to the cultural means at their disposal. Religious practice becomes a site for negotiating the relationships between self, society, politics and the transcendent.

Practicing Islam The relationship between the putative levels of ‘formal’ and ‘informal’ Islam has been central to much of the anthropology of the Muslim Middle East.35 This distinction has often been used to assess men’s and women’s beliefs and ritual practices. The first, defined as an ‘official’ or ‘orthodox’ Islam, is associated with the learned scholars ('ulama), who are conventionally men.36 The second implies a ‘local’ Islam or ‘popular’ practices and beliefs that are primarily linked with women, the illiterate and the rural. Distinctions that tend to brand certain populations as subordinate are comparable to the nineteenth Century evolutionist ideas of Edward Tylor (1832–1917)

35 For discussions and overviews on the distinction between so-called formal and informal Islam see, Eickelman (1998: Ch. 10), Jansen (1987: 86–91), Lambek (1990) and N. Tapper & R. Tapper (1987: 69–71). 36 The views of the proponents of an ‘Islamic orthodoxy’ (Gellner 1981, 1992) are similar to those of an ‘Islamic anthropology’ (Ahmed 1986, 1988; Davies 1988), who argue that ‘Islamic essentials’ should be taken as the norm, and that the task of ethnography is to account for variations from this model (cf. R. Tapper’s 1995 critique). Others argue for an ‘anthropology of Islam’ (El-Zein 1977, Asad 1986, Tapper 1995). El-Zein (1977) suggests that there is no common ‘core’ of accepted dogma, and that there are as many ‘Islams’ as there are Muslims. Cantwell-Smith (1957) suggests the problematic concept of ‘orthopraxy’, implying that Muslims share common set of religious practices, if not of belief.

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and James Frazer (1854–1941), who saw magic preceding the literate, philosophical and universal religion. This bias reflects local ideological discourses and evaluations by the representatives of a religious ‘orthodoxy’. A familiar distinction they make is between ‘true religion’ (rast dini, eslam-e rastin) and its supposed deviations, which they define as ‘innovation’ (bed'at, hence un-Islamic) and the products of ignorance ( jahl) and superstition (khorafat), such as the women’s highly controversial votive meals called sofreh (Chapter 4). Attempts are also made to control women’s popular religious meetings ( jalaseh) (Chapter 1) by introducing training and certification for the female preachers who preside over these meetings (Torab 1996: 248, cf. Kalinock 2003: 185, Kamalkhani 1998). It is intended to prevent the dissemination of ‘innovative’ interpretations of the religious texts that are written by authoritative men, in effect silencing women. As Talal Asad (1986, 1983) argues, ‘orthodoxy’ is a ‘discursive tradition’, produced by historically situated, authoritative interpretations. A textual tradition can only constitute an ideological unity if one assumes coherence and unity of ideas and values within the texts themselves, and that all the people concerned derive the same message from the same text (Parry 1985: 202). A prominent discourse in Shi'a Islam is the martyrdom of Imam Husseyn (ad 680), the third Shi'a Imam and grandson of the Prophet, who died during the month of Muharram in Karbala. Much of the literature on Shi'a ritual practices focuses on the men’s public commemorations of the Karbala events, in particular on the ways in which these rituals have been instrumental in political conflicts, including the Iranian revolution of 1978–79.37 This ‘Karbala paradigm’, a term coined by Michael Fischer (1980), has provided many scholars an explanatory frame for an alleged, abject Shi'a world view of grief, suffering and persecution that guides people’s affect and acts as a

37 For studies of the Muharram rituals in Iran see, for instance, Aghai (2004), Alberts (1963), Algar (1972), Akhavi (1980), Chelkowski (1979, 1980), Chelkowski & Dabashi (1999), Fischer (1980), Hegland (1983 a & b, 1991), Keddie (1972), Tapper (1979), Thaiss (1972, 1973), Torab (1998: 144–157). Some more recent studies also look at women’s Muharram rituals (Aghai ed. 2005, Flaskerud 2005, Torab 1998: 144–157). For elsewhere in the Middle East see, Fernea (1965) [Iraq], Gilsenan (1990) [Lebanon], Hegland (1998, 1995 a, b) [Pakistan], Pinault (1992) and Aggarwal (1971: 161–65) [India], Schubel (1993) [South Asia].

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spur for political action. For instance, Von Grunebaum observes: “It would be incorrect to say that Husain stands in the centre of Shi'a dogma, but it is unquestionably true that contemplation of his personality and fate is the emotional mainspring of the believer’s religious experience” (1951: 87 cited in Eickelman 1998: 267). Thaiss says: “More particularly the Shi'a strongly emphasize the sad, the traumatic and the negative in their rituals” (1973: 234), and that, “While feasting days in Shi'a Islam have religious importance, by far the most important religious occasions are those associated with death and suffering” (1973: 251). Many other examples that focus on grief and mourning may be cited.38 There is no doubt that the tragedy of Imam Husseyn’s death has shaped Shi'a theology and spurred political action. However, it is evident that a focus on ‘paradigms’ or sweeping ‘world views’ leads the analysis away from the more interesting questions of context, indeterminacies and contradictions that are part of people’s everyday lives. Moreover, an emphasis on suffering and grief may have been relevant for the years leading up to the Revolution of 1978–79. At that time, the clergy emphasized oppression of the people by the Shah and preachers focused on the tragic and the melancholy in their sermons for ritual effect. Such an observation cannot, however be generalized. For instance, Richard Tapper (1979) notes the festive quality of men’s street processions (dasteh-ye sineh-zani) during that period.39 In this study, I move away from seeing religion as a cul-

38 Del-Vecchio Good & Good (1988) construct sorrow and grief (gham va ghosseh) as the master metaphor for social, political and emotional behaviour and selfdefinition of Iranians. Pinault (1992: 56–7) sees the Muharram rituals as “rites of penitence” that provide a context to weep for the failure of the Kufans to help Husseyn in the battle of Karbala. With Bloch, there is an allegedly widespread female phenomenon of weeping, mourning and pollution in Iran (1989 b: 226). R. Fernea & E. Fernea suggest that Shi'a women’s emphasis on suffering serves as a catharsis and identification for mothers whose children die for incomprehensible reasons (1978). Grima (1992), Flaskerud (2005), Sahraee-Smith (2001) and Schubel (1993: 72–73) also emphasize grief or mourning. 39 One might compare other accounts of the Muharram rituals. Abedi’s childhood recollections of his village include much humour, teasing and sexual banter between onlookers and actors of the passion plays (ta'ziyeh) (Fischer & Abedi 1990: 14–15); Beyza"i reports on the comic and ludic in both women’s and men’s passion plays (1966: 138–39, 161–65). In a more recent account, Azadeh Moaveni vividly describes a carnival-like atmosphere in the street processions, with participation by middle class boys and girls flirtatiously passing on telephone numbers before being dispersed by the morality police (2005: 57–59).

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tural text (Geertz 1973). Such a theory allows for little variation, assuming united and consistent pre-existing meanings that only need to be activated through ritual. Why one should need ritual to do this is not clear.40 The main conundrum here is how to account for social change if ritual only expresses collective representations leading to conformity. The academic focus on men’s ritual activities during Muharram is no doubt also because of their very public and spectacular nature. This means, however, that a whole spectrum of women’s ritual activities have not received the serious regard they deserve, as has been previously noted (see, Torab 1998: 40–51, cf. Kalinock 2003:173).41 Significantly, in contrast to the men’s rituals that are presented with explanatory ‘paradigms’ for the society at large, women’s rituals in Iran often appear as ‘domestic’ and insignificant, except to women themselves. We rarely learn why some rituals in Iran are so popular, why they take the particular form they do, why they should be disparaged or tolerated, or why they should be the specific concern of women or men. To understand these issues we need to explore the tension in the highly gendered religious economy. Women’s ritual activities are particularly revealing of the complex relationship between so-called formal and informal religion. Women

40 Bloch (1989a) and others cited in Boyer (1993:185) argue that rituals are in fact particularly non-expressive. Bloch (1989a) contends that ritual statements are coercive, allowing no scope for alternative understandings by ritual participants, because ritual language has a limited propositional content due to its formal structure, in contrast to the creativity of ordinary language. But, Richard Antoun’s (1989), study of Jordanian sermons demonstrate that despite exegetical supervision by traditional authority, there are constant interchanges of ideas and images between ritual specialists and participants (Antoun’s response to Bloch, see pp. 115–125, 229–234). 41 Apart from travel accounts, such as Masse (1938), studies of women’s rituals in Iran are mostly in the form of articles or chapters in edited volumes. See Adelkhah (1991: 131–155), Betteridge (1989), Flaskerud (2004 & 2005), Hoodfar (1997 b), Jamzadeh & Mills (1986), Kalinock (2003a &b), Kamalkhani (1996, 1998), SafaIsfahani (1980), Torab (1996, 2002, 2005, 2008 forthcoming). Some unpublished theses are Braswell (1975), Sahraee-Smith (2001) and Torab (1998). For Iranian women’s rituals in London, see Spellman (2004). In the Persian language there are textbooks (Anassori 1987, Katira"i 1969), novels (Beyza"i 1966; Hedayat 1963), ‘folkloric’ collections (Anjavi-Shirazi 1973, 1992, Shokurzadeh 1967) and ethnographic Museum records (Anjavi-Shirazi 1992: 16). Elsewhere, Muslim women’s rituals include Abu-Zahra (1997) (Egypt), Tayba Hassan Al Khalifa Sharif (2004) (Iraq), Buitelaar (1993) (Morocco), Grima (1992) and Hegland (1995 a, b, 1998) (Pakistan), Schumacher (1987) (Bahrain), Sorabji (1994) (Bosnia) and N. Tapper and R. Tapper (1987) (Turkey).

22

introduction

and men may share the fundamental tenets of their faith, but they may each experience and interpret them in different ways within a plurality of ideologies and power relations that informs their everyday lives. A study of Turkish Sunni Islam by Nancy Tapper and Richard Tapper (1987) demonstrates for instance that some key spiritual elements that are central to women’s rituals are marginalized because of the dominant mosque-centred religious ‘orthodoxy’ identified with men. The problem is, however, how to account for the different interpretations of the world by women without positing a complementary gender-based value system within a single worldview (cf. Kapchan 1996: 5).42 Complementarity, like the model of ‘muted groups’ (Ardener 1975), implies a model of gender as coexisting, dualistic, bounded and mutually exclusive, rather than as inherently flexible and unstable. The premise of a performative approach to gender and ritual is that a unitary gender is not the cause of ritual activity, but produced through it as a source of political agency.

Ritual as ‘Performance’ In more recent years, there has been a fruitful move away from an ‘informative’ to a ‘performative’ approach to ritual.43 The emphasis on performance is used in various ways. Rituals are no longer seen as communicating pre-existing ideas, which are then interpreted by the ethnographer or privileged local informers.44 Instead, the various actors, in line with their concerns, intentions, strategies or inter-

42

Cf. the following studies of ritual based on a complementary gender model: Lewis, “Thus if there is a dual spiritual economy [male and female], its two branches are interdependent and complementary” (1986: 106), Boddy, referring to Ardener (1975) and Messick (1987), describes zàr as a “muted expression of women’s alternate reality” (1989: 158) and also, “The zàr and orthodox Islam are not competing religious ideologies, but different facets of a single conceptual system” (1989: 279); N. Tapper and R. Tapper, “We do not suggest that women and men necessarily have discrete systems of belief and practice . . . but that different aspects of a religious system may be the province of one sex or the other, and an understanding of any particular Islamic tradition depends on examining both (1987: 72). 43 See, Bell (1992), Fabian (1990), Gerholm (1988), Hughes Frieland (1998), Humphrey & Laidlaw (1994), Parkin (1992), Schechner (1985), Schieffelin (1985). 44 Victor Turner (1961), for example, relied on a single informant for understanding the complex symbolic meanings of the Ndembu rituals.

introduction

23

ests, create meanings through ‘doing’ in specific contexts. In other words, ritual activity is here the very means whereby people negotiate, redefine or construct new interpretations, and offer competing gender perspectives.45 There is inevitably a degree of tension involved in the appropriation of the prominent symbolic system, but it is never simply the case that existing values are imposed or internalised without reflection. Central to performance is what ritual achieves through ‘doing’, both intellectually and discursively through words (Austin 1962) and through the body and its senses ( Jackson 1983). The focus on the body in performance theory is a reaction to three related issues (Bell 1992: 94–97). First, there is the separation of thought and action in ritual theories based on the mere communication of pre-existing concepts. Second, we note the devaluation of the body in a social theory grounded in the Cartesian mind/body dichotomy. Third, we find the disregard for material realities of embodied subjects in interpretive theories. In this study, the body is not simply a symbolic medium of expression for the relationship of self, society and cosmos (Douglas 1966; Turner 1967), but also a contested, political field. It may be an active site of dispositions (Bourdieu 1992) and discipline (Foucault 1977), but these are by no means determining. For instance, the act of prostration during the daily prayers (namaz, Arabic salat) may generate a body identified with subordination, but this does not necessarily lead to submissive behaviour in all contexts of daily life (Chapters 1 & 6). Similarly, transgressions in a so-called reversal ritual (Chapter 7) are contained within that context and not in any obvious way outside the ritual context. But because the performance is an ‘incorporated’ disruption, it “lays people open to possibilities of behaviour which they embody but ordinarily are not inclined to express [enabling them to] control and recreate their world, their habitus” ( Jackson 1983: 335–336).46 The focus in performance theory

45 Gerholm (1988) shows that far from being a form of social control, ritual activity is “fragmented”, with a plurality of perspectives and viewpoints by the participants, so that ritual becomes a site of “contested meanings” (Parkin 1992). Cohen’s (1993) study of the Notting Hill carnival shows the dynamic of performance, so that no single meaning can prevail. Harrison (1995) focuses on what he calls ritual strategies of valuation, innovation, appropriation and expansion, all of which are aspects of political action. 46 Jackson refers to Bourdieu on the difference between ‘practical mimesis’ and verbal analogy or metaphor (1983: 343 Fn. 37).

24

introduction

is that ‘doing’ is more than critical reflection, because it is “an embodied perception” ( Jackson 1983). The issue here is how to account for the agency and creativity of actors in the context of relations of power. In the performative approach, ritual is not an instrument of social control (indoctrination, cognitive influence) or a “mask of power”, but is itself a type of power, in that it both produces and negotiates power relations “by acceptance, resistance, negotiated appropriation, and redemptive reinterpretation of the hegemonic order” (Bell 1992: 195–196). The power of ritual is largely in the metaphors (Fernandez 1986; cf. Lakoff & Johnson 1980) and the ambiguity of symbols, which can render the obligatory into the desirable (Turner 1967). Such power is particularly effective when it is not attributed to a political source, but is naturalized (for instance in terms of ‘biology’, ‘tradition’, ‘Islam’) or claimed to be from God, which in turn is experienced as empowering by the ritual participants themselves. This is similar to Bourdieu’s concept of “complicity” with dominant values as neither passive nor voluntary, but an act of “misrecognition”. Far from implying mystification or being duped, Bourdieu’s concept implies “a strategic engagement in a struggle over symbols” (Bell 1992: 190–191).47 A basic feature of ritual activity is that meanings are not fixed but implied and like Derrida’s concept of différence, endlessly deferred (Bell 1992: 104–107). This makes ritual activity particularly powerful, because the symbolic oppositions and metaphors are brought into play without closure. Because they are open-ended, new interpretations are possible, including authoritative versions (Moore 1999 a: 15–16). It is therefore not a case of ritual reflecting ‘common codes’, or neatly resolving social and structural contradictions. Rather, ritual activities give rise to new understandings, enabling actors to negotiate the self, the social and the cultural. This process is an important part of the conditions for change, no matter how incremental it may seem. In order to see the play of possibilities, it is necessary to look at a whole spectrum of ritual activities and those described in each of the chapters of this book are part of this larger process.

47 Bourdieu’s concepts have been interpreted as being more or less determining, depending on the perspective of the authors. On the concept of misrecognition see, for example, Jenkins (1998: 104).

introduction

25

The Organization of the Book Each of the eight chapters provides a description and analysis of a particular ritual performance in the annual cycle of the subjects of this study. Each chapter is self-contained. Nonetheless, there are evident continuities as each chapter examines the productive tensions that are inherent in the gender concepts. The focus is on the way ideas are formed and promoted in the ritual context rather than whether they are sociologically effective, though this is implied. The chapters are linked by the voice of Mrs Omid, whom we encounter in Chapter 1. She is an orthodox, freelance female preacher, possessed of independent views. Her comments on the activities and the views of others come up in various contexts throughout the book. Her voice gives narrative continuity, while also highlighting a plurality of perspectives. Chapter 1 is the longest. We become acquainted with the social and political climate of the moment through the lens of Mrs Omid’s discourse in a type of religious meeting called jalaseh over which she presides. The focus is on how gender boundaries become blurred by way of anecdotes, ‘Islamic jokes’ and interpretations of the religious texts. These meetings are held in the home, but they are neither simply private nor domestic. As sites of contestation, the importance of these meetings far exceeds their modest domestic appearance. The next three chapters (Chapters 2, 3 & 4) present women who act as intermediaries between humans and the supernatural. Each of the women is an innovator. Chapter 2 takes us to a healing ritual (majles-e do'a daramani ) at a popular votive centre, where an enterprising woman mediates curative vows to the saint Zeynab. Two concepts are central to my analysis here. Firstly, illness as a metaphor (Sontag 1977) for social relations embedded in the political economy, and secondly, the intersection of gender, morality and cultural assumptions about healing. But of particular interest here is the image of Zeynab as care provider and the questioning of the established categories of ‘production’ and ‘reproduction’ in a religious setting, the very context that defines these. I suggest that the women’s apparent collusion with the authorities is not simply a case of exploitation from above, but takes the shape of a negotiation. Chapter 3 pursues questions of agency and the contingent nature of identities within relations of power. We meet a ‘repentant sinner’ called Goli, who describes her calling and transition from a state of

26

introduction

‘impurity’ as cabaret star to her vocation as a conduit for barakat by means of a ‘revelatory dream’ of the Mahdi. The chapter explores how a dream comes to constitute an aspect of personhood, offering possibilities of transforming the self and forging a new identity. The chapter begins with a joyful celebration (mowludi ) of the birth of Fatemeh, an icon of purity, chastity and submission. The mowludi is held at Goli’s house but is presided over by a female preacher loyal to the state. It highlights the tension between an intellectual and emotional approach to religious practice, but also Goli’s tense struggle over conformity with prescribed femininity. Chapter 4 looks at women’s controversial votive meals known as sofreh-ye nazri (lit. votive meal cloth). I examine these as sacrificial rites and as channels for barakat (blessing). These votive meals exemplify how women construct a unitary gender as a sphere of political agency. I suggest that in the process, they also blur the gender boundaries in a context where religion and morality vie with politics and self-interest, corresponding to the notions of ‘gift’ and ‘commodity’. Specific definitions of intentions (niyyat) and persons, including relations to the saints as extensions of self, are involved. Chapter 5 presents an alternative conception of renewal. The focus here is men’s spectacular public rituals which commemorate the martyrdom of Imam Husseyn (ad 680), which Shi'a texts present as the paradigmatic act of sacrifice. The chapter examines the intersection of gender with assumptions about the body, reproduction and descent through the trope of blood, which is of ideological significance for the organisation of society. Chapter 6 considers processes of gendering an ungendered child in a ritual that anthropologists conventionally view as the initiation of adolescents in preparation for their roles as adults. This ritual is called both “Celebration of Worship” ( jashn-e 'ebadat) and “Celebration of Puberty” ( jashn-e taklif ). It was first instituted at schools after the establishment of the Islamic Republic, but despite its ideological force, the identities it seeks to inscribe (gender, class and an ‘authentic Islamic self ’ vis à vis the Western ‘other’) are porous and contested. I follow theorists of gender performance and locate this indeterminacy at the heart of performance itself. The themes of Chapter 7 have much in common with so-called reversal rituals. These are characterized by “carnivalesque” (Bakhtin 1968) questioning of the ‘high’ and ‘low’ by inversions of norms of conduct, in which the participants indulge in the very acts they nor-

introduction

27

mally scorn. Nowhere are matters to do with the “grotesque” body dealt with so explicitly in a public forum as with this quintessentially Shi'a ritual, where bodies on display disrupt what Bourdieu (1992) calls “habitus”, although the liberating potentials must be partially relativised to the context of the ritual itself. Attempts are being made by the clergymen leaders of the Islamic Republic to suppress these popular rituals chiefly because of political considerations, combined with the new puritanical severity and anxieties over morality. The last Chapter considers various women’s ritual activities during the month of Ramadan, when more than at any other time, the goal is to gain spiritual excellence and control over the body. The women’s ritual performances reveal that rather than negate the body, they somatize their experience of the divine, accessing thereby the sacred verses of the Qur"an unmediated by the deductive reasoning of specialist exegetes. They thereby construct a female subjectivity that counters the mind/body dictates centred on the male subject and its needs.

Fieldwork Context and Method The fieldwork for this study was conducted after twelve years of absence from Iran. My husband and I had left for Europe about two years after the revolution of 1978–1979 and returned in the early 1990’s when the political situation appeared to have stabilized. Much has been written on the merits of doing ethnography ‘at home’, or on the alleged problem of gaining sufficient ‘distance’, and the way this effects the production of anthropological knowledge.48 The debate overlooks the fact that irrespective of whether researchers are ‘insiders’ or ‘outsiders’, they are positioned relative to the subjects of their study, and that there can be no understanding or interpretation free of value or of the presuppositions of the author, nor of those it seeks to describe. It is now common for anthropologists to admit that their ethnographies are ‘partial truths’ (Clifford 1986). Though I have tried to accurately reproduce my observations as they

48 For critical perspectives on such debates see, for instance, Abu-Lughod (1986, 1997), Altorki & Fawzi-el-Solh (1988), Hoodfar (1994), Kondo (1986), Moore (1996).

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introduction

occurred, they are inevitably partial and selective, but none of the incidents are invented, apart from the names of individuals to protect their privacy. The women in this study are all strict observers. They adhere to the religious injunctions (ahkam-e din) which include daily prayers (namaz, Arabic salat), fasting (rouzeh), payment of the religious taxes (khoms and zakat) and other duties prescribed for Shi'i believers. They frequently commended my decision to study religious practices and considered it a religious duty to encourage my attendance at their ceremonies. Although I was straightforward about my research, they wanted to assume that my intent (niyyat) was more than academic. Most of them understood my interest to be ‘folkloric’, to study ‘manners and customs’ (adab va rosum), as they called it. My secular upbringing in the years of the Shah was readily seen as a product of the times and they generously excused my ignorance of the religious injunctions, attributing it to my absence from Iran for most of my formative years and beyond in pursuit of other knowledge. But the women did make certain demands. These included conforming to their strict code of dress. When I attended the ceremonies, I wore a black veil and thick black stockings instead of the overall and headscarf prevalent in the northern parts of the city where I lived myself. And although my style of life was (and is) different, I soon developed great respect for the women and the way in which they lived their lives. It was quite acceptable to take notes during the ceremonies. This allowed me to ‘record’ events in Persian as they occurred. On the occasions when this was not possible or appropriate, I wrote them up subsequently, often on the same day. On other occasions, I was allowed to record the proceedings on tape. I indicate this material clearly in my text. My fieldwork is not a conventional community based study. The focus on ritual activities inevitably excludes many other aspects of the women’s lives, not least their familial relations. Moreover, the ceremonies I describe are not exhaustive or comprehensive. There may be many that I did not know of as well as others that I could not attend in the available time. Still other rituals are, or have been, in the making since this fieldwork was conducted. The ones that I do consider are an important part of the women’s lives. Outside the context of the rituals, my encounters with the women were limited. On a few occasions when a ritual extended late into the night I

introduction

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stayed over in the house of one of the women and was always well received. Within the limitations posed by the focus of this volume, I have attempted to make sense of a complex field experience. I may therefore have over simplified the life of the people represented. My writing attempts to encompass and analyze their resilience, creativity and resourcefulness.

CHAPTER ONE

BLURRING BOUNDARIES A JALASEH DISCOURSE: FIELDNOTE EXTRACTS AND TECHNIQUES OF A PREACHER

The Time and the Venue: 14 Safar 1414 AHQ/4 August 1993 It is a hot early afternoon in August 1993, corresponding to Safar, the second month of mourning after Muharram on the Shi'a lunar calendar (Table 1). The venue is a private house, a flat roofed brick building in a lower-middle class quarter of south Teheran, the occasion a women’s religious meeting called jalaseh. During the mourning season, jalaseh are arranged in series of ten days (dahegi) in commemoration of the tragic events on the first ten days of Muharram in ad 680 that led to Imam Husseyn’s martyrdom on 'ashura (the tenth day). I sit cross-legged on the carpet in a spacious living room, the walls of which are draped with black cloth banners bearing 'ashura elegies. With me, sitting shoulder to shoulder, are about eighty other women of varying ages, mostly mothers of grown children and grandmothers. We are listening to Mrs Omid, an established and respected preacher who presides over the meeting from a prominent position at the top end of the room.1 She sits on a blanket covered with a fresh white sheet, with a carpeted back cushion behind her and a low table in front, on which is a large volume of the Qur"an, a book of prayers and supplications called “Keys to Paradise” (Mafatih-alJanan) and a few copies of the religious precepts (ahkam) that are integral to Shi'i piety.2 These precepts are written by leading Ayatollahs

1 During my fieldwork (1992 to 1993), I attended numerous jalaseh, about seventy of which were presided over by Mrs Omid. This one is a good example of the topics relevant to this study. The descriptions are based on my field notes and tape recordings made with Mrs Omid’s permission during the meeting. For other accounts of jalaseh, see Adelkhah (1991: Ch. 3), Kamalkhani (1996) and Torab (1996; 1998: 62–82, 107–117; 2002). 2 The books of precepts (ahkam or vajebat), also called ‘explanatory text on problems [of religion]’ (resalat-e towzih-al-masa"el), are treatises written by the Ayatollahs

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and according to Shi'i doctrine, believers are bound by the edicts of the religious leaders they choose to follow. Our hostess has sponsored this ten-day jalaseh series in her house each year for the past twenty-five years in fulfilment of a vow (nazr). Her husband, a fabric retailer in the bazaar, helps willingly with various tasks such as shopping for this all-female activity. Men often contribute to women’s ritual enterprise, for it brings them kudos within their own circles of traders, merchants and friends. But the stake women themselves have in the jalaseh goes far beyond that of serving the interest of men. Their meetings offer a taste of the pleasures of this world as much as prospects for the next. The main purpose is to deepen religious understandings. Attendance demonstrates a person’s piety, bringing with it credentials in this world and religious merit (ajr, savab) for the next. With the proliferation of religious activities in the years leading up to the revolution of 1978— 1979, jalaseh also became important for demonstrating political allegiances.3 Women formed jalaseh circles around female preachers of their choice, arranging their meetings on an open-house basis ( jalaseh-ye 'umumi) in their homes in monthly rotation. The atmosphere is generally one of a friendly formality, fairly open, flexible and convivial. There are two servings of tea, one at the beginning and another at the end, and on special anniversaries fruit, pastries and sometimes other food are served. The eating of such food is believed to confer grace (barakat) on the partaker. Barakat is seen as emanating from God and the sacred verses of the Qur"an recited during the meetings.

Reflections on the Religious Precepts: Cultivating Virtuous Dispositions Today is the fourth day of the first ten-day jalaseh series (dahegi-e awwal) dedicated to (be niyyat-e) Imam Husseyn. As with all the meet-

who are designated as ‘sources of emulation’ (marja'-e taqlid). The treatises set out to clarify around three thousand ‘problems’ (mas"aleh, from so"al, question) relating to ritual duties for lay people. For a translation of Ayatollah Khomeini’s book of precepts, see Fischer & Abedi (1984). The precepts and ethics (akhlaq) together form the Shari'a, which is derived from interpretations of the Qur"an and the Prophet’s Traditions (sonnat). 3 On the politicization of women’s religious circles, see Torab (2002).

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ings she leads, Mrs Omid has opened the session formally in the name of God, beginning with about fifteen minutes of intoned “shrine visit greetings” (ziyarat nameh) from the prayer book Mafatih-al-Janan, for which she appoints a competent woman to take the lead. This book, like the Qur"an, is in Arabic, which only a few of the women understand. This does not mean that the text is unintelligible. Listening to the recitation is itself meaningful and is considered to be highly meritorious. Then she opens the book of precepts, which define in minute details the rules of the religious duties incumbent on the believers. The religious duties are meant to instil appropriate ‘dispositions’ (Bourdieu 1992) and to ‘discipline’ (Foucault 1977) the mind and the body of the worshipper. If the rules are not followed to the letter, acts of worship can be easily invalidated. This constitutes a prime example of “techniques of power” (Foucault 1977) and “bodily hexis” (Bourdieu 1992), although clearly they are open to transgression (cf. Starret 1995 a). Preachers such as Mrs Omid play an important role in the transmission of the religious precepts and for the next half hour, in a sober and earnest tone, she explains one of the precepts and then invites her listeners to ask questions if they wish. Today’s topic concerns the daily prayers (namaz, Arabic salat), which are one of the six obligatory acts of worship incumbent on Muslims.4 Shi'i perform the prayers as an act of submission to God each day in three sessions, before sunrise, between noon and sunset and after dusk. They consist of standard Arabic phrases recited quietly by the worshipper, who must keep the body still, while going through a rigidly prescribed sequence of standing, bending, kneeling and prostration. Repetitive acts inevitably give rise to inattentiveness or distraction and a particularly common problem during the daily prayers is to forget whether a particular section (rak'at) has been performed.

4 The other obligatory acts of worship are fasting in Ramadan (ruzeh), hajj to Mecca, jihad (endeavour, struggle, ‘holy war’) and the religious taxes levied on net income and capital gain (khoms, ‘one fifth’), and on agricultural produce, livestock, gold and silver (zakat). Half of the khoms goes to seyyed (the Prophet’s descendants), and half is the Imam’s share (sahm-e Emam), which he can spend as he considers suitable. This has been a major source of independent power and wealth for the religious leaders. Alms (sadaqeh) for the poor are not among the obligatory acts (vajebat), but are religiously recommended as reaping spiritual reward and merit ('ajr, savab). All these rules are defined in detail in the book of precepts.

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This is a constant source of anxiety among the women. The book of precepts sets out to explain how a worshipper must deal with problems of inattentiveness via a complex set of formulas called “doubt during namaz” (shakk dar namaz). Today, Mrs Omid goes over these rules. I try to listen, but become aware of the increasing stiffness in my knees as I sit cross-legged on the floor. Self-conscious of my veiled piety in my conspicuous position next to Mrs Omid (not my choice), I long to escape. I attempt to hide my boredom, but my attention is suddenly drawn back to her performance as she jests with the women: Now that I talk about namaz you are all silent; when I talk about the religious taxes [khoms] or money, you ask questions all at once.

Mrs Omid’s circle of followers generally regard the daily prayers as the “pillar of the religion” (sotun-e din) and infinitely more important than all the other acts of worship. I often hear them say that no one could call themselves a Muslim if they did not perform namaz, and one of their first questions when arranging marriages was, “Does s/he perform namaz?” But despite its overall importance as a devotional practice that affirms the faith, few respond when Mrs Omid pauses for questions. She then switches from her earnest, didactic style of talk to a more inclusive, relaxed, conversational one and says: Some women were sitting around talking. One got up, donned her veil and stood nearby to perform namaz. ‘You can’t perform namaz here with all the chatter,’ said one woman to her. She replied, ‘but I want to be here precisely because I want to know if they gossip about me’.

Mrs Omid knows how to focus everyone’s attention. When this begins to falter, she draws on her stock of apposite anecdotes (hekayat) and jokes (shukhi, latifeh), sometimes two or three in a row, to regain her command of the situation. This one inadvertently calls attention to the incongruity of trying to approximate the disciplinary ideal while being humanly social. Gossip (gheybat) is a popular social activity, in spite of being defined as sin ( gonah). It is a powerful tool women can use to construct or demolish reputations.5 In effect, Mrs Omid’s witty parody of women as superficial, untrustworthy and prone to sin

5

As Mary Douglas (1966) famously said, that which is powerful is ‘taboo’.

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35

exposes a gender stereotype, thereby paradoxically demanding its objective reassessment.6 This humorous repartee about namaz sparks off a question from one of the participants who seems inspired to reappraise the complexity of her daily life. She asks whether women still had to abide by the injunction of obedience (tamkin) to a husband who did not perform namaz. This injunction is highly controversial and has various interpretations in legal discourses (see, Mir-Hosseini 2002). It is in effect a means of control over women by men, premised on the notion that women are incapable of responsible action or knowing ('aql).7 Mrs Omid rises to the situation with relish, using an example that encourages reflection on wider issues. She refers to the Tobacco Protest of 1890, when Ayatollah Shirazi issued a popular religious decree ( fatwa) banning the use of tobacco in protest against the Shah’s tobacco concessions to Britain. The story goes that the Shah disregarded the fatwa and continued to smoke his water pipe. His wife, a pious woman, told him, “The man that legalized our marriage has now made it null and void through this decree.” She thereby withheld sexual favours from her husband as a way to induce him to comply not only with the decree, but also with her own wishes. This story relates to an injunction that even forbids women to withhold sexual favours from their husbands, except in special circumstances, for example during menstruation or when namaz is due. Implying that obedience does not necessarily mean agreement, Mrs Omid teaches her listeners how to be agents in their own right. Continuing with the topic of obedience, she reminds her listeners that if a woman’s motive for attending a jalaseh is to learn about her religious duties, her husband cannot forbid her attendance by demanding obedience. She implies that their primary obedience is to God, not to a husband or the State. Mrs Omid thus provides ways of rethinking the injunction that teaches what one must ‘do’ to be a woman.

6 Deborah Kapchan aptly says, “When a woman calls down women in the manner of men, there is reason for suspicion.” The upshot of what she is saying is, “Women, who are you? Are you this, what they say you are?” (1996: 99). 7 See, the discussion on the concepts of 'aql and nafs in the Introduction, and further below in this chapter.

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Mrs Omid claims that the main objective of jalaseh is to explain the precepts to lay people, giving them the opportunity to ask questions if they wish. In effect, jalaseh are arenas of contest over what constitutes a legitimate interpretation of the world, rather than simply a means of legitimating the views of those in authority. It is particularly striking that a discussion on the religious precepts that are meant to instil discipline can encourage conscious reflection and spark off wider discussion. Preachers may prescribe ‘proper’ ritual discourse, but their listeners help reshape the direction it should take. Clearly, jalaseh is a collaborative venture and preachers are far from being mere spokespersons for the prescriptions authored by men. A recurrent feature of Mrs Omid’s talks is the simultaneous reinforcement and undermining of the rules. For instance, vexed at the many inexplicable details in the treatises that are to be followed to the letter without being questioned, Mrs Omid once said in exasperation: The ladies keep asking me: why this rule and that rule; why must women compensate for their fasting debts accrued due to menstruation, but not for namaz missed for the same reason? Only God knows the real reason!

The religious rules forbid women the right to worship, or to attend a mosque, during menstruation, based on notions of impurity.8 Questions such as this irritate Mrs Omid. She says that the women are overly preoccupied with detail (vasvas), even though the questions are in effect practical questions about problems that the women encounter in trying to adhere to the rules in specific situations. The precepts are written in simple language, but they do not cater for the realities of everyday contemporary life. Questions posed by the women concerned issues such as treatment by male gynaecologists, religious tax on food left in freezers, ritual purity of clothes washed in washing machines, orientation towards Mecca when performing the prayers in aeroplanes and definitions of the city boundary when the city itself is ever-expanding.9 Of particular concern were the rules about ritual purity (taharat), which take up by far the major part of

8

See also Bauer (1985: 121) who says that many of women of her study took pills to stop menstruation so that they could make pilgrimage and enter religious places. 9 Different rules apply for some obligations, such as namaz, ablutions and fasting, according to whether one is within the boundaries of one’s place of permanent residence, or travelling outside its boundaries.

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the book of precepts. Many questions revolved on the ablutions (vozu) performed for the daily prayers, which consist of rubbing water over the cardinal points of the body from top to toe in a specified order.10 Some questions included details such as whether water should also pass inside the mouth and nostrils, or how to determine the hairline in the absence of hair, when washing the face during the ablutions. These seemingly insignificant details in effect revealed the women’s concern with definitions of the body and its boundaries as an interface for divine grace (see Chapter 8). Warning against ritual for ritual’s sake, Mrs Omid said robustly in one of the meetings: It’s the intent that counts. If rules are made too complex, no one will buy them.11

I frequently heard that God judges by a person’s motives or “the heart’s intent” (niyyat-e del/qalb), not by the outcome of their acts. The notion of intent allows people considerable leeway in their interpretations of the religious rules and is central to everyday relationships between people and between them and God (see Chapter 8).12 This pragmatic attitude is demonstrated, for example, by the way the women interpreted the religious tax injunctions (khoms). In spite of scrupulous adherence to the tax rules, the women also work out creative ‘legal’ means of tax avoidance called jestingly “legal tricks” (kolah-e Shar'i gozashtan). In cases of hardship, local preachers themselves help devise the legal circumvention of rules by invoking the notion of intent (niyyat).13 Some of the measures included strategic timing and switching loyalty between Ayatollahs (marja'-e taqlid, spiritual guides), whose tax rules slightly differ. Such differences, though

10 Other examples of ritual purity are ghusl (complete immersion in water) required after sexual intercourse or before the first day of the fast in Ramadan and estehazeh, required for intermittent menopausal bleeding. 11 This is similar to the pragmatic caveat of an Ayatollah cited in Fischer, “Waswas [preoccupation with detail] is the thinking of the devil. In the Qur"an it says that God wants heaven for us, not difficulties” (1980: 64). 12 For the concept of intent (niyyat) in various other contexts, see Fischer (1980: 63–64), Mir-Hosseini (1993 a: 169, 184), Torab (1996: 240–241), and for Indonesia see, Bowen (1993: 23–25, 301–306, 319–320), and for Morocco see, Laghzaoui (1992: 89–97) and Rosen (1984: 47 ff.). 13 One of the methods practised by preachers who have the required permit to help those unable to pay their taxes is as follows: the person hands a banknote to the preacher (as expression of niyyat to pay the taxes). The preacher returns the banknote, as though lending it. This transaction is repeated until the tax due is covered.

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said to be ‘mere details’, are fairly numerous and are used by the women to good advantage. These distinctions reveal contradictions in texts that are legitimized as divine order and presented as unambiguous and clear. This ambiguity provides an opportunity for local preachers to adapt and effectively devise rules for practical application in daily life. The dissemination of the religious texts by local preachers, whose talks are shaped by their listeners, thus challenges religious monopoly and serves to decentralize the authority on which the texts are founded.

Interlude: A Biographical Sketch Who is Mrs Omid and how can one relate her biography to her simultaneous reinforcing and undermining of the rules. I accompany Mrs Omid to her house after a three-hour-long jalaseh. We sit crosslegged on the floor in front of her modest library of religious books, sorting out herbs for the evening meal. For the first time, I see her without a headscarf, exposing her shiny, darkly hennaed abundant hair. Her face is virtually unlined, even though she is almost seventy. She is small, slim and full of energy, conveying a sense of completeness, coherence, integrity and well being. As I tried to engage her in conversation, the phone rang constantly. I heard her give advice on questions of the religious precepts, a suitable marriage alliance and for the husband of one of her followers asking whether he should embark on a new business venture she unwillingly performed a Qur"anic divination (istikhareh). She also declined an invitation to preside over a jalaseh, as her time was already fully booked. She is comfortable about the various arenas in which she lives and acts, as a dutiful wife, as a caring and loving grandmother, and as a respected preacher, teacher and mentor of several hundred women in her neighbourhood. Her gatherings are always crowded with admirers who are drawn by her verbal dexterity, quick wit, and forceful personality and above all by her piety and spirituality. To her followers, she is a figure of strength. Her authority is combined with camaraderie. People say she is humble (khaki), since she leads a simple life and insists on being treated in the same way as others. Her house, which has only the bare necessities, is open to all who wish to visit her and seek her advice. Her community standing is considerable, and she is called on for personal guidance on moral and

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spiritual matters by women and sometimes by men. She is also a key figure in distributing charitable funds raised during the gatherings she leads for the less fortunate in their neighbourhood. As a trusted preacher, people also hand her their religious taxes to pass on to their chosen Ayatollah, whose religious precepts, in theory, they follow. Mrs Omid has earned her position through her manifest piety and practical intelligence. Occupying a role designed for men cannot be easy. Her standing is not a reflection of any given social relation. Neither of her parents is seyyed (descendants of the Prophet) nor learned scholars. Like many of her women followers, she attended only elementary school. She told me that when she was a child, further education was seen as tantamount to handing girls over for illicit sex (zena). Religious learning was her only means to further education, but it was not achieved without some creative thinking on her part. She wished to study at home with a clergyman and her husband agreed, although she said he was uneducated himself. Islamic law rigidly regulates relationships between unrelated men and women (na-mahram) who are forbidden to interact without observing rules of gender avoidance such as veiling. Mrs Omid was a particularly strict observer of these rules, yet this did not stop her telling jokes on the subject. She once remarked wittily during a meeting that her husband barely remembered how she looked because, as pious as he was, he always walked with his head down lest his glance fell on an unrelated woman.14 Avoidance was clearly impractical in regular face-to-face contact with her clergyman teacher. Using the rules imaginatively, she arranged a ‘fictive’ temporary marriage of a non-sexual kind between him and her child daughter, which would enable her to interact more freely with her teacher in pursuit of knowledge.15 Even now, at seventy, she still pursues her religious education with the clergyman, whom she greatly respects. She in

14 There are strict rules for looking at unrelated persons of the opposite sex (namahram) in the book of religious precepts (ahkam). 15 Temporary marriage (sigheh) usually bears a social stigma, but not so in the case of the non-sexual kind, called colloquially ‘above mid-body’ (sigheh-ye nim taneh be bala), which is intended to create a permitted relationship (mahramiyat) between the parties concerned, such as between mother and son-in-law, remaining valid even after the marriage contract is terminated. On the institution of ‘temporary marriage’ see, Haeri (1989, 1994) and Mir-Hosseini (1993 a, b).

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turn has a few selected students, whom she teaches twice weekly in her home. Mrs Omid has to contend with six other established female preachers, and several less prominent ones, in her neighbourhood. Among them are some younger, theologically trained women, whose loyalties to the state have opened up new prospects for gaining religious leadership, independent of the patronage of older, freelance local preachers such as Mrs Omid. These younger preachers now posed a challenge to the sphere of influence of those who had trained in the traditional way at home. Women’s jalaseh circles are unlike men’s formal religious associations (hey"at) that are formed primarily on trade affiliations.16 The women’s religious circles centre on the popularity of a preacher chosen by the members.17 The competitive climate among female preachers is thus intense, aggravated by the possibility of shifts in allegiance by followers, as well as by a range of other women who have gained popular followings as intermediaries for vows and supplications, but whose activities Mrs Omid denounces as superstition (khorafat) and as un-Islamic innovation (bed'at, Arabic bid'a). Thus, women’s religious meetings are not unlike local mosques in the way they compete with each other for attendance.18 In both instances, fame rests on the invited preacher and prayer leader in charge. In this sense, jalaseh circles are more like networks of political alliances, similar to men’s formal religious associations (hey"at), but centred on single, powerful women. None the less, rivalries are not always explicit, for competitiveness is theoretically frowned upon in a religious sphere where humility and modesty are supposed to prevail. The effectiveness of a preacher depends upon their observing these rules. It is evident in their unassuming statements about their own qualifications. “I am merely a

16 Hey"at may be local neighbourhood associations (hey"at-e mahalleh), or based on common professional interests (hey"at-e senfi) with designated titles or distinct names that indicate the members’ profession, geographical origin, their particular aspirations and type of religious sentiment and motivations in forming these hey"at. See, Arjomand (1988: 91–93), Kazemi (1980: 63, 92–96) and Thaiss (1973: 202 ff.). 17 On the organization of women’s religious circles, see Torab (1998: 62–82 and 2002). 18 This contrasts with the observation by Lindisfarne (1994: 84–85) about the categorical images of competitive males and passive women presented in the early summary accounts of Muslim social and political relations.

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guide” (rahnama), says Mrs Omid, adhering to rules that she herself helps devise. Leadership in the absence of formal office is a matter of personal influence and—as she once said in a matter of fact way— of “knowing your customers”, suggesting both that she is sensitive to her audience’s wishes and conscious of having shaped their tastes. She disapproves of being given preferential treatment—an armchair, a loudspeaker—or being served with items that are special treats, such as fruit juice, hot milk or cocoa instead of tea. These items could not be served to everyone because of the food rationing and inflated prices current at the time. And in accordance with the notion that spiritual work is outside the realm of the market, she never negotiates over her fees, which she leaves to individual discretion. Those who have become ‘celebrities’, moving among the jalaseh circles up-town, demanding high fees and preferential treatment, compromise their reputation and are frequently the target of criticism. By avoiding the demeaning consequence of specifying fees, Mrs Omid gives the impression of being a giver rather than a receiver, which ensured ‘repayment’ in the form of deference and respect. Thus, ‘modesty’ is only part of a more complex pattern of producing privilege by ignoring that privilege and treating everybody as if they were equal.

Back to the jalaseh Seeing the women’s lack of response to the precepts on that hot August afternoon, Mrs Omid, ever alert to her audience, decides to begin earlier than usual with her commentaries and the Qur"anic exegeses (tafsir) that her followers consider to be the hallmark of her talks. These last about an hour, almost half the time of the entire meeting. Before embarking on her exegesis, Mrs Omid begins by chanting a short dirge (zikr-e mosibat) in her deep mellow voice. She is creating the appropriate ritual mood (hal), one relevant to the period of mourning during Muharram and Safar. A few of the women respond with ritual weeping, stopping as soon as Mrs Omid initiates a sequence of salavat, which are formulaic praises in Arabic to the Prophet and his successors rendered usually in normal speech.19

19

The salavat formula in Arabic is as follows: Allah-u masalleh 'ala Mohammad va

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The salavat are used liberally during jalaseh and can be initiated by anyone. Preachers use it as a device to indicate the beginning or end of a session or a change of theme. When attention begins to falter or when a dispute arises, salavat are a crucial device for refocusing everyone’s attention by reminding them of their common Shi'i identity. Often, salavat are a spontaneous response to a preacher’s talk when someone is deeply moved; their loudness and frequency are a reliable indicator of the response of participants. Mrs Omid’s salavat hint at what to expect of her commentaries. She dedicates them as usual in the following manner: “To all our martyrs from the beginning of Islam, to our Prophet, to our deceased parents and to our leader”, whereupon everyone joins in a chorus of triple salavat. Mrs Omid’s use of salavat is well in tune with the sensibilities of her listeners, for they know that by ‘leader’ (rahbar) she means the Mahdi, the ‘occulted’ twelfth Imam (b. AHQ 255 /AD 868). As we shall see, this identification is highly politicized in terms of current debates over legitimate leadership.

Contexts: Political Culture According to Shi'a doctrine, the Mahdi did not die but disappeared from the sight of ordinary people in the ‘great occultation’ (gheybat-e kobra, AHQ 329/AD 941), in order to reappear at the end of time, on ‘the promised day’ (ruz-e mow'ud). Until such time, the ‘Hidden Imam’ (imam-e ghayeb) is ‘the Lord of the Ages’ (saheb-e zaman).20 In theory this belief denies legitimacy to any form of political power or

'ale Mohammad. There is often an added phrase: va 'ajjel farajahom, which refers to a desire for the early reappearance of the Mahdi, the ‘occulted’ twelfth Imam (b. AHQ 255/AD 868). 20 The ‘Messiah’ or the Mahdi is ‘the rightly guided one’, from the Arabic root ‘h-d-i’, from which derives the Persian word hedayat, ‘to guide’, often implying divine guidance (Madelung 1986). The ‘Great Occultation’ began after many years of the ‘Lesser Occultation’, during which the Mahdi was in touch with people through messengers. For the doctrine of Occultation, see Momen (1985: 161–71). Another title for the Mahdi is Hojjat, from which derives the word Hojjatiyeh, a reportedly clandestine society that began in the 1950’s as an anti-Baha"i society which is associated with an extreme version of Messianic quietism, one that would readily acquiesce to oppression and corruption to hasten the return of the Mahdi (Vali & Zubaida 1985: 150; cf. Momen 1985: 296; Fischer & Abedi 1990: 48–49, 228).

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government by temporal rulers. Belief in the imminent reappearance of the Mahdi to bring justice, when oppression and corruption have reached a peak, is a fundamental tenet of “Twelver Shi'ism” (Ithna 'Ashariya).21 It was crucial in bringing about the revolution of 1978–79, for it provided the clergy with the rationale for protest and rebellion against unjust rule by the Shah. However, for the people, as Momen notes (1985: 170–71), the clergy also cast the revolution in terms of the Karbala tragedy and a perceived injustice, emphasizing Imam Husseyn’s protest, revolt and martyrdom in the cause of justice. But, after the revolution, the doctrine of the Mahdi, which the clergymen had employed to depose the Shah, was now reemployed by them to legitimize their own rule. They based their reasons on the highly controversial concept of ‘the mandate of the jurist’ (velayat-e faqih) as a means towards the conflation of religious and political leadership. According to some interpretations, the concept implies a claim to absolute authority by a clerical representative of the Hidden Imam during the occultation.22 This idea was disputed by some influential Ayatollahs, filtering down to local preachers, so that it constitutes one of the crucial underlying tensions between the jalaseh circles formed around the female preachers, some of whom are employed by the state while others, such as Mrs Omid, remain freelance and independent. To view the doctrine of the Mahdi only in terms of a ‘belief ’ or ‘world view’ would be to disregard its political significance regarding ideas about just leadership at different times in the history of Iran.23 Indeed, belief can be interpreted in the framework of political

21 “Twelver Shi‘ism” is the largest branch within Shi'ism and refers to the twelve Imams, beginning with Imam 'Ali and ending with the ‘Hidden Imam’. Other branches in Shi'a Islam include the Isma'ilis (the “Seveners”) and the Zeydis. 22 The background to the concept of velayat-e faqih is complex. It is popularly attributed to Ayatollah Khomeini (1902–89), who, in a series of lectures given in Najaf (1979–80), argued that all the executive powers of Imams, including government, devolved upon the jurists ( fuqaha), whose authority had hitherto been generally considered limited to the implementation of the Shari"a. This argument has become known as velayat-e faqih, the guardianship or government of the jurist. On the concept of velayat-e faqih and controversies over it among the clergy, see Akhavi (1986: 62), Arjomand (1988: 98–99, 153, 156, 177–79, 208), Bayat (1985), Buchta (1995), Dabashi (1988), Fischer & Abedi (1990: 128–29), Martin (2000), Momen (1985: 157, 189ff., 296), Vali & Zubaida (1985), and Zubaida (1982). 23 As Eickelman notes (1998: 265 n. 21), the use of the notion of the Mahdi indicates the continuing potential of this belief in challenging political authorities. See, also Calmard (1996: 165, 168), Metcalf (1984: 8) and Zubaida (1993: 180).

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economy as a critical commentary on unjust domination.24 In Mrs Omid’s discourse, the idea of the Mahdi serves as a critique that takes part in civil society ( jame'he-ye madani). Many of the jalaseh circles, including Mrs Omid’s, supported the clergy against the Shah’s regime. Subsequently, differences surfaced between rival preachers over their understanding of the meaning of both revolution and of just leadership. The relationship between religious and temporal authority was viewed in diverse ways. The difference was obvious in the ways in which preachers employed the ritual greetings (salavat). Mrs Omid dedicated her salavat to the ‘occulted’ leader. By contrast, the preachers loyal to the state dedicated theirs to named political leaders with orchestrated prompts such as, “A loud salavat for Mr Khomeini, our leader, the representative of the Lord of the Ages”. The jalaseh might conclude with orchestrated rhymed slogans such as, “Neither East nor West, until the revolution of the Mahdi, keep Khomeini alive,”—a slogan much employed during the revolution.25 These preachers were among the more radical political factions who called themselves “party of God” (hezbollahi ) and “doctrinaire” (maktabi, ideologically committed), labels that disguised many shades of opinion.26 The differences among preachers affected the choices of those who attended jalaseh. Indeed, the very decision to attend or sponsor a jalaseh, and the way it is held, are political statements affecting the emotional texture of each meeting. The jalaseh are clearly arenas for demonstrating political affiliations as well as prayer and worship. Mrs Omid had indicated as much when I first asked her permission to attend a jalaseh led by her. Her idioms of distinction made me aware of how the women preachers defined themselves politically and that jalaseh were contested forums. She made subtly negative references to so-called revolutionaries (enqelabi) as ideological ‘official spokespersons’ (sokhangu-ye dowlat, hokumati), and to other

24 Scholars studying occult belief systems in South Africa have used the framework of political economy as a critical commentary on excessive and unjust domination, accumulation of new forms of wealth and power. See J. and J.L. Comaroff (1999), and Geschiere (1997). 25 The slogans were respectively, rahbar-e ma Khomeini nayeb-e imam-e zaman, and na sharqi, na gharbi, ta enqelab-e Mahdi, Khomeini ra negah dar. 26 For an extended discussion of the term maktabi (from maktab, school of thought) and discourses adopted by them, see Gheissari (1994), and Vali & Zubaida (1985).

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preachers as ‘opportunistic newcomers to the jalaseh scene’ (tazeh majlesi shode-ha). These she compared to dirge cantors (rowzeh-khan) who were not sufficiently grounded in the religious source books to be able to offer informed commentaries and explain the precepts, thus misleading people who did not generally study the books themselves. It is within this politicized context that her audience heard and heeded Mrs Omid’s usage of salavat. And it is this context that shapes Mrs Omid’s subsequent commentaries on the Qur"anic verses and Hadith, which constitute the crucial differentiating feature between rival preachers.

Language of Authority or Authorized Language It has often been said that Qur"anic passages and Hadith contain many apparently contradictory statements that can easily be used both for and against a point.27 God’s Words were spoken. Once the oral form is written down, it becomes fixed and decontextualized. It is generally acknowledged that an oral text is linked to the society from which it is derived. Exegesis and interpretation are ways in which the text is realigned with modern realities. If the written text is hegemonic, the oral reinterpretation re-defines it. The fact that exegesis is an essential part of the meetings demonstrates that the ‘authentic text’ is only accessible through authoritative interpretation. In a sense, the verses of the Qur"an do not provide information in themselves, but legitimize authoritative comments.28 These comments are not merely personal opinions, but a means of influencing the

27

Fischer & Abedi clearly show the ideological, political and legal concerns in Qur"anic exegesis and in interpretations of Hadith, including on questions of leadership in present day Iran (1990: Ch. 2, 112–143). See also, Torab (2002) for specific examples of diverse exegeses by female preachers on the Qur"anic passage concerning the dialogue between Moses and Khizr (S.18: 66–78). 28 Interestingly, Arabic dictionaries translate the term ayeh (a Qur"anic verse) as ‘sign’, which means that each verse ‘stands for something else’; similarly, the term vahy, which is usually translated as ‘revelation’ of the Qur"an from God to the Prophet, is translated as ‘a hint’, that is, something that must be ‘understood’. Both notions, which are central to the Qur"anic text, entail elements of interpretation. Abdolkarim Sorush, a prominent reformist religious intellectual discussed the importance of the notion of vahy for reinterpretations of the Qur"an in a speech delivered on the Prophet’s birthday (8/12/1996) at a Shi'a religious Institute ‘Mahfel-e Ali’ in North Harrow, London.

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thoughts of others. Preachers are well aware of this, since the domain of exegesis constitutes one of the competitive elements among them. However, decisions as to whether a preacher’s learning is ‘authentic’ or ‘innovation’ (bed'at) depend ultimately on popular appeal, based on interpersonal judgements about a person’s piety (taqva), spirituality (ma'refat) and intent (niyyat). When combined, these attributes are said to indicate the presence of barakat, which becomes self-validating through its own success.29 There are many examples of how the women’s jalaseh discourses and practices create the very conditions in which they wish to believe and which in effect help produce the piety that is thought to inhere in a person such as Mrs Omid. For instance, I was offered a piece of cake left over on Mrs Omid’s plate by one of her followers who told me to eat it for its barakat. Others would place an open bottle of medicine in front of her as she recited the Qur"an, so that the barakat carried by her breath would make the medicine effective. Participants at her gatherings arrived early in order to sit directly in front of her. They said that they wanted to see her face as it was imbued with spiritual light (nurani). Mrs Omid had herself said many times that ‘the face of a believer (mo"men) is imbued with light and purity (paki), and that looking at such a face brings spiritual reward (ajr)’. Light (nur) is a powerful metaphor in Islamic discourses.30 Mrs Omid associates it with holiness and divinely inspired knowledge. It is a key attribute of the Prophet. ‘The Prophet had no shadow when he walked under the sunlight, because he himself was Light,’ she said in one of her talks. Distinguishing between esoteric and exoteric knowledge, she said that light is a channel for esoteric knowledge (ma'refat, binesh), which God guides into the heart of those that He wills, whereas exoteric knowledge ('elm, danesh) is general knowledge, including that of religious texts, and can in principle be acquired by anyone with training and experience. Since Mrs Omid’s followers regard her as informed and her intentions as anchored in faith, any novel textual interpretations she makes are respected and seen as appropriate, rather than being seen as ‘un-Islamic novelties’. Interpersonal judgements such as these

29 “People in fact become possessors of baraka by being treated as such” (Gellner 1962, cited in Douglas 1966: 112). 30 See Amir-Mo"ezzi (1992 a & b).

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made in daily relationships are particularly empowering for women who are barred from holding formal religious posts because of their gender. Jalaseh are thus political arenas where authority is given or denied, and where women empower those that they choose to follow, thus empowering themselves. Few women preachers command the same degree of attention as Mrs Omid. A language that commands attention is an ‘authorized language’, invested with authority and legitimacy by those for whom the speech is performed.31 The degree of attention, discussion and participation by attendants is crucial in establishing a preacher’s authority and conversations often revolve around assessing the content of a preacher’s talk, her knowledge and leadership. These matters are not secret, but are openly discussed. Over time, I heard some recurring descriptive tropes that women use to categorize preachers according to their personal preferences, age-range and social background: ‘Good at Hadith’ means variously: ‘entertaining’, not ‘political enough’, or not particularly ‘learned’. ‘Modern’ (emruzi) could mean two different things. It could either refer to the sermons of the young, ‘revolutionary’ preachers who act as ideological spokespersons for the state, or to those regarded as having a more flexible attitude to the younger generation on matters such as hejab, employment, journals, books, television, videos and music. ‘Accurate exegesis’ (tafsir-e daqiq) stands for formal theological training. The followers of Mrs Omid particularly admire her ‘free exegesis’ (tafsir-e azad), which stands for the ability to relate the text to current affairs and concerns. Her talks provoke thought. Her generous use of irony, in particular, allows her listeners to draw their own conclusions.32 As a result, despite general similarities, jalaseh vary according to the individual preacher, her approach varying in turn according to her age, education, training, personal interests and her political orientation, all of which affect her style of leadership, the procedure she adopts and the time she spends on each topic (precepts, exegesis, Hadith, Qur"an recitations, supplications). In effect, the audience’s judgements about a preacher’s performance play a crucial role in the form and content of each meeting. It constitutes

31

Cf. Bourdieu (1992: 170–71). This is quite unlike the formalized speech that Bloch (1989 a) associates with traditional authority. 32

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what ordinary women perceive to be knowledge that is worth transmitting and acquiring, and provides a good example of piety as a politically charged, contested ‘process’, rather than as an apolitical consensual ‘state’.

Back to the jalaseh: The World of Reason and Passion ('aql and nafs) What matters to Mrs Omid’s circle of followers, who are generally older and with little or no education beyond primary school, is not theological analyses, but a type of knowledge that helps them make sense of their daily lives. Thus, the principle method of her teaching is by analogy, example and anecdotal evidence, a popular rhetorical device of assessment and representation that rests on metaphoric links between different realms of experience.33 Rhetorical devices such as these intersperse her references to the holy verses, and serve to legitimize her talks. The topics that Mrs Omid covers in her jalaseh talks are wide ranging. In general, she presents her meetings as didactic and spiritual in content, and as eschatological in perspective. Her talks are spiced with ideas about spiritual merit (savab, ajr), and sin (gonah), or promises of rewards in Paradise or punishment in Hell. She constantly encourages reflection on the consequences of actions in this world for the next by contrasting piety (taqva) with impiety, which she defines as excessive preoccupation with this world (talab-e doniya) and a disregard of the hereafter (ma'ad ). The aim of piety, as her opening statements frequently indicate, is to refine the spirit or soul (tazkiyeh-ye ruh) in order to gain proximity to God. This requires selfmastery over baser animal instincts (nafs), a concept commonly opposed to reason or 'aql. Despite being moralistic and ethical in content, her talks concern the wider social and political realities in which she and her women followers live and act. The extracts presented here from her hour-long exegetical narrative at this meeting are transcribed from a recording made with Mrs Omid’s permission.34 They are presented chronologically, in order to show the mode and development of her argument.

33 34

See, Fernandez (1986) on the power of tropes in terms of performance. The extracts are necessarily selective, but they are indicative of the themes

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A Dialogue between God and Adam Opening the Qur"an, Mrs Omid points to the first three verses of the 27th Chapter (surah an-namal) and declares that she will be pursuing the theme of piety that she began during the early afternoon of the fourth day of this ten-day jalaseh series in Safar. Her manner is calm and her tone serious and the women are all silent as they await her talk. What does God say are the features of the believer (mo"men)? They include the performance of namaz, the payment of religious taxes and belief in the Day of Judgement when all secrets, faults and ignominious acts are revealed. Belief in the Day of Judgement serves to remind and discipline, or else the animal part of human nature (havay-e nafs) takes over. Only animals make up their own rules. Humans are guided by reason ('aql). With 'aql comes piety (taqva) and faith (iman).

Mrs Omid’s stance here is very orthodox. She takes 'aql as her starting point as that which distinguishes humans (adam, ensan, bashar) from animals (heyvan). In her view, 'aql ensures salvation, while nafs is finite. Despite the high value accorded to 'aql, it is acknowledged that nafs is necessary to life. Individuals must eat, reproduce and have desires, but one must struggle to keep these desires in check. The aim of religious practice is not to deny nafs, but to control it. Individuals should strive to check their impulses, self-interest, excessive desire and greed, and aim to live with a view of the life hereafter. These ideas were central to Mrs Omid’s formal teachings. But there is another aspect to the discourses on 'aql and nafs, which is highly gendered. Prominent Islamic discourses construct 'aql as masculine and associate it primarily with men, while the body or nature is constructed as feminine and is primarily associated with women.35 Although progressive Islamic scholars and feminists in Iran increasingly scrutinize conventional gender discourses, the naturalistic assumptions about gender are deeply entrenched in the Islamic traditions.36 Many conservative jurists and ideologues who claim to

that loomed large in many of Mrs Omid’s talks. Clearly, the interpretations (both Mrs Omid’s and mine) are partial and alternative perspectives are possible. 35 See also the discussion on the concepts of 'aql and nafs in the Introduction. 36 On the debates about gender among religious scholars and feminists in present day Iran, see Mir-Hosseini (1996 a, b, 1999, 2002 a), Najmabadi (1998), and Rostami Povey (2001). See also Introduction.

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articulate formal Islamic notions on gender argue that men and women may be equal before God, but they have different physical, emotional and mental capacities, and because of this, men and women have different potentials, rights and responsibilities. Arguing that women’s reasoning capacity is overruled by emotion, jurists justify laws that treat women as legal and economic dependents, while associating men with authority, control of resources and control over women. Because the idiom they use is one of complementarity between the sexes rather than inequality, this obscures the ways in which gender relations may produce experiences of domination and subordination. In effect, they deny women control over (ekhtyar) many aspects of their own lives.37 As Nancy Tapper argues (1991:15), the notion of 'aql has wider implications of social responsibility. Though valued for their nurturing and supportive roles as mothers, sisters and daughters, as ‘women’ they are presumed to be the major site of social disorder ( fitna), luring men away from God, and thus in need of control.38 In daily life, one consequence of this discourse is that women are forbidden to hold leading posts as judges and prayer leaders. Nor can they act as ‘sources of emulation’ (marja'e taqlid ), who are leading Ayatollahs who define the religious laws that shape everyday life. Another consequence is that men often denigrate women’s talk as gossip and dismiss their religious practice as superficial, superstitious (khorafat) or ‘innovation’. The legal model of gender is linked to the controversial sermon attributed to Imam 'Ali, the first Shi'i Imam. It is recorded in the 78th sermon (khotbeh) of an important source book Nahj-ol-Balaqeh, a collection of his sayings, which argues that women are deficient in both faith and intelligence.39 The sermon was delivered following an 37

See also Wright (1978) for usages of the notion of ekhtyar. These issues have been amply discussed in the literature. See N. Tapper (1983: 81), Thaiss (1973: 379–382; 1978: 8–10), Nashat (1983: 185–186), and Mernissi (1975: 4–10, 13). The association of women with fitna has its literary roots in the interpretations of the Qur"anic story of Yusuf and Zulaykha (S: 12). 39 The sermon reads, “O people, women are deficient in faith, deficient in shares and deficient in intelligence. As regards the deficiency in their faith, it is their abstention from prayers and fasting during their menstrual periods. As regards deficiency in their intelligence it is because the evidence of two women is equal to that of a man. As for their deficiency in their shares that is because of their share in inheritance being half of men. So beware of the evils of women. Be on your guard even from those of them who are (reportedly) good. Do not obey them even in good things so that they may not attract you to evils” (cited in Mir-Hosseini 1999: 221). 38

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incident in which Ayesheh, the Prophet’s youngest wife, went into battle against 'Ali. This sermon has been much debated. Some commentators argue, for example, that the sermon refers only to Ayesheh, while others focus on the wording and interpret it as a broad statement about women in general (Mir-Hosseini 1996 a: 302; 1999: 219–25). Imam 'Ali’s book of sermons is widely regarded as “the brother of the Qur"an”. When I asked Mrs Omid’s views on the statement, she said that she agreed with the broad interpretation. For a woman who shows no incapacity for reason or faith, this stance seems anomalous. Yet, while she seemingly endorses a gender bias, she also leaves us in no doubt that gender stereotypes are just that, and that persons are not bound by the gender constructs. Although she agrees with the notion that 'aql is of a higher order than nafs, she often also implies that nafs is in fact not negative. Her talks also indicate that 'Ali’s statement is not so much about ‘women’ and their relations with men, but about the values that they supposedly represent (selfishness and irrationality).40 These feminized values are held equally by men, as illustrated in the following story, which indicates Mrs Omid’s (implicit) understanding that people are gendered in specific contexts. The Caliph and the General Mrs Omid’s talks are spiced with frequent asides that, perhaps surprisingly, comment on the public and the male realm as she critically assesses politicians, scientists, clergymen, merchants and traders alike. This is not to say that her concern is with ‘men’, (though they are often the culprits in her stories), but rather with men’s attributes in specific contexts. One of her concerns is the collapse of morality (ma'naviyat) in a world beset by materialistic values (maddiyat), which she attributes to an absence of faith as a guiding principle. Adroitly, she links the past to current concerns, with one theme leading smoothly to another. In the following passage, she presents a pungent political fable based on Hadith and well designed for her listeners’

40 See, Strathern (1989: 178), who makes similar points regarding the Hagen gender constructs.

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sensibilities. She begins by saying that politicians are guided neither by faith nor by reason, but by a desire for power and control. Then she says: They asked 'Ali what is 'aql. He said 'aql is for worship (ebadat), to please God and to earn the reward of paradise (behesht). They asked, then what about Mu'aviya? 41 Did he have 'aql? 'Ali replied, what Mu'aviya had was not 'aql but repugnance (nekrah). Worse than him were the people he led. If the people (mellat) had 'aql they would not have accepted evildoers and oppressors like that.

She develops the story at length through a dialogue between the Sunni Caliph Mu"aviya (ad 661–680) and an army leader called "Amr-ibn al 'As. This reveals the Caliph as a fool who interpreted good attendance at the Friday prayers (namaz jom'eh), also called congregational prayers (namaz jama'at) that he led as a personal endorsement, rather than as a condition of his oppressive rule. Mrs Omid is implicitly drawing parallels between the Friday prayer attendance at the time of Mu'aviya and the televized Friday congregational prayers held in the grounds of Tehran University since the establishment of the Islamic Republic. The sermons (khotbeh) following the prayers are well known for their endorsement of the official state policies. She gives her story a contemporary political resonance by using the term ‘nation’ (mellat) rather than ‘Muslim community’ (umma), which would have been appropriate to the context of the story. The term mellat has an oppositional significance. It is associated with the opponents of the Shah after his reinstatement in 1953, following the overthrow of the nationalist Prime Minister Mossadeq with the help of US and British intelligence.42 Mrs Omid’s simple style of talk is inclusive, not restricted to the literate and learned. When she delivers her commentaries, her listeners rarely pose questions. But no matter how much of a monologue her talks appear to be, they have an interactive quality. Her ‘listeners’ respond with laughter, smiles and spontaneous loud choruses of salavat to convey their appreciation. The sermons held in

Mu"aviya (661–680) is the first Caliph of the Umaiyad dynasty (661–750), who according to Shi'i usurped the rightful rule of the 2nd Imam Hassan (d. 669). 42 See, Eickelman’s (1998: 325–326) reference to Tavakoli-Targhi’s study of the political usages of the various terms that refer to ‘people’ in the modern history of Iran, including terms such as mardum (religiously neutral), tudeh and khalq (Marxist and Maoist terms of the 1960’s). 41

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mosques, like the Friday congregational prayers, are well known for their political nature. In contrast, social and political critiques are expressed indirectly in the jalaseh and by openly professing that one is apolitical.43 True religion”, Mrs Omid often said, “should not be polluted with politics (siyasat).” This in itself is a veiled criticism of the new brand of state authoritarianism.44 It soon became evident that freedom of speech, which had been one of the rallying points of the revolution, was not to include freedom to criticize the new regime and its doctrines. None the less, her desire to separate ‘religion’ and ‘politics’, and her apparent dislike of politicians, though seemingly innocuous and pietistic, is fraught with political sensitivities. Her denial of political engagement is itself a veiled criticism of this situation. For her audience, who are aware of the context of the talks, the silences and allusions are as telling as that which is explicit. As the afternoon wore on, Mrs Omid developed her discussion of the relation between reason and faith. The story that investigates this theme most fully is worth quoting at length to provide the flavour and tenor of her conversational style and because of the many issues contained within the framework of a single story. Harlot, Hermit and Devil in Disguise: Stories within a Story Nothing is of any worth without 'aql, even acts of worship. Well, that was true of the ascetic ('abed) who worshipped day and night until the devil appeared, stood before him to perform the daily prayers (namaz), but continued with the act of worship non-stop.

Mrs Omid frequently stopped in the middle of a story to make a point as a lesson or as a warning to her listeners. Here she said:

43 Antoun (1989, 1993) notes a total absence of political themes in his Jordanian case study, where “A negative view of politics and politicking is at least one part of Muslim culture, and it is deeply rooted in the Qur"an itself ” (1993: 622). Compare Thaiss’s account of men’s home-based religious meetings, which have a covert political dimension (1973). 44 Although in the Islamic Republic the power of the ‘Council of Guardians’ (majles-e khobregan) overrides all other state institutions, the notion of ‘state’ is not a uniform entity but has multiple centres of power and sources of authority with diverse understandings of social and political issues. See, Moslem (2002).

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chapter one You see, the devil will not mislead you and me with wine or illicit sex, but by way of prayers, mosque and the Qur"an.

She then continues with the story: Anyway, the devil stood in front of the ascetic and kept on with the prayers without stopping for water, food or rest. But the ascetic was, after all, only human. Even if he did manage to go through fifty rak"at [involving bending and prostrating] of prayers, he would still need to stop occasionally. So he wondered who that lucky man could be who did not need to stop for water, food or rest.

At this point, she stopped again to address her listeners to make a point, which by implication was a warning against religious hypocrisy: But my dears, our life should not consist of prayers alone, even if it is true that it is the pillar of faith.

Then she continues with the story. Envious, the ascetic decided to ask the man how he managed to continue day and night without pause. The devil in disguise replied that he had illicit sex (zena) and then repented (towbeh), and since God favours those who repent, it was God’s will that he is now able to pray non-stop. The hermit set out to find the town’s prostitute in order to do likewise. He climbed down his mountain retreat, went to town, and asked people to direct him to her house. People thought he has surely come to preach to her or throw her out of town.

Mrs Omid stops again, this time in order to relate the story to the post-revolutionary compulsory hejab, of which she strongly disapproves. She said: In those days [by which she means ambiguously both the time to which her story supposedly relates, and also the era of the Shah, when hejab was not compulsory], such women [i.e. prostitutes] were easily recognizable. Now, they are mixed in with everyone else and are not distinguishable from everyone else. Now, no matter who wears a veil and these women [i.e. prostitutes] might even wear it better than us. In those days, there was a distinction [i.e. between ‘us’ ‘respectable’ people and ‘them’]. Men did not bother us in the streets. The other day a taxi driver propositioned one of our jalaseh friends, mistaking her for one of those.

There was some chuckling among the women and Mrs Omid picks up the story again: He knocked on the door and the prostitute let him in, wondering why an ascetic had come to her. When they got talking and she realized the purpose of his visit, she told him: My dear, my life is drowned in disgrace (nang), but a person like you should not pollute himself. So, he told her the story, whereupon she replied

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that, a man who prayed without stopping for water, food or rest could only be the devil in disguise. Don’t you see, she said, humans have needs (nafs); even the Prophet and our Imams had human needs. Their lives did not consist of prayers alone. The devil certainly wanted to mislead you. Only then did the penny drop (dozarish oftad), and the ascetic returned without committing the sin.

Mrs Omid paused to drink some water, then continued: It is said that after the woman died, a respected religious scholar told people that he had dreamed of one of the Prophets who told him that he was a friend of hers and that God forgave her past sins because she had saved the ascetic from sinning.

Mrs Omid concludes her story with an observation, which her listeners would understand as a criticism of any allusions to the deficiency of women’s wisdom and faith: Now, I tell you, that was the 'aql of a gentleman, whose role was worship ('ebadat), and the other was the 'aql of the woman, who did wrong deeds. If God had intended to give 'aql to some and not to others, that would not have been justice. In the beginning of the prayers (namaz) it says that God is just. God gave all equally faith and 'aql.

Reason as Guide not Dictator What can we make of this witty anecdote in which an ascetic becomes the consort of a prostitute who guides him back to worship, in the context of a gathering the purpose of which is to teach about piety and morality? Far from using the story as a basis for a tedious moralizing lesson to emphasize feminine sexual threat and guile, she focuses on the failure of men by mocking the hermit’s wisdom, piety and abstention. His impaired judgement is juxtaposed with the moral strength and humanity of a woman, who allegedly lures men away from God. Women may be more prone to sin because of their guile and nafs according to exegeses of the Qur"anic story about Zulaykha (al-Yusuf S:12) that Mrs Omid discusses further below. But here she implies that by comparison, the crimes of male self-indulgence and clerical corruption, in which the end justifies the means, are worse.45 She thereby revalues the feminine subject. The story’s underlying focus is the limitations of 'aql. Mrs Omid seems to advocate that 'aql should encompass nafs, but not replace

45

See, Bynum (1987: 262) for a similar comment in another context.

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it. She is not arguing against the value of 'aql, but she dismisses the pretences, prejudices and abuses that go under its banner in various forms. The point of her story is that reason should be a guide rather than a dictator and that tensions arise when one is valued over another in particular contexts. Mrs Omid’s views on gender operate on two levels. On the face of it, she appears to hold conventional ideas about fixed gender. But if we examine her stories in detail, she continually demonstrates that people become gendered in specific contexts and as a result of particular relations.

Learning and Ignorance The notion that women have less 'aql than men not only denigrates women but highlights men’s failure as well. The impaired wisdom of the hermit relates to one of Mrs Omid’s favourite subjects, that of the failure of men to live up to the demands of values that they have themselves masculinized. Her talks are alive with stories of hypocrisy and ignorance. They often feature a popular folk character called Molla Nasreddin, a figure who is frequently invoked as a medium for expressing social criticism.46 Once, a woman complained to Mrs Omid during a jalaseh that a clergyman had misinformed her about a particular rule. Mrs Omid’s response was the following story: Molla Nasreddin, wearing his turban, was going on his way when an illiterate man approached, asking him to read a letter. The Molla said he couldn’t read it either. The man replied that he should be able to read it since he wore a turban. Molla Nasreddin took off his turban, put it on the man’s head and said, ‘Now you can read it for yourself ’.

This spirited story reminds her audience that a turban can mislead and by implication, men may not be all worthy of intellectual respect. Mrs Omid’s personal life is also mined for critical material. A story she enjoys recounting concerns the local preacher, who had provided incorrect information about one of the precepts during his sermon at the mosque. When she heard about this from her pupils, she rang him up and explained his error. In his next sermon, the preacher had to admit his mistake, acknowledging her from the pul-

46

The term ‘molla’ is a colloquial, pejorative term for a clergyman.

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pit. Mrs Omid had won his admission that a woman can be more knowledgeable than men. Infringing the male sphere of intellect by being informed, she had simultaneously challenged male authority and perceived views of women. Examples from Mrs Omid’s personal life had a special resonance among women who knew each other well. Stories about her old husband and their local mosque preacher were particularly popular and could function as a critique of the empty rhetoric, censorship and dullness of the local mosque sermons: My hajj-aqa,47 as you all know, is very pious and goes to the mosque daily for namaz. One day he came back and told me that he had been counting the back cushions. [Pauses briefly, looks around at her listeners, then continues]. I asked him, ‘What did the preacher have to say’ ?

This image of a husband’s wavering concentration is contrasted to Mrs Omid’s practice of going to a mosque only for funeral services. She advised her followers to perform namaz at home instead of the mosque, preferring the autonomy of female space in homes to the male institutes that bar women from the pulpit. Changing pace and tone in her talks (at times authoritative or didactic, at other times conversational, relaxed and inclusive), and deftly switching between different genres (sermonizing, chanting, recitation, narrations, anecdotes and ‘jokes’), Mrs Omid’s performance is characterized by remarkable verbal savvy and wit. She draws liberally on her stock of ‘jokes’ (latifeh, shukhi) and anecdotes (hekayat), delighting her large congregations, myself included. I could not always follow the double entendres contained in her humorous anecdotes. I sensed they were at odds with the more serious subtexts, invariably presenting one thing but suggesting another. Rereading the notes I took during the meetings and by listening again to the tape recordings, I have since come to appreciate more fully the subtleties of her well-crafted talks.

47 In public, women from traditional households often refer to their husband formally as Mr or by their titles (e.g. Dr., Engineer) or simply by their surnames in keeping with the code of not displaying intimacy in public in cross-sex relations, including a husband and wife. In this instance, Mrs Omid refers to her husband as Mr (aqa) and as hajji, a person who has gone on pilgrimage to Mecca, although this term may be used to indicate respect, piety, or simply mature age, even if the person addressed or referred to has not been on hajj.

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On one occasion, her daughter Mariam, noting my amusement, said, “Make sure you devote a section of your notes to ‘Islamic jokes’.” This mixture of ‘entertainment’ with sober preaching and moralizing was new to me. But elliptical humour and satire depend on shared knowledge and do not translate easily from one language to another. As with stories from Hadith, jokes and anecdotes serve as tropes for re-presenting knowledge, even though they are often made light of and passed off as a kind of ‘entertainment’ needed for an audience resistant to solemn and dry (khoshk) sermons (Fischer 1980: 73). Mrs Omid’s repertoire of humorous asides gives her licence to be subversive and to unsettle the gendered categories, such as learned and ignorant or 'aql and nafs. These licit transgressions undermine her otherwise reverential insistence on gender fixity, highlighting the instability of gender and a process whereby change can come about.

Inequalities in Context In the story of “The harlot and the hermit”, Mrs Omid’s aside about compulsory veiling warrants attention. She gave the example of one of her women followers who lamented that taxi drivers could no longer distinguish between them and street walkers; enforced hejab now purchases respectability for those who had none. Mrs Omid deplored the ideological blurring of a practice that she saw as the most visible marker of respect and moral distinction (‘symbolic capital’) between her own circle of women and the secular and impious. The enforcement of hejab after the revolution was part of an attempt to replace markers of class difference by uniformity of dress, although on posters and less officially in graffiti, it was widely propagandized as a preserver of public morality.48 Paradoxically, the enforcement of hejab attracted manifold forms of resistance. Thus,

48

See, also Paidar on the use of hejab as a Revolutionary symbol of resistance to the cultural values associated with the Shah’s regime across class (1995: 214–215). For a critical appraisal of the numerous studies on veiling, see Lindisfarne-Tapper, who rightly says that wearing a head covering must be understood as a complex act which may generate a myriad of nuanced interpretations (1997: 13–40; 2002). See, also Anderson (1982), Hoffmann-Ladd (1987) and White (2005).

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Mrs Omid had cautioned that, if I wanted to attend the jalaseh led by her, I must not appear with an overall and headscarf (manto-rusari) prevalent among the secular middle classes, but with what she called the ‘proper hejab’. This consisted of the black chador and opaque black stockings. Correctly assuming that I did not normally dress in this way, she alluded to our different social circumstances and the city’s north/south divide. After the revolution, a series of populist measures were introduced to desegregate the city. These included the establishment of urban and rural development agencies such as the ‘Reconstruction Crusade’ ( jehad-e sazandegi) and the ‘Organization for the Mobilization of the Oppressed’ (basij-e mostaz'afin), which also functioned as a means of mobilizing support for the Government (Vali & Zubaida 1985: 141– 42, 170). The south was allocated more green and recreational spaces. Confiscated houses and abandoned properties of the elite were handed to supporters of the revolution from the downtown areas, or were bought at a premium by a new class, enriched through the revolution. But despite a certain amount of mobility, the divisions in the city space continue to exist (cf. Hourcade 1987). Thus, claims to moral superiority operated as a powerful form of self-validation in the context of persisting social and economic inequalities. Conversations and discussions during the jalaseh revealed a sharp contrast between the reality of their daily lives and the hopes and illusions that the women had harboured under the revolutionary maxim of ‘social justice’.49 The failure of the revolution to use its potential to shift social boundaries effectively has been a cause of tension, even hostility, between north and south Tehran, and, in certain contexts, has made it all the more important to insist on difference. Mrs Omid went reluctantly ‘uptown’ to preside over meetings, dismissive of what she regarded as a merely fashionable and superficial manifestation of piety. On a rare visit north, she remarked dryly as she fanned some flies away, “Well, the flies here are the same as we have downtown!”

49 The maxim of ‘social justice’ ('edalat-e ejtema'i) is attributed to Ayatollah Khomeini as a challenge to prevailing social differences. The issues that led to the revolution are, however, wide-ranging and highly complex. See, for instance, Akhavi (1980), Arjomand (1988, 1984 a & b), Farsoun & Mashayekhi (1992), Fischer (1980), Keddie (1981, 1982), Keddie & Hoogland (1986), Martin (2000), Momen (1985: 286–89), Najmabadi (1987), and Zubaida (1993: 64–83). Further useful references see, Martin (2000: xiv–xv).

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She was proud to identify herself as “downtowner”. Phrases such as, “We the third class” (tabaqeh-ye se), “We the ‘traditionally backward’ who wear the chador” (ommol-e chadori), conjured up images of the “west-toxicated” “uptowners”, who, before the revolution, had used these negative phrases to describe women like herself.50 Her language of contest was rich in sardonic comments that drew variously on the city’s north-south divide, which she used playfully in her talks as a way of locating her standpoint. Yusuf and Zulaykha: The Threat of Demasculinization A brief interlude follows the story about the ascetic and the prostitute, in which Mrs Omid talks about the recent development of competitive consumption among the youth as an example of what happens when nafs takes over. Then, continuing with the theme of nafs, she turns to the Qur"anic story of Yusuf and Zulaykha (al-Yusuf S:12). This story has attracted numerous commentaries over the ages, which many authors consider as having been central to gender constructs in the Muslim world.51 Zulaykha, the wife of an Egyptian Pharaoh, is a woman ruled by insatiable carnal desires who fails in her attempts to seduce the young Yusuf, the paragon of male virtue and beauty. At least this is the way the male exegetes of the Qur"anic passage have generally portrayed the story in their commentaries. Discussions of the story abound in all kinds of texts, all of which seem to agree that in the biased male narratives, Zulaykha, equivalent to Eve in Christianity, represents female guile and carnal desire, who lures men away from God (ibid.). Malti-Douglas notes that the use of the feminine plural in the Arabic text of the Qur"anic passage transposes the seductive act of a single woman on to all women (1991: 50). Characteristically, the male exegetes of this Qur"anic story have difficulty in accounting for female sexuality and desire other than

50 The term ‘west-toxicated’ (gharb-zadeh) was coined by Ale-Ahmad (1981) whose influential pre-revolutionary social criticism was directed not so much against the West, as against the middle classes, especially ‘women’ who he presumed to ‘ape’ the West. 51 See, Malti-Douglas (1991), Merguerian & Najmabadi (1997), Mernissi (1975: 4–10, 13), Nashat (1983: 185–186), and Thaiss (1973: 379–382; 1978: 8–10). All provide further references. 52 On the discursive decoupling of female sexuality from their reproductive role in Western discourses, see Mary Jacobus (1990).

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for the purpose of reproduction.52 The perfect woman must be the object of desire, not a subject that desires. Zulaykha does not conform to the image of the perfect woman. This is similar to some Western discourses where, as Angela Carter (1979) observes, the moral of the perfect woman is to be the object of desire, which must be defined in the passive case. Seen from this angle, Zulaykha is condemned, not simply in moral terms for her guile and nafs, as commonly suggested, but because she makes the male as the object of her desire, thereby feminizing men by defining them as passive. She is in effect crossing the gender boundaries that are constructed in fixed terms. Mrs Omid tackles the story in her own way and ignores the established exegetes. She mentions the story only briefly, for she knows that those present know it already, then presents her own interpretation. Rather than condemn or dwell on Zulaykha negatively, she merely says that Zulaykha admits her desire for Yusuf and that he, in turn, admits to being tempted, not by a woman’s guile, but by his own nafs. She implies that conflict is integral to human nature and that reason is no guarantee of perfection. This interpretation casts a new angle on the powerful male voices of female guile that have influenced gender constructs over the ages.53

Traders and Merchants: Self-interested Market When Mrs Omid taps into popular grievances there is invariably loud agreement from the women around her. The feelings of malaise are wide-ranging, including grievances over problems of health care and housing, the creation of a new privileged elite, the continued lack of freedom of expression, black market prices, endless queues for daily necessities (bread, milk, onions, washing powder, medicine and much more) and galloping inflation. Continuing with the theme of nafs, she switches to trade and business, another bastion of male power. Pointing to the verses of the Qur"an in front of her, she says:

53 In her discussion of modern Arabic texts, Malti-Douglas shows that women novelists forged narrative voices for themselves by subverting male voices. For instance, by weaving their own narrative voices through their husband’s biographies, they have gained authorship and authority of the written discourse (1991: 146).

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chapter one It is thus that God says those who have no faith, abandoned the straight path, followed their nafs, desires and the jinn’s devils and lost sight of their goal, they are confused and bewildered.

Then after a brief interlude, she says, We go to bed at night only to find that next day what has been 30 Tuman per kilo becomes 60 Tuman. I don’t go shopping a lot but I hear that onions are now 50 Tuman per kilo. When a man wants to earn his daily bread in a halal way, they will say he can’t work in the bazaar and that he is incapable and worthless. Do we have any goldsmiths here? Are any of your husbands into gold? [Pause, silence]. Let me tell you about goldsmiths [as a typical example of a trader who makes unwarranted gain]. My own son-in-law was a goldsmith. He is now deceased, God rest his soul, but he admitted that he was a goldsmith. There was a youth, you know him [looks at the hostess, whose husband works in the bazaar], the son of Mrs Tuba [a woman reputed for her piety]. After he had obtained his diploma, he couldn’t get into University, so for a year or two before going abroad, he went to the bazaar and worked for a goldsmith. Not long after he came and told his mother that it was worse than selling wine and that he couldn’t stay on in the bazaar . . . you all know this. Thank God, people like me have up till now neither bought nor sold gold. The one who cheats, does not distinguish between haram and halal and aims only to collect people’s wealth, no matter how much, the business man, the trader, the one lower, they call that 'aql and insight (derayat). Yes, they say ‘he was a businessman with insight’.

Mrs Omid links rising prices to general social chaos, immorality, profit gear and competitive consumerism, all of which she attributes to the fact that nafs takes over 'aql and all in the absence of faith.

The Millennial Conclusion: The World Upside Down Mrs Omid’s final words reveal a deep sense of disillusionment with the aftermath of the revolution and register a religious sense of decline, a corrupt, crumbling society, a world turned upside down that contrasts with the construct of a successful, thriving Islamic state: Is this civilized world of ours not bewildering? With cheating and deception, holding people’s lives to ransom with illegitimate power, who gives a damn about people’s lives. . . . they call all this strength (nirumandi), love of humanity (bashar dusti)—what is this organization called? [Some women call out ‘Human Rights Organization’]. Mrs Omid continues: All their deeds are upside down. All misdeeds and obscenities seem beautiful to them. All that is evil seems beneficial to them. And they call it civilization, politics, strength, power and so on.

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She concludes on a millennial note: Insha"allah the Lord of the Ages will come and set things right. But when He comes, it is not in order to tell people to prepare our kerosene lamps if they want to use electricity, or tell you to ride a donkey and not use an aeroplane!

This aside makes simultaneous mockery of those who, in the early years after the revolution, either dismissed Islam as backward, or advocated a return to a ‘golden age’. Her final words are explicit: Yes, you can all see for yourself. If someone wants to pay heed to their religion (din), they are considered backward. If someone wants to learn the Qur"an, they will say what use is it to you. So what shall I learn? Learn English! They’ll pay you money for English but what will they give for the Qur"an? Nothing. They’ll even want to take something from you [laughs]. No, really! Come and learn English. They advertise the English language so much, why? It is because it pays money and in this society, people want money. Thus, all human ugliness will be converted to embellishment [pointing to the verses of the Qur"an]. Now let’s see where this road that they have chosen to follow will lead them to. Now, as to the story of their place in the next world, insha’allah tomorrow.

A loud chorus of triple salavat follows as one among the listeners prompts everyone to a further round of salavat by saying, ‘For her health, salavat!’ But Mrs Omid stops them, consistent with her disapproval of the practice of using salavat for political leaders: No, I don’t consider myself above anyone else. That is why we women don’t use pulpits but sit on the same level as everyone else. I don’t agree with salavat for anyone who is still alive. If you insist, say salavat for my deceased parents, and for all other parents who are deceased.

The final fifteen minutes of the meeting are devoted again to intoned recitations relevant to the day from the prayer book (Mafatih). For instance, on Thursdays, the eve of the Mahdi’s expected day of reappearance, special supplications are recited, such as the “occultation prayer” (do'a-ye gheybat), to hasten his reappearance. Love for the Mahdi and a millennial fervour is marked in the meetings. Sometimes, the mere mention of the ‘Mahdi’ gives rise to sobs, especially if Mrs Omid’s talk has been particularly effective, and each time his name is mentioned, everyone stands up, first ensuring that their veils are properly in place. Depending on whether it is a calendar occasion of joy ( jashn) or of sorrow ('azadari), a meeting can be extended with either joyful eulogistic mowludi poems, or, as on this occasion, with a brief dirge (zekr-e mosibat), which Mrs Omid chants, accompanied by ritualized weeping by some of the women present.

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The meetings end formally with a series of supplications (do'a) in Persian by Mrs Omid, petitioning God with requests such as, ‘Guide us in the right path, forgive our sins, grant health and happiness for everyone and the dead spirits, help the unfortunate, the ill, bring justice’. These concluding supplications often show the special concern of the preacher or a participant known to her. Some preachers include petitions requesting, for instance, ‘The release of prisoners of war/ political prisoners’, or, ‘The rightful return of Jerusalem to Muslims’, or, ‘Destroy the enemies of Islam’. Mrs Omid’s petitions always include a plea for the Mahdi’s reappearance, ‘God strengthen our faith so that we do not doubt His return’, ‘Lord of the Ages appear soon, next Friday’, which she concludes with a further string of salavat dedicated to ‘our Leader’, in which everyone joins in a loud chorus. Most of the participants leave promptly after refreshments, but some go to Mrs Omid before she leaves to hand over their religious taxes, ask for personal advice or to interpret a dream. These meetings are all female, but they are neither simply private nor domestic. As sites of contest, the importance of women’s jalaseh far exceeds their modest domestic appearance. They are spaces in which women explore the religious texts, exchange politically charged ‘Islamic jokes’, and take pleasure in destabilizing categorical gender. Mrs Omid’s novel interpretations of gender are suggestive rather than assertive. This (perhaps at times deliberately) multi-vocal and polysemic quality of feminine performance allows open-ended interpretation and enables her listeners to create their own reality.

Composite Selves and Multiple Perspectives Irony demands a kind of amused detachment on the part of the ironist, because it deals with serious issues in a humorous way (Harrod 2003).54 It is about “contradictions that do not resolve into larger wholes, even dialectically, about the tension of holding incompatible things together because both or all are necessary and true” (Haraway 1990: 190–191). Feminist theorists detect a special affinity between women and irony as a strategic means of questioning established

54

I thank Tanya Harrod for permission to cite from her conference talk.

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ideas.55 Mrs Omid’s abundant use of irony questions (inadvertently or not) the contradictions in the values she has learned to cherish. It suggests their arbitrary nature and hence other possibilities. Irony does not merely ‘express’ or ‘represent’ alternative realities, but is itself a way of constituting them in the context of relations of unequal power. This is similar to what Mary Douglas (1991: 107–108) says of humour as an ‘anti-rite’, with elements of subversion, use of paradoxes and dissonance as an elegant way of positing alternatives. The public engagement with the gender ideals in the jalaseh, a setting that is both religious and female, is ironic in itself. It is the very context that defines the gender norms, which are then blurred with irony. A final example demonstrates this point particularly well. During a meeting some women asked Mrs Omid to lead them in prayer. Mrs Omid says that in Iran, a woman is legally forbidden to act as a prayer-leader ( pish-namaz), because women are not considered to be just ('adel).56 She herself is respected as a just arbitrator in family disputes in her neighbourhoods, yet she says jestingly: Don’t you see, I am a woman like you, I sew, I knit and I cook; moreover, I’m not just; if you don’t believe me, then try me out by finding my husband a co-wife.

Here we have a play with ideas of justice as defined by the male legal discourse and by women’s interpretation and experience of it in interaction. It suggests the existence of alternative notions of gender within the same context, whereby dominant categories are challenged as well as endorsed by reference to a fixed relationship of difference between women and men (Moore 1994: 60–61). In effect, Mrs Omid demonstrates what one must ‘do’ to be a woman, rather than what one is and therefore does. How is one to understand Mrs Omid’s simultaneous engagement with the prominent cultural models of gender and with a range of other versions of her experience?57 Feminist scholars have not always been willing to embrace postmodernist notions of the subject, pointing

55

See, Kapchan (1996: 96–97) for a good example of irony in the speech genre of market women in Morocco. 56 Some schools of Islamic law permit women to act as prayer-leaders if the congregation is female (Mahmood 2005: 87). 57 See also Abu-Lughod (1986) on the ways in which women comply with gender ideologies, but at the same time appropriate and redefine these in specific contexts.

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to the need to account for it politically.58 They argue that we may control our own bodies and unsettle boundaries phenomenologically, but not necessarily sociologically. Mrs Omid is similarly suspicious. For instance, she questions claims that women would be liberated through work when work conditions are exploitative. She says that the freedom to work outside the home is no ‘freedom’ in the absence of legal and political rights for women, and would only operate to benefit men. The irony here is that she is herself a working wife and mother occupying a typically male role as preacher. The ambivalence and contradictions in her talks and her person is consequent on the tensions inherent in her attempts to adhere to the categorical expectations. Her compliance constitutes a “cultivated desire” shaped by a non-liberal tradition (Mahmood 2001: 203). Her faith helps preserve her dignity. She is both subject and object, moulded by the very discourses she constantly redefines in her performances. This then cannot be a study of overt subversion or rebellion against received gender roles and notions. In a culture that defines strict gender norms, compliance may a sensible course, but it is not always a matter of unrestrained, strategic choice or agreement. Hollway suggests that a “vested interest” in being for instance a good mother or wife explains why an individual takes up one subject position, rather than another (1984: 238 cited in Moore 1994: 64).59 A pious woman at one meeting I attended neatly expresses the idea in witty verse: At At At At

times times times times

according according according according

to to to to

God the Prophet manner logic60

58 The problem can be summarized using the words of Rosi Braidotti about the supposed death of the Enlightenment subject: “In order to announce the death of the subject, one must first have gained the right to speak as one” (1987: 237). 59 See also, Boddy (1989: 345–347) on the creative play between compliance and resistance. 60 The Persian is: gahi ba khoda/gahi ba rasul/gahi ba ada/gahi ba osul. Interestingly, Janet Bauer’s (1985) findings are similar. She conducted a large scale survey conducted in 1977–78, based on 286 interviews among women of primarily working class, migrant and some religious middle class neighbourhoods of Tehran to assess the women’s notions of self and morality, concluding that, “their abstract moral thinking sometimes focused on principles of individual rights and sometimes on responsibilities; sometimes women agreed with interpretations of Islamic prescriptions and sometimes they didn’t” (1985: 127).

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As mothers, wives, sisters, daughters or working women, persons are composed of different experiences and relationships (Strathern 1988). They maintain their sense of self by making connections across different contexts. But the different social positions they hold give rise to multiple perspectives and provide the possibility of contest and change.

CHAPTER TWO

WOMEN’S CARING LABOUR OFFICIAL TEXTS AND THEIR DEPLOYMENT IN CONTEXT

Mrs Sabri is an enterprising innovator. She has reinvented the dying art of ‘prayer healing’ (do'a darmani), practised traditionally between a lay healer and a patient, by turning it into a lucrative collective healing ritual based in her home. In the early years after the establishment of the Islamic Republic in 1979, she converted her house in south Tehran into a healing centre, dedicating it to the saint Zeynab. Zeynab is the Prophet’s granddaughter and sister of Imam Husseyn and is widely renowned for having healing powers.1 Mrs Sabri called her practice “Zeynab’s House of Cure” (dar-ol-shafa-ye maktab-e Zeynab), or simply “Zeynabiyeh”. She opened up to the public once a week, and with word spreading rapidly, the popularity of her practice grew. Now, hundreds of women queue in front of her house each Wednesday from early in the morning when she opens her doors. The women are in desperate need and come from a cross section of society from all over the city, the wealthier north as well as the south. All come to make vows (nazr kardan) to Zeynab with Mrs Sabri’s help. She acts as an intermediary with prayers and supplications to the saint to grant them relief from suffering or pain.2 Stories about Zeynab’s miraculous cures abound, circulating by word of mouth. Her empathy with those in distress is amplified in the Karbala narratives that are chanted in dirge rituals (rowzeh) throughout the year, recounting Zeynab’s lonely struggle to protect the orphans and widows after the martyrdom of her brother Husseyn (AD 680). This story is the subject of a newly scripted passion play (called ta'ziyeh-ye kharabiyeh Sham), which projects Zeynab’s image as

1 For Zeynab’s (al-Sayyida Zaynab, Arabic) popularity for miraculous cures among the Sunni Muslims in Egypt, where she is held in high esteem, see Abu-Zahra (1997). 2 Cf. Willy Jansen’s (1997) study of female religious agents in Algeria called faqîrât, who act as intermediaries between women and the supernatural.

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care giver in a dramatically forceful way.3 The play was staged for the first time in 1992 by an all-female cast at a state-funded women’s cultural institute in south Tehran. I did not see the play, but had the opportunity to talk to the young female director of the play. She told me that they treated the performance as sacred, like any passion play, ensuring that the actors were seyyed (descendants from the Prophet) and asking the audience to applaud with ritual greetings (salavat) instead of clapping. The performance had been very popular, moving the audience to tears. Many of them had come to make a vow, especially for cures, with one woman bringing her crippled son who it was claimed had been miraculously cured by the end of the show. Zeynab’s image as care giver and healer can be set against alternative stories that present her as militant, rebellious, assertive, articulate and highly politicized. A familiar story I heard the women tell was of Zeynab carrying Husseyn’s flag and delivering a defiant political speech in a mosque, where she valiantly defended the line of the Prophet.4 The contrasting images of Zeynab have served the state policies for gender relations and women’s roles ever since the Revolution of 1978–79. In the early stages of the Islamic Republic during the war with Iraq (1980–88), Zeynab’s heroic image was promoted to encourage women to act as responsible citizens in the absence of men, to raise valiant sons prepared to be martyrs of their faith, and even to encourage women’s own participation in armed defence because of extreme need. A survey conducted by a women’s magazine (Zan-e Ruz 19/09/81) states that women were encouraged to boost the morale of husbands and sons about to go to the front, but were also asked to preserve unity by refraining from harmful rumours against the war, to economize and avoid unnecessary consumption, to raise awareness among school children, to nurse the wounded and to participate in relief operations behind the front line (Paidar 1995: 216–19; 305–07). At the time, a widely publicized

3

Ta'ziyeh-ye kharabi-ye Sham, means ‘the passion play of the ruins of Sham (Damascus)’ and refers to a story on the night after the martyrdom of Imam Husseyn, when Zeynab looked after the women and children in a forlorn ruin outside the gates of Damascus. See also Chapter 5 under ta'ziyeh. 4 Cf. Fischer (1978: 196 n. 14), Paidar (1995: 216, 218–219), Pinault (1992: 5) and Sullivan (1998: 221).

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image on posters and news media was an army of marching women called ‘Zeynab’s Sisters’, wearing a black chador with rifles in hand. After the war, Zeynab’s image was redefined in line with the idea of motherhood as the most profound responsibility of women enshrined in the Constitution of the Islamic Republic.5 With the devout fighters returning from the battlefront, there was no space for feminine courage and defiance and Zeynab’s assertive image had to be recast. ‘Zeynab’s Sisters’, who were recruited for military defence, were now recruited to serve as ‘vice squads’, designed to control women’s conduct and dress at home in the public sphere, with the aim of producing submissive women, in effect re-domesticizing them. At the same time, Zeynab’s birthday was marked as “Nurses’ Day” on posters and postage stamps (Chelkowski 2005:130). These bear the image of a white clad woman with a wimple (maqna'eh) providing care for a wounded male soldier. I heard about Mrs Sabri’s Zeynabiyeh from Nuri. She is in her late twenties, has a degree in psychology and is married with two children. Nuri lives in an affluent part of north Tehran, but I met her downtown in her aunt’s house at a jalaseh over which Mrs Omid presided. Nuri told me that following a miraculous recovery from an apparently terminal cancer, she turned her attention to religion and began studying at the Faculty of Theology. She did not consider herself to be particularly religious, but prayers gave her peace of mind and strength to endure her illness. Before undergoing surgery, she visited Zeynabiyeh regularly and attributes the cure to the vows she made to Zeynab with Mrs Sabri’s help, although her aunt claimed it was due to the prayers recited by the women for her health during the jalaseh. Nuri planned to go to the Zeynabiyeh the following week to make a vow on behalf of one of her friends who was too ill to go. Seeing my interest, she agreed to meet me there but warned me not to mention this visit to her aunt or to Mrs Omid who disapproves strongly of Mrs Sabri’s work, calling the votive procedure she employs as un-Islamic (bed 'at) and exploitative. Vowing is a conditional agreement whereby a person asks a saint to intercede with God for a favour (hajat, morad ) in return for an 5 The idea is based on texts by key religious scholars like Motahhari (1978), who taught both in religious schools in Qom and at universities in Tehran. After the revolution, he became a member of the revolutionary council in 1979, but was assassinated in May that year (Mir-Hosseini 1999: 24).

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offering (nazri) specified in advance. Most commonly, people undertake to perform a charitable deed (such as distributing alms to the poor) or a religious task (such as fasting), or to share a votive meal (sofreh-ye nazri) after the favour is granted, the latter being particularly popular among women (see Chapter Four). But Mrs Sabri claims the votive offering for herself in cash in return for her services as an intermediary with the saint. Instead of relying on the discretion of the supplicant, she specifies a sum equivalent to the fee for a visit to a physician, taking half up front and the rest after the request is granted. Mrs Omid never negotiates over fees because it is considered demeaning and leaves payment to individual discretion. It is generally accepted that spiritual work should be outside the realm of the market. Those who specify fees are targets for criticism and compromise their reputation. It is for these reasons that Mrs Omid considers Mrs Sabri’s work as opportunistic and exploitative of people’s distress. But Mrs Sabri’s role as an intermediary between women and the saint Zeynab warrants attention. It is a particularly good example of how religious healing is legitimized culturally in support of the political economy, helped by the strategic collusion of an individual woman with the authorities of state. The term collusion suggests that this is not simply a case of exploitation and oppression from above, but takes the shape of a negotiation. Even while the state may coopt popular belief for its own ends, Mrs Sabri’s work demonstrates the vulnerability of the state to women’s innovations in the face of challenge from the ground. Scholars analyzing the relationship of gender and state suggest that the state is forced to take notice of women’s grass root activities and despite being seen as inconsequential to social politics, they are instrumental in shaping and enforcing state policies (Baron 2005 b: 86).6 Arguably, in the context of a healing ritual such as Mrs Sabri’s, women are driven to engage with social politics due to the government’s neglect of healthcare provisions. They do this by professionalising their home space at the very time when the home and the family are hailed as the central responsibility of women.

6 Beth Baron (2005 a & b) suggests that in Egypt in the 1940’s, women’s voluntary social welfare work was not necessarily a means to politics. Rather, they turned to social welfare work when pushed out of nationalist politics.

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What follows is a close translation of my field notes from one of the two sessions I attended at Zeynabiyeh. I took notes as the ritual was in progress and present these here in translation with some editing and a few added comments. The italics are verbatim translations from my tape recordings.

A Prayer-Healing Session Field note extracts: Zeynabiyeh: 14 Jamadi II, 1413 AHQ/9 December 1992 Soon after my arrival just before seven in the morning, other women begin to arrive. The front door opens into a courtyard that leads into a flat roofed, single storey brick building. I enter a large sitting room scented with rosewater. The floor is carpeted with a lower grade Kelim (gelim, a flat woven rug). Green back-cushions line the walls (green is the colour of the Prophet). At the top end of the room, there is an armchair, which Mrs Sabri later uses, with a marble table, microphone and three decanters of rosewater, which she later sprays over us from time to time as the meeting proceeds. On the wall behind the armchair are two bunches of wild rue (esfand) to dispel the ‘evil eye’, a silver quarter-moon with a star, a triangular black flag with “Zeynab’s House of Cure” stitched in green and five large framed pieces. One of the frames holds a black cloth with the names of the Prophet and his household (‘Five Bodies’, panjtan), the next one has Qur"anic inscriptions and prominently displayed above all these are three portraits of Imam 'Ali, Ayatollah Khomeini and Mr Khameneh"i, the leader of the Islamic Republic. 7 a.m. Mrs Sabri appears briefly from the back of her house without a headscarf, wearing a house tunic. She sees that I am taking notes but pays no attention, switches on a tape recorder to a high volume and disappears to the back of her house. A recording of Mrs Sabri’s chanting voice, hoarse with tears, petitioning Imam Husseyn and Fatemeh, known also as Zahra, to aid Zeynab in her caring mission, accompanied by loud chorus of refrains fills the room. It seems to have been recorded during a recent pilgrimage tour she led to Medina. Hosseyn, heal your ill/patients (mariz). Bring me close to God. I saw how people mourned at Imam Hosseyn’s grave. Today we are in Medina. I could not find

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Zahra’s grave.7 I yearn to find your grave. Where is it? Oh (ya) Zahra. I sacrifice myself (qorbun-e) for your pains. Zahra, I have brought you the patients of Zeynab and their messages to you. Zahra dear.

The chorus of refrains following this appeal is as follows: I will knock on this door until I see Oh Zeynab! Oh Zeynab! (ya Zeynab ya Zeynab) Oh Zahra! Oh Zahra! Zahra-dear cure Zeynab’s patients Oh Zahra! Oh Zeynab!

7.10 a.m.: More women arrive. As soon as they sit down, they begin to sob as they listen to the tape that continues as follows, Dear lady (i.e. Zahra), you know my heartache (dard-e delam, grief, misfortune, pain) You know of Zeynab’s patients You know of her Wednesdays (the days people come to Zeynabiyeh) Tonight I want to obtain favours (hajat) These letters people have written to me I have promised so many that I would obtain favours for them Oh Zahra! Oh Zeynab! I plead on the life of your mother Zahra (tu ra be jan-e madarat) Don’t let me go away from here empty handed I have ill people dear Zahra I want a cure, dear Zeynab I am your slave Zeynab dear Oh my Zeynab, dear Zeynab I sacrifice myself for you Zeynab dear I am crazy (majnun) with love for you Zeynab dear Grant our favours, my Zeynab, Zeynab dear I plead on your mother’s life Oh Zeynab Zeynab, give cure Cure those with cancer

Such petitions are followed on the tape by a chorus of: Oh Zeynab, give cure! Fulfil your promise/oath/vow

7 It is said that due to the political exigencies of the time, Fatemeh’s burial by her husband 'Ali was clandestine, so that the precise date of her death and place of burial remain unknown.

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More women arrive. There is still space on the floor by the walls but they forgo the comfort of leaning against the back-cushions and choose to sit in the middle of the room immediately in front of Mrs Sabri’s table. The tape continues, I do not know where Zahra’s grave is I do not know where to go Call out: Oh Zahra, Oh Zahra I am helpless searching for you Oh for this sorrow (gham) Oh people who are in love ('asheqan) I have lost a young flower (i.e. Fatemeh) I have a broken side (pahlu-shekasteh)8 The unfortunate (gereftar-ha) have come to your doorstep Zeynab dear

7.30 a.m.: There are now twenty-five mostly middle-aged and older women, but including several younger women, some of whom greet each other briefly on arrival. Some women take a visitation-prayerbook (ziyaratnameh-ye Zeynab) from a pile on Mrs Sabri’s table. 7.35 a.m. Mrs Sabri re-enters. She has changed into a bright blue suit and now wears a white headscarf. As she moves to her seat, nodding to the women who greet her, everyone stands up in respect. A few women go up and embrace her, hand some money over to an assistant and say, “May your pilgrimage be accepted” (ziyarat qabul ). The woman next to me whispers enviously, “Some people can go to Syria, Mecca and Medina. Lucky them!” I ask her why the women are giving money. She says, People come here with the intent (niyyat) to be cured. They make a vow to pay Mrs Sabri some money. Mrs Sabri demands a minimum of four hundred Toman, half as down payment and the rest after obtaining their cure. When they return, Mrs Sabri records a statement by them on tape saying that they have been cured. She uses this as proof to unbelievers and those who accuse her of fraud. There are always collections for charity (sadaqeh) or for the Red Crescent (helal-e "ahmar) and people donate liberally. Once, when I was here, Mrs Sabri responded angrily to those who questioned what she did with the collections, telling them bluntly that they should mind their own business.

I note that the four hundred Toman that Mrs Sabri demands is about the same as the fee for a visit to a physician.9 I could under-

8 This is a reference to the story of Fatemeh’s injury when the Sunni Caliph 'Omar (AD 634–644) stormed her house. 9 In 1992–1993, the free market exchange rate was about 250 Toman to £ 1,

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stand why it might seem parasitic on the sick and poor to demand cash in a setting where religious values and ideals should prevail. But Mrs Sabri’s clients hand over the cash voluntarily and although her work is grounded in a monetary transaction, she lets her assistant collect the cash, thereby distancing herself from its demeaning effect. 7.45 a.m. The sitting room fills rapidly. I can count about eighty women. The tape continues at high volume with similar chants. Some women converse, while others listen with tearful eyes. Nuri has now arrived, but there is no free space for her to sit beside me and she moves on. Her eyes are already tearful. The woman next to me relates why she came to Zeynabiyeh. She lives nearby and came first because of her daughter-in-law who suffered from a severe ulcer. She dreamed that Zeynab touched her daughter-in-law’s stomach, whereupon she decided to come and make a vow for her cure. By the time of her second visit to Zeynabiyeh, the medical tests had shown that her daughter-in-law was cured. Most people came for cures, but she knew one woman who came to recover a large debt (700,000 Toman), which she had lent in good faith. She made a vow to pay Mrs Sabri 2,500 Toman if she could recover the money and on her second visit here, she had her money back. 8 a.m. Mrs Sabri turns the tape recorder off. Someone prompts a loud salavat in her honour, then for her son who, she says, is far away abroad, and then another for her second son, who is nearer, and finally for all those suffering from illness (mariz-ha) and misfortune (gereftar-ha). A loud chorus of salavat follows for each. Mrs Sabri records on tape the story of a woman who comes to her table and uses the microphone to relate how her favour was granted. The conversation around me is loud and I cannot hear what the woman says clearly, but in conclusion, Mrs Sabri prompts everyone over the microphone to utter rounds of salavat for each of the following, pausing each time until the greeting chorus stops: For all the ill! For the unfortunate! For those who are seeking intercession! For those who have no children and for whom we wish twins! For the leader of the Republic, Mr Khameneh'i! And another for Mr. Rafsanjani!

and 165 Toman to US$ 1. It was difficult to ask what a preacher earned, but by my estimate, a relatively popular preacher down town could earn about 30, 000 Toman per month (£ 120/US$ 180), whereas the average monthly income of a lower level employee (bank clerk, primary school teacher) was about 20, 000 Toman (£ 80/US$ 120).

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A loud chorus of salavat follows at each prompt. Mrs Sabri is taping the proceedings She concludes these rounds with another final prompt. This time, to my amazement, she says: “An extra loud salavat for the sister of our minister of health who is present and seated here on a chair beside me.” The presence of the sister of a government minister suggests at the very least tacit support for Mrs Sabri at the highest levels. She continues, “Let us pray for our friends, but ask God to destroy our enemies, especially those who are jealous and envy us.” People are still arriving and there are now at least one hundred women, including many young ones with headscarves and overalls instead of the more traditional chador. A woman approaches Mrs Sabri and gives her a wrapped present in fulfilment of her vow. Mrs Sabri tells her to declare the fulfilled vow over the microphone. The woman says that doctors had told her that her little daughter had to undergo difficult surgery, but after she made the vow, the medical tests showed that surgery was no longer required. 8.10 a.m. Mrs Sabri recites from the Qur"an in fluent Arabic as more people arrive, then switches back to Persian and chants a dirge (rowzeh). Many women sob and weep quietly. She intersperses her rowzeh in a tearful voice with statements that her motives are not selfish, that her actions are effective in bringing about desirable ends, adding various other accounts like the following: The other week Mrs Mo"meni (a renowned preacher) said to me that these Wednesdays must not be stopped, because you are an intermediary (rabet), and I said no, I am a nobody, I am merely a messenger (qased).

It occurred to me that the unsteady basis of her reputation made it necessary to constantly reassert her credentials. To be acceptable and to be heard, she must create and continually reinforce an attitude of trust. She stresses that she makes no claims to the kind of medium the saints possess and demotes herself to being a mere vessel, thereby deflecting criticism. Her modesty seems to strike an emotive chord, moving many of the women to sob loudly. Mrs Sabri skilfully keeps up the momentum, prompting everyone to cry out, “Oh Zeynab! Oh Zeynab!” A loud chorus of wailing voices beseeching Zeynab follows, backed up by Mrs Sabri chanting, “I will call for you so often until you help me get my reward (ajr) from God.” People continue to come and we move closer to make room. One woman complains to the person in front of her that she takes up too much space. Mrs Sabri apologises that new arrivals have to sit

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in the cold courtyard for lack of space indoors. Meanwhile, some more women try to make their way to the front to hand Mrs Sabri money, which her assistant collects. Mrs Sabri continues chanting but stops briefly to allow a woman recount a recent dream, in which Mrs Sabri was cooking a votive soup (ash-e nazri) in this room. Mrs Sabri, taking this as an auspicious sign and as proof of her own good intentions, exclaims, “Oh God, bring misfortune to those who are Zeynab’s enemies and ours. Be they paralyzed (zamingir) and imprisoned in their own homes.” My neighbour whispers, “God forbid, what next !” She seems quite critical of Mrs Sabri and I wonder why she has come. Mrs Sabri now reads out a list of names, including several names of men, who had phoned her for favours, mostly cures for illness and disease, but also other requests, including early marriage for a youth, cure from infertility and resolution of marital problem. After each name she chants loudly, Let God cure them grant them their wish (morad) by the great Zeynab, by the water bearer (saqi) of Kowsar (a river in Paradise), by Zeynab’s pains (be jegar-e sukhte-ye Zeynab, ‘Zeynab’s burnt liver’) by Musa-ibn-e Ja'far by the ill of Karbala by the King of home/country by the broken side of her mother (Fatemeh’s injured side) cure them by the justice of Mohammad by the justice of 'Ali

As soon as Mrs Sabri mentions the name of Musa-ibn-Ja'far (the seventh Imam), an old woman sitting on my other side exclaims, “I don’t understand, I thought this was supposed to be dedicated to Zeynab and not him.” Here is another woman who seems to question Mrs Sabri’s authority. Meanwhile other women queue to reach Mrs Sabri to hand money to her assistant. She in turn asks each of them to make a statement over the microphone about their request or its fulfilment. She capitalizes on the amplified stories of success, which she records on tape. One woman says that she came only a week ago on behalf of her sister who had numerous problems (she does not elaborate) and now her problems are already resolved. Another says that she came to know of Zeynabiyeh through her dream, in which a woman

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gave her the directions, telling her that she must come here to get a cure for a neighbour’s child with heart disease. Meanwhile the phone in front of Mrs Sabri has rung several times. The calls are for making vows, which Mrs Sabri relays over her microphone. She says some are long distance calls from Iranians living in Europe and in the US. At this stage, two women climb over the seated women to make collections of alms dedicated to the ‘Lord of the Ages’ (sadaqeh-ye Imam-e Zaman). People donate liberally, with accompanying phrases such as: “May God reward her (i.e. Mrs Sabri),” (ajresh ba khoda) and the bags fill rapidly with money. My neighbour says that the collections are for the Red Crescent and that Mrs Sabri gains much spiritual merit (savab kardan) for making these collections possible. Some women hand down written messages for Mrs Sabri, who then reads them out, naming the person concerned and their request, followed by chanting a supplication to Zeynab to grant their wishes. A young woman close to me, who also handed a message over, complains loudly that her message is not among those read out. I ask if she can tell me what she wrote. She says, “I wrote that I made a vow a long time ago and paid the first part, but my request has not yet been granted.” I doubt that Mrs Sabri overheard this complaint, but shortly afterwards she says that one woman had waited ten years in vain for the fulfilment of a vow she made on her own, and that her request was granted only after she had come here. She continues to read out people’s names and the vows made followed by chants in which she pleads for fulfilment of their vows, and each time, everyone joins in saying Allah-o-Akbar in unison, gently beating their chests to the rhythm of the chant. The level of conversation is beginning to rise. Mrs Sabri complains, saying she is reading out supplications (do"a) concerning people with misfortune and that those present should keep quiet and not disrupt the gathering. She tries to regain the attention of her audience by repeating the story of the woman who was directed to this house through a dream, adding that she is not doing this for money and that only those who really believed in her pure intent should make a down payment for their vow. The conversation does not abate. Mrs Sabri taps on her microphone. She says she wants to make an announcement. Her tactic works. The conversation subsides. She says she has arranged a bus tour for pilgrimage to the

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shrine in Qom for the following Monday and those who wish to go must pay 250 Toman, which will include a simple lunch. 9 a.m. By my estimate there are now at least two hundred women here. More women arrive but some are leaving. Many are sitting in the cold courtyard. Two women serve them tea. I am told they have made vows to supply and serve the tea at these Wednesday gatherings. The women continue to converse, but Mrs Sabri ignores them and continues to chant. Some of the women accompany her by gently beating their chest to the rhythm of her chant: “Dear Zeynab, people do not come here for a simple headache and cold, but for illnesses which doctors cannot cure. They all come to your doorstep. Ya Zeynab! Heal them!” A chorus follows: “Ya Zeynab! Ya Zeynab! Ya Rasul-allah.” (God’s Messenger, the Prophet)

I turn to one of the women and ask if she knows when Mrs Sabri began all this. Five years ago, she replies. She then says that she herself had obtained her favour merely by dreaming that she had come here. She had made a vow for her son to get into the university, but although her wish was granted, her son does not study. She attributes this misfortune to peoples’ envy of him having gained university entrance, which she expresses as “nazar zadan” (often called cheshm-e bad, ‘evil eye’). She has now made a vow to come here every week, even if it is for only ten minutes, so that he completes his studies successfully. Mrs Sabri continues her appeals to Zeynab, then takes a rest and puts on the tape I heard when I arrived. After a while, she begins to give a moral lesson, starting with the following rhetorical question: Why do women go to ‘religious gatherings’ (majles-ha-ye dini va mazhabi)? Of course it is to purify your sins, to transform, to improve! Praise to Khomeini!

At another point, in between chants, she talks about hejab, saying that wearing a headscarf and overalls (worn by many of those present) is just as good as wearing a chador, but the most important is not to miss the daily prayers (namaz). Then she makes a series of statements. She hopes that ‘all enemies of Islam will be destroyed’, that those who are envious and spread malicious gossip behind her back ‘should have their hand severed’ and persists in denying any interest of a crude monetary kind by repeating that, ‘money is dirty

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and of no use’. Meanwhile, some women still go up to give money to her assistant and add their name to a list for the down payments. 9.30 a.m. The woman next to me says that this is how the whole morning proceeds until people gradually leave toward midday. I left soon after 10.00 a.m.

Illness as Metaphor Through the idiom of illness, people make statements about their experience in the world. The idea of illness as a metaphor for social relations embedded in a political economy is now a widely accepted concept among social scientists.10 Byron Good’s (1977) influential essay on the use of metaphors of illness in a small town in Iran shows how complaints of what is described as ‘heart distress’ take on various meanings, depending on the social and political changes. Similarly, scholars studying embodiment note that distress is felt in the body when there is disruption in the social order (Csordas 1994 a, b). Following the revolution of 1978–79, the problems in the structure of the health care system increased manifestly and particularly affected women and children (Keddie 2003: 287). Rastegar’s (1995) comparative analysis of the healthcare system in the pre- and postrevolutionary era describes these changes in detail. He states that the government of the Islamic Republic decided to centralize and politicize the educational system for the training of medical doctors. The aim was to remedy problems of the healthcare system. These included a shortage of trained personnel, antiquated facilities, a lack of emphasis on preventive care, high infant mortality, short life expectancy, as well as the disparities in the private, public, urban and rural health care provisions. However, political loyalty became more important in this ‘cultural revolution’ than objective academic criteria and competence in the selection of faculty and students. The result was the migration of highly qualified physicians purged from universities (see also Keddie 2003: 290). Despite a rapid increase in 10 The concept was coined by Susan Sontag (1977). B. Turner (1996: 175 ff.) suggests that to approach disease sociologically, we have to combine the notions that 1) disease is a language 2) the body is representation 3) medicine is a political practice (1996: 202).

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the number of medical schools, inadequate equipment and experienced teachers resulted not only in lowering of academic standards, but also in a collapse of the medical system. Significant developments are reported in healthcare provision in more recent years.11 But at almost all the women’s rituals that I attended in 1992–93, not a single day went by without complaints about the failings of the medical system and dissatisfaction with the healthcare provisions. The list included the high cost of seeking proper treatment only affordable by the affluent, the lucrative black market for medicine caused by economic sanctions that enforced sacrifices, condemning household members to a hand-to-mouth existence, the tense relationship with medical practitioners and the frustration with inconsistent advice given by a glut of poorly trained physicians. These were predominantly men who often treated women patients in condescending, paternalistic and authoritarian ways, dismissing expressions of concern as ignorance or emotionality. Factors such as these deeply affect a patient’s sense of self-worth. Added to the poor state of healthcare was a wider desperate situation, revealed by the women’s requests made through their vows to Zeynab and other saints. These included recovery of debts, gaining university entrance for teenage children, resolution of marital disputes, release from prison, not to mention forms of ‘domestic’ violence that were borne in silence (sexual abuse, rape, incest, wife-beating, drug addiction), because their disclosure other than to a saint would be too scandalous. A popular refrain of a dirge for Fatemeh (Zahra) composed by women and frequently chanted in their gatherings is, “My Zahra, My Zahra, Oh my keeper of secrets.”12 The idioms they used to express their problems confirms that suffering is not confined to physiological illness or disease (marizi), but included a variety of problems that they experienced as traumatic and causing distress. The expressions commonly used by the women can be translated as suffering, affliction, burden, misfortune, distress and heartache (narahati, gereftari, bala, badbakhti, mosibat, dard-e-del), all of which index a

11

Between 1985 and 1997, the reported achievements in healthcare provisions include training and education, in both rural and urban areas, in particular the creation of grassroots primary healthcare networks; as a result, maternal mortality rates, for example, dropped dramatically from 140 to 37 per 100,000 live births (Keddie 2003: 287). 12 Zahra-ye man, Zahra-ye man, 'ey raz negah dar-e man.

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wider, social malaise or crisis. The Persian language does not distinguish between ‘disease’ (as a bio-medical state) and ‘illness’ (as a chronic, socially related problem), both of which are expressed as marizi. Most social scientists agree that ‘disease’ and ‘illness’ are related and that a preoccupation with the state of the body can be an index of distress and social disorder or malaise. The feeling among the women that nobody cares for them apart from the saints is all-pervasive. A mistrust of physicians extends to ignoring their orders. One of my jalaseh companions had a severe heart problem. When I visited her in hospital, she looked up at me from her bed and said, “My real doctor is Imam Reza.” Despite warnings from the consultant to remain in hospital, she left the following day for her annual pilgrimage to the Imam’s shrine in Meshhad. The saints are called upon because human agency fails: “The Imams cure illness immediately, not like doctors who tell patients to return after six months,” was one of many similar comments I heard over and over again. It was one of Mrs Omid’s favourite phrases, reiterated at the jalaseh she led. Clearly, people’s interaction with the medical system shapes their experience. Judging by the comments made at the women’s gatherings, Zeynab’s appeal is not surprising. She is perceived to embody qualities that they find lacking in the medical system, such as equal treatment of all, both for the rich that visit from the US and for the less privileged and deprived. Zeynab appeared to judge not by class or gender, but on the basis of the purity of her devotees’ faith. And since they see Zeynab as a friend and fellow sufferer, they can express their anguish freely, including traumas suffered in silence. This is seen as preferable to facing ridicule or having their problems dismissed as ‘psychological’ or pigeonholed as discrete pathological conditions by conventional medical practitioners. Clearly, an overt expression of feeling can help restore self-esteem and be a crucial pre-requisite for a cure. It helps patients become active participants in the process of their own healing rather than being passive receivers of ‘advice’ from physicians. Although cures may come about irrespective of vows made to Zeynab, expectations of a miraculous cure are in themselves powerful and may be beneficial, because those who feel vulnerable as patients become agents in their own right.13

13

Many authors support the importance of an efficacious healing process in a

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Mrs Sabri’s ritual healing is successful because the ritual is experienced as transformative by the participants themselves. It offers the possibilities of a support group outside the household. Suffering is shared in public and need not be hidden or endured alone, so that individual suffering becomes a social event. The women themselves describe their experience at these rituals as soothing and effective. It indicates that sharing their distress dignifies their life and that their sense of self and morality are embedded in the social group. This is based on their own lifetime of care provision for others. Significantly, when individualized problems are voiced in a public space, they become a matter for the group, shifting the locus of suffering from the personal to the wider context, so that individualized distress is opened to public scrutiny and support.

The Cultural Legitimacy for Prayer Healing The appeal of Zeynab in response to suffering and insecurity is here grounded in a cultural framework that says religious healing is possible (Csordas 1994 a, b). The women who attend Zeynabiyeh are not just the economically marginalized, but from a cross section of society. Those with whom I spoke describe their experience of the prayers as soothing and effective, indicating that the rituals help manage their distress. To argue that only the economically marginalized resort to religious healing does not hold. It was contradicted by the economic and social range of women who visited Mrs Sabri, which is an indication of the cultural legitimacy of religious healing and the conviction that it is efficacious, irrespective of a person’s social class or economic position. But cultural practices are reinforced by structures of power, as well as by the precarious conditions in which people live. The religious discourse is rich in moral implications and individual responsibility. It is based on a this-worldly, practical eschatology that argues that the moral consequences of conduct can be experienced on earth, as well as in the world to come. Well-being depends on maintaining

shift from structures of representation to processes generated through performance or doing. See, Csordas (1994 a, b), Laderman & Roseman (1996).

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proper relations with the supernatural world, as well as one’s social others. Mrs Sabri’s warning to the women about hejab and namaz implies that any expectations of divine help rest on abiding by the religious injunctions. Since women are thought to be less responsible than men, the moral discourse is pitted against them.14 An explanation I heard many times was that suffering was God’s way of testing a person’s faith. This discourse both individualizes suffering and renders it as an inevitable part of life. Rather than tracing suffering back to a political source, it is constructed as a personal responsibility and as a moral failure, as the following account suggests: Mrs Omid’s daughter, Mariam, told me that when she was a child she fell severely ill but none of the physicians could diagnose her illness. Her father considered that her illness might have developed because they had temporarily stopped a monthly dirge ritual (rowzeh), which they had sponsored in their home for many years. Soon after they resumed the monthly ceremony, her health had improved rapidly. In her recollections, Mariam did not think it relevant to tell me that there might have been other possible reasons for the return of her health other than to confirm her father’s self-validating theory. Ideas about well-being are bound up with kindred beliefs about the workings of the world by powerful, benevolent supernatural spirits or saints, as well as by negative agents such as the ‘evil eye’ (cheshm-bad, nazar zadan). The ‘evil eye’ is a common trope for feelings of vulnerability due to envy from one’s social equals. It is a measure of the kind of social tensions that are expressed in the women’s comments at the healing ritual. For instance, one woman is envious of those who can afford to go on an expensive pilgrimage. Another attributes her son’s problems to peoples’ envy of his good fortune of gaining a place to study at the university. Mrs Sabri expresses anger at those who dare question her motives. These remarks reveal awareness that to be fortunate in conditions of uncertainty or poverty can give rise to hostile envy from one’s social equals. They indicate the conviction that insensitivity to the circums-

14 See, N. Tapper & R. Tapper (1988) on the Durrani Pashtun’s responses to social disorder and personal affliction in terms of their notions of the self, agency and moral responsibility, in which gender distinctions play a central role, though subsumed by abstract notions of subordination to the will of God.

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tances of the life of others who are less fortunate can attract the ‘evil eye’. But the belief in the ‘evil eye’ puts the blame of inequality on supernatural agency, brought on by a person upon himself or herself. This form of reasoning avoids confronting the inequalities that are the source of social tensions. Practices commonly thought to ensure well-being or to guard against misfortune and envy are numerous among the women that I encountered in the religious circles. They include the mundane such as giving alms (sadaqeh), wearing amulets bearing protective prayers, adorning homes with Qur"anic verses and burning wild rue, a bunch being prominently displayed with Qur"anic inscriptions behind Mrs Sabri.15 Many preventive measures are prescribed in the prayer book Mafatih. For instance, a ritual called 'aqiqeh is said to prevent misfortune befalling a child. This consists of the sacrifice of an unblemished lamb and its consumption with invited guests. I was invited to just one such ritual, but the practice may have been more prevalent during times of high infant mortality. Protective supplications (do'a) that are said to have been ‘revealed’ to the Imams are particularly popular. Many are prescribed for specific weekdays, months, and occasions or for special purposes. Many others are optional or even improvised. The women tell each other of those supplications, which they have found particularly effective. Qur"anic recitations are regarded as powerful in themselves. This can be the recitation of only one verse. For example, some women sponsored a dirge ritual (rowzeh) combined with lunch by monthly rotation in their homes for close acquaintances and friends. At one of these luncheons, the hostess left briefly to go and visit her daughterin law who was ill in a hospital nearby. She returned shortly after with an apple in hand, asked each of us to recite one of the shorter Qur"anic verses (one hamd, three qol-ho-va"llah) and blow over the apple. Then, she returned to give the apple to the patient. A ritual that is particularly popular and deemed effective for wellbeing and prosperity is called khatm-e "an'am. Central to the ceremony is the recitation of the lengthy Qur"anic chapter (S: 6) called al "an'am (Arabic pl. cattle, from the root n'm, Persian ne'mat, abundance, blessing). This chapter is said to be particularly abundant

15

See, Donaldson (1973) for detailed study of practices relating to wild rue.

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with grace because it contains all the names of God and was revealed to the Prophet in its entirety. The invited guests take turns to recite ten or twenty verses, taking great care that no mistakes are made. The ceremony is also popular among the prosperous middle classes to ensure continued prosperity. One such woman I met made a vow to sponsor the ceremony on a weekly basis for the continued wellbeing and success of her children who were studying abroad. In effect, she was legitimising her wealth in religious terms. A final example demonstrating the belief in the efficacy of verses from the Qu"ran is a verse (S27: 62), which Zeynab is said to have recited at the height of her distress by the side of her brother’s slain body.16 Many women consider this verse efficacious and recite it frequently during jalaseh three times in a row to hasten the recovery of someone who is ill. Mrs Omid named an unusual zikr ritual after the verse “khatm-e amman yujibu”.17 Twenty-five women recited this verse fourteen thousand times in the name of the “Fourteen-MostPure” (Chahardah Ma'sum), using rosaries to keep count.18 Mrs Omid said that she devised this ritual for an old friend, who had called her from the US, where she lived, asking her to perform a suitable ritual on her behalf in fulfilment of a vow (nazr). The point about these examples, as with Mrs Sabri’s healing ritual, is that avoidance of suffering is as much a religious problem as is its endurance. As Reinhold Loeffler argues, religion is not so much an intellectual engagement with theological questions of suffering and injustice but a matter of action upon them (1988: 253). The women’s vows and other practices described above indicate that they expect redress here and now, in a concrete and tangible way. They do not use their religious conceptions just to reconcile their experiences of suffering, pain or injustice, but equally to deny these (cf. Loeffler ibid.). When confronting their illness or other form of suffering, it

16 The recited phrase from the verse (S.27: 62) is: “amman yujibu l-muztarra iza da"ahu va-yakshifu s-su"a”. Yusif 'Ali translation (1986): “Or who listens to the (soul) distressed when it calls on Him and who believes its suffering and makes you (humankind) inheritors of the earth? . . .” [mankind changed to humankind by myself ]. 17 Zikr (dhikr, Arabic) is here not meant in the Sufi sense of a trance inducing ritual, but as invocation or remembrance of God or a saint by repetition of a phrase or a name. 18 The “Fourteen-Most-Pure” (Chahardah Ma'sum) refers to the Prophet, his daughter Fatemeh and his twelve male successors who are the Shi'i Imams.

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is not only to affirm that they can endure it and expect reward as proof of their faith, or that an infinitely better life lies ahead for those who pass the test of faith. Rather, they seek remedy for their problems here and now. When a problem is resolved or results are obtained, it confirms the women’s belief and that they can take action to influence God through the saints, irrespective of the fact that the result may have been achieved otherwise. Even in cases of surgery, the outcome is still attributed to the will of God. Though the individuals themselves may seek out the most experienced surgeon, they say that a surgeon can merely assist, but cannot alter the course of events designed by God. The amplified narratives by Mrs Sabri at Zeynabiyeh reinforce such beliefs, which are given further credence by factual accounts of medical tests. Resorting to the bio-medical system to provide proof of religious efficacy may seem paradoxical, but it indicates how the women play with context to verify their own beliefs. The tension that exists in the mutually contradictory systems (the bio-medical and the religious) is itself resolved culturally and by the belief that all depends ultimately on God’s will. While the women privilege religious healing, they also explore all the other avenues at their disposal, switching or blending available options for the best results.19 Apart from seeking advice from physicians and appealing to the saints with vows, they also rely on their own common sense understanding of the body’s reaction to certain foods and the requirement of dietary balance, based on a widely shared knowledge of humoral distinctions between ‘hot’ (garmi) and ‘cold’ (sardi ) foods.20 This knowledge is derived from years of providing care for the household and is passed down from mothers to daughters. At the root of this system is the idea of a balanced relation

19 Cf. R. Tapper & N. Tapper (1986) for a useful descriptive framework, which they suggest might have wider applicability in the Middle East. They describe the complex relations between four domains of discourse regarding food evaluations among the Durrani Pashtuns (the religious, political, humoral and the magical, conceding the latter as an unsatisfactory term), between which the actors switch according to context, while preserving the ultimate priority of Islam, which conceals relations of power. 20 The humoral reasoning people use in Iran is a simplified version derived from early theorists like Galen, whose works became more widely known in 11th–12th centuries through Arab and Persian scholars like Ibn Sina (Avicenna) and Averroes. See, B. Turner (1996: 92), Good (1994: 101 ff. & 197 fn. 6) for further references, and R. Tapper & N. Tapper (1986: 70–72), who in turn refer to B. Good (1977).

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between the body and the environment, and that an imbalance between the ‘cold’ and ‘hot’ foods can cause ill health. The humoral system has withstood the powerful scientific model with its claims of sole knowledge over the body. In this system, disease is seen in the context of a person’s total life in relation to their environment (B. Turner 1996: 92). Thus, it works against the fragmentation of the body and mind that characterizes the bio-medical discourse, despite relatively recent attempts to encourage a more holistic approach. The humoral system has also endured the powerful religious discourse, as it has no morality or absolutes of good or bad, nor does it make distinctions along gender lines.

The Political Economy of Illness The insight that a medical system ought to be understood not just as a system of knowledge and belief, but as a set of social, historical, political and economic forces is an established premise in medical anthropology.21 The use of religion for healing illness may be valid therapeutically and economically, but it fails to address the government’s health care responsibilities, such as funding or poverty and other roots of ill health. It discursively shifts the emphasis from social and political ills and the breakdown of the healthcare system to a breakdown in morality. When health and morality are linked, as often done in the case of AIDS, disease itself becomes a form of deviance, transgression or sin and a means to control people’s chosen style of life.22 The moralizing of social ills is both similar to and linked to the now widely used concept of “medicalization” used by medical anthropologists to place illness and disease in the wider context. It indicates the ways in which social malaise becomes centred on the body, somatized and reduced to a series of discrete pathological conditions (heart disease, arthritis, TB and so on), pointing out that representations of illness are often misrepresentations that not only fail to remedy the causes, but also reinforce them. These are examples of the ways in which relations of power are inscribed on the body and can be experienced as personal. 21 See, for example, Lock and Scheper-Hughes (1990) and Nichter & Lock eds. (2002). 22 See, Good (1994: 56–62) and Lock & Kaufert (1998).

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Changes in forms of knowledge are related to forms of power (Foucault 1967, 1990, 1977). Having little to offer those in dire distress, the religious discourse redefines the terms of illness, serving as a powerful mechanism through which the government can divest itself of responsibility for social provision. This crucially affects the less privileged and the poorer sections of society, who are particularly vulnerable and disadvantaged when it comes to accessing scarce resources like healthcare. The moral economy thus helps sustain the political economy of difference, based on gender, class and other forms of difference. Religion itself is grounded in humanistic goals. So-called theodicy attempts to situate individual suffering as an aspect of the wider questions about the value and worth of life and divine justice. It helps those in distress to make sense of their predicament and to prepare themselves for the inevitable. Set against this humanistic interpretation of the religious discourse is a more instrumental one. For the government, the religious discourse of healing and the tacit support of operations like that of Mrs Sabri’s Zeynabiyeh provide an effective alternative to costly, bio-medical treatment and a means by which the needs of the masses can be accommodated. Popular religious healing practices such as those performed at Zeynabiyeh could thus be defined as a form of political organization, integral to the project of government and one of the techniques of knowledge, power and subjectification through which social authorities seek to administer and control the lives of individuals.23 This is consistent with the promotion of Zeynab’s image as an icon of care and as miraculous healer. A discourse of the miraculous resolution of problems also promotes religious fervour, which when channelled and controlled, discourages secularism, and ultimately legitimizes a theocratic rule. Mrs Sabri’s work seemingly fits in well with this project, although she turns it to her advantage. But, her collusion is not a simple case of exploitation from above, but takes the shape of a negotiation. Her multiple roles as charitable fundraiser, as provider of health care, social welfare and religious service strengthen her position in the sphere of social reproduction.

23 Cf. Steve Ferzacca (2002: 49), who refers to Moore (1996: 12) and Foucault’s concept of governmentality, suggesting that medical pluralism is a political organisation, a means of state rule and governance in the context of Indonesia.

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chapter two The Politics of Caring Labour: Familiar Dualisms in a New Guise

Feminist scholarship has long questioned the arbitrary separation of reproduction (‘female procreativity’) from production (‘male productivity’). It argues that reproductive activities within the household units (like feeding, care provision, cleaning and their management) are linked to wider economic, political and social processes, and should be fully acknowledged as worthy of entitlements.24 Drawing on Fraser’s (1989) analysis of the politics of interpretation, determination and satisfaction of needs and rights, Moore (1994: 86–106) argues that the discursive categories of reproduction and production are grounded in discourses on social identity. These in turn relate to naturalized differences like gender, class or race that involve questions of power and ideology. Questions over the provision of childcare affecting women’s needs and rights in relation to work are, for example, based on conceptualisations of ‘motherhood’, which are particularly powerful because it appears ‘natural’ that mothers should be the prime care givers, even though there are vast differences between the meanings and experiences of motherhood across class and racial lines (Moore 1994: 99). Claims of ‘naturalness’ override rational explanation; rather than explain they justify. The feminist struggle over interpretations of needs and rights is therefore not simply about the allocation of or access to resources, but about rethinking the discursive gendered categories of production and reproduction themselves. Mrs Sabri’s public performance of caring labour demonstrates women’s stake in social reproduction. Her clients, by demonstrating unselfish motives by making vows for others, consolidate her position. Resistance to the boundaries of production/reproduction in a setting associated with religious values and domestic care may seem a transgression. It challenges the assumption of disinterestedness associated with women’s caring labour in the domestic realm, where provision of care is naturalized and unpaid. By demanding a fee equivalent to that of physicians for her work as care giver, Mrs Sabri contests the ‘professionalisation’ of healthcare by the educated middle classes as sole sources of authority and winners of income. Beyond claiming

24 For an overview of the debates on the relation between production and reproduction see, Moore (1991: 46–54; 1994: 86–106).

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payments, she also introduces an alternative to the discourse that defines women’s bodies as merely reproductive. Instead she reveals reproductive activity to be socially productive, warranting social and economic recognition.25 This public engagement with the established categories, mixing symbols of the market (money, ‘production’) with symbols of domestic care (‘reproduction’) in a religious setting is significant.26 The very context defines the gendered dualities that Mrs Sabri’s performance blurs, and the religious idiom that she employs is a particularly effective way to press her claims. She does not oppose the public/ domestic value regimes politically, but her action is political. Performances such as these are self-fulfilling. They lead on to more formal negotiations over, for example, the sexual division of labour and the allocation of resources. An apt example is the legal enforcement of payment of like wages for housework (ujrat-al-mithl) in the 1992 amendments to the divorce laws.27 The amendment enables the Shari'a-based family courts of law to put a monetary value on the domestic work women do during marriage, affecting thereby women’s negotiation power, not only within the household, but also beyond. Whether Mrs Sabri’s efforts yield concrete results is less important. Her action is effective because it alters the terms of the discourse that conceptualizes women as ‘merely’ reproductive by revealing the contradictions contained within it. It could be argued that this feminine focus on healing and care provision is a powerful life-creating symbol that women appropriate by means of female-specific rituals. The significance here is that life and growth are divorced from procreation and shifted to the realm of social reproduction.

25 An interesting parallel argument by Julie Peteet (1997) concerns redefinitions of motherhood by mothers of martyrs in the context of Palestinian struggle for statehood. Peteet goes beyond the familiar discourse of mothers as national icons to one where women challenge ‘the gendering of citizenship or caring labor’ and rescript motherhood as a socially productive activity warranting state support and recognition (1997: 104–105). 26 On ‘boundary transgression’ (Douglas 1966) see, Kapchan’s analysis of the power of mixing the categories of the sacred and the market in women’s discourses on magic in a Moroccan market (1996: 234–271). 27 See, Mir-Hosseini (1996, 2002) on the new amendments to the law.

CHAPTER THREE

THE WELL-ADJUSTED MISFIT SELF-CREATION AND THE CONTINGENCIES OF SELFHOOD

This chapter explores how a dream comes to constitute an aspect of personhood through which new social relationships are forged. We will encounter a woman who derives her popularity through a different route to that set out by Mrs Omid and Mrs Sabri (Chapters 1 & 2). Goli is a ‘repentant sinner’ from the very margins of society. She tells her story of transition from cabaret star to her vocation as an intermediary for making vows by means of a ‘revelatory dream’. That a social outcast should become a celebrated conduit for barakat seems extraordinary, even by local standards. But far from being an example of the ‘culturally exotic’, her story reveals the relations of power that produce and shape cultural practices. It demonstrates Goli’s intense struggle in her new vocation to adhere to the prescribed femininities of the Islamic regime. Her story is of particular interest because as Abu-Lughod argues (1997: 98–99), the focus on an individual’s life, their choices, desires, conflicts and struggles, avoids the connotations of homogeneity, coherence and timelessness associated with the term ‘culture’. Goli’s story is not simply private or idiosyncratic. It is both culturally mediated and historically situated. Feminist scholarship has repeatedly shown that the personal is political.1 The intersection of personal histories with structures of power and domination is particularly revealing of the relationship between the individual and the social. An emphasis on subjective narratives and the ability of individuals to act on their world does not mean a denial of their relation to systematized inequalities like gender and class. These are not mutually exclusive. Actors may be self-determining in certain contexts, but denied autonomy and influence in others. While power 1 On the relationship between the social and the individual, see for example, Moore (1994), Okely (1991), Ochs & Capps (1996). See, also Bauman (1986), Goffman (1990).

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may be legitimized, neutralized or even positively valued, it is also contested and must be specified in context rather than assumed in advance.2 This chapter discusses Goli’s creative deployment of a dream as a tool in her struggle for recognition and livelihood. But it also interrogates the conditions that make this struggle a necessary step to be valued. Her dreams provide an insight into the ways in which individuals position themselves within unequal relations of power. It demonstrates the fluid, contingent and political nature of identities. We begin with a description of Goli’s house that is now a popular centre for making vows to the saints. A celebration (mowludi) is being held in honour of Fatemeh’s birth. Since the Revolution of 1978–79, Fatemeh’s birth has been officially proclaimed “Mother’s Day” (ruz-e madar). It is also celebrated as “Woman’s Day” (ruz-e zan) with the aim of providing an Islamic alternative to “International Woman’s Day”. As with the saint Zeynab (see Chapter 2), Fatemeh has multiple images. One is that of defiance and justice, based on stories of her speech in the Prophet’s mosque defending her husband 'Ali’s right of succession, and of her bold reclamation of her inherited land of Fadak, which the Caliphs had usurped. But above all, she is an icon of chastity, piety and submission as mother, daughter and wife, an image used as a source of legitimacy for gender relations by religious scholars and intellectuals in the Islamic Republic (Mir Hosseini 1999: 53–65). The section opens with the paid female preacher having to put up with a series of apparently inconsequential interruptions from Goli as she attempts to lead a mowludi. The relationship between these very different women is difficult, but they also depend on each other for their success. We will also track the views of the other participants who pursue their own concerns and interests.

2 On the notion of ‘contested power’, see Hartsock (1990: 158). As Henriques et al. say, “Subjects are dynamic and multiple, always positioned in relation to particular discourses and practices and produced by these . . .” (1984: 3). The issue here is one of the relationships between structure and action, between the individual and the social (Giddens 1977, 1979; Bourdieu 1992).

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chapter three “The Maidservant of the Fourteen-Most-Pure” (Kaniz-e Chahardah Ma'sum)3

Goli’s house is situated in an alley in a busy shopping centre in central Tehran. It is a two-storied building made of crumbling yellow bricks set within high dusty walls. A small triangular green flag above the front door invites visitors to enter via a curtained entrance.4 This opens into a small courtyard, around which are the rooms where Goli lives. Going up to the veranda via a stairway, visitors see facing them on the wall a large bunch of wild rue (esfand) to protect against the ‘evil eye’. Along the veranda are two adjoining rooms that Goli has set aside for religious gatherings. The elaborate interior displays are unlike any I had seen elsewhere.5 Cloth banners bearing embroidered or printed calligraphy drape the pillars and doorways and the walls are cluttered with relics, votive offerings, posters and images of saints brought back from pilgrimage. Sanctified by association with the visited shrines, these items are bearers of promise and hope. Prominent among them are large, brightly coloured, glossy posters of Mecca and Medina, handsome images of Imam Husseyn and his brave half-brother Hazrat-e 'Abbas on horseback brandishing a sword. There are also various other pieces of cloth in black or green stitched with supplications, Qur"anic verses and the panj tan (‘The Five Bodies’).6 In one of the rooms, attention is drawn to a large frame covered with glass, containing a piece of cloth stitched with the phrase, “God, in the name of the ‘Fourteen-MostPure’, 'Abbas and Zeynab.”7 All these items are linked to stories that Goli ensures her visitors learn. Facing the large frame on the oppo-

3

The “Fourteen-Most-Pure” (Chahardah Ma'sum) refers to the Prophet, his daughter Fatemeh and his male successors, who are the twelve Shi'a Imams. The ‘maidservant’ (kaniz) is a self appellation chosen by Goli herself as an expression of her religious humility as a devotee of the saints. 4 Green is the colour of the Prophet and his descendants who are called seyyed. 5 Cf. Flaskerud for a detailed description of the visual imagery used by women to create a religious space in a temporary venue for their ritual performances in Shiraz (2005: 68–76). 6 The panj tan are also designated as the ahl-e beyt (‘those of the House’), which refers to the Prophet and his immediate household, who are Fatemeh and her husband 'Ali with their two sons, Hassan and Husseyn. 7 Ya Allah, tavassol be Chahardah-Ma'sum, ya Qamar-e Bani-Hashem, ya Hazrat-e Zeynab. The appellation Qamar-e Bani Hashem refers to Hazrat-e 'Abbas, who died with Imam Husseyn at the Karbala battle (ad 680).

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site wall is a large black and white photograph of Goli closely veiled. This is an assertive display of a woman’s portrait in a public space commonly occupied by portraits of men (fathers, husbands, sons and brothers or political leaders), all conspicuous by their absence from Goli’s walls. The popularity of Goli’s house rose rapidly in the early years of the Islamic Republic. Renowned as an auspicious centre for ‘favours and vow making’ (nazr-o-niyaz), it became a centre for religious gatherings and Qur"an classes soon after the Islamic Republic came to power. The classes are now held twice weekly on an open-house basis presided over by a female preacher whom Goli has employed. Many stories are told of miraculous cures and problems resolved for people who come to Goli’s house from near and far. No one, apparently, goes away empty-handed. All those with whom I have spoken consider Goli’s house highly propitious, apart from Mrs Omid. As with her views on Zeynabiyeh, she has strong reservations about any initiatives that she considers unorthodox, calling them as bed'at. People refer to Goli’s house as a Hosseyniyeh, a title derived from Imam Husseyn, to whom such centres are generally dedicated. They are usually independent buildings funded by religious endowments (vaqf ). The creation of religious centres by women in their homes, such as Goli’s and Mrs Sabri’s (Chapter 2), has become popular in the new Islamic order and seems to be a relatively recent phenomenon.8 I met several other women who created permanent religious spaces in their homes, dedicating them to their preferred saints and designating them accordingly, often because of a vow or a dream. Goli has dedicated hers to the ‘infallible’ Shi'i saints and has designated it accordingly “House of the Maidservant of the FourteenMost-Pure”. The women who use this centre fund and maintain it, as well as providing Goli’s livelihood through votive offerings. These range from services like sweeping and serving refreshments during rituals, to supplying sugar or tea for a specified period or making more substantial payments in cash or kind, including the sponsorship of rituals in Goli’s house. The conversion of part of the home into a religious centre by women brings religious significance to their home as well as kudos

8 Arjomand (1988: 92) reports that by 1974, there were 322 Hosseyniyeh centres in Tehran, but he does not mention any home-based centres run by women.

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(‘symbolic capital’) for their household.9 Unlike mosques, these homebased centres allow women more freedom and an unhindered access to a space of worship of their own making. Mosques, despite being central institutions of worship for all worshippers, are not available to women on equal terms with men. Women must enter by a side entrance and are only allowed to use spaces on the margins separate from men, although they use their designated space to good advantage. However, many of the women that I knew said that entry into mosques during menstruation is a sin.10 Significantly, only men are allowed to deliver sermons (khotbeh) from the pulpit (menbar). In practice, this rule has been subject to variation across time and space and is currently being challenged by women and some men (cf. Chapter 1).11 Thus, the denial of equal access to mosques cannot be ascribed to any ‘Islamic essence’ but to those who claim to be representatives of Islamic law at various historical junctures. The political significance of sermons in the Islamic Republic is well-known, so that barring women from the pulpit in effect denies them an influential political platform. These are just a few examples of the radical imposition of authority over women by the religious establishment. In their own spaces, the women find greater freedom and autonomy to explore their own understandings of religion and the world about them, including petitioning the saints with stories of misfortune or misery that counter the stories propagated by the state. To trivialize these spaces as ‘merely’ cathartic or domestic would be simplistic.

9 Bourdieu’s ‘symbolic capital’ includes values like prestige and renown as ‘the most valuable form of accumulation’ in the community of his example (1992: 171–183). 10 The view relates to the rules (ahkam) defining menstruation as impurity (nejasat) and the requirement that mosques are kept ritually pure. Janet Bauer reports that some women told her that they take pills to stop menstruation in order to be able to go on pilgrimage and enter sacred spaces (1985: 121). 11 For variations in practices regarding women’s use of mosques, see Ahmed (1992: 60–61, 75). For instance, Zeynab gave political speeches in the mosque (Fischer 1978: 196 n. 14, Pinault 1992: 5, Sullivan 1998: 221), as did Fatemeh in defence of her husband 'Ali’s right of succession to the Prophet (Mir-Hosseini 1999: 60). More recently, on 18 March 2005, Amina Wadud, a professor of Islamic studies in the US, led a mixed congregation in Friday prayer and gave a sermon in an Anglican Church building in New York after mosques refused to host the event (see, http://news.bbc.co.uk). See also Mahmood on prohibitions on women’s use of mosques in Egypt, and recent challenges by women (2005: 86–89).

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Celebration of Fatemeh’s Birthday Anniversary: A mowludi 19 Jamadi II 1413 AHQ/14 December 1992 Mowludi (Arabic, mawlud, birth) are immensely popular among women and are characterized by their diversity and spontaneity.12 They are held for any of the joyful events on the religious calendar or for life course events, such as coming of age, moving house or return from pilgrimage. The choice as to how a mowludi should be performed, or for which occasion, is in effect a political choice, as with any ritual. For instance, as a sign of loyalty to the state, some women sponsor mowludi in their homes to mark the anniversary of Khomeini’s return to Iran in 1979, which is a public holiday with media involvement on a wide scale. As with all rituals, mowludi are extremely versatile and are often combined with other rituals, including jalaseh (Chapter 1), sofreh (Chapter 4), khtam-e "an'am (Chapter 2), dramatic performances in jashn-e 'Omar (Chapter 7), rowzeh and Qur"an classes, such as the one described here. Central to mowludi are the singing of joyful poems in praise of the saints by the participants (mowludi-khani). There are many mowludi pamphlets or books on the market, but women often compose poems themselves and are admired by other women for them. The lead can be a professional female cantor (maddah), or anyone among the participants who possesses a repertoire of poems and a good melodic voice (‘warm voice’, seda-ye garm), strong enough to rise above the steady beat of clapping and chorus of refrains that accompanies the lead. A percussion instrument may be used, such as a tambourine (tombak, dayereh, daf ) or simply a kitchen pot, invariably giving rise to spontaneous dancing. The possibilities for free expression are immense. The mowludi display women’s skills at composition of poems, songs, music making and dance, but also are revealing of their political and religious loyalties. There is invariably tension between a moralistic approach to religious practice and the desire for joy through music making, song and most controversially of all, dance. Persian dance is immensely popular and can be coquettish (naz), teasing (eshveh) and flirtatious (kereshmeh) when combined with the beat

12 For variations of mowludi, see Kalinock (2003), Torab (1998) and Chapter 8 below.

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of a tambourine which women skilfully perform (see also, Chapter 7).13 The dance often develops into popular satiric performances, called literally “of the streets and bazaars” (kutcheh-bazaari), which revolve around the theme of women’s sexuality.14 When dancing takes place during mowludi, disputes are common. The religious authorities define dancing by women (or men) as sinful (gonah), hence haram (forbidden).15 Even singing and clapping is prescribed and restricted. Underlying the clergymen’s reasoning is the notion that dancing and melody give free reign to sensuousness and thus lead to the loss of control over the body or nafs, which is seen as a sign of weakness in intellect ('aql ). In order to control the tempo during mowludi, preachers advocate clapping with two fingers only (do-angoshti) instead of the full hand. They attempt thereby to curb the momentum and the desire to dance, but are not always successful. Mrs Omid once admitted that she rarely accepted invitations to a mowludi because of this. The presence of preachers generally reins in free expression and dampens the festive tone, hence they are rarely invited to preside over mowludi held in private homes. My first visit to Goli’s house was on the birthday anniversary of the Prophet’s daughter, Fatemeh. I went with Mrs Omid’s daughter Mariam, despite her mother’s reservations about Goli’s centre. Mariam’s aunt however visited Goli’s house regularly as she lived close by. When we arrived at about nine in the morning, a Qur"an class was in progress presided over by a middle-aged female preacher wearing a green headscarf to indicate her status as seyyed (a descendant of the Prophet). Unlike Mrs Omid, she sits on an elevated seat looking down at about eighty middle aged and older women who are seated elbow-to-elbow on the floor in front of her. Each woman recites ten verses from the Qur"an from the Chapter called an-nisa (S.4, “Women”). The preacher commends their competent performance, stopping occasionally to correct a mistake, but she neither translates nor explains the verses. Mariam whispers to me that most of the women are proficient at Qur"an recitation, but come because

13

See, Azar Nafisi (2004: 265–266) for a vivid description of Persian dance. See Chapter 7 for examples. See also Anjavi-Shirazi (1973) for a collection of such songs and Safa-Isfahani’s (1980) analysis of these songs as satirical commentaries on women’s lives and sexuality. 15 See, Torab (1998: 453–54) on the views of some of the leading Ayatollahs on dance and song. 14

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of the auspiciousness of Goli’s house. Meanwhile, boxes of sweet pastry are passed around and Mariam insists that I take one for its barakat. The preacher announces that she has chosen the verses in honour of Fatemeh and at regular intervals during the recitations she congratulates everyone for the joyous “Woman’s Day”. The two rooms continue to fill and as more women arrive, the preacher asks everyone to move closer to make room and to pray for a larger Hosseyniyeh for Goli. Mariam points discreetly to a new arrival and whispers that she is the wife of the prayer-leader of the local mosque, adding that her aunt says that the wives of high-ranking government officials often attended and one should be careful of what one said. She indicated thereby the omnipresence of the state and tacit support of Goli’s centre by implication. After the Qur"an recitations, the preacher announces that she would like to speak about “women and mowludi”, but is interrupted by Goli, who enters in a jovial mood telling everyone to make room for more newcomers. Goli is vivacious, probably in her early forties and good-looking by the standards of popular stars in the Shah’s era. She is small, ample, has a fair complexion, brown eyes and dyed blond hair, worn loosely down to her shoulders. Her dress is festive, rather flamboyant and all in garish green, a colour that is intended to advertise her claim to seyyed status, like the preacher. Goli is the only one not wearing a headscarf. Ignoring her, the preacher reminds the women to ensure that their hair is covered and that their chador is held in place, as otherwise the angels would not enter the room, clearly intended as a warning to Goli who at this point leaves the room. The preacher continues with more praises for Fatemeh, reminding the women that Fatemeh is their primary role model, “Zahra make us aware of our roles as women and mothers.” Warning that there are many signs that the ‘Lord of the Ages’ will soon reappear, she cautions again about hejab. With the mention of the Mahdi’s name, the women readjust their veils and some begin to sob, stopping as soon as the preacher tells them not to weep on such a day. Switching to another theme, the preacher says that all Muslims should help the Bosnian Muslims and donate freely in aid of their war, referring to the government’s wide scale, controversial campaign to raise money in support of the Muslim community in Bosnia. Many people regard the campaign as misguided given the poverty they see

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at home and in response to the preacher’s call, only one woman declares that she wishes to make a donation to the Muslim fighters and hands over a large banknote to her. Meanwhile, Goli reappears striding into the room with confidence, still without a headscarf. Goli is pert and contrary. When the preacher warned the women about their headscarves, it was the very thing Goli resisted. Quick to assert her status and without any attempt at tact, she interrupts the preacher’s talk by telling the women to pass two paper bags around for collections, one for alms (sadaqeh) and one for the seyyed. Mariam whispers that these collections are for Goli herself. The women pretend not to notice the tension between Goli and the preacher and contribute freely. When the bags reach Goli again, they are bulging with notes, showing overwhelming support for Goli. The preacher disregards Goli’s presence and continues to talk about Fatemeh. She presents Fatemeh not simply as a prime symbol of womanhood, but as a powerful woman, who is ‘mother of all fathers and Imams’ ("umm-e "abia", Arabic) as well as the inheritor of the Angel Gabriel’s ‘revelations’ from God that are yet to be disclosed, leaving much to individual interpretation. The preacher then prompts everyone to congratulate “Imam Khomeini, Zahra’s son” and adds that he was also born on this day. Mariam whispers derisively that this link is fabricated for political reasons. Mowludi are generally meant to be merry occasions, so the preacher now attempts to create a festive mood. She reaches for a booklet of mowludi poems in her handbag and acting as lead, begins to sing: Medina was lit as Zahra’s light rose at dawn Khadijeh’s house became like a garden of flowers The soul/body of Mostafa [Prophet] came, the spirit of Morteza came The paradisal woman, the great lady Light came, light came, Zahra came alight The Paradisal woman, the great lady16

The mood begins to change. Everyone claps with two fingers (doangoshti) and joins in singing refrains of praise:

16

Az tulu'-e Zahra Madineh gardid cho golshan Khaneh-ye Khadijeh gardid cho golshan Jan-e Mostafa amad, ruh-e Morteza amad Ensiye-ye hura, sediqeh-ye kobra Nur amad-o nur amad, Zahra be zuhur amad Ensiye-ye hura, sediqeh-ye kobra

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Shi'ites say congratulations to Mostafa Congratulations for Fatemeh’s birthday It is Zahra’s mowludi Joy is around17

The preacher maintains the momentum with a continuous flow of songs, rounds of salavat and repeated prompts for clapping when it begins to fade. As the singing proceeds, more boxes of pastry and sweets are passed around. Then Goli reappears with another bag full of small sugar balls (noql) and sweets, which she scatters over everyone’s head with the kind of loud ululations (hel-heleh) used at weddings. Once more, Mariam collects a handful, urging me to take some of it home for its barakat. As midday approaches, the singing is stopped by the preacher prompting us to clap and sing the popular revolutionary slogan in affirmation of the state as a final emphasis to her political loyalty: “The Republic is victorious, today is Woman’s Day.”18 As people prepare to leave, one woman declares loudly that we are all invited to a mowludi in her home nearby. By midday, about one third of the women leave and the rest converse among themselves. Suddenly, a woman clearly agitated announces, “aqa (lord, sir) has come”. Everyone hurriedly throws their chador right over their head and face as an old dirge cantor (rowzeh-khan), wearing a black turban and black cloak enters murmuring audibly, “Ya Allah” a few times to indicate his entrance, a usual method of warning women to put on the veil when a turbaned man enters female space. Taking over the elevated seat on which the preacher has been sitting, the clergyman begins with a brief account in praise of Fatemeh, and then chants a short rowzeh about her suffering before her death. As is usual with dirges, the women begin to weep. One woman next to me tells me sobbing, “Our religion is full of tragedies; the ahl-e beyt had more pains than joy; our religion started as a religion of resistance.” She felt she needed to explain to me the reason why a dirge was chanted on a joyous day, indicating thereby a desire for

17

18

Shi'a begu be Mostafa tabarak Tavvalod-e Fatemeh-at mobarak Mowludi-ye Zahrast Shadi mohayyast jomhuri piruz ast ruz-e zan emruz ast

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more joy by implication. The rowzeh is short, lasting about five minutes only, and as is usual, the ritual weeping stops as soon as it is over and the women relax as soon as the clergyman leaves, followed by some more women who also leave. The preacher and a few of the others go to the adjoining room to perform the midday prayers. After the preacher leaves the room, an old woman stands up and begins to dance, whereupon other women begin to clap spontaneously, but stop when one woman complains about the dancing and turning to me, says that the old woman is deranged. She provokes a dispute, which comes to an abrupt end with Goli’s entrance. She changes the mood by ululating festively, scattering sugar balls (noql ) over everyone’s head. The preacher returns from her lunch, taking up her seat again, tells a story of Fatemeh’s birth in the following sequence. She begins with the labour pains of her mother Khadijeh, describes the cloth the angels brought from Paradise to wrap around the child, the bright light that shone from the infant’s forehead at birth and the declaration of faith (shahadat) by the infant, who then developed rapidly, each day equalling the weekly growth rate of other infants. As the women listen to the story, they clap with loud choruses of salavat at various intervals. Once again, Mariam whispers critically that the preacher cannot be very educated telling a fabricated story. The sermon ends with a final prayer to the Mahdi, whereupon everyone stands up as required, ensuring that their veils are in place. Most of the women leave. Some of those remaining put on their prayer-veils (chador-namaz) to perform their prayers in Goli’s auspicious house, while others converse amiably. A few go up to the glass frame bearing the cloth stitched with the names of God and the saints (the product of Goli’s dreams), whispering supplications or making vows to the saints while touching the glass. Meanwhile, Goli has returned and places her own hand on top of theirs to help channel barakat to them, as had been instructed in her dreams (see below). The women respond with gratitude by praying that God grant Goli religious merit (savab) and a larger Hosseyniyeh.

Revelatory Dreams On one of my later visits to Goli’s house to attend a gathering, she invited me to stay on for lunch after everyone else had left. Two of

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her relatives joined us initially as Goli began to give me a detailed account of three of her dreams over a meal which she arranged to be brought from outside. Sharing dreams and soliciting interpretations is highly popular among the women. Goli’s objective in telling me her dreams was to reach a wider audience, for she knew of my intention of writing about her centre. But she wanted to ensure that it was her own account, and not overwritten by me. She asked me to write down her story verbatim as she narrated it and ensured that I did so by pausing at regular intervals, asking me to go over it. As this was an unexpected invitation, I had not come prepared with a tape recorder. What follows is a careful translation of the entire account, including the comments Goli made in between.

The First Dream In my despicable and sinful state I dreamed that I was washing clothes in a well. I said to myself, “O God! A well this large must be the one of the ‘Lord of the Ages’”.19 I saw a seyyed up to his chest in the water. He was very beautiful. He said my name and asked, ‘Did you call me? I am the Lord of the Ages’ (Imam-e Zaman). I said, ‘Lord (aqa), take my hand, save me from this well’. From deep inside the well, the Lord told me to repeat salavat three times, and then he took my right hand and told me to close my eyes. I realized that I had reached the top of the well. That night I had my period. I thought how could I have dreamed of the Lord in this [impure] state. The Lord knew what was going on through my mind and said that it is God’s will that it is possible that Imams appear in a dream even during menstruation unless the forbidden (haram) rule has been breached.

Goli paused to explain to me: In Islam, one must sleep seven days separate from one’s husband during menstruation. My own husband is a mullah’s son (akhund-zadeh), hence I knew this, but there must have been a reason for me to remember it [in the dream]. [Goli then continued]: In my dream, the Lord pinned a badge (medal) on my chest. Although I am illiterate, I could read in my dream. On it was written ‘Maidservant of the ‘Fourteen-Most-Pure’.

At this moment the two relatives left the room and Goli said in a hushed tone:

19 The ‘Lord of the Ages’ (Imam-e Zaman) is known as the ‘Hidden Imam’ (Imam-e Qayeb) because it is thought that he disappeared in a well.

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chapter three I better tell you, before my sister-in-laws return, that the kindness that God bestowed on me through the Lord was because I had sinned gravely several times but repented (towbeh), and by way of acceptance of my repentance, this kindness was bestowed on me. The person who repents is very dear to God. I woke up.

I later discovered that before the revolution of 1978–79, Goli was a cabaret dancer, a profession commonly regarded as being tantamount to prostitution, even by many secular people. When the Islamic Republic closed cabarets, Goli repented and a clergyman arranged for her to marry one of his own relatives. Goli continued: I was not able to interpret my own dream, even though I am good at interpreting dreams. I even interpret the dreams of renowned preachers [Goli named a preacher who appeared regularly on TV]. So, in the morning I went to Qom [theological centre] to Mr Mar'ashi [a prominent Ayatollah, d. 1990]. He was very devoted to the Prophet’s household (ahl-e beyt). As soon as he heard my dream, he wept. He said to me: “If you were a man I would have kissed your eyes and your right hand, because you saw the ‘Lord of the Ages’ and he touched your hand. The Imam is mahram (a cross-sex relationship unrestricted by rules of veiling and avoidance) to all women during his occultation, and it was because of this that the Lord took your hand.”

Goli then added her own view: The Lord is especially mahram to seyyeds (descendent of the Prophet), and my mother is a seyyed. Mr Qara"ati [another popular preacher with regular shows on TV] said that it was written in a book that you are a seyyed if your mother was one [the standard view is to trace seyyed descent patrilineally]. All seyyed are mahram to all Shi'i who are not seyyed, because the Imams were pure (infallible, ma'sum) and have no particular intentions against anyone. Mr Mar'ashi told me that I had been chosen as a ‘Maidservant of the Fourteen-Most-Pure’ and that I must sponsor a rowzeh every fourteen months in their honour.

After her visit to the Ayatollah, Goli undertook a series of actions that went beyond the Ayatollah’s suggestions: I went to Mashhad [the most popular shrine city in north east Iran] to the shop of a young man who was a seyyed. He stitched the names of Imams on pieces of cloth for me. I told him to place God’s name (Khoda) at the top, then in the middle, ‘Resorting to the Fourteen-Most-Pure’ (tavassol be Chahardah Ma'sum), in one corner at the bottom 'Abol-Fazl and in the other bottom corner Hazrat-e-Zeynab. This was because it had to be clear in whose name this place was going to be. Once the seyyed had stitched these names, he placed them on his eyes and wept. He said, ‘Here are the names of all our Imams. They are [God’s] chosen ones (nazar-kardeh) and no impure hands must touch them. As I was stitching the name of the Fourteen-Most-Pure, I made a vow’. I beseeched him, calling on his youth, asking him what the vow was. He said he would not

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tell me, as it would be proven to me later. I brought the cloth to Tehran and put it up in the room. I sponsored fourteen rowzeh in one year.

The Second Dream We were sitting on the floor facing the wall bearing the frame with the sacred cloth. Goli continued to tell me her second dream without pause: After a year I dreamed of a beautiful and handsome man with a black turban [i.e. the Mahdi] standing beside the piece of cloth of the ‘Fourteen-Most-Pure’. He said to me, “Goli khanom (Ms., used as a respectful qualifier when using the more familiar personal name) whoever comes here, place their hands on the name of the Fourteen-Most-Pure and say, ‘I will make two obligatory promises, O God, for your satisfaction and in respect of the ‘Fourteen-MostPure’, to perform namaz on time and be forgiving’.”20

Goli then commented: I woke up from my dream. I thought to myself, people would ridicule me if I tell them this. They will ask why it is necessary to put the hand on the names and not simply express our intent (niyyat) from here. My husband helped me a lot. He said, they even threw stones at our Prophet and said he was mad. You are only his maidservant, therefore you must also hear such words until the truth is proven. He told me that this was a true dream and I must carry it out. It all started with our friends and relatives who placed their hands on the frame and said the two obligatory promises. The saints granted all of them their favours. This became the norm and the truth was proven. One day a woman wept and said, ‘Goli khanom forgive me (halal-am kon), I like you and believe in your house, but every time you put someone’s hand on the frame I had to laugh. Then, one evening I went home and dreamed that I was very troubled. I came to your house. You took my hand and put it on the frame—this woman comes here every fourteen months—you placed my hand on the name of 'Abol-Fazl. Then I said to myself in my dream that Goli khanom has finally also put my hand on the frame. Then I saw a beautiful woman of sixteen or seventeen years old [i.e. Fatemeh] wearing a black Arabian dress and standing next to the frame saying, “Why did you doubt? Goli khanom put your hand on the face of 'Abol Fazl with a pure heart, yes right on his face.” Now this woman is a devoted believer. Gradually the truth was proven to other women in the same way.

Goli continued with her third dream. 20 Do-ta 'ahd-e vajeb khoda-ya bara-ye reza-ye to va be ehteram-e Chahardah Ma'sum mibandam ta betavanam namaz sar-e vaqt, gozasht.

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chapter three The Third Dream This frame had formerly no glass on it. It was like other pieces of cloth on the wall. One night I dreamed that the name of the ‘Fourteen-Most-Pure’ was no longer on the wall. I hit myself in my dream and wondered who had stolen it. A voice told me in my dream: [Addresses me at this point]: Make sure you write that this was in my dream, since I have no pretensions of being a Prophet! [Goli continues]: The voice in my dream told me, ‘Do not fret. We have folded it and placed it on the pulpit (manbar) because you put someone’s impure hand on it’. I did not know that I was dreaming so I replied, ‘You told me yourself to place everybody’s hand on it’. He said, ‘We said so, but frame it and place a glass on it, since most of the women are young, they are menstruating and do not know that the name of Imams must not be touched with an impure hand’.

Goli then commented that: I did not dare give the cloth to just anybody to frame, because I am much attached to it. The son of a friend was a fourteen-year-old football player. He said, ‘Aunt Goli, I will wait with all my friends from the football team until it is framed, and we will bring it back to you. We will frame it with salavat and return it to you with salavat’. The cousin of this boy would not marry. They saw him in the street and placed his hand on the frame. The next week he married. When they brought the frame back to me, they asked me to pray for them to win their match against the Perspolis team. It was an uneven match of fourteen year olds against a professional team. They left. I beseeched the ‘Fourteen-Most-Pure’, saying that these boys are young and that if you grant them their wish, their faith will increase. Now, as God wills. That year, there was a lot of snow. On the eve of the match there had been heavy snowfall on the Amjadiyeh stadium, and the Persepolis team refused to play. But these boys declared that they were prepared to play and because of this, they won. They came to my house and brought me sweet pastries and sugar balls (noql).

Dreams are often complex compositions of unrelated sequences. But Goli’s narrative is astonishingly coherent with a beginning and an end. It may be that she had been retelling her dreams over and over, rearranging it each time for more clarity for her listeners. Nonetheless, her performance is convincing and creates credibility even for a sceptical listener like me. She supplies moving details such as the Ayatollah’s tearful response. We learn that the tailor who stitched the piece of cloth with the sacred names similarly wept over his task. She reminds me that people keep coming back to make vows, pointing to the votive emblems on the walls as tangible proof. Moving to the frame containing the sacred cloth of her dreams, she takes my hand, places it on the frame, rests her own hand on mine

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and instructs me to make a vow, acting thereby as a channel, as I had seen her do with others. She assures me that at times Fatemeh’s spirit visits her house leaving a sweet scent in her trail. Goli then presses a book into my hands, insisting that I take it home and share its contents with my husband. The book, published in 1992, is one among several about the miracles of the Mahdi. The author is a Qom cleric called Abtahi, whose books are popular among the jalaseh circles with which I was familiar. Before I leave, Goli directs me to a cradle at the end of her veranda, saying that it belonged to Imam Husseyn’s infant boy 'Ali-Asghar, who was cruelly killed dying of thirst in the battle of Karbala. She said the cradle is used for the Muharram street processions and that it is propitious for granting of favours, in particular to barren women.21 She takes my hand and places it on the cradle in order that I make a vow.

Dream Narrative and Self-Construction Recounting dreams is a popular activity among the interlocking circles of women I met through Mrs Omid. It is not only that dreams (khab, ro"ya) and their interpretations (ta"bir-e khab) are well-established in popular tradition, epic legends and Shi'a texts, including the Qur"an.22 They are also widely considered as useful and accurate accounts that provide access to the supernatural world. Shi'a texts argue that the dreams of a ‘believer’ are true, and that only persons who are innocent, devout or know the Qur"an by rote (hafez-e Qur"an) can be visited by an Imam, including the Mahdi, in their dream. Typically, gender difference applies to dream interpretation. Women’s dreams are popularly said to be ‘untrue’ and mean the opposite of their apparent content.23 But, this did not seem to apply to Goli’s dreams. I was told that by repeating a certain prayer (do'a) regularly after the daily prayers (namaz), I could be sure to encounter the Mahdi someday in my daily life or by a visitation in my dream.

21

See, also Flaskerud on women’s use of the cradle in ritual performances in Shiraz (2005: 83–84, 2004: 128–29). 22 Works on dream interpretation are attributed to the sixth Imam, Ja'faral-Sadeq. See, EIr on ‘Dreams’ and Fischer & Abedi (1990: 40–41, 117–119). 23 The Persian phrase used is: khab-e zan chap ast, lit. the dream of a woman is ‘left’ (chap), which is used in opposition to ‘right’ (rast), which also means ‘true’.

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By publicly sharing the dreams they choose to tell, narrators like Goli convey something about themselves. People rarely ascribe selfish motives to dream accounts about saints or see them as exploitative fabrications. Rather, they regard dreams primarily as a channel of communication with the supernatural world. Stories about deceased relatives who come back to visit in dreams to express their state of well-being or make requests are particularly common.24 Mrs Omid told me once that she had heard (but could not remember the source) that the spirit could detach itself from the body in sleep, roaming freely and thereby providing the dream experience.25 As an ‘expert’, she was frequently asked during or after a jalaseh to comment on dreams. Though among themselves the women readily offer their interpretations of a dream and the course of action the person should take if they consider that a dream contained messages, Mrs Omid was more cautious. She merely indicated in a most general way whether the dream was a good or bad omen, sometimes using Qur"anic divination (istikhareh). She was aware that an interpretation of a dream was not simply a personal opinion, but could influence people’s thoughts and subsequent actions. Unlike eschatological doctrine, dreams have immediacy, compelling action and predicting the future. This makes them compelling, for in the right context, dream narratives can acquire performative force. Thus, when Goli recounted her dreams to the Ayatollah in Qom, he validated them with his interpretation, thereby legitimizing her subsequent actions.26 Having secured his approval, she undertakes to do far more than he had suggested. She dedicates her house to the infallible saints and sponsors fourteen rituals in their honour in one year instead of only one every fourteen months as suggested by him. This rapidly increases her fame. The humble self-designation as maidservant, hence ‘unworthy’ establishes the authenticity of her calling more securely. Humility and modesty are valued in the religious sphere. Mrs Omid herself observed the rules by making unassuming statements, such as “I am only a guide”. But modesty is only part of a more complex pattern.

24

For some examples see, Torab (1998: 341–2) and Kalinock (2003a). For a similar account, see Holy (1992: 87). 26 J\drej & Shaw refer to the negotiated character of dream narratives as ‘authorising discourse’ (1992: 10). 25

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Indeed, Goli uses her dreams to lay claims to being a seyyed through her mother. Seyyed are generally traced through the male line, even though Fatemeh is the only link between the Prophet and the Imams. Seyyed need not be learned, or well to do, but they are considered to be innocent and pure and are given special privileges, making claims to being one particularly desirable. They have rights to a share of the religious taxes (khoms), but alms (sadagheh, fetriyeh), which are destined for beggars and the poor, are considered demeaning for them. Seyyed are particularly in demand as propitious channels for supplications and making vows, especially if both parents are seyyed. These seyyed are designated as seyyed-e tabataba"i (colloq. seyyede ojagh, lit. ‘seyyed of the hearth’). I came to know who was a seyyed by word of mouth, or by a black turban in the case of clergymen, or by an item of green clothing, which Goli wore on days of 'eyd for all to see. In short, Goli’s dreams became a basis for her claims to being exceptional. Goli’s tactical use of her dreams is in no doubt, but she seems convinced that she is in fact special. Not only did the Ayatollah confirm that this is so, but also each time a vow made at Goli’s house is fulfilled, her narrative becomes a self-perpetuating prophecy. Even if the granting of a favour would have occurred irrespective of the vow, the women attributed it to Goli’s auspicious house. They thereby made it known that the saints favoured them while at the same time adding to Goli’s reputation. Thus, Goli’s dreams and the women’s vows confirmed one another, becoming a basis for Goli to negotiate a new status, reconstruct her selfhood and explore new boundaries and limits within which her life could be worked anew.

The Social and the Individual: Duality of Agency Goli’s dreams occurred at a crucial time of transition. After the revolution, she was faced with an existential dilemma and her life was bound for a radical change. She could no longer carry on her profession as a dancer since cabarets were closed down. Even under the Shah, cabaret dancers were widely thought to lead licentious lives, not so very different to prostitutes. In the religious discourse, such women are constructed as embodying carnal desire or nafs, tempting men’s passions, much like Zuleikha is constructed in the many exegeses of the famous Qur"anic story of Yusuf (al-Yusuf S:12,

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see Chapter 1). Goli’s dream narrative is packed with popular signifiers indicating the reconstruction of her selfhood and transition to purity. The Mahdi, water (the well), light (emerging from deep down in the well) and the ‘right side’ (Goli’s right hand) as common signs for purity and spiritual values stand in contrast to the motifs of menstruation (Goli dreams of the Mahdi during her periods) and darkness (deep down in well) as common signs of impurity and ignorance. The sequence of Goli’s three dreams recalls the rite of passage model of successive stages of separation, liminality and reintegration into society in a new status.27 The first dream suggests a passage out of darkness, ignorance and impurity. The Mahdi takes Goli’s right hand, rescues her from a deep well at a time when she is menstruating (hence in an ‘impure’ state), and pins a medal on her chest, designating her as his agent. In the next dream, the Mahdi instructs Goli to place the hand of her visitors on the sacred cloth in making a vow. It suggests that Goli has entered a ‘liminal phase’ as a conduit, enabling other women to touch the sacred cloth and benefit from its barakat. But in the third dream, the sacred cloth disappears and social reality reasserts itself with all its gender disparity. A male voice tells Goli that he has put it out of women’s reach on the pulpit (a symbol of male authority) because an ‘impure’ (menstruating) woman has touched it. He instructs Goli to cover it with a protective glass in order to continue her work. In other words, women must accept their bodies and their selves as subordinate to men as a condition of accessing barakat. Goli’s dreams appear to deal with the tensions of a situation in which she is caught between conflicting discourses about the self as both ‘pure’ and ‘impure’. The idea that dreams are not simply individual psychological products, but offer insights into the social and cultural dimensions of everyday life is not new in social anthropology. They are seen as cultural attempts to review and resolve tensions inherent in the cultural classifications.28 Goli’s story belongs to

27 Van Gennep (1960) and V. Turner’s (1969) rite of passage model is associated with any temporal, spatial and life crisis changes. 28 Adam Kuper (1979, 1983) suggests that dreams can be analysed like myths, as cultural attempts to resolve contradictions in the classificatory schemes, based on Lévi-Strauss’ (1963) central concepts of structure (the conceptual framework built from a series of oppositions) and transformation (the operations that myth performs on the structure). This is different to Freud’s psychoanalytic theory, which separates

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the discussion of the relationship between the social and the individual. Her dream account is a narrative of how she wants to be placed and to be seen in the context of powerful discourses. It can be seen as a means of both individuation and socialisation, a process of dual agency ( J\drej & Shaw 1992:11). Typically, a figure such as a cabaret dancer is held accountable for endorsing and not refusing the desires (nafs) of men, in both popular and religious culture. Meanwhile, these men are not in turn held accountable for their desires. In reality, such women are blamed because of daring to choose and define a lifestyle outside the normative moral prescriptions. This inequitable morality makes it all the more understandable that women like Goli crave for respect and recognition.29 Her ability to survive and deal with the social abuses of gender and class deserves attention. For instance, negotiating her status vis à vis myself, she takes pleasure in telling me that among the people who come to her to make vows are ‘important personalities’ such as the wives of top ranking clergymen and the wife of the local prayer leader. As she speaks, she plays with a row of thick yellow gold bracelets on her wrists.30 Her aspirations even floated in her dreams, as when she dreams she could read the words on the badge that the ‘Lord’ gave her. More significantly, she asserts her purity and claims the best in life by eliciting affirmation of her self from the uppermost office of religious ranks. Her story is inherently ironic; she is a woman who now colludes with the very system that defined her as ‘low’. Meanwhile, those who decreed her social banishment now endorse her. The notion of being acted upon even as one acts is central to Foucault’s ‘techniques of the self ’. As Judith Butler points out, one does not set one’s own terms for identification but negotiates one’s subjectivity

the unconscious (an egocentric subjective process) from the conscious (logical, analytic process). However, psychological and sociological explanations are not mutually exclusive (George Devreux). For various different approaches to dreams (functionalist, structuralist, cultural, phenomenological, psychological and political economy) see, Edgar (1997), Ewing (1990); Gilsenan (2000), von Grunebaum & Caillos eds. (1966), J\drej & Shaw (1992), Tedlock (1987). 29 Cf. the Moroccan dancer (shika) described by Deborah Kapchan as, “a category of woman whose low and peripheral stature has always helped define the high and socially central by providing its contrast” (1996: 277). 30 Cf. Moors (1998) on wearing gold as a display of specific social relations.

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through discursive norms and negotiations with ‘vectors of power’ (1993: 105; Moore 1994: 65).31 Depending on the perspective of the viewer, this simultaneous process of individuation and socialisation may be described as a ‘duality of agency’, since both are part of the same process of ‘becoming’ ( J\drej & Shaw 1992: 11–12). The concern here is not so much with the nature of Goli’s choice, but the conditions under which her choice could be seen as viable and effective within negotiable limits. Significantly, Goli does not step out of the social discourses, but chooses from available markers of power. After all, when a religious discourse dominates, compliance can be rewarding and bring material benefits. Yet, Goli’s ‘repentance’ does not alter the problem of her social background, but rather serves to displace it.32 The pious women who visit her house accept her as part of their moral world and suspend moral judgements, but they do not treat her as their social equal. She remains a social inferior, even though they seek her favours. They donate freely toward her livelihood as a meritorious charitable act, but harness her labour to serve their own interests. They both use and reject her. At a mowludi in a neighbouring house, I saw Goli seated humbly by the door, ignored and marginalized by those who defined their sense of self as ‘respectable and pious’ by maintaining their social distance (cf. Kapchan 1996: 277 op. cit.). Goli’s stigmatization by the women confirms the existence of a boundary by the very fact that she must overstep it. An assertive woman with a confident stride and a choice of dress that is by any standard flamboyant, her past and present seem to flow into one another. She carries her performative assertiveness from the stage into her new life and is marginalized because of it. To become part of a new social category has less to do with ‘what’ Goli does, but ‘how’ she does it. The premise of ‘performativity’ (Butler 1990, 1993) is that ‘identifications’ are a matter of what one ‘does’ and ‘thus’

31 This echoes Bourdieu’s notions of ‘symbolic violence’, which refer to the imposition of the ‘cultural arbitrary’ in such a way that people experience them as legitimate, participating thereby in the structures of their own domination, which obscures the power relations that permit that imposition to be successful (1997: Ch. 8). 32 As Abu-Lughod (1995) argues, publicized stories of ‘born-again repentant’ stars in Egypt merely serve the Islamist discourses of morality, displacing class as the central social problem.

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becomes, rather than what one ‘is’ and therefore does. And rather than give in to marginality as her ‘fate’, Goli draws on her dream experience (the ‘cultural arbitrary’) as a resource to negotiate the world about her, making manifest the theoretical assumption that identities are fluid, situational and fundamentally political.

Millennial Hopes The context of Goli’s story of repentance and dream of the Mahdi is important. Her story is not intended to suggest that people became necessarily more pious with the establishment of the Islamic regime. Rather, it demonstrates how individuals position themselves within relations of power and negotiate the world about them.33 At the time of my research, there was a rising sense of despair that flowed from unfulfilled expectations. These expectations had been raised by the revolutionary promises of justice, equality and plenty, according to which the humble and the disenfranchized were to come first. Belief in the reappearance of the Mahdi (the ‘Hidden Imam’) when oppression and injustice are at the highest level is a fundamental tenet of Twelver Shi'ism. The Mahdi appeals to the disenfranchized in particular because he provides hope and strength, not merely to endure their lot, but potentially to be defiant and claim the best. Goli’s vision of him in her dreams makes such a possibility manifest. Stories about encounters with the Mahdi are not limited to the context of dreams. I heard many other stories of visions of the Mahdi at crucial moments in everyday life. They are often presented as everyday events. Some accounts, like Goli’s, are based on personal experience, while others are passed on from mouth to mouth. Any conjunction of events can be attributed to the Mahdi’s miraculous intervention, from the mundane offer of help by a stranger when stranded or lost in a foreign land, to a dramatic story of rescue from torture.34 Each time, the otherwise inexplicable piece of good fortune is attributed to the Mahdi, never to coincidence. As a plausible

33 Cf. Gilsenan, who describes the dream of a peasant woman as, “part of continuing contests over state and patriarchal authority, citizenship and exchange with the divine” (2000: 597). 34 I heard a plethora of stories on the theme of encounters with the Mahdi.

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and instantly recognizable concept familiar to all, the Mahdi acts as a channel for displaced fears and anxieties and helps to make sense of random and unaccountable novel and disempowering situations. When the women listened to such stories, no one questioned their truth. Each time they told their stories, they verified their own theories, precluding alternative explanations. Appeals to supernatural agency are not simply products of cultural ‘beliefs’, nor simply ‘expressions’ of disempowerment, misery, deprivation or poverty. They are popular modes of “political action, through which people seek to divert and control power, rechannel resources, establish a public sphere where moral order may be renegotiated” (Comaroff and Comaroff 1999: 309). In other words, they are fundamentally sociological phenomena, through which people seek to find explanations for the apparently inexplicable. Much like conspiracy theories, they are products of politics and power and thrive at times of general malaise.35 The political history of Iran has repeatedly shown the significance of the belief in the Mahdi for bringing about political change (Chapter 1). To suggest in Marxist terms that millennialism diverts energies from political understanding and action needs to be relativised. As Comaroff and Comaroff (1999) argue, the appeal of the supernatural is grounded in the bewildering situation where everything seems at once possible and impossible. The contradictory effects of desire and despair, promise and its perversions, hope and hopelessness reinforces belief in supernatural power. Here, the doctrine of the Mahdi is not merely a convenient metaphor for upholding morality, but an expression of desire for justice. As such, it is a language of contest and power.

35

On the relationship between power, modernity, economic inequalities and the increase in conspiracy theories see for instance, Anderson (1996), Gilsenan (2000) Scheper-Hughes (1996) and R. Tapper (2000). On kindred beliefs in supernatural agencies such as witchcraft in postcolonial Africa, see Comaroff & Comaroff (1999) and Geschiere (1997), who interpret witchcraft in terms of popular moral discourses on illicit power and accumulation of wealth.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE MORALITY OF SELF-INTERESTED EXCHANGE RITUALS OF INTERCESSION

The familiar distinction between formal Islam and its supposed deviations (see Introduction) is particularly salient in the controversies over women’s highly popular, convivial votive meals called sofreh-e nazri, or simply sofreh, which is a meal cloth spread traditionally on the floor, from which the ceremony derives its name.1 The meals, which are shared with invited guests, are dedicated to supernatural spirits or saints, who act as intercessors with God for requests and favours. The religious establishment may tolerate but does not approve of sofreh, especially the more ostentatious and imaginative kinds, considering these as ‘innovative’ (bed'at) or ‘superstitious’ (khorafat), hence un-Islamic, irrational and selfish. Underlying this discourse is a strong gender bias and a severe morality that pervades the prescriptive texts. Clearly, since texts have always been historically situated, normative constructs, defined by men in positions of authority, we need to attend to stories not found in those authored by men. Yet, one of the problems posed in studies of women and gender is how to understand the distinctive expressions apparent in women’s stories, without positing ‘alternative coexisting models’ that see gender as bounded, dualistic and mutually exclusive, rather than as inherently flexible and unstable. It is an established premise in social anthropology that serving and sharing food is a means of constructing and redefining identities such as gender, class, religion and ethnicity.2 This chapter demonstrates that sofreh is a powerful means whereby women create a unitary iden-

1 Various authors have noted the controversies over sofreh. See, Adelkhah (1991: 147–48), Betteridge (1989: 104, 108–9), Jamzadeh and Mills (1986: 35, 50–55). For descriptions of various sofreh, see also Braswell (1975: 160–67), Hedayat (1963), Kalinock (2003 a), Shokurzadeh (1967), Spellman (2004), Torab (1998: 183–188, 424–431; 2005 & 2008 forthcoming). 2 See, Jansen (1997), N. Tapper (1983, 1990), R. Tapper & N. Tapper (1986), R. Tapper (1994), Tapper & Zubaida (1994), Yamani (1987), Varisco (1986), and many earlier contributions in the Anthropological Quarterly (47,1, 1974).

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tity as ‘women’ as a sphere of political agency, paradoxically highlighting the contingent nature of gender as something that is not given, but produced through specific activities.3 It is argued that women draw on powers and capacities that they feminize through their actions to accommodate their claims in a context where discourses of morality vie with those of politics and self-interest. The identities they construct for themselves as women are validated by the supernatural context of the ritual itself (cf. N. Tapper 1990: 250). In the process, they blur and go beyond the confines of gender boundaries.

The ‘Gateway to Wishes’ Among the women I knew best, making vows to the saints as intercessors with God was a regular feature of their daily lives.4 Prominent among the Shi'a saints are the twelve Imams, who are the male successors of the Prophet. They are all looked upon as primary role models for morality, ethics and leadership of the Shi'a community. Among the more accessible saints, five are popularly regarded as the most responsive to appeals for favours. They are designated the “gateway to favours” (Bab-ol-Hava"ej).5 Notably, Imam Husseyn is not among them, despite his more general significance. There are also a host of unidentified supernatural spirits who are not recognized by the religious establishment, even though ordinary individuals regard them as an existential necessity based on their humanity, seeking them out at times of crisis for the resolution of problems by the

3 On creating a unitary identity for political claims see, Butler (1993: 227–230). See, also Strathern (1988: 158–159) on creating collective identities in Melanesian ceremonial exchanges as spheres of political agency. 4 The term ‘saint’ has different connotations in Christianity and it is used here merely as a pointer. For the different senses of the term in Christianity and Islam, see Eickelman (1998: 278). See, also Needham (1975) on the problems of translation of notions that are neither universal nor necessarily homogeneous within the same society. He suggests viewing these as ‘polythetic’ (with sporadic resemblances) rather than ‘monothetic’ (with definite features) that risks exclusion of significant features in comparative studies. 5 They are Fatemeh, Husseyn’s half brother (Hazrat-e 'Abbas), his infant girl (Hazrat-e Roqiyeh) and boy (Hazrat-e 'Ali Asghar) and the seventh Imam Musa ibn-e Ja'far (or Musa Kazem).

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means of vows. The saints thus may serve individual interests as personal intercessors with God. They also serve the interests of the community at large as exemplars of morality, ethics and political leadership. Victor Turner’s (1961, 1967) notion of the ‘multivocal symbol’ is useful here; the saints have a ‘fan of meanings’ that may coexist sometimes in harmony and sometimes in tension with each other. They are powerful symbols, nonetheless, precisely because the diverse, even contradictory, meanings can be used for specific situations and in line with the requirements of the individual actors. The choice of a saint as a spiritual intercessor with God is influenced by any number of factors. It may be induced by a dream, by a recommendation by others or chosen because of a perceived accessibility and empathy with the problem at hand. A woman said, “One simply takes a liking to them just as one does to a friend.” She indicated thereby that relations with the saints are closely related to ways in which people relate to each other. In times of need, they are expected to intercede with God, just as relatives are expected to help each other. They are felt to be more likely to reach God than if individuals make appeals directly themselves. This was expressed jestingly by a woman, who told me that, “To reach God, we need to pull strings as we do to reach an important person in our daily lives.” The perception of a distant God who can be reached more effectively through the saints is comparable to the common practice of lobbying ( parti-bazi) in daily life, whereby the disempowered find powerful persons to help resolve their problems.6 As powerful benevolent figures, the saints are believed to work miracles, granting all kinds of favours. I heard remarkable stories of cures from terminal illness and infertility, of the resolution of marital disputes, of help with children’s welfare and education, of relief from financial burdens or debts and housing problems. These were all items on an endless list to be resolved by the intercession of the saints with God. Vowing is therefore considered very efficacious and propitious (mojjarrab) for obtaining results. When problems are resolved, individual agency gives way to an idiom of divine providence.7 This 6

On the pervasive lobbying in Iran, see also Beeman (1986: 48). See also Eickelman, who notes that in Morocco, relations with the supernatural are similar to those between people (1998: 283). 7 Cf. Christian (1989), who argues that for the Spanish community of his study, the underlying assumption in communications with God is a theory of action by God as a result of actions by humans.

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moral framework reinforces the notion of God as sole provider, which works to the benefit of the powerful and the rich. But the same morality that demands submission to the will of God also empowers those who demand recognition of their needs and aspire to improve their lives and escape the deprivations of class.8 Indeed, making a vow (nazr kardan) is a form of submission that is intended to generate debt. It is a conditional agreement, whereby a person makes a vow to a supernatural agent or saint to intercede with God for a favour (morad, hajat, pl. hava"ej) in return for a ‘votive offering’ (nazri) specified in advance. Offerings vary greatly and may range from the simplest to the most elaborate, requiring various degrees of money and effort. An offering may, for example, consist of the repeated recitation (zikr) of a short verse from the Qur"an, fasting for a specified length of time, proffering respect to a saint by visiting their shrine, making a charitable gesture such as giving alms, or simply distributing a mixture of so-called “problem-solving nutmixture” (ajil-e moshgel-gosha) during a ceremony. Particularly popular are offerings of votive dishes or food cooked by women themselves to be shared with invited guests at a sofreh, or for distribution to the wider public. This may be in the form of an open house sofreh held in homes, at shrine sites, in mosques or at gravesites, where the votive food is distributed to the poor as a charitable deed for the benefit of the deceased spirits. Specific votive dishes are cooked on religious anniversaries for door-to-door distribution to relatives, friends and neighbours. Prevalent for Imam Husseyn’s fortieth (arba'eyn) is a thick soup made with noodles, beans and whey (ash-e reshteh), or the sweet saffron and rosewater-scented rice pudding (shol-e zard) decorated with cinnamon bearing Husseyn’s name. Significantly, votive dishes are eagerly sought and consumed because they are widely considered imbued with barakat. Among all the votive practices, sofreh are particularly popular with women across class. These are highly convivial, social affairs that allow for displays of pious virtue, social competence or competitive displays as the case may be. Meals are shared with invited guests

8 Jamzadeh & Mills argue similarly that sofreh are statements about the problem of powerlessness and through which people express the conviction that their needs and desires merit divine recognition and support and that the weak do have the means to influence the strong (1986: 55).

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around a meal cloth spread on the floor. They are generally allfemale activities. Although participation of both sexes is reported among the middle classes, men generally take part indirectly as sponsors, asking women to act on their behalf as mediators of their vows, as in the case of the one described below.9 The occasion may be more or less subdued, with recitations from the Qur"an or the chanting of dirges, or it may be joyous, involving dancing and merry making. Very often, the serious and the joyful are combined. Female cantors may be invited to perform mowludi or rowzeh to provide the ambience and mood appropriate to a religious ceremony, but female preachers are rarely asked to preside over the ceremony. The more orthodox disapprove in any case of some of the more creative ceremonies, in particular if they are dedicated to unrecognized supernatural spirits or if they involve dancing and merry making. Votive meals offer, therefore, a wide spectrum of possibilities. There are many sofreh varieties, each associated with a particular saint. The degree of elaboration and display often corresponds to the perceived stature and significance of the saint in question for the Shi'a community, although people offer all kinds of explanations. The most lavish votive meals are dedicated to the prominent saints, such as Imam Husseyn’s brave half-brother Hazrat-e 'Abbas. He is held in high esteem for his exceptional bravery in sacrificing his life at the battle of Karbala fetching water for Husseyn’s thirsting infants. This type of sofreh often reaches levels of conspicuous display, becoming a means of social distinction, validating and legitimising relative prosperity, wealth, taste and status in religious terms. The simplest consist of bread, cheese and fresh herbs, such as the sofreh dedicated to Imam Husseyn’s infant girl Hazrat-e Roqiyeh, or to unidentified supernatural spirits (described below). This variety is reportedly common among the rural and urban poorer sections of society, whose marginalized status corresponds to the peripheral or ambiguous status of the supernatural spirits themselves. I attended three votive sofreh at a house in a working class quarter of south Tehran. They were each held on a Tuesday morning, dedicated to two supernatural spirits called Lady Houri and Lady

9

See, Betteridge (1989: 150–52), Jamzadeh & Mills (1986: 42).

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Light (Bibi Hur and Bibi Nur). It is a variant of one identified as being of common rural origin.10 The women themselves identified the supernatural Ladies as the daughters of the seventh Imam Musa ibn-e Ja'far, who is one of the “gateways to favours”, thereby implicitly laying claim to recognition by the religious establishment.11 I went with Mrs Omid’s daughter Mariam. We were accompanied by Mariam’s distant cousin, who had asked permission for us to attend the sofreh at a neighbour’s house in south Tehran. Both of them were convinced that the success of the cousin’s hip surgery was due to the vow she made to the two supernatural Ladies. Although Mrs Omid disapproved of this sofreh as particularly innovative, Mariam argued that it would be instructive for me to see such a variant. The procedure of this votive sofreh is to sponsor three meals, two of which must be held before the fulfilment of the vow, while the third is held in abeyance (gerow) until after the request is granted. All three sofreh that I attended followed the same procedure. Significantly, the sponsors were two sons of the hostess. The one described below was sponsored by one son in fulfilment of a vow he made some years ago during the war with Iraq (1980–88), when he worked as a medical assistant with the Red Crescent. Just before going to the front, he had phoned his mother, asking her to make a vow to the supernatural Ladies for his safe return. No one explained the long delay in fulfilling his pledge and I did not ask, but speculate that it might have been due to financial hardship. The description below closely follows my field notes and tape recordings, which I made with the permission of the woman presiding over the sofreh.

10 A variant described by Shokurzadeh (1967) in a collection of Iranian folklore is dedicated to three supernatural spirits, one of whom is called Lady Tuesday (Bibi Seshanbeh), identified variously as the Prophet’s daughters, or as Fatemeh, her mother Khadijeh and Zeynab. See also, Jamzadeh & Mills (1986) for an analysis of the description by Shokurzadeh (1967). For further variants, see Mills (1982, 1985), based on a third party account called “Soup for the Lady of Wishes” (ash-e bi-bi morad ) performed by Ismaili women in Eastern Iran, and for a comparative analysis, see Kalinock (2003 a). The sofreh presented here first appeared in Torab (1998). See also, (Torab 2005, and 2008 forthcoming). 11 Cf. Srinivas (1966) on the notion of ‘sanskritization’, whereby lower ranking castes in India change their rituals to resemble those associated with the higherranking castes in order to stake out a claim for higher status.

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A Votive Meal Dedicated to Lady Houri and Lady Light 25 Rajab 1413 AHQ/19 January 1993 It is a humble house situated at the end of a narrow street in an old, run down quarter of south Tehran. The hostess receives us warmly, offers us seats with the other guests around the sofreh spread on the floor, and then serves us tea. It is nine o’clock in the morning. The conversation revolves on the cost of living, the long queues for buying basic foods and the daily price increases due to the food rationing current at this time. The guests consist of fifteen women, a small girl and a boy of about seven, all neighbours from the same street. The boy sits at a separate meal cloth in the adjoining room with his mother and the hostess. Spread before us on a clean white meal cloth are bread, cheese, fresh herbs and small china bowls covered with a plate and containing kachi, a sweet saffron and rosewater scented paste made with flour tossed in oil. I later heard that only kachi was necessary for this sofreh. Bread cheese and herbs were added for us to save face (hefz-e 'aberu). The hostess had almost cancelled the ceremony early that morning due a shortage of fresh herbs until some had been found at the last minute and they all helped prepare it in time for our arrival. The display of social competence seemed important for preserving dignity and pride in times of hardship. Presiding over the ceremony from the head of the meal cloth is a middle-aged woman with a strong Turkish accent. Mrs Parvin lives in the same street and explains to me that the men in their street began to believe in the powers of the supernatural Ladies after the miraculous release of her own brother from the Shah’s gaol. He was sentenced for life imprisonment for his alleged communist sympathies. All lobbying to secure his release had failed until she appealed to the supernatural Ladies. She believed they were the daughters of the seventh Imam, who was himself unjustly imprisoned. She had no doubt that her cause had found sympathy with them for that reason. Subsequently, the men asked her to perform the sofreh on their behalf whenever they encountered problems in their daily lives. Mrs Parvin inaugurates the ceremony formally in the name of God, but first asks the lights to be turned out in our room, but not in the adjoining room where the boy was seated. She later explained that the presence of the opposite sex was not permitted and this was a means of excluding the boy from this all-female activity. In effect,

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she was gendering a pre-pubescent boy who by implication was in an ‘ambiguous’ gender state.12 Pausing for complete silence, she recites an intercessionary supplication (do'a-ye tavassol), which is dedicated to the twelve Imams, followed by a string of salavat, initiated by her and then in turn by the others in the following order: ‘For the Lord of the Ages’, ‘for the happiness of the spirit of Fatemeh’, ‘for any Moslems that are ill’, ‘for the debt of all debtors’, ‘for the sponsor of the present ritual’, ‘for the spirits of all the deceased’, ‘for the health of those seated around the meal cloth’, but significantly also ‘for the cook’. Mrs Parvin then solemnly narrates a story while we sit quietly listening in the dark. What follows is a slightly shortened version of a carefully translated transcription of a recording I made with Mrs Parvin’s permission.

The Story of Lady Houri and Lady Light13 In the distant past, there lived a thorn digger (khar-kan), who made a living out of collecting dried shrubs for firewood. He had a wife and a daughter, but when his wife died, he had to take another to make ends meet. His second wife came with two daughters, neither of whom liked his own daughter, jealous of her beauty. The stepmother grumbled constantly about her stepdaughter and one day she told him, “I am sending the girl to the pastures with some sheep, a cow and a sack full of wool to spin. If she loses any of them she must not return.” The poor man had to agree. The girl took the cow, the sheep and the sack of wool to the pastures. She began to spin the wool while the animals went grazing, but a windstorm scattered all the wool and she lost the animals. She wept bitterly as she went wandering around in search of the animal. She came upon a ruin where two women were cooking kachi. They asked her why she wept and when they heard her story, they told her not to worry and to return home where she would find the cow and the sheep and the sack of wool already spun. When the girl returned, everything they had told her had come true. The stepmother did not believe that the girl had completed the task on her own and told her to repeat it. The girl went to the fields again but the same events recurred. Once again, she found the two women cooking kachi. This time they told her that they were called Lady Houri and Lady Light, introduced themselves as daughters of the seventh Imam and asked her to dip her finger in the kachi and eat from it. Then they told her that on her way back, she would encounter the Shah’s son and his vizier

12 The religious rules of gender avoidance (mahramiyat), which regulate interaction between the sexes, set in only after adolescence (see Chapter 6). 13 See, Fn. 10 for other reports of similar versions of the story.

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who were out hunting. The prince would fall in love with her and would ask where she lived so he could come back to ask for her hand and then marry her. They instructed that she must then cook kachi three times. The flour had to be obtained by begging for it from seven houses with virgin girls called Fatemeh. Since begging would be inappropriate in her new status, she would be allowed to divide seven portions of flour on the stove and each time repeat “Oh Fatemeh, fulfil my vow.” When the girl returned home, all that the two women had foretold came true. She met the prince and the vizier on the way, and the next day they came to ask for her hand. The stepmother quickly hid her in the oven, dressed up her own two ugly girls and presented them to the prince. A cock sat on the oven and started to crow, but since it was the wrong time of day to crow, the vizier got suspicious, searched the stove and found the girl they had come for. The wedding lasted seven nights and seven days. The girl remembered that she must fulfil her vow and set out seven portions of flour and began to cook the kachi. The prince’s mother was angry that she was doing the cooking instead of the servants and complained to her son for choosing a beggar’s daughter. The prince began to spy on his wife and her strange habits. One day, on his way hunting, he saw her cooking kachi again. He got into a rage, kicked the kachi, the stove and the girl so hard that her blood spouted over his clothes. Then he left angrily to go hunting. A windstorm covered him with dust and he lost his companions. When he reached the city-gates, the guards did not recognize him and insisted on searching him. The prince had put two melons in his saddlebag, but the guards found two severed heads instead. The prince was accused of murder and sent to gaol for a long time. One day he dreamed of the ‘Two Ladies’ who explained to him that his wife was fulfilling her vow and that he should have asked her why she was cooking before reacting in the way he did. They told him that he could be released if his mother apologized to her daughter-in-law and let her fulfil her vow. The prince sent a message to his mother who did as requested by him and the girl was able to cook the kachi, whereupon the prince was released from gaol.

Mrs Parvin concludes her story with a string of supplications to God and the seventh Imam, with requests for the release of all innocent prisoners, for decent housing and for the means to visit the shrines of Imam Husseyn and his infant daughter Hazrat-e Roqiyeh. We follow each request with loud rounds of salavat in praise of all saints, for the well being of the community, and surprisingly also for the cook. With the lights turned back on, we are allowed to lift the saucers from the bowls containing the saffron and rosewater scented kachi, which I am told is now imbued with barakat. Before consuming the sweet paste, everyone carefully examines the surface for any traces that Mrs Parvin says the supernatural Ladies might have left as we listened to the story. She identifies various auspicious signs, such as an Allah, a leaf, a pear and a candle, but one woman is disappointed because she finds no marks on her kachi. To another woman

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Mrs Parvin says, “I can see two hands. You must have made a vow to sponsor a sofreh in order to be hand in hand with the seventh Imam.” Turning to my bowl, she identifies letters resembling the name Mohammad, which she says is particularly propitious for making a vow. I did not realize that this was an invitation for me to sponsor a similar sofreh. Making up for my ineptitude, Mariam declares that she would like to sponsor three similar sofreh to ensure success for her application for a mortgage. “Any requests that come from our street are always granted,” says one of the women confidently and Mrs Parvin undertakes to carry it out on her behalf, without demanding any fees for herself. As it turned out, Mariam obtained the mortgage soon after, before the first sofreh. On our next visit, she offered Mrs Parvin a sum of money that she and her cousin thought would be sufficient for the expenses of three sofreh.14 Mrs Parvin felt the offer was ungenerous, but suggested that since the request had already been granted; only one sofreh would be sufficient, in which case the sum on offer would suffice. With that, the matter was settled amicably without further discussion. The conversation then turned to accounts of propitious vows and of the women’s desire to visit the shrines of their favourite saints, who were among the less prominent female saints. One woman swears by the distribution of dates dedicated to Ommol Bani (mother of Hazrat-e 'Abbas) as particularly effective for matchmaking and settling disputes. An acquaintance of hers had become embroiled in a street fight and was about to be arrested when someone offered votive dates, following which the charges were dropped with offers of apology. Overcome with emotion, one of the women invokes the saints with tearful eyes, “Oh God, Hazrat-e Zeynab, Musa-ibn-e Ja'far, how I love you, grant everyone their favours.” On a more cheerful note she concludes, “Give Mrs Parvin’s son a mini-bus so that he can take us all on pilgrimage to the shrine of Hazrat-e Roqiyeh in Kazemeyn [in Iraq].” Another woman calls out, also with tearful eyes, “When I returned from Karbala, I was transformed. Oh God, a trip to Karbala has such an effect on one. Fatemeh-Zahra is both

14 The sum agreed was 2,500 Toman, equivalent to about $US 15 at open market rates (US$1 = 160 Tuman).

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the mother and the lady of the world.”15 Mrs Parvin tells me that she keeps a little bit of the shrine dust (khak-e torbat) of Hazrat-e Sekineh with her prayer-tablet (mohr) and during her daily prayers, she feels as though she is visiting the shrine, so that she can make vows for favours.16 She explains that it is all about ‘the heart’s intent’ (be niyyat-e del, also hope, omid), implying that expectations determine the outcome even if it is attributed retrospectively to the saint. As no exegesis of the story of Lady Houri and Lady Light seems forthcoming, I ask Mrs Parvin to provide one, but she only supplies a few more details, such as the requirement to recite prayers and salavat while stirring the kachi over the stove and that the cooking had to be done in a darkened kitchen away from the sight of men. These details only made sense later when I examined the story more closely (see below). The ensuing conversation turned to the familiar themes of spouse selection and marital injustices related to women’s daily lives, sparked off no doubt by the story, and continued until midday when we left.

Collective Identification Fairy tales are similar to myths. They may be fictitious, but they are often allegories of gender relations deeply rooted in the social realities of the people themselves. Mrs Parvin’s story of the supernatural female spirits was not meant to be mere entertainment. The earnest style Mrs Parvin adopts as she tells the story, the intense concentration of her women listeners, despite having heard the story many times before, and the subsequent conversations triggered by it, all can be taken as a reliable indicator of how the story was received and understood. Its simplicity conceals complexities that invite multiple readings. The story has been identified as a “Cinderella” variant (Mills 1982).17 A similar version is analyzed in terms of the

15 She used the phrase, ‘My liver roasts’ ( jegaram kabab misheh), a popular expression of passion. 16 Hazrat-e Sekineh is one of the daughter of Imam Husseyn, reputed for her strong will as well as beauty (Mernissi 1996). 17 More specifically, Mills (1982) identifies the story as a combination of “510A Cinderella” and “480 The Kind and the Unkind Girls,” examining it for its role in an all-Ismaili Muslim ceremony called ash-e bibi murad, with food offering as a

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themes of female power, solidarity, humility, generosity and dependency on divine providence ( Jamzadeh & Mills 1986:44–49). I explore the story’s focus on gender relations, feminine agency and the symbolism of votive food in terms of the female principle of fertility. The feminist critique of classical collections of folk and fairy tales, edited invariably by men, reveals the portrayal of women as passive prizes for daring princes, with beauty, obedience and submission promoted as feminine values, while strong women are portrayed as evil.18 Mrs Parvin’s story challenges such values. The focus of her story is on resolute female figures and the struggles they face in defining their lives.19 It portrays women inhabiting a world governed by the conventional female arts of nurture, plotting, matchmaking and magical enchantment. It demonstrates the powers and strengths of women as daughters, wives and mothers, including the supernatural Ladies as surrogate mothers, who compete over the control of men as fathers, husbands or sons. The gender relations in the story thus revolve on relations of power between women themselves rather than on relations of power between men over the control of women. Women and not men define and govern women’s lives. For instance, the instructions of the supernatural Ladies to beg for flour and divide it in seven portions suggests the necessity for self-reliance and domestic prudence, as well as mutual help and humility in times of need, to which the women listeners could easily relate. Men, although present in the story, have no real effect on the women’s lives. The men are portrayed either as weak or absent, or as brutal and abusive, but in each case dependent on the women. Thus, the widowed father must remarry to make ends meet, but then neglects the welfare of his daughter under the influence of his powerful wife. Male brutality and violence is suggested by the severed heads in the prince’s saddlebag and when he kicks the stove (a female symbol) resulting in spouts of blood (possibly symbolising ‘defloration’ of a virgin bride). The prince is not, however, portrayed

petition to a saint called ‘The Lady of Wishes’ (Bi-bi Murad ). See, also Fn. 10 for other studies of similar sofreh stories. 18 See the critiques by Angela Carter (1998) and Jack Zipes (1989). 19 In her discussion of Nabokov’s “Lolita” to her University students in Tehran, Azar Nafisy likens great works of fiction to fairy tales as life affirming because the author takes control and retells reality, creating thereby a new world which offers freedoms denied in the real world (2004: 47).

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as a villain, but as merely naïve, impulsive and easily manipulated by his mother. Though powerful by office, he is under the influence of his mother who plots and urges him to spy on his bride, on whom he then depends for his release from gaol. This demonstrates men’s insecurity when faced with women’s spell-casting potency and their dependence on women’s access to the supernatural when problems arise in their daily lives. Thus, if men do regard women as superficial, they also recognize their worth in specific contexts. By helping men to resolve their problems, women can in turn strengthen their own positions when negotiating their relations with men, transforming thereby ‘domestic’ activity into political agency. Clearly, the story exposes men’s foibles and their failure to rise to the standards they have set themselves. This portrayal of men must be seen in tandem with the conversations that ensued after the story. One theme concerned the topic of spouse selection and the problems of a love marriage as opposed to an arranged one, meant by implication as a comment on the prince’s selfish act of seeking a love marriage. The women indicated their preference for goodness rather than beauty and for prudent matches, not affectionate ones. This must be seen in the context of women’s role as guardians of familial status. Women use their ritual networks to inquire into familial histories to ensure strategic alliances to strengthen their own positions. Marital injustice was another conversation topic, held up as a lesson to be heeded and learned. A neighbour, who was an able seamstress, was forced to take on extra domestic duties to be able to raise her children during her husband’s frequent absences, by implication with a second wife. She was now old and paralysed and regretted her lost youth. The women in her street had rallied around supportively, confronting the husband for sorely neglecting his duty to provide. It resembles the story of the prince who seeks forgiveness from his wife who, in turn, is rewarded, not for being docile or submissive, but for her determination and resolution. Those seated around the sofreh must have heard these stories many times. In retelling them, however, the women affirm that the strict performance of domestic duties ensures the moral high ground, but that they challenge forced submission to extra domestic work and male tyranny and abuse of power. They may not question the justice of gender hierarchy, and they may uphold the laws defined by men, but neither do they allow these laws to go unchallenged. They interpret the laws in ways that address their own concerns and resort

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to any means at their disposal to deter abuse of authority by men. This includes, as I heard elsewhere, the use of herbs to control men’s nafs when faced with illicit polygamy, such as when men fail to first obtain their wife’s permission.20 Stories such as these are very different from the prescriptive texts that demand women’s unquestioning obedience to men. The point to stress here is that through these stories and conversations, the women are in fact teaching each other the art of survival. They are telling stories about themselves and the challenges that they face. Their implicit self-projection is strength, fortitude and resolution. While portraying the weakness of men, the story dwells on women’s strengths and capacities. Above all, the women learn the rewards to be gained by keeping cooking and nurture under their sole jurisdiction. This message is well understood and heeded by those seated around the meal cloth. They honour the cook with rounds of salavat. The details supplied to me later by Mrs Parvin emphasized excluding men from this female realm of cooking and nurture, which she expressed symbolically by various boundary-maintaining devices. These included cooking the votive dish in a dark kitchen away from the sight of men, ensuring that men and pregnant women, in case the unborn infant is male, do not consume the dish. Hence, the boy child who had to sit at another sofreh, ate a kachi that had been cooked separately. Men who encroach on women’s domain are punished, as was the prince for spying on his wife when she was cooking the votive dish. The exclusion of men from the realms of cooking and nurture reflects an anxiety about relinquishing a ‘domestic’ power that women can manipulate to their advantage. A key premise of nurture is the possibility of influencing and controlling others, for those who are ‘fed’ become dependants, like infants (Carsten 1995, 1997). This power is not based on domination, but a power that makes things grow, symbolically represented by votive food imbued with barakat.

20 See also, Kapchan (1996: 235–75) for women’s recourse to magic as an empowering resource for controlling men’s nafs. As Abu-Lughod (1993: 19) says, the institution of polygamy can backfire and is not the pleasure for husbands that Western fantasies about harem suggest. On laws and practices regarding polygamy see, Haeri (1989).

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The Symbolism of Renewal and Fecundity: Food as a Channel for Barakat As a noun, barakat corresponds broadly to the notion of grace or blessing, which people identify in terms of bounty, prosperity, good fortune, well-being and so on. As an intransitive verb (tabarrok shodan, to imbue with barakat), barakat is transformative and can be transferred to any person by contagion, or it can be somatized through ingestion and the senses (sight, sound, smell, touch). All food is considered God’s gift or barakat, but ritual food is distinguished conceptually from other food and talked about in the intransitive mode as ‘becoming imbued with barakat’ (tabarrok shodan) in the ritual context. In effect, women transform food through the actions they undertake (the recitations of salavat and prayers, for example) so that it becomes a potent channel for barakat, which can be transmitted to anyone who partakes of that food.21 Votive dishes are therefore particularly popular and the ritual participants are given the opportunity to take some home to share with other members of their household. Symbols cannot be understood apart from the context in which they arise. The regenerative associations of votive dishes are underlined by the fact that they are cooked for key moments of renewal and transition such as birth, death or life crises. Rosewater and saffron, the key ingredients of sweet votive dishes (such as halva, shole zard and kachi ) are themselves highly recommended by religious source books such as Majlesi (1991). For example, rosewater is often sprayed over the body for the daily prayers and for recitations of the Qur"an, both of which are considered as rites of renewal. Rosewater is mixed with saffron and used to write prayers on the shroud, which some people prepare for themselves. When cooking halva for the dead, the combination of saffron and rosewater tossed in oil with flour gives rise to a fragrant aroma, which one woman said alerts the dead that they are being remembered. Mrs Omid made light of such ideas. Taking a small spoon of halva offered to her, she remembered her deceased mother and said, “My mother, as you know, loved ice cream and she always told me, Don’t serve halva when I

21 Hubert & Mauss (1964) demonstrated long ago that ritual activity sacrilizes things, people or events, rather than ritual merely reflecting ideas already present. See, Bell (1992: 15).

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die, serve ice cream instead’.” But, although people often say that the votive dishes are merely customary and that the ingredients are used for their fragrance, taste or colour, they do not dispute their regenerative power. This is underlined further by the implicit linkages to Fatemeh, who is the prime symbol of fertility as “mother of all Imams”. In the story of Lady Houri and Lady Light, seven virgin girls called Fatemeh supply the flour for the kachi and ideally, they should consume the dish, a detail Mrs Parvin later added. Similarly, a votive dish associated with Fatemeh’s craving during pregnancy called samanu is made from germinating wheat using a particularly laborious process. An obvious analogy can be made between germinating grain and the swelling of the womb (Bourdieu 1992: 116). Votive dishes are thus strongly suggestive of the female principle of fertility. In terms of a gender symbolism of renewal and fecundity women’s votive sofreh express a collective agency in terms of women’s experience of their bodies, through which they lay claims to the reproduction of the human, natural and cosmological worlds (cf. Moore 1999: 28). This recourse to a coherent identity category allows them to make political claims beyond the ‘domestic’ realm.22 They compete over conceptions of social regeneration that men have always defined with narratives of blood and paternity, silencing alternative conceptions. As Carol Delaney (1986) argues, the narrative of paternity has always positioned the male as the sole creator. Recent studies of personhood show that social identity is not only tied to the metaphor of blood as a relationship, but that substances such as food also play a determining role.23 Representations of sofreh by the religious establishment as selfish acts obscure both the strong underlying sense of renewal associated with women’s fecund dishes and a female capacity to nurture and create life. The contrast with establishment notions of renewal is marked. Against the fecund, swelling grains of the women’s sofreh dishes, we can set the Karbala story centred on the model of Abraham’s paradigmatic act of sacrifice,

22

Op. cit Strathern (1988) and Butler (1993). The more recent anthropological focus on nurturance adds complexity to the initially simple picture of genealogy and blood. See, Carsten (1995, 1997), and Eickelman (1998: 147), who referring to M. Strathern states that, genetics or blood alone do not necessarily account for mutual terms of obligation, but that ties of ‘quasi’ kinship may be created through ritual, feeding and sharing of barakat. 23

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which is linked to paternity and the political authority of men (see, Chapter 5).24 Sacrifice is of course a ‘polythetic category’, a mere pointer to a cluster of phenomena contained within a wider family of rituals (Needham 1975). Anthropological theories see sacrifice as communication with the divine, involving consecration, sacrificial offering and its consumption (Hubert & Mauss 1964). It need not be linked to the shedding of blood. Any form of offering can substitute the sacrificial victim, the paramount intention being to submit to divine will.25 In terms of symbolism and structure, sofreh bear obvious parallels to sacrificial rites. There is an offering of food, expressions of intention (niyyat), dedication to the saints and communal consumption of the food as a channel for barakat, establishing thereby a link between the mundane and the sacred, as in the classic model of sacrifice.26 However, as Nancy Tapper (1983) argues, gender constructions obscure women’s relation to sacrificial acts dominated by Abraham’s paradigmatic model. It comes therefore as no surprise that the relationship of women’s sofreh rituals to broader notions of societal renewal and fecundity has not had the same attention as the men’s rituals for Imam Husseyn’s martyrdom during Muharram (see, Introduction & Chapter 5).

The Prescriptive Texts: Vows and Inequalities The story of the supernatural Ladies, and conversations that ensued, has further political implications, though no overt political statement are made. This is a rag to riches story, where a peasant girl marries a prince and where super human effort is required to cross the boundaries of class. A victim of social and class-based injustices is

24 Abraham’s classic model of sacrifice has held the attention of various scholars. See for instance, Combs-Schilling (1989), Delaney (1998), Jay (1992), Valerie (1985: 113 ff.). 25 See, Bonte et al.’s (1999) collection of both female and male sacrificial practices in Islamic contexts. See, also R. Tapper & N. Tapper (1986: 67) on sacrificial meals among the Durrani Pashtuns as part of vows (nazr). 26 There is a semantic link between the Arabic root for ‘sacrifice’ (qorbani, ‘q-r-b’), which means ‘proximity’, and the root for ‘seeking intercession’ (tavassol ‘v-s-l’), which means to ‘unite’ as distinct from brokerage (dalal-i) in the secular market.

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re-presented ideally as being above class, her status conferred by merit rather than by birth. The two supernatural female spirits, who themselves inhabit an ambiguous, hence peripheral status among the saints, promise the listeners an “imaginary experience” (Bourdieu 1997:64), where the social world offers equal possibilities for everyone.27 The story does not trace social misery to a political source. But in effect, the women confront their lived world of inequalities, by opposing it to an ‘imaginary’ relation of equality, and so of possibility. This makes the women’s convivial votive meals vehicles for ideas that defy the prescriptive texts that warn them not to make vows for ‘selfish’ ends. Vowing is governed by distinct rules (ahkam-e nazr) written in the book of precepts by the leading Ayatollahs for lay people.28 More generally, the rules authorize vowing in terms of a charitable deed or as an expression of dependency on divine providence. These ideas are grounded in an ideology of worldly restraint and reward in the afterlife, which promotes an imaginary ethos of equality. This notion is particularly suited to an ideology that tells people to be happy with their lot, promising reward in the hereafter. Vowing for material favours or ‘selfish ends’ is condemned as self-indulgent, materialistic and giving free reign to envy and desire or nafs.29 Preachers often say that vowing should be a means of approaching God and honouring the established saints. This is a first step toward defining legitimate authority and obedience to the calls for restraint in women’s sofreh practices. Significantly, one of the many rules about vowing specifically prescribes that women must obtain the permission of their husbands for making vows, or else the vow is null and void.30 Underlying this rule

27 Cf. I.M. Lewis (1996, 1989), who correlates the peripheral zar spirits with women’s marginality. 28 Khomeini’s book of precepts (ketab-e ahkam) contains twenty-nine rules for vowing under the relevant section (ahkam-e nazr). See, Fischer and Abedi (1984) for a translation of Khomeini’s book of precepts. 29 Interestingly, Carolyn Steedman argues that within Western religious and political thought, envy as a political motive has long been condemned, moralized as sin and defined as an “improper covetousness of that to which one has no right”, because desire, if unleashed, becomes a political motive and a force for change (2000: 111). 30 See, rule number 2644 in Khomeini’s book of precepts, translated by Fisher and Abedi (1984).

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is the construct that men are more rational than women and that women are more susceptible to envy and excessive desire, corresponding to the gendered discourse of 'aql and nafs.31 Vowing rules are thus inherently biased against women. They also deny the reality of other social and material exclusions, serving the interests of those in positions of authority who fail to provide the material necessities of life for those they govern. This is a good example of how the moral economy helps sustain the political economy. Ever since the establishment of the Islamic regime, there has been an increase in religious tutoring and sobriety. In this context, sofreh are being marginalized by the more austere jalaseh. Even Mrs Omid sought to tutor her women followers to minimize excess in sofreh practices. But this reflected her genuine anxiety over the increasing economic hardship. She once said: “Our Imams cannot be bribed”, apparently criticizing the lavish sofreh dedicated to Hazrat-e 'Abbas, commensurate with his stature and rank in Imam Husseyn’s army. Her reference to bribing was, by implication, a criticism of wider social corruption and moral collapse. Such oblique asides helped maintain a critical awareness. Nonetheless, the continuing popularity of sofreh among women who themselves live in material distress is an implicit rejection of calls for restraint by the religious establishment. In reality, the women’s vows to the supernatural Ladies represent a desire for change and envy for the things they are denied, but to which they feel they have a right. Far from resigning to injustice, they act upon it in terms of the concepts or religious symbols in which they believe. Their requests for things beyond their means, such as decent housing or simply the means to travel to a favourite shrine, is not evidence of a selfish desire for luxury. It is an expression of their aspirations and a desire to escape the deprivations of class. Stories of successful vows are good stories to tell when the women are seated around the meal cloth. With each telling, they not only make claims about themselves and their piety, but also underline their own beliefs in the efficacy of their vows and the supernatural mediating agents. This in turn raises expectations, which

31 Cf. Strathern’s (1989) analysis of Hagen gender imagery in terms of ‘self interest’ and ‘social good’.

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are in themselves powerful for dealing with adversity and are far removed from a passive acceptance of their ‘lot’ as fate. But vows are not simply a function of economic deprivation. Sofreh are also popular among the prosperous middle classes, for whom these convivial meals provide other possibilities, such as distinction within their social group and a means of legitimising relative prosperity in religious terms. Indeed, distinction is moralized, because the sofreh and the food consumed are moralized, no matter how lavish these may be.32 Thus women, though divided by social circumstances or class, reveal themselves as self determining agents who work against the prevailing ideology that tells them not to make vows for ‘selfish’ ends. These ends in effect help the self and others whose needs or benefits are being sought. In the process, the women blur the gendered boundaries of self-interest and common good set by the prescriptive texts.

Boundary Transgression: Self-interest and Morality Vowing to saints as intercessors with God suggests a particular kind of morality that mixes morality with the realm of the market. It consists of an exchange between humans and the supernatural, whereby offerings are made conditional on receiving favours. In other words it is a form of submission intended to generate debt. But the religious texts are clear that the realm of morality (ma'naviyat), which is associated with 'aql, is not to be mixed with the market (madiyat), which belongs to the realm of nafs. In practice, these concepts need to be viewed as ‘value regimes’, because the degree of value coherence is highly variable, contextual and depend on individual perspectives.33 For example, the religious books, such as the Mafatih, are themselves full of economic equations quantifying merit and penance for all activities, but these are moralised in terms of other worldly

32 Cf. Gabriel vom Bruck, who in the light of Bourdieu’s (1986) theory of distinction through consumption and taste among social classes in France, argues that among the Yemeni elite, consumption is a marker of distinction precisely because it (and thus taste) is moralized, because the goods consumed are moralized (2005: 268). 33 The concept “regimes of value” is from Appadurai, who refers to Bohannan’s (1955) classic model of ‘spheres of exchange’ from which he has developed the concept (1992: 14–15).

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gains. The women’s sofreh, however, are condemned because they are regarded being overtly concerned with material goals and with prestige. In reality, women are blamed because they overstep the boundaries of morality and the market. The controversy over sofreh is thus not about the denigration of ‘women’, but what they symbolically represent through the specific actions they undertake. The women do not themselves see their votive practices in terms of either selfinterest or disinterest, but insist on the primacy of intent (niyyat). Their actions are not intended to be selfish, even if they do pursue ‘selfish’ ends. To compare women’s votive practices with a crude economic model of maximizing self-interest and rational choice presupposes the existence of equal choice for all. Nor can a moral discourse based on disinterest or ‘pure gift’ serve those with limited options. Individuals shape their aspirations according to what seems accessible and possible.34 Food sharing is a key symbol of equality and striving for harmony.35 Supplications offered at the sofreh for the health and vitality of the community at large show that the women have the interests of others in mind as well as their own. Their concern extends to the spirit of the deceased with offerings of “gifts of spiritual merit” (hediyeh-ye savab) in the form of salavat, cooking halva or by way of alms (kheyrat) and distributions of food at gravesites. Votive food may be shared by door-to-door distributions, in the form of sofreh held open-house or for invited guests. Anyone attending can call on a saint for requests. Successful vows generate further vows and more sofreh, which in turn generate further social exchanges that continue even after the fulfilment of a vow, corresponding to visiting etiquette among social equals. Return visits (did-o-baz-did) are seen as a moral obligation. It safeguards sharing and prepares the ground for companionship and supportive networks. Failure to reciprocate a visit may indicate status imbalance. The votive contract is therefore quite

34 Gell favours the use of the economic concept of ‘opportunity costs’—in the sense of evaluating given possibilities in relation to each other—to maximising selfinterest in social theory (1996: Chapter 27). 35 On the social implications of food sharing see, R. Tapper & N. Tapper (1986: 67), who also note that in host/guest relations among the Durrani Pashtuns, where inequalities of status are inevitable, the notion of intent reconciles economic inequality with egalitarian ideals.

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unlike a contractual agreement in the market, where social relations end when the contract ends, and where reward is assured, rather than, as in the realm of gift exchange, merely expected. Consistent with Mauss (1954), who asserts that a gift always implies (but never assures) a return, sofreh are a prime example of the way in which humans enter into relational debts with each other and with the saints through canons of hospitality and food. Simpler sofreh, such as the one dedicated to the supernatural Ladies, are expressly non-competitive. These are done in a spirit of equality, harmony and communal ethos. But even so, they are occasions for the display of social competence, piety and virtue within their social group. The involvement of others in the votive contract and the celebration of the positive outcome of a vow makes a person’s favoured relation with the saints publicly apparent to a wider circle, thus bolstering their reputation for piety. The presence of others is needed to complete and authenticate the votive exchange (Braswell 1975: 179). Fulfilled vows become, therefore, an aspect of personhood. In making their own value known, sponsors add to their stock of ‘symbolic capital’ (Bourdieu 1992: 171–183), through which they can define and redefine themselves within their social group, benefiting also other members of the household. For instance, Mrs Parvin was able to establish herself as a ritual specialist following the success of the vows to the supernatural Ladies. Through actions of this kind, women serve their own interests, but also those of others, including men. Some sofreh are competitive and vain. The desire to surpass and dazzle others with conspicuous display is exemplified by the sofreh dedicated to Hazrat-e 'Abbas, one that Mrs Omid always condemned. Moreover, sponsors of votive meals inevitably derive spiritual reward (ajr) and merit (savab), as well as prestige. Here, generosity becomes “a sacrifice designed to win in return the blessing of prosperity” (Bourdieu 1992: 180). Those who are able are expected to make ceremonial expenditures appropriate to their wealth, or else be deemed niggardly and selfish. This benefits the rich more than others, because their wealth is moralized and thus legitimized. The rich are therefore doubly rewarded. Their wealth is transformed into generosity, which reaps spiritual reward and prestige. They thereby gain a competitive edge in their relationship to others. Religious expenditure can be linked to considerable political influence and power. The large-scale public distribution of meals sponsored

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by men’s powerful religious associations during Muharram is the main example (Chapter 5). Designated as ‘expenditure’ (kharji), these distributed meals promote a form of moral patronage, serving to distinguish between those who can afford to be magnanimous and those who are receivers and cannot reciprocate. Distributions of this magnitude are usually beyond the means of women. However, one woman in Mrs Omid’s neighbourhood sponsored breakfast (bread, cheese, tea, sugar) for ten consecutive days in commemoration of Fatemeh’s death (dahegi-ye Fatemiyeh) at her local mosque. She invited a male preacher of her choice, whose sermons drew large crowds of both men and women. She had sponsored this event in her home for many years, but took the opportunity of using the mosque while her house was under repair, thus bolstering her prestige and reputation within her social group. The opposition of morality and market (ma'naviyat/madiyyat) corresponds to ‘gift’ and ‘commodity’ familiar from the anthropological literature on modes of exchange. Many studies have challenged the dichotomy.36 Nancy Tapper argues that in the light of Parry’s (1986) discussion of theories of reciprocity, the ideologies of ‘pure gift’ and the ‘market’ in Turkey deny women full participation in both domains, so that women’s vows to saints combine muted aspects of both, thereby expressing their marginality as a self-fulfilling ideology (1990: 251–253). In terms of gender symbolism, women take part in both realms of ‘gift’ and ‘commodity’ in their exchanges with the supernatural and with other women. This can be seen as a prime example of how women transform self-interest into morality, or following Kopytoff (1992), where rules are broken, masked and reshuffled by moving between the spheres of ‘gift’ and ‘commodity’. As Deborah Kapchan says, “The talent for turning commodity into gift is the same talent that permits a woman to accommodate herself to the commodity realm. . . . In playing with the boundaries between motivated gift and “free” commodity, women find a social space they can control, a space where tradition is being redefined” (1996: 176–77).

36

Studies that challenge such dichotomies include, Appadurai, (1992), Gell (1996), Humphrey & Hugh-Jones (1992), Parry & Bloch (1996); R. Tapper & N. Tapper (1987); cf. Parry (1986), Strathern (1988: Chapter 6). As Bourdieu argues, “practice never ceases to conform to economic calculation even when it gives every appearance of disinterestedness” (1992: 177). See also, Anne Betteridge’s (1985) on gift exchange in various contexts in Iran that blur the gift/commodity boundaries.

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This is a contest over religious meaning and control, where discourses of morality vie with those of politics and self interest. It provides women space to express their agency and redefine the gendered values rooted in the opposition of nafs and 'aql. Specific definitions of intentions and persons, including relations to the saints as extensions of self, are involved.

Conclusion Sofreh is an all-female activity, but men may ask women to act on their behalf in activities that they themselves ostensibly condemn as spurious.37 This means paradoxically that women acquire sacred authority because of their inferior status.38 In other words, women appear both weak and powerful, and men seem both to dominate women and delude themselves.39 The paradox arises because its premise is gender antagonism, which is based on a bi-polar, fixed gender model. This implies that women are different to men because of their bodies; that nature or biology determines the difference; that the body genders the acts, and that even if women do the same things as men, they are still different (Strathern 1988: 129–130). But, following Strathern (ibid.), sofreh demonstrate that women’s particularity in relation to men is precisely because they ‘do’ things differently. Identification is what one does and thus becomes rather than what one is and therefore does. A unitary gender only becomes so through specific acts in given contexts. What is essential is to examine those contexts where gender difference is insisted upon, and where certain gender discourses become more appropriate or powerful than others, depending on the interests and voices of those concerned.

37 Cf I.M. Lewis, who says that women’s zar in the Sudan offers men “the privilege of vicarious participation in what they ostensibly condemn as superstition and heresy,” (1986: 106, cited also in Boddy 1989: 144–45). Boddy states that “It is important to realize that if women are constrained by their gender from full participation in Islam, men are constrained by theirs from full participation in zar” (1989: 6). 38 N. Tapper & R. Tapper argue that women’s religious practices in Turkey are paradoxically also vehicles for religious sentiments that men cannot express in the state-established religious orthodoxy, so that women acquire sacred authority because of their inferior status (1987: 86). 39 Strathern makes this comment about prevalent assumptions about gender relations in Melanesia (1988: 98–99).

CHAPTER FIVE

RITES OF MASCULINITY TROPES OF REGENERATION IN CONTEXTS OF DEATH

It is a common anthropological observation that in ritual contexts, especially in funeral practices, death gives way to regeneration and notions of rebirth and fecundity play a prominent role.1 Leach (1977 b) observes that religious ideology uses the promise of rebirth to negate the finality of death. Bloch (1989 b) argues that this promise of rebirth is essentially political and has to do with a reassertion of society associated with the authority of men. This chapter looks at how in various contexts of death and martyrdom, men assert their maleness as procreators and regenerators of life through procreative metaphors, in particular the trope of blood, as a key marker of gender and power. The trope of blood is an alternative to the conceptions of societal regeneration that women promote. As we have seen, they use the trope of food to become recognized agents of renewal. Notions of gender are entwined with ideas about human fertility and procreation, as well as with assumptions about the body and its substances. These ideas are in turn linked to theories of descent. Their implications go beyond the system of ancestry and are of ideological significance for the organization of society, which addresses gender inequalities in terms of power and control over social and material resources. The linking of the two senses of reproduction in anthropology, the biological and the social, are similar to the idea derived from Claude Lévi-Strauss (1963) on structural parallels between different spheres of life as metaphoric transformations of each other.2 The sense in which gender is used here is, therefore, not in terms of male/female roles and relations, but more broadly as a metaphor for social reproduction or fecundity in the widest sense of origins and of who is attributed with the creativity and life forces. The aim

1 2

For a helpful overview see, Bloch & Parry (1989). For a fuller discussion see, Loizos & Heady (1999: 1–19).

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of this chapter is to identify the specific mechanisms that renew the power and legitimacy of masculinity through ritual performance, when so much of daily life experience fails to confirm it. Alternative perspectives are presented, revealing that ritual is a highly contested field and not simply a means for inculcating social and moral values or political ideology.

Shi'a Narratives of Imam Husseyn’s Martyrdom On the tenth of Muharram in ad 680, Imam Husseyn died on the desert plains of Karbala in present day Iraq. Shi'a sources designate Husseyn as the ‘the king of martyrs’ (seyyed-e shohada) who sacrificed himself in the cause of his faith for justice and truth (haqq).3 Stories of his death are recounted throughout the year in dirge rituals (rowzeh) chanted by professional cantors (rowzeh-khan) and are re-enacted yearly on the first ten days of Muharram in a series of spectacular street processions (dasteh) and passion plays (ta'ziyeh) organized by men’s religious associations (hey"at).4 The stories begin on the first day of Muharram, when Husseyn and his ‘seventy-two’ followers, women and children included, arrive on the plains of Karbala to fight the forces of the Sunni Caliph Yazid (ad 680–683). From the first day, leading up to the ninth and tenth day (tasu'a, 'ashura), when Husseyn is martyred, each day holds another tragic event.5 Set against the heroic and virtuous deeds of Husseyn and his male followers are the inhumane cruelties of the forces of Yazid, whom the Shi'a sources present as the embodiment of tyranny, injustice and oppression.6 The Karbala stories reflect the political conflict between the Sunni and Shi'i over the legitimate leadership of the Muslim community

3 See Ezzati (1984) for the concept of martyrdom (shahadat, Arabic root ‘s h d’, to bear witness) and related concepts like jihad (holy struggle). 4 See, Chapter 1 Fn. 16 for the different types of hey"at. 5 An analogy may be made with performances of the ‘Stations of the Cross’ in Christianity. 6 The Karbala stories are derived from books like, Rawdat-al-shuhada (‘Garden [Paradise] of Martyrs’) by Husseyn Wa'iz-al Kashifi (d. AD 1504), Haft-band (‘Seven Volumes’) by Muhtashim-e Kashani (d. AD 1588), and other books, such as Tufanal-Buka (‘Deluge of Weeping’), Asrar-o-shahadat (‘Mysteries of Martyrdom’). The origins of the narratives may be pre-Islamic, relating to another archetypal martyr and legendary figure called Siyavosh ('Anassori 1987: 9–19; Chelkowski 1979; Massoudieh 1988: 125 ff.; Meskoub 1971: 68; Thaiss 1973: 271–74).

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(ommat, Arabic umma) after the Prophet’s death. The Sunni advocate that the successor should be an elected Caliph. The Shi'i are advocates of the doctrine of Imamate. They claim that succession should go to the Imams who are the Prophet’s male descendants by way of Fatemeh and her husband 'Ali, the first Shi'a Imam, himself a patrilineal cousin of the Prophet. So, Shi'ism began as a political movement, as reflected in the word Shi'a, which means ‘party’ or ‘sect’ (Eickelman 1998: 265). However, the Shi'i doctrine of Imamate is not simply about political leadership, but essentially about patrilineal descent on which the doctrine is founded. The understanding that Husseyn sacrificed himself for the Prophet’s patriline is an assertion of the patrilineal ideology. Shi'a texts present Husseyn’s martyrdom as the central orienting Shi'a myth. Scholars studying Shi'ism have similarly seen the story as foundational, with all the male bias that it implies. By far the majority of the studies of Shi'a Islam focus on men’s ritual commemorations of Husseyn’s martyrdom during the month of Muharram.7 The very public, spectacular nature of these rituals has contributed to the attention they have received ever since the visits to Iran by early travellers.8 There is no doubt that the Karbala tragedies are central to Shi'a Islam and have shaped its theology. Husseyn’s death is intended to spiritually motivate and enrich people’s daily lives and to provide them with a sense of renewal and victory over death. Nonetheless, the stories of his martyrdom have also always provided a rationale for political action. Over the years, numerous versions of the stories have been adapted for political ends.9 In effect, the Muharram rituals present two opposed, ideal models of behaviour

7

For references and discussion on this literature, see Introduction. For reviews of the early accounts of the Muharram rituals see, Calmard (1996) and Momen (1985: 114–119). 9 For instance, in the early 16th century, when Iran became officially Shi'a under Safavid rule, lamentation for Husseyn took on a nationalistic flavour, underlining the Persian Shi'i sense of community versus its Sunni Arab neighbours. Eickelman notes that in some narratives, European Christian ambassadors rather than Sunni Muslims have been made to betray Husseyn, with Old Testament figures receiving similar treatment (1998: 265, 268). For expressions of class-based interests in the Muharram rituals see, Fischer & Abedi (1990: xxvi) and for Haidari and Ni'mati factionalism in the 16–17th centuries see, Calmard (1996: 144–47). On the political use of the rituals in modern history see, for instance, Gilsenan (1990), Hegland (1983) and Fischer (1980). 8

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for either upholding or subverting structures of power. One is active, exposing illegitimate power, and the other passive or quietist, that of political accommodation to existing relations of power or enduring suffering until the return of the Mahdi (Gilsenan 1990: 61, Hegland 1983 a). Husseyn emerges as a ‘multi-vocal symbol’ with two poles of meaning.10 One pole is ideological, and the other is a sensory or affective pole, appealing not only to the intellect, but also to the emotions. As a symbol, Husseyn thereby acts as a kind of transformer, converting the ideological and obligatory into the desirable, motivating people to action through affect. The Muharram rituals leading up to the Iranian revolution of 1978–79 provide a particularly fine example. However, it needs to be emphasized that in terms of gender imagery, the rituals are sociologically divisive rather than unifying. The clergymen who opposed the Shah instigated rebellion and martyrdom in the just cause of Husseyn against oppression and to preserve faith. They needed to uphold the image of Husseyn’s martyrdom, and the first ten days of Muharram provided them with an emotive context to mobilize the masses.11 In their sermons, preachers drew parallels between the Shah and the tyranny of Yazid, interweaving their narrations with the popular revolutionary slogan, “Everywhere is Karbala, and everyday is 'ashura”. Demonstrators killed by the Shah’s forces were designated as ‘martyrs’ parallel to the Karbala martyrs, who now also include the devout men who fought for their nation and fell on the battle front with Iraq (1980–88). Upholding an image of a present life of suffering and a life of redemption and salvation in the next world, preachers promoted the notion that martyrs do not die but live on through the cause for which they died. This idea was expressed in another popular revolutionary slogan, “The martyrs are alive, Allah is the greatest, they have

10 The term ‘multi-vocal symbol’ was coined by Victor Turner (1961, 1967) to indicate that ritual symbols have a ‘fan of meanings’, standing for many things at once. His example of the milk-tree sapling in the Ndembu ritual as a unifying symbol is frequently cited. 11 There is by now much documented evidence as to the role of the clergy and the marked increase from the 1960’s in men’s religious associations (hey'at), which were crucial in instigating the revolution. See, Arjomand (1988:91–3, 1981), Borghei (1992), Braswell (1975), Chelkowski (1980: 30–37, 44–45), Fischer (1980), Fischer & Abedi (1990: 167–68), Kazemi (1980: 63, 92–96), Thaiss (1973: 192 ff.).

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joined truth (Allah), Allah is the greatest”.12 Their presence is inscribed prominently on the urban space, in particular the streets in the poorer parts of south Tehran, from where by far the majority of combatants were recruited with promises of reward in the hereafter. More significantly, the bodies of the martyrs of the Iran/Iraq war are buried in special cemeteries, significantly (at the time of my research) with monumental fountains of gushing red water representing their flowing blood. These fountains evoke the living presence of the martyrs and link the blood spilled by them with that spilled by Husseyn in the cause of justice. The point here is that the significance of the Muharram rituals cannot be reduced purely to political side-shows for or against governments of the time. Rather, the rituals deliberately cultivate an ideology of masculinity through the imagery of sacrificial blood as the prized source for the patrilineal order on which the Shi'a doctrine is founded. With the establishment of the Islamic Republic and following the war with Iraq, there was an ideological shift from protest, political conflict and war to celebrating the new order. The anniversary of Ayatollah Khomeini’s return from Paris to Iran on 11 February 1979 is marked by large-scale, public celebrations, called significantly the ‘dawning of a new age’ (dahe-ye fajr, lit. ten days of dawn). These are held over ten days, marking a symbolic shift from the ten days of mourning during Muharram. This shift entailed also a shift in the gender constructs. After the war with Iraq, the heroes on the battlefront were to be recast as heroic protectors, providers and procreators, corresponding to the re-domesticization of women as model nurturers and caregivers (Chapter 2).13

Men’s Muharram Rituals: Quintessential Rites of Masculine Glory The ritual activities of the men’s religious associations (hey"at) are concentrated on the first ten days of Muharram. During these days, the hey"at sponsor performances of the Karbala stories in spectacular

12 The Persian text is: Shahidan zendeh-and, Allah-o-Akbar, be haqq peyvasteh-and, Allah-o-Akbar. 13 Parallels may be drawn with the reconstruction of the gender constructs in post-war Germany which R. Moeller (1998) has analyzed, calling the three images (‘protector’, ‘provider’ and ‘procreator’) as “the three ‘P’s”.

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street processions (dasteh-ye sineh-zani ), passion plays (ta'ziyeh) and dirge gatherings (rowzeh). Preparations get under way long before the beginning of the month. The hey"at members advertise their venues competitively with banners across the streets, with black flags and neon signs indicating the name of their respective association. Courtyards, basements and garages are set up with carpets, chairs, lighting and amplifiers. Open spaces are made into temporary venues (tekkiyeh) with large tents. The evenings of the first ten days have a festive quality. The neighbourhoods in south Tehran are brightly lit with coloured neon lights, vendors sell ice cream and refreshments, loudspeakers relay the dirges in progress and the streets bustle with families with their children moving from one venue to the next.

Street Processions (dasteh-ye sineh-zani) Muharram 1414 AHQ/June & July 1993 Among the various Muharram rituals, the street processions are the most spectacular, attracting large crowds of onlookers from all over the city. Each procession belongs to a separate religious association, which re-enact the braveries and tragedies of the devout Karbala warriors and in the process inadvertently link their historic heroic deeds to the men that re-enact it.14 The processions that I attended in the summer of 1993 became increasingly emotive as the days led up to the tenth day ('ashura) when Husseyn was martyred. I intermittently witnessed the processions throughout the ten days, also going to women’s jalaseh during this time. Accompanying me on the tenth day was Roya, the daughter of one of Mrs Omid’s circle, who commented on the men’s performances as we watched. It was an exceptionally hot day. Among the onlookers were infant boys dressed up as water bearers (saqqa), men who offered free sherbet or water and others who, as votive pledges, pumped rose-water onto the crowds from canisters strapped to their backs. As Roya explained, these actions earned religious merit (savab) and were intended to recall the suffering of Husseyn’s infant boy left to thirst by Yezid’s 14 For other descriptions of the Muharram street processions, see Hegland (1983a), Aghai (2004), Tapper (1979) and see, Momen (1985: 114–119) and Pinault (1999, 1992: 56–7) for other contexts.

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forces, evoking the latter’s inhuman cruelty. Many among the onlookers were deeply moved with tears, as were many of the men in the processions. Their sincerity and piety was quite apparent. Roya pointed out that lamentations for Husseyn are religiously meritorious and propitious for the granting of favours by Husseyn as an intercessor with God. She added that despite people’s sincerity, the processions themselves were calculated to be impressive, and that they were highly competitive displays between the men’s religious associations. This was indeed spectacular showmanship. Rows of unshaven black shirted men progressed slowly around the neighbourhood streets. They pounded their chests with the palms of their hands (sineh zani ) or flagellated their shoulder blades with chain flails (zanjir zani) to the beat of drums, braying of trumpets and elegies (nowheh) that were relayed over loudspeakers carried on cars. Each of the religious associations had their own procession marked by their distinct style of flagellation, using one or both hands with varying rhythm and pace to give more impressive performances. Alongside the men were rows of self-flagellating boys, including very young ones from the age of about six. Roya said that boys had recently formed their own religious associations independent from the men. The participation of boys in the street processions was no doubt a rite of passage into masculine adulthood. Some men showed traces of blood on their backs from the chain lashes, recalling Husseyn’s sacrificial blood. Roya explained that the processions were now much calmer than before the revolution, when they had been particularly frenzied, with some men using blades to cut into their scalps (qameh zani). The practice had been forbidden following the revolution to curb excess in the processions.15 The restraint coincided with the ideological shift of emphasis after the revolution from protest to affirmation of the new order. Ahead of each procession were men carrying a battle flag with Husseyn’s emblem, a heavy battle standard ('alam) about three meters in height and width, skilfully balanced by men demonstrating their muscular strength. Each procession competed over the display of the best standard. The largest, heaviest and more elaborate among these

15 One reason for forbidding self-mortification with blades may have been a concern with projecting images of ‘fanaticism’ abroad (Pinault 1999).

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gained the most admiration from the spectators. The three dimensional images on the battle standards included large white plumes, suits of armour consisting of a mail vest, a plumed metal cap and a round shield. The suits of armours were flanked on either side with bronze statuettes of paired animals like peacocks, doves, elephants, stags and antelopes. Projecting out from the top of these paired statuettes was the ‘Hand of Fatemeh’. People say that the hand represents the five members of the Prophet’s immediate household ( panj tan) that founded the line of male descent by way of Fatemeh.16 The merging of this symbol of the Prophet’s line of descent through his daughter (as only child) with the animal statuettes in pairs, as obvious symbols of fertility, flanked by suits of armour on top of battle standards carried by muscular men, makes striking reference to the fecundity and birth in the male line. The iconography can be read as a powerful assertion of the patrilineal order. Men revere these battle standards as sacred objects. Some of the men pressed forward to touch them. One man sacrificed a lamb in front of one, recalling of the sacrifice of sheep during the Meccan hajj. Roya remarked that Ayatollah Montazeri had condemned the sacrifice of sheep in front of the battle standards as idolatry, implying that the practice was more prevalent before being denounced by the Ayatollah. These performances were no doubt intended to be impressive, with women as an audience enabling men to show off their masculinity through competitive displays of the heavy battle standards, the shedding of blood through flagellations and the slaughter of sheep in semblance of sacrifice. The atmosphere was that of heroism, manliness and martial stoicism, recalling military parades of devout fighters rather than abject acts of self-mortification or penitence for an event long past.17 On the ninth and tenth days (tasu'a, 'ashura), the processions become increasingly emotional. Characteristically, each procession stops briefly in front of the homes of the combatants who had fallen on the Iran/Iraq front on the ninth and tenth of Muharram, the crucial

16

Some say that the hand represents the severed arm of Husseyn’s half-brother, Hazrat-e 'Abbas, who fought alongside Husseyn. 17 Pinault (1992: 56–57) regards the processions as merely a means to weep for a historical event, designating them as ‘rites of penitence’ to make up for the failure of the Kufans, who had asked Husseyn to come as their leader, but failed to help him in the ensuing battle when Husseyn was martyred.

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dates of the Karbala story. At each house, the marchers beat their chests fervently, unambiguously linking the recent war martyrs with those of battle at Karbala. On the morning of the ninth day, I was attending an annual commemoration (sal ) of the death of one such war martyr. He was the son of one of Mrs Omid’s circle and among the first in the neighbourhood to fall in the war. At midday, the processions stopped in front of the house beating their chests passionately before moving on. Strikingly unimpressed with the men’s performances, none of the women commented or paid attention to the men and continued with their Qur"an recitations. Funerals held for the war martyrs sometimes included accounts of their willingness to be martyred (see below). But, by contrast during this ceremony, presided over by Mrs Omid, there was no mention of the deceased or of his intentions before going to the front. This ceremony was like any other death observance. It consisted mainly of Qur"an recitations, which are meant to generate merit for the spirit of the deceased, although martyrs are said to be already in Paradise. On the tenth day, as midday approached, each procession carried the battle flag in a circle (tavvaf ) around the courtyard of a local mosque, evoking the circumambulation of the Ka'ba in Mecca during hajj. The performances came to an abrupt halt at midday, when Husseyn was slain. The men retired to their respective venues to consume Imam Husseyn’s sacrificial meal sponsored by their respective religious associations. I retired to Roya’s house, venturing out later that afternoon. On the way, we saw long queues of men, women and children waiting to be served the remaining portions of the sacrificial meal after the men taking part in the processions had eaten. Roya told me that the public had been queuing in the heat for a long time for a share of Imam Husseyn’s meal as it is considered ‘full of blessing’ ( por barakat). These meals are called ‘expenditure’ (kharji), an economic term that not only reflects the men’s trading background, but also promotes their image as ‘providers’. Moreover, the distribution of these meals is reckoned highly meritorious. This gracious dispensation of open-handed ‘expenditure’ is crucial to the maintenance of social credit and political influence of men’s religious associations, with the associated prestige reflecting back on their donor. Three further processions follow on from after midday on the tenth day, representing the events that immediately followed Husseyn’s death. I witnessed all three, the first on my way to a late night rowzeh

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(see below) on the same tenth day of Muharram. This procession consisted of small groups of men, women and children holding candles, representing the event when Husseyn’s sister Zeynab searched for lost children and the wounded (dasteh-ye sham-e ghariban).18 The second procession, held on the thirteenth (the third day after Husseyn’s death) represented the captives (dasteh-ye 'osara) being taken away by Yazid’s forces with men in full armour mounted on camels and horses. Finally, on the seventeenth day (the seventh day after Husseyn’s death), the third processions represented a passing tribe (dasteh-ye Bani Asad) who helped collect for burial the corpses left in the desert by Yazid’s forces. The onlookers appeared particularly moved by a large bier representing the mythical bier that held the remains of the Karbala martyrs. The bier was borne by women following behind male pall-bearers. Apparently, this was the first time that women participated alongside the men in such a ceremony, not simply as onlookers, but as bearers of the bier—a fact that Mrs Omid relayed to me disapprovingly. Many of the women with whom I did my fieldwork criticized the men’s processions, above all Mrs Omid. She was openly scornful of the men’s efforts, discouraging her own followers from attending what she described as a self-important and over-inflated masculine display. She denounced the processions and the passion plays as bed'at practices introduced during the sixteenth century in the Safavid era for political ends. She found fault with many aspects of the processions. For example, she said that flagellation with chains was a form of self-mutilation and as such, religiously forbidden (haram). While agreeing that people needed to be reminded of the tragedies, her view was that religion should not be reduced to political showmanship. She advocated that the large sums of money spent on the processions should be used for purposes that were more worthwhile. Above all, she criticized the recent participation of women as carriers of the bier along with the men, saying that Fatemeh would certainly

18 For a vivid description of this ceremony in more recent years, performed interestingly by middle class boys and girls in a neighbourhood in north Tehran, see Moaveni (2005: 57–59). She describes how the teenagers appropriated this ceremony by holding their own candle light vigil calling it variously “Hossein Party” and “Techno-'ashura”, during which they flirtatiously passed phone numbers to each other, provoking thereby the morality police (basiji), who dispersed them by wielding batons.

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have condemned it. Far from wanting to take part in men’s performances, she boycotts them. She did not explain all her reasoning; but she resisted the mixing of genders, consistent with her views on maintaining rigid boundaries between the sexes as a source of political agency. She was unambiguously questioning celebrations of communal unity where such a unity was non-existent within a community divided by discriminations of gender and class.

Passion Plays (ta'ziyeh)19 Over the same ten days, along with the street processions, passion plays were held in the afternoons in the courtyards of houses and in tents or temporary venues (tekkiyeh) set up for the occasion. These, like the street processions, were marked by the absence of women, except as an audience to men acting out their heroic deeds on the battlefields on centre stage. Passion plays with women acting the central roles seem to be rare. I did not hear of any apart from joyful plays such as the popular ‘Bride of Qureysh’ (see, Chapter 7).20 Female roles have traditionally been performed in public by men with veils covering their faces. But a newly scripted play called “ta'zieyeh-ye kharabi-ye sham” (‘The Ruins of Damascus’, ‘Sham’ in Persian) was performed for a female audience by women, acting the story of Zeynab taking care of the women and children in a ruin outside the city gates after the Karbala tragedies (see, Chapter 2). This play was first put on in 1992 for ten days after the tenth of Muharram on a curtained stage at a state-funded women’s cultural centre in south Tehran. In marked contrast to the heroic scripts written for men, it focuses on Zeynab as mourner, thus presenting women as suffering and weeping rather than militant and political.21

19 There are a number of studies of ta'ziyeh. See, 'Anassori (1987), Aghai (2005 ed.), Beyza"i (1966), Chelkowski (1979), Massoudieh (1988). 20 Massoudieh refers to some performances by women at Fath 'Ali Shah’s court (1797–1834), sponsored by his daughter, apparently for an all-female audience. The heroines of these passion plays are Husseyn’s daughter Fatemeh and his wife Shahrbanu, the daughter of Yazdegerd, the last Sassanid emperor (1988: 19). 21 Cf. Flaskerud for an elegy (nowheh) focusing on Zeynab as sufferer and mourner performed by women in a Muharram ceremony held in a private home in Shiraz (2005: 85–86).

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As in the Anglo-Boer war analysed by Anne McClintock (1995: 378–79), feminized images of maternal loss and tears shed for injustice and victimization are employed so that the embarrassment of military defeat is overlooked, thus preventing the disempowerment and demasculinization of the men who have failed to protect women or their ‘honour’. Contrasting with this public portrayal of women as mourners are the highly popular joyful mowludi and other celebratory rituals and satirical plays that women perform in their homes (see Chapter 7). The abject portrait of Zeynab is subject to competing interpretations. I heard women tell alternative stories of Zeynab as militant, rebellious, assertive, articulate and highly politicized. The clergymen leaders used this assertive image of Zeynab during the war with Iraq (1980–88) to encourage women to even participate in armed defence because of extreme need (Paidar 1995: 307). After the war, there was no space for feminine courage and defiance and Zeynab’s assertive image had to be recast. Motherhood was advocated as the most profound responsibility of women and enshrined for the first time in the Constitution. Significantly, this refashioning of women as model nurturers and care givers necessitated a re-presentation of men. The devout fighters and heroes on the battlefront were recast as heroes in the domestic realm, as men who assume their role as protectors, provider and procreators.22

A Dirge Ritual (rowzeh), 10th Muharram 1414 AHQ/1st July 1993 Among the most emotive, if not the most spectacular of all the Muharram rituals, are men’s dirge gatherings, during which the skilled cantors chant the Karbala stories to a large audience. The ones I attended consisted entirely of rowzeh and elegies chanted by a lead cantor, accompanied by chest beatings and refrains by the men and once again concluding with Husseyn’s sacrificial meal. The follow-

22 An active gender politics around nationalism is not new. See, Moeller (1998) op. cit.; Kandiyoti (1991), Najmabadi (1991) and other contributions in Kandiyoti ed. (1991). Mies (1986) pointed to a shift in nationalist imagery in post-revolutionary, socialist states, where the female image of the nation is replaced by the images of the founding fathers and socialist patriarchs like Marx, Stalin and Mao.

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ing is an account of a rowzeh I attended on the night of the tenth day, sponsored by one of the men’s local neighbourhood religious associations with predominantly young men as members. I went with Shamsi, a very pious woman I had met in one of the jalaseh of Mrs Omid’s circle. Her husband and son were both members. The entrance to the house where the rowzeh was held was curtained separately for women and men. The men sat indoors cooled by electric fans, while the women and children were confined to a small courtyard and the rooftop. The heat was overwhelming and we were grateful for the volunteers that served ‘Imam Husseyn’s sherbet’. A large banner on the wall stated, “Only sisters with ritual ablution (vozu) are permitted to join the assembly”. This meant, in theory, the exclusion of menstruating women, as in mosques. In the beginning, a male voice boomed from the loudspeaker harshly announcing, “We have allowed women to join us so that they do not go out on the streets tonight to watch the late night street processions. We request that they remain quiet, stop gossiping (gheybat) and listen.” The women were busily trying to quieten their crying children and continued to converse among themselves, unimpressed by the men’s derisive announcement. At various stages throughout the night, the men knocked on the window of the courtyard reminding the women to keep quiet and to attend to their dirges. The dirges were poetic testimonies of love for Husseyn. They recounted the tragedies, braveries and heroic deeds of the Karbala martyrs in rhymed couplets. Loud refrains by all the men accompanied the lead, as in the following recurring example from my tape recording: Keep the spirit of justice/truth alive And keep ourselves alive in Husseyn’s blood Tonight the fate of lovers [martyrs who love Husseyn] will be signed Tomorrow this plain will be an ocean from the blood of lovers23

The couplet evokes the immortality of Husseyn’s blood based on a Hadith, according to which, the day after the Karbala event, Husseyn’s fertile blood converted the barren plains of the Karbala desert to 23

ruh-e haqq ra zendeh negah darim dar khun-e Husseyn khodeman ra zendeh negah darim emshab shahadat nameh-ye 'asheqan emza’ mishavad farda ze-khun-e 'asheqan in dasht dariya mishavad

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fertile fields of red tulips, roses, hyacinth and poppies. The chest beating changed tempo and became frenzied each time the lead cantor sobbed loudly ‘Husseyn dear’, which was echoed by all the men in unison. Moments of silence followed, with only the dull thud of chest beating. Like the processions in the streets, the discipline of their performance testified to months of rehearsal, geared towards impressing an audience. The cantor interspersed the poetic chants with narratives, vividly describing the brutal bloodshed and dismembered body parts on the battlefield, giving rise to the desired ritual effect, with sobbing and loud weeping by the men. I recalled Mrs Omid’s scorn of cantors who, she said, resorted to this technique to stimulate weeping rather than giving worthwhile sermons to benefit the listeners. The cantor continued to narrate dramatically how Husseyn’s enemies had pulled off the hejab of his female followers, interweaving his story with a sermon concerning men’s duty to guard ‘male honour’ (namus) by acting as guardians of female chastity. The men could easily relate to this story. The removal of women’s hejab is widely advertised and perceived by men as rape and an attack on male ‘honour’. We have here men weeping for their lost ‘honour’ in failing to protect the women in order to justify men’s control over women’s sexuality which is tied to their masculine status. But these would-be lovers of Husseyn failed to live up to Husseyn’s ideals. When the women continued to converse among themselves rather than attend to the men’s performances, the men mocked the women contemptuously. A gulf opened up between the cantor’s tales of male chivalry and everyday reality. The women did not appear to pay any attention to the men’s dirges, and those sitting near me did not comment on the men’s narratives. They showed little of the commitment they displayed during their own rituals, continuing to converse among themselves, as they often did in mosques when male preachers conducted sermons. Nor did they join the men’s refrains, or weep. Shamsi was the only one who wept. Rubbing the tears on her aching leg, she explained that tears shed for Husseyn are healing and redemptive. She told me she was suffering from a severe heart ailment, but that in spite of the exceptional heat, she had vowed not to drink any water that day. Her way of expressing devotion to Husseyn was to identify with his thirst. She said that she had no doubt that Husseyn would take care of her health and reward her by responding to her request to help find a pious girl as a suitable bride for her son. But she already

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had one in mind and discreetly pointed to the one she meant. She added that there were many other eligible teenage girls present and that the other women were also on the look out for likely brides for their sons. Shamsi was no passive listener to the men’s narratives of death and bloodshed. Seeking out Husseyn as helper to find a suitable bride marks her as an agent of her own requirements, determined to give meaning to her daily life. She relates to Husseyn as a pious intercessor with God, hoping for his help with her personal concerns. The contrast between an individual’s attribution of meaning to Husseyn and that promoted by the men’s performances is significant. In particular, the model of sacrifice as a general, unifying symbol of societal regeneration can be set against the way Shamsi relates to Husseyn’s humanity as a pious intercessor with God. This is not to suggest a binary division between male and female spirituality. Instead, Shamsi’s behaviour demonstrates that religious practice takes on a different sense when lived experience is in tension with powerful narratives. Each individual appropriates and imbues religious icons with his or her own meanings. It was not until after midnight that the men distributed Imam Husseyn’s sacrificial meal, consisting of a lavish dish of rice and grilled meat, once more serving the women and children only after the men. It is generally expected that the level of generosity or hospitality should be commensurate with a sponsor’s wealth and position, maintaining a careful balance between ostentation and stinginess. But economic circumstances current at the time only allowed the men’s powerful, wealthy religious associations to undertake lavish distributions of Imam Husseyn’s ‘expenditure’, reproducing thereby the image of the male provider. Although the sacrificial meals are meant to be disinterested acts of piety, excessive generosity only served to distinguish between those who are able to be magnanimous and those who are receivers and cannot reciprocate, other than with deferential expressions of gratitude like, “May Imam Husseyn reward you”, or “May God increase your barakat”.24 To follow Mauss (1954), unreciprocated gifts while bringing credit to the donor actually keep the recipient who cannot reciprocate in perpetual debt, legitimising

24

The standard Persian phrases are: ajr-e shoma ba Imam Husseyn; khoda bedeh barakat

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a system of moral patronage that is represented as honourable and disinterested, apparently motivated only by ideals of religious merit. Generosity and merit do not temper privilege; indeed the process of charitable activity serves to endorse and reproduce it (Bourdieu 1992: 180).

Sacrifice and the Trope of Blood Martyrdom is a powerful construct. It transforms an act of violence into an act of sacrifice that is in turn imagined as life giving. It is evident that metaphors structure knowledge and shape experience, at times by being suggestive if not explicit. But metaphors can acquire performative force (Fernandez 1986). The symbolism of sacrifice was central to the men’s Muharram ritual performances. The suits of armour, Husseyn’s flag and heavy battle standard and men shedding blood from self inflicted chain lashes suggest the willingness for self-sacrifice of an army of devotees on a battle field. Clearly, these lovers of Husseyn wish to identify with Husseyn’s act of sacrifice. The theme of sacrifice is further strengthened by the slaughter of a lamb in front of Husseyn’s battle standard, as well as by the rich imagery of the poetic dirges, evoking the life-giving blood spilled by Husseyn and his followers on the battle scene. There are striking parallels between the theme of sacrifice in the Muharram rituals and the rituals of the Meccan hajj in the month of Dhu al-Hijja immediately preceding Muharram. First, Husseyn’s act of sacrifice and the mass sacrifice of sheep with which the Meccan hajj culminates both occur on the tenth of their respective month. Secondly, in the Muharram processions, Husseyn’s battle standard is carried in a circle round the mosque, recalling the circumambulation of the Ka'ba (tavvaf ) in the Meccan hajj. This in turn relates to the story of Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his only son. Various scholars note the relationship between the Meccan hajj and the classic story of Abraham and Isaac.25 Abraham’s story is generally understood to be the founding myth of the three monotheisms. Its moral and political messages have engaged the attention

25 See, Fischer & Abedi (1990: 166–168), Eickelman (1998: 260–264) and Antoun (1989: 171–82).

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of various academic scholars, though with different interpretations, not least within Islamic textual traditions. Many argue however that sacrifice is a powerful symbol of societal renewal linked with the idea of paternity and the political authority of men.26 This marks the Abrahamic sacrifice by a gender dichotomy and an outright exclusion of women from the story of salvation, making it an authoritative discourse that legitimates a patriarchal order. This patriarchal view was expressed by the seventeenth century religious scholar Muhammad Baqir al-Majlisi, who said that God’s reward for Husseyn’s self-sacrifice was that, “the line of Imams would spring from his descendants,” (quoted in Pinault 1999: 288). Indeed, by sacrificing himself, Husseyn ensured the continuity of the Prophet’s patriline. The idea has been extended to the martyrs of contemporary wars and revolutions. Whoever follows Husseyn’s path and becomes a martyr in the cause of the faith is by implication representing Husseyn’s cause. The logic of martyrdom rests on two implicit related ideas. One is the binary logic of this world and the next, of good conduct here and salvation in the hereafter. The other argues that if justice is to prevail—a justice grounded in the Shi'a doctrine of Imamate on which the Shi'a community depends—then one must be prepared to die in its cause. These ideas are enacted by devout fighting men with ideals of manliness, prepared to sacrifice themselves for their faith, thereby asserting the continuity of the patriline for which Husseyn gave his life. The ideal enduring aspect of the Shi'i community is thereby constructed by reference to the body and the blood

26

See, Bloch (1986), Bloch & Parry (1989), Combs-Schilling (1989), Delaney (1986, 1998), Jay (1981), Valeri (1985). Cf. Bowen (1992), and Bonte et al. (1999) who present a wide range of sacrificial practices in various Muslim contexts. Antoun (1989: 178–80) refers to an interesting female-centred interpretation of the hajj by 'Ali Shari'ati, an influential religious thinker just prior to the revolution. Shari'ati considers the ritual of ‘running’ (sa'y) (associated with the struggle of Hajar in search of water to save her son Isma"il as important as the circumabulation (tavvaf ) of the Ka'ba (associated with Abraham, the father of Isma'il). Shari'ati associates tavvaf with spiritual elements like love, worship, spirit, morality, beauty, and sa'y with wisdom and logic or 'aql. Arguably, Hajar’s activism (taking fate into her own hands, acting responsibly) can be set against Abraham’s fatalism and submission to God. Shari'ati’s views on women are however not straightforward. See Mir-Hosseini (1999: 213–214) for an assessment of the image of Fatima that he promoted just prior to the revolution of 1978–79.

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of deceased males. This image acquires performative force (Fernandez 1986) in the men’s rituals. Certainly, Husseyn’s capacity to transcend the mundane in the greatest act of self-sacrifice, faith and submission to God centres on the redemptive power of glorious death and is intended to provide a sense of self-renewal and victory over death. The term rowzeh used for the dirges and Karbala narratives is derived from the Arabic word rawda (meaning garden), a conventional metaphor for Paradise, which promises an everlasting life for those who are worthy. But the Karbala narratives celebrate the immortality of maleness only, based on the trope of Husseyn’s fertile life-giving blood, which presents him as the sacrificial victim to preserve the faith. Male blood is presented as the edifying essence of life. The symbolic blood gushing from the fountains of red water in martyrs’ cemeteries from the 1978–79 revolution and the subsequent war with Iraq (1980–88) is a powerful iconic representation of male blood that lives on and endures beyond death. A martyr’s blood results not only in the recreation of the deceased, but also in societal regeneration. In this sense, representations of martyrdom are an exaltation of masculine gender centred on the blood of the patriline and cosmically enshrined as the only gender that brings eternal hope. The legitimacy of Shi'i leadership is based on blood descendants of the Prophet, so that blood descent needs to be forcefully renewed.27 A martyr’s blood thus becomes a powerful metaphor and a key to the patrilineal order and the male-centred rule of law. The symbolic exclusion of the female body from the story of creation makes martyrdom a colonising discourse of masculinity, one that is so powerful that competing understandings are silenced. This may explain why the notion of martyrdom in Shi'a Islam is rarely associated with women. Apart from some very recent exceptions, they are celebrated as ‘mothers of martyrs’ for raising valiant sons prepared to die for their faith as the quintessential act of motherhood. If Fatemeh is presented as having died a martyr, she is always represented as the paragon of sexual purity, echoing the Christian notion of the ‘Virgin Birth’. Much like Mary, the female model of ‘mother, wife and daughter’ has become the master narrative that

27 See, Combs-Schilling (1989) who makes this point with regard to the Moroccan ritual of sacrifice.

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seeks to control Fatemeh’s significance as the sole link between the Prophet and his male successors. Indeed, her death is overshadowed by that of her son Husseyn. It is said that political exigencies required the clandestine burial of Fatemeh by her husband ‘Ali, leaving the date of her death ambiguous.28 If Fatemeh were accorded the same significance that Husseyn has as the source of life for the community of Shi'a, the primacy of paternity would lose its significance. Descent being imagined and legitimized in terms of male blood only, renders Fatemeh’s role as the only link between the Prophet and the Imams both significant and anomalous in reckoning descent from the Prophet in this otherwise strictly patrilineal system.29 Men’s religious associations do not emphasize Fatemeh’s death to the same extent as they do Husseyn’s. By contrast, Mrs Omid’s circle marked Fatemeh’s death over a four-week period in series of tenday rituals (dahegi) called Fatemiyeh, replicating the first ten days of Muharram. They said that the extended four-week commemorations were intended to cover all the known possibilities of the date of her death. During the gatherings, they emphasized Fatemeh’s importance to the survival of the Shi'i faith with emotive lamentation poems that focused on her suffering and endurance in the cause of the faith. Significantly, they also chanted the 'ashura elegies.30 These elegies are always chanted during the Muharram rituals, thereby linking Fatemeh’s death to the idea underlying Husseyn’s martyrdom. Wendy James remarked long ago that matrifocal ideas are present even in most notoriously patrilineal societies (1978, cited by Moore et al. 1999: 18). There is no doubt that Fatemeh’s role as the sole link between the Prophet and his male successors gives rise to a structural ambiguity and ambivalence in reckonings about descent. This ambivalence is reflected in the common designations of “Fatemeh between Prophethood and Imamate” (Fatemeh beyn-e nobbovat va emamat), “mother of all Imams” (umm-al 'a'emmeh), represented symbolically by the prominent display of the “Hand of Fatemeh” (the ‘Five

28 I was told that the sources differ as to whether Fatemeh was buried 75 or 95 days after that of the Prophet’s. 29 Henry Munson observes that Fatemeh’s significant but anomalous role is underlined by the fact that although her husband 'Ali had a brother Ja'far from the same father Abu-Talib, only the patrilineal descendants of 'Ali and Fatemeh are reckoned as the Prophet’s legitimate successors (1993: 188). 30 The 'ashura elegy is called ziyarat-e 'ashura-ye gheyr-e ma"rufeh.

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Bodies’) on the battle standards. Moreover, there is still a latent tension over whether the Prophet’s descendants (seyyed ) may also be reckoned matrilineally and there is no general consensus about it among the leading Ayatollahs. It would seem reasonable to suggest that the male-centeredness of the Muharram rituals arises from the central, structural ambiguity over the issue of descent, so that patrilineal blood descent needs to be constantly reaffirmed.

Blood as a Relationship: Virginity and Paternity The body is a rich source of ‘natural symbols’ (Douglas 1996), but male and female bodies mean different things and are differently associated with notions of corporeality (Delaney 1988: 77).31 The idea that a martyr’s blood is the prime symbol of a community’s enduring life means that male blood is constructed around the denial of the significance of the female womb-blood, and its role in creating life. In other words, the construction of male blood as regenerative and as the source of life is opposed to a construction of female, menstrual womb-blood as dead and polluting, surrounded by extensive taboos. Menstrual taboos are widespread, but must be approached as a symbolic construct linked to conceptions of human fertility and reproduction, which are based on the differential ideas about male/female bodies (Buckley & Gottlieb 1988: 37, Delaney 1988). In other words, the ideology of menstrual taboo does not signal any inherent pollution of the female principle, but points toward “a more complex a far-reaching conceptual system that includes elements of folk-biology to constitute the basis for the meaning of the taboos themselves” (Buckley & Gottlieb 1988: 39). Indeed, in the men’s dirge ritual gathering, the men celebrate the purity and fecundity of male sacrificial blood, but the notice on the wall denies entry to menstruating women, as is the case in mosques. Women may disregard the rules, but it

31 As Mary Douglas (1966) observes, the body imagery is a key symbol for concepts of the world about us. Victor Turner (1961, 1967) argues similarly that, it is not only by reference to the body or its physiological processes that symbols acquire emotional force, but it is also from the body that key symbols by which we order our world are derived.

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reveals that blood is a divisive rather than the unifying trope that religious ideology promotes. It not only divides and separates male and female bodies, but also has wider implications for the organisation of society. The blood metaphor is not an isolated trope. It encompasses other dimensions of life that are conceived of as being central to the moral, social and political order, in particular the institutions of virginity and paternity, which are themselves structural transformations of sacrificial rites.32 Although people do not themselves make such links, they are implicit in their actions and expressions. The common expression ‘being of the same blood’ (ham khuni) metaphorically links agnatic ties through the notion of shared blood, whereby a child’s identity is imagined as almost wholly determined by the father’s blood, passed down and transmitted patrilineally. This is based on the implicit idea that the transfer of substance necessarily creates social connections and is bolstered by the still entrenched, popular monogenetic theory of procreation.33 Maternal transmission of substance is implicitly recognized through the practice of ‘milk mothering’. Breast milk can determine marriageability according to the religious rules. Milk-siblings cannot marry for instance. Breast milk is also popularly thought to influence affect and the moral characteristics of a child. But milk-ties are based on nurture rather than the act of creation and have no major legal importance.34 Ties of

32 The idea about structural parallels between different spheres of life as metaphoric transformations of each other stems from Lévi-Strauss (1963). In a stimulating study of the complex Moroccan animal sacrifice, Elaine Combs-Schilling (1989) links blood as a key trope to ideas about creation, patriarchy, violence and political authority which are in turn linked to other practices involving violence and blood, such as the blood of the virgin bride and childbirth. As Munson rightly notes, people do not themselves make these structural links in practice (1993: 121). Sacrifice has also been linked to the shedding of blood in male circumcision among Jews (Hoffman 1996) and the Merina of Madagascar (Bloch 1986). 33 See, Carol Delaney (1991). Mono-genetic theories that lasted until mid 20th century did not account for female creative ovular contribution. Interestingly, the medieval Muslim natural philosophers and physicians considered that both male and female shared equally the power of generation. Both were believed to contribute semen to the reproduction of the child (Mussalam 1983: Ch. 3; Sanders 1991: 76). According to Sanders (ibid.), who cites several Arabic sources, the theory of generation in the medieval medical texts corresponded to the classical Islamic understanding of Qur"anic doctrine of creation. 34 A major theme that has emerged from studies of personhood is the primacy of substance, including food, in perceptions of identity and relatedness. See also, Strathern (1988) and Carsten (1995, 1997).

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blood, by contrast, are constructed as a key to the social order and extend beyond death. The social and cultural notions around virginity and marriage confirm these views on paternity. The institution of virginity assumes control over female sexuality and is ideologized as ensuring paternity (Lindisfarne 1994). The blood of a virgin not only ‘proves’ fatherhood, but also the potency of the groom in his procreative role. It is in both men’s and women’s interests to uphold the ideology of a bride’s virginity. So important is the idea of blood spilling, if not the state of virginity itself, that both men and women may fake it to ensure female respectability, for example through the apparently common practice of repaired hymen. The passage into manhood through ‘defloration’ may demand the use of animal blood to conceal male impotency (Combs-Schilling 1989: 209), or absence of virginity, although as Deborah Kapchan argues, with the elites, honour is not invested in a girl’s virtue but assured by hard currency and social status (1996: 163). Infertility affects women and men differently. For women it often means the loss of marital security. Men can take other wives to ensure childbirth. But men’s infertility has implications for masculine identity linked to the ideas surrounding potency and paternity. Men fully become men once they marry and reproduce. Men who die childless are pitied with the expression nakam, designating an unfulfilled desire for progeny. So important is the idea of men’s reproductive role that, when a male bachelor dies, a common practice is to reproduce it iconically with elaborate memorial stands designated as ‘nuptial chamber’ (hejleh).

The Nuptial Memorial Object (hejleh) One of the popular Muharram passion plays is called ta'ziyeh-ye Qasem. It concerns the planned marriage between Imam Husseyn’s daughter Fatemeh to his nephew Qasem on the seventh of Muharram. The young groom-to-be was called to battle just before the wedding night and his corpse was returned and placed in the nuptial chamber (hejleh) that had been prepared for the wedding night.35 The term 35 Flaskerud describes a performance of the play by women in a ceremony in Shiraz (2005: 76, 2004: 27–28).

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for nuptial chamber (hejleh) also refers to the memorial stands. These are a prominent feature on the streets during the first ten days of Muharram. These nuptial memorial stands are connected with men only and in particular those who live a virtuous life, die young and are bachelors. As a tribute to the deceased, relatives or fellow workers rent one or more stands, attach an enlarged photograph of the deceased and display them on the pavements in front of his house or place of work, usually up to seven days after his death, thus bestowing honour on the deceased and thereby also preserving their own. It is not just a bestowal of respectability that is at stake. The nuptial memorial stand is not just a tribute to the virtues of the deceased. Rather, it works to celebrate male fertility in general and to bring to life the reproductive potential of a deceased male bachelor, thereby symbolically helping to complete his unfulfilled desire. As Caroline Humphrey suggests, it is not just that people change objects by the way they use them, but also objects can be employed to change people, for example, to improve them (2002: 66–67).36 Unable to be present in person, the deceased relies on other men to pursue his intentions with an artefact. They authenticate his reproductive potential, on which male honour resides. Like tombs, the nuptial memorial stand is a durable object and becomes a symbol of continuity, but one that here relates to men alone. The nuptial stand bears a complex cultural symbolism. It can vary from small, simple home-made wooden cabinets, covered in black cloth and light bulbs, to large, elaborate and expensive stands over two meters high which are shaped like a tulip, and covered with mirrors, green foliage, flowers and coloured light bulbs, which reflect off the mirrors and thereby emit a blinding light. It is a powerful multifaceted iconic representation, in which the details of the physical form are crucial to the meanings constructed. The tulip shape and its embellishments have multiple associations. The tulip (laleh), a term used also for a candle-lit lantern with a tulip-shaped hub, has been a major icon of the Islamic Republic.

36 Referring to Alfred Gell’s “Extended Agency”, Simon Harrison (1998: 1) notes that things people create are parts of themselves and which may after their deaths pursue their intentions for them and that artworks are artefacts endowed, so to speak, with the status of honorary persons with the property of participating in social relations.

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In Sufi inspired poetry, the tulip commonly represents a lover’s bloodshed in his quest for love, which is transformed into the blood of the martyrs on the battlefield at Karbala shed for the love of God.37 Light bulbs, green foliage and flowers are used for weddings and are common signs of fertility. Light has multiple well-known links with spirituality, knowledge and reason or 'aql. A preacher once explained that a martyr was like a candle that burnt itself out while radiating light to others. The merging of these associations with an enlarged portrait of the man attached to the ‘nuptial chamber’ makes manifest characteristics associated with maleness in the dominant religious ideology. They carry a single message of maleness as the enduring hope. More significantly, the nuptial stand iconically represents the nuptial chamber, which is associated with the reproductive act, but is here attributed to the male alone. The female seems to be absent. To follow Bloch (1989b) and Bloch and Parry’s (1989) line of argument, this complex cultural symbolism can be read as a testimony of male birth, one that is spiritual and everlasting, powerfully represented with a profusion of mirrored lights and foliage. This spiritual male birth eclipses the earthly birth. The latter, resulting from male/female intercourse, is constructed as polluting. The opposition of male associated spiritual or intellectual ‘pseudo-procreation’ with female associated physiological reproduction is manifest. To renew themselves, men need to be independent of women, untainted by their polluting effect. This recalls accounts in the New Testament in Christianity, where a male God bypasses all physical contact with a female body and reproduces himself through a female virgin, asserting the basic principle that men are the primary agents of creation. As Bloch and Parry (1989: 19) argue, fertility is dissociated from sexuality and men from women; the disjunction is brought about by using gendered imagery to make the hierarchical contrast manifest; male associated spiritual fertility is set against female associated sexuality, just as men are set against women. This recalls the classic male/female, mind/body opposition. More specifically, “In most cases what would seem to be revitalized in funerary practices is that resource which is culturally conceived to be most essential to the reproduction

37

See, Fischer & Abedi (1990: 345).

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of the social order” (Bloch and Parry 1989: 7, original emphasis).38 This is an assertion of maleness as the source of fertility, male permanence and continuity. Here we have hegemonic male immortality in the making. The point here is that gender imagery is used to assert maleness as the source of fertility, permanence and continuity enshrined in a durable, garish object. But, another interpretation is possible. Although the female is absent, the nuptial stand is not entirely isolated from things female. Indeed, the female is present by her absence. The self-reproducing male implicates female capacity to reproduce, setting the masculine in relation to and dependent on the female. In other words, men in this instance do not only carry male identities, but also female ones. This also means that the basis for gender does not inhere in ‘men’ but in the relation between male and female in a specific context. Here lies the paradox of the construction of masculinity. Men “flaunt their maleness by revealing that they contain within themselves what is also female” (Strathern 1988: 122–23). As Marilyn Strathern says, “formulations of identity of a unitary kind would lead one to expect that men become more male by associating with things definable as exclusively male” (1988: 123). The reality is that the presence of the other sex remains crucial, not only as a cognitive device (that which is male is defined by what is female), but in terms of efficacy of childbirth as proof of maleness (1988: 123). Not everyone, men included, endorses the nuptial memorial stands. Many people criticize the stands as innovation, saying that the money should go to charity. They may not dispute cultural symbols, such as light as an index for spiritual values, knowledge and rationality, but this does not preclude alternative evaluations in specific contexts. Cultural symbols do not necessarily achieve the intended social cohesion and this elaborate object does not always generate the response intended. Passing by a row of nuptial stands on the way to a religious meeting ( jalaseh) in the neighbourhoods in south Tehran, one of the women accompanying me remarked that throughout the revolution and the Iran/Iraq war these streets were replete with elaborate 38 Bloch & Parry (1989: 18–19) argue that female sexuality is often associated with death and pollution. The authors are concerned with the symbols of sexuality and fertility in mortuary rituals and their social implications, which Bloch (1989b) argues is essentially a political act legitimating traditional authority.

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hejleh, and their bright lights made it difficult to distinguish between night and day. Why, I asked, were there none for women? She said derisively, “Men are elevated not only during their life, but even more so after they die”. Another paradox that her comment reveals is that the bodies of the men—those whom the revolution was to benefit most—have greater worth dead than alive. Martyrs are supposed to represent a higher order of values. To say that this is a typically masculine model would ignore the fact that most of the martyrs are from the poorer sections of society, so that the same value separates men who are rich and poor.

A Wedding for a Martyr: A Funeral Held by a Martyr’s Mother The reproductive symbolism of the nuptial memorial stand is carried over to funeral ceremonies held for martyrs. The one I attended was held for a young man who fell during the war with Iraq. Usually, when an individual dies, the next of kin hold a sequence of funerary rituals on the third (khatm, end), seventh (shab-e haft, eve of the seventh) and fortieth (chehelleh) days following burial (khak kardan), and thereafter as annual observances (sal, year). Interestingly, the Muharram ceremonies following Husseyn’s death also occur on the third, seventh and fortieth days after Husseyn’s death (see above). These funerary rituals relate to the religious ideas surrounding the fate of the spirit. The initial one on the third day is intended generally to propitiate the spirit and help it along to its ultimate destination by generating spiritual merit for the deceased through intensive Qur"an recitations. But the funerals held for men who died fighting during the revolution and the Iran/Iraq war presented a supreme opportunity for rekindling assertions of male permanence that underlies the established order. The one that I attended was an annual remembrance for a young war martyr by his mother in their home in one of Tehran’s downtown quarters populated by migrant labourers and the poor. To my surprise, the funeral turned out to be as a celebration of his wedding. A young female preacher trained at the Faculty of Theology presided over the ceremony. As was the expected norm on arrival, the guests congratulated the bereaved mother for raising a son who had been prepared to die for his faith. The death of a martyr is imagined as the beginning of an infinitely better life. During the ceremony, instead of recitations

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of the Qur"an that are standard in death observances, many joyful songs were sung by the lead singer. These were accompanied by general handclapping, similar to mowludi rituals that celebrate the birth of saints. Half way through, the preacher exclaimed joyfully: “This is a wedding of our martyr”, and scattered small sugar balls (noql ) over everyone’s head, a practice commonly associated with weddings. The word for wedding ('arusi) is derived from the Arabic root ('-r-s) meaning ‘to unite’. What the preacher may have had in mind was to celebrate the joining of the martyr’s spirit with God in Paradise, the place where martyrs are said to go directly.39 Her wedding model must have been the passion play (ta'ziyeh-ye Qasem) discussed in the previous section, in which the corpse of the young groom-to-be Qasem was returned from the battlefield and placed in the nuptial chamber (hejleh) that had been prepared for his wedding night. The preacher concluded the gathering by chanting Muharram related dirges (ziyarat-e 'ashura), thereby linking the deceased with the Karbala martyrs. Some of those present wept at this point. Before leaving, we were all invited to eat ‘Imam Husseyn’s meal’ consisting of rice mixed with lentils cooked by the mother. Meanwhile, she distributed leaflets with her son’s photograph bearing a testimony of his apparent willingness to be martyred. Struggling to control her grief, she proceeded to recall aloud the last hours spent with her son before he went to the front. The tension between her personal grief and her religious convictions was evident. Iris Jean-Klein (1997) argues that in the case of the Palestinian struggle, a martyr’s mother, having stoically relinquished what she herself produced, embodies masculine attributes and becomes herself an icon of sacrifice, through which she may lay claims to social reproduction and equal citizenship.40 But the guarantee of equal citizenship in the Iranian context seems remote. Sacrifice has a hollow ring in a social world divided

39 Iris Jean-Klein refers to how a Palestinian martyr’s funeral was proclaimed as a ‘nationalist wedding’ in which the martyr was equivalent to the bride and the land to the groom (1997: 89). 40 On the language of motherhood and the politics of reproduction among Palestinians, see Iris Jean-Klein (1997), who describes how the mothers of martyrs complete and authenticate the act of sacrifice by their stoic accounts of their son’s desire for martyrdom. Similarly, Julie Peteet (1997) argues that the willingness displayed by mothers of martyrs to let their sons go provides a basis for claims to equal citizenship.

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into haves and have-nots. The street names in downtown Tehran alone attest to the recruitment of war martyrs from among the poor. Women above all shoulder the consequences of such loss, making aspirations to equal citizenship for them least likely. These downtown quarters were the centres of rebellion and protest under the Shah. Masculinised virtues of morality, strength and sacrifice now resided in working class men. It is ironic that those whom the revolution was intended to help most swiftly became expendable with the mass recruitment of the poor into the military. It reveals the inequity between those calling for sacrifice and those who must bear the costs.41 Mrs Omid found it abhorrent to associate martyrdom with warfare and male prowess and she disliked the process by which men constructed tests of masculinity. Her commemorations of Husseyn’s death were not spectacular shows but relaxed and convivial, similar to the gatherings she led throughout the year (see Chapter 1). In one of the ten day jalaseh series (dahegi) she led during Muharram, she chose to speak about the Qur"anic chapter (S:27 an-naml, the ant) on the theme of belief in the hereafter and concluded her exegesis with the following joke about martydom: A young man was encouraged to go to war: “Let’s go to jihad”, they told him. The young man replied, “No, I’m afraid of being killed”. They replied, “But if you are martyred, then you will go directly to Paradise and be given several black eyed houris (hur al"ayn).” 42 He replied. “I’ve got mine at home and I’m not going to give up my life for ‘a black eye’ ('ayn).”

Humour is difficult to translate because much of it relies on knowledge that is taken for granted. For example, the number of houris a man can have in Paradise is popularly said to depend on how pious a man has been on earth. Mrs Omid’s joke is full of irony. It reveals a gap between lived experience and an ideology that promises reward in another life. Those listening to the joke could easily relate to it. Among them were women who had lost sons in the war whose public expressions of grief had been cruelly limited by the discourse of martyrdom as a highly prized ideal.

41 42

Bruce Lincoln (1991) makes this point with regard to sacrifice more generally. Houri is both a female name and refers to a nymph in Paradise.

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Conclusion The common view of the Muharram rituals as simply a powerful political tool for rebellion or support of political leaders will not do. The rituals demonstrate that far more is at stake than simply upholding or toppling an existing ruler. When the Shah was toppled, the patrilineal rule of law remained intact. What the Muharram rituals construct above all is not the legitimacy of a ruler, but the legitimacy of a male-centred rule of law.43 The extension of Husseyn’s martyrdom to the lived present and to all men who follow his path renders the male-centred rule of law sacred and cosmic. These mechanisms renew the power and legitimacy of maleness, even when much of daily life experience fails to confirm it. The context of military recruitment reveals that the idiom of gender conceals differences of class within. Patrilineality is not the same as patriarchy, where the social world divided by rich and poor does not necessarily confirm the position a father may hold in his household. Nor is a theory of women’s subordination to be confused with subservience. The social and the symbolic do not necessarily reflect each other in any easy way (Harris 1995, Moore 1999a: 26 ff., 1999b: 152). To remain persuasive, ideas must be constantly renewed. Rituals are powerful media, and their power to create reality rests partly on their ability to feed the imagination through metaphor. To interpret androcentric representations as the model for gender relations would be to ignore other understandings. As with any representation, male rites present partial views, in which only some aspects of gender relations are given attention, whether as metaphors for other things or as themes in their own right. Marilyn Strathern (1989: 169) makes this point regarding the often-discussed sexual antagonism in some New Guinea societies. She states that one should not assume that a cultural symbolism of antithesis between male and female literally divides men and women into social classes. This ‘sexual antagonism’ thesis unwittingly reinscribes gender opposition as a fixed structure. Gender relations are more complex in practice. A unitary gender only becomes so through actions of a specific kind, such as those described in the men’s rituals here. This becoming is

43

Combs-Schilling (1989) makes this point regarding Moroccan sacrifice.

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never complete because unitary gender is constantly being performed (Butler 199 a, b, 1993). Constructions of self-reproducing males in the Muharram rituals can be set against women’s engagement in similar sort of activities in female centred rituals described in previous chapters. Seen together, male and female rituals celebrate mutual dependencies for social regeneration.

CHAPTER SIX

A GIRLS’ ‘INITIATION’ RITUAL BEING SOCIALIZED INTO PIETY OR GENDERING THE UNGENDERED CHILD?

Two years following the establishment of the Islamic Republic in 1979, a new ritual emerged specifically to mark the coming of age of girls at the age of nine. This ritual swiftly became a major public event. No equivalent ritual for girls is reported or known to have existed prior to this. The occasion broadly resembles the Catholic First Holy Communion and the Jewish Bat Mitzvah. Central to the ceremony is the performance of the daily prayers, namaz (Arabic, salat) by the novice, who must also display competence in answering questions posed by adults on her religious duties. The official designation of the ceremony is “Celebration of Worship” ( jashn-e 'ebadat), although people commonly also refer to it as “Celebration of Responsibility” ( jashn-e mas"uliyat) and “Celebration of Puberty” ( jashn-e taklif ). The term puberty (taklif ) has multiple referents, meaning duty, task and imposition, as well as the time when a boy’s voice begins to break and when a girl begins her menses. In Shi'a Islam, the religious duties of girls and boys become incumbent on them when they are deemed mentally mature ('aql-res, mentally ‘ripe’), as with Catholics who call this moment the ‘age of reason’. The threshold of reason is however differently assessed for each sex and corresponds to their physical maturity or onset of puberty. For girls, maturity is set at age nine (reckoned in ‘lunar’ years), corresponding to a time when the first menses are imminent. Religious duties in any case must commence at the age of nine irrespective of whether the first menses have begun. In the case of boys mental maturity and religious duties begin on his first seminal emission and if this goes unnoticed, when his voice begins to break, but at the latest by the age of fifteen. An article in an officially approved magazine “Woman of Today” (Zan-e Ruz) dated January 1991 reports that the ritual was launched at a particular girls’ school at the initiative of the school authorities

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as a collective ceremony for the third grade.1 Having found favour with the clerical establishment, the school ceremony was soon televised, with the idea subsequently spreading to other schools (where it has since become mandatory), as well as to individual households with religious leanings. The report lauds the ritual, considering its emergence a significant “religious and cultural movement” (harakat-e 'ebadi farhangi), being the first of its kind with children taking centre stage, including the children’s participation in the planning and organization of the ritual. The main purpose of the ritual, the report argues, is to propagate Islamic values of simplicity and spirituality, likening it to a ‘new birth’ that marks the girl’s awareness of her responsibilities. It regrets that middle class households wishing to display piety have appropriated the event, competing to give impressive performances, thereby discouraging lower income households. Expressing concern that it may develop into a divisive issue, the report suggests more media involvement to propagate the values and purpose of the ritual while also applauding the idea put forward by some parents to hold a similar boys’ ritual for gender equity. In 2002, the Ministry of Education designated a specific date as a nationwide school celebration day for the coming of age of both girls and boys.2 Despite being mandatory for schools, the boys’ ceremony does not appear to have gained the attention and popularity intended. A number of intriguing questions arise. Why has the girls’ ceremony been more successful and popular than that of the boys’? Is it because other key life course rituals already exist for boys, such as military recruitment (chapter 5) and circumcision (see below)? What are the principal concerns of all the parties involved (the children, the parents, school authorities and the clerical establishment)? What is the relation of these ceremonies to the new religious order and the state? Is the ritual merely a means of socialization, communicating established concepts and ideologies to the novice (Turner 1961), and hence an instrument for social control (Bloch 1986, 1989 a)? Performative theories suggest that ritual participants achieve things through doing (Bell 1992, Gerholm 1988, Hughes-

1 See, two reports by Farzaneh Najarian in Zan-e Ruz dated 6th & 13th Bahman 1369 AHS (nos. 1301 & 1302). 2 The date is 13th Aban (4th November) as reported on the Iranian news websites www.Peyvand.com.

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Freeland 1998, Humphrey & Laidlaw 1994, Schieffelin 1985). What is achieved through this newly invented ritual? These are some of the questions that I pursue following a description of two ceremonies held for girls in homes, one in south of the city and the other in the wealthier north.

A Ceremony Downtown3 16 Rabi-I 1414 AHQ/4 September 1993 Shokufeh is celebrating her daughter’s coming of age and I have been invited by an aunt of hers who I met at one of Mrs Omid’s jalalseh. She is a young mother of two, with a boy of seven and a girl who is now nine. They live in the basement of a modest house belonging to her parents in a lower middle class quarter of south Tehran. She was pregnant with her son when her clergyman husband went to the front in the war with Iraq. He is among those reported missing and she receives his salary from the state. Although her parents and in-laws urge her to re-marry, she says this is not possible for her as long as she is not sure if her husband is still alive. They held a small birthday party ( jashn-e tavvalod ) for her daughter’s actual birthday a few weeks ago, since which the girl has been carrying out her religious duties. The ‘real’ celebration, as she puts it (meaning the coming of age ritual), had to wait until the girl’s aunt (father’s sister), who lives in another town, could come. The father’s absence made it all the more important for the aunt to be present. She, in turn, insisted the occasion coincide with the Prophet’s birthday. I arrive in the early afternoon. Apart from Shokufeh and a neighbour, five women relatives are present. We sit on a carpeted floor leaning against the bare walls around a small room. There are no chairs or other furniture, apart from a small table pushed against the wall, on which are some wrapped presents, a bowl of fruit and some fresh flowers. Children outnumber the adults. There are six girls of about the same age as the novice, as well as two boys (the brother and a friend). We converse while Shokufeh serves tea. The children meanwhile play in the courtyard, but soon come in to sing. 3 The two descriptions follow closely my field notes written soon after I took part in the ceremonies.

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Standing in the middle of the room, they sing us songs in rhymed verse which they have learned at school. As they sing, the boys playfully mimic them giggling, but the girls pretend not to notice:4 Well done, May God preserve her Say to her a hundred times Whoever does not say well done Well they have no sense of fun

The next one is called ‘The song of puberty’ (sorud-e jashn-e taklif ): I have come of age I am nine years old, I am a seyyed I am fortunate I celebrate this year my ritual of worship How pleasant is my worship The prayer of a pious person is the pillar of faith Worship of God shall be the way I am good, loved by God May this celebration of worship be auspicious The doctrine of Islam be ever-lasting

This song, which is in question and answer format, is called sorud-e mahramiyat and teaches rules of veiling, which are applicable in front of potential marriage partners. Greetings, children, listen well Mother’s-sister’s-son is knocking on the door I want to go and open the door Should I wear my veil or not? Yes put on your veil Mother’s brother has come to visit his sister I want to go and open the door Should I wear my veil? No, don’t wear your veil Father’s brother is behind the door Should I wear a veil? No, don’t wear your veil I want to go to the grocer Should I wear the veil? Yes wear the veil, wear the veil Do you know why? Because I’ve reached maturity

4 The translations are from my tape recordings of the songs, for which I obtained permission. Although my translations are close, my main aim is to convey the sense.

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We all applaud and sing salavat bar Mohammad (praise to the Prophet) as we clap. Now the girl’s paternal aunt asks the novice a few questions on namaz, to which she replies correctly. Some dancing follows. As the girls dance, we accompany them by singing salavat refrains, keeping the beat by clapping rhythmically, as at mowludi celebrations. After a short while, the girls perform a play they have thoroughly rehearsed at school. In the beginning the novice lies on the floor as if asleep while one of the girls explains that it is near sunrise. An angel, played by one of the other girls, wakes her up, reminding her that it is time for her to get up for namaz. Another girl, in the role of the devil, tempts her to sleep on. The girl resists the temptation, gets up, goes through all the motions required for ritual ablution and then performs the morning namaz, standing, bending and prostrating as required, while she recites the prayers loudly for us to hear. She goes through the two rak'at namaz (sections of the namaz) prescribed for the morning prayers at a fairly rapid pace. A younger girl repeats the namaz with her. The aunt makes a few critical comments. She corrects the pronunciation of some Arabic words, reminds her that she must not rush the prayers and that in the standing position, she should hold her arms still at her side without moving them. Finally, two girls in the guise of angels attach bows of coloured ribbons to the girl’s hair as a reward while we applaud the performance with clapping and rounds of salavat. The girl’s paternal aunt now teaches her a simple prayer (zekr) called ‘Fatemeh’s rosary’ (tasbih-e Hazrat-e Zahra), telling her that it is highly propitious and meritorious but not obligatory. Following her lead, we join in a resounding chorus of, “May your worship be accepted” with rounds of salavat. The girl looks shy and is quiet as one of the women tells her to answer “God willing”. The children pose so that I can take some photos. Then the girl opens her presents and as she does so, her mother announces who each present is from, followed each time by the children singing a playful song: Thank you, thank you Why did you put yourself in trouble? Why did you not bring more? Why did you not give me a villa?

(The last two lines must be seen as a part-critical, part joking reference to middle class wealth). In fact, a villa does make an appearance. One of the presents is a framed picture of a large house from

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the girl’s best friend, who tells her as she unwraps it that, it will be her future house—clearly an idealized wish. Other gifts include a gold ring from her mother, items of clothing, a veil and a toy sewing machine. When this is unwrapped, one of the women says, “Now her trousseau ( jahaz) is complete”. My gift of crayons and drawing paper, though appreciated by the girl did not fit in the ‘trousseau’ collection. The girls go to play and we converse as Shokufeh serves us another round of tea, this time with some fruit and biscuits. The conversation between the women revolves mainly on marriage and having children. I learn that most of the women present were married around the ages of twelve and thirteen and have several grandchildren. One woman says that a suitable age for marriage is now seventeen or eighteen. One remarks on the joy her grandchildren bring her and her sister’s sadness for not having had any children. Another says that she and her husband wanted to celebrate the coming of age of their son and had gone as far as inviting their male relatives, but had to cancel the event because the boy was embarrassed and refused to take part. Another woman considers this kind of celebration a good post-revolutionary development because the children learned about piety. She compares it to birthday parties, which she regards are not only expensive, but also ‘un-Islamic’. The conversations continue as I take my leave around six o’clock in the afternoon.

A Ceremony Uptown 14 Rajab 1413 AHQ/8 January 1993 The ceremony takes place in a newly built villa of a wealthy bazaar merchant who has recently moved up town. Heavy snowfall has disrupted transport facilities. As I live nearby, I am the first one to arrive at the specified time of three in the afternoon, followed soon after by Mrs Monir, who has been invited to preside over the ceremony and who has asked permission for me to attend. Mrs Monir is a popular young preacher from downtown and a former student of Mrs Omid who introduced us. We sit in a large reception room with a lavish array of reproduction furniture. Sofas and armchairs line the walls. A large dining table pushed up against one of the walls is covered with trays piled high with fruit, an assortment of

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cakes and sweet pastries and heaps of wrapped presents placed around an oversized doll wrapped in a white veil. When Mrs Monir arrives, she is offered a seat at the top end of the room. She has the use of a microphone on a stand. There is a long delay before any other guests arrive and because of the exceptional snowfall that day, only twelve other women turn up, who I am told, are all relatives. Having removed their headscarves and overalls at the entrance, they all display well-coiffed hair and fashionable clothes. A maidservant circles with trays of sweet pastries and cocoa instead of the more usual tea. The choice of cocoa was significant: at that time, fresh milk had acquired a special status, fetching black market prices because of a shortage. Mrs Monir declines, claiming that she is fasting. The mother joins us briefly, telling us that her daughter’s birthday was a few days ago, but that she preferred to postpone the celebration until Imam 'Ali’s birthday (13th Rajab). Describing the ceremony as a ‘birthday party’ with Islamic features, Mrs Monir says that she sees no contradiction in being pious and modern at the same time. I ask her about her views on boys’ ceremonies. She replies that boys and girls should be treated in the same way and that she intends to hold a ceremony for her younger boy when he comes of age. She also tells me that her older son was martyred in the war. Mrs Monir begins to sing mowludi poems of praise in honour of Fatemeh and Imam 'Ali, the first lines of which are: “The month of Rajab has come, the Shah of Arabs is born, the greatest eminence, the world is embellished, may the eyes of all be with light, praise to Mohammad, what a flower has emerged.” She prompts us to clap and join in refrains of salavat: “Shi'a spread flowers at his feet, throw lilies and hyacinth on his way, salavat to Mohammad, salavat to Mohammad.” She pauses and tells us that when Imam 'Ali was a baby, the Prophet held him in his arms and told him to recite the Torah, the Bible and one of the Qur"anic sureh, although, she adds, it was not until years later that the Qur"an was revealed to the Prophet. We then continue with more mowludi poems following her lead. Meanwhile, the girls play among themselves. The novice stands out in a long orange skirt, white top, orange flower in hair, gold necklace and earrings, eye make-up and lipstick, white stockings and shoes. The guests complement her on her pretty looks and call her ‘bride’, speculating on the whereabouts of her future groom and what he might be doing at this time. After a while, the girl’s mother tells her that it was time for her to fetch her prayer outfit. The girl

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leaves her friends and returns wearing a veil, spreads out a prayerrug in middle of the room and loudly recites the first part of the two rak'at namaz as she goes through the required motions of bending, prostrating and other gestures all in rapid pace. None of the women, including Mrs Monir make any comments or pose questions for the girl to answer on religious duties. Instead, we applaud the girl, singing rounds of salavat as we clap. The mother allows me to photograph the girl with her veil having declined before without it, saying that she had reached puberty. Before her daughter folds up her veil and prayer rug, she tells her to ask the saints for a favour (hajat). Mrs Monir says her request will surely be granted, as she is still innocent and pure. More refreshments are served while a large chocolate cake is brought in on a trolley into the centre of the room. The cake is in the form of an open book, suggesting the Qur"an and I am encouraged to take a photo of this. The woman next to me says that another favourite model for cakes for this ceremony is ‘God’s house’ in Mecca (the Ka'beh). The girl cuts the cake and the maid serves it to the guests. The girl then gives each of us a small artificial carnation attached to a piece of paper cut in the shape of a heart, on which she has written, ‘Thank you for coming to my celebration of worship’ with her signature and date. Soon after Mrs Monir and I take our leave.

Multiple Perspectives Social anthropologists have conventionally seen puberty rituals in terms of Van Gennep’s (1960) ‘rites of passage’ model, that is as the initiation of adolescents in preparation for their roles as adults.5 The girls’ puberty ritual seems to fit into this framework. It is not just that there are questions concerning religious duties to which the novices must respond. Rather, the terms used in the designations of the ritual, ‘worship’ ('ebadat), ‘responsibility’ (mas'uliyat) and ‘puberty’ (taklif ), which also means ‘duty’, ‘task’ and ‘imposition’, indicate that the intention is to cultivate appropriate moral dispositions and norms

5 See, Audrey Richard’s now classic study of a girl’s initiation ceremony in Northern Rhodesia (1952).

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of conduct in line with Islamic values. The inculcation of moral values and body discipline as a means of social control has a long precedence in Islamic teachings.6 In the puberty ceremonies, the disciplining is done in a celebratory way through the medium of songs, praises, presents and by being filmed or televised, making the process a positive and attractive experience for the novice. Marilyn Strathern challenges the anthropological theory that underpins the idea of ‘role acquisition’ or ‘socialisation’ through such rituals.7 Her main criticism centres on the problematic concept of a shared understanding inherent in the notion of socialisation rooted in Euro-American metaphors of property and domination. This interpretation assumes that society has a unified set of values which it in turn imposes on a child. The child is assumed to be unsocialised and Strathern argues that this assumption is incorrect. The girls’ puberty ritual needs to be examined in the light of her criticism. I will argue following Marilyn Strathern (1993) that the child is already a social being and need not be made into one through this ceremony. By the age of nine, girls already know what the adults expect of them, irrespective of the new ceremony. Before they reach the age of nine, girls from religious families often learn from their mothers to adhere to rules of modesty and may accompany them to religious meetings, where they are praised or rewarded with sweets by other women for ‘acting like a lady’. They are also encouraged to learn and observe religious duties before the age of nine, especially namaz and fasting, even if not in a rigid way.8 They thereby learn in a gradual process that compliance with the social values is rewarded as virtue. A child develops an ability to judge and evaluate the expectations of others, and thus for self-regulation (Strathern 1989). There is no need for the imposition of rules in a ceremony, as the child already knows them. This is different from the Catholic Confirmation, which is taught formally not by parent, but by priest. What matters within the ritual frame is neither the formal teaching of rules and regulations that the girl learns irrespective of the

6

See Majlesi (1991), which is a popular book on prescribed manners, with minute details on eating, sleeping, laughing and other body functions, even spitting. 7 See Strathern (1988: 11–15, 315, 321–24; 1989, 1993). 8 Children’s fasting is popularly called ‘birdlike fasting’ (rouzeh-ye gonjishki), because they are not reprimanded if they drink or take small snacks in between the fastbreaking meals.

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ceremony, nor what she (or the parents) thinks or believes, but what she does. For example, namaz is a highly formalized activity, which is intended to inscribe discipline on mind and body through repetitive submissive body postures.9 The point about the use of the body in ritual is that it communicates better than words. To kneel and prostrate is to incorporate subordination clearly, unlike the nuances of verbal communication (Rappoport 1979 cited in Bell 1992: 99–100). An act is not simply a representation of prior concepts, but a “lived interpretation” of them (Moore 1999: 13). What the girl ‘does’ is also a public proclamation of the moral precepts that the ritual lays down. Whether she actually obeys these precepts is a different matter. But if she does not obey, she would be breaking the pledges publicly made. The obligations and pledges she undertakes within the ritual frame have a force that other promises seldom have. Thereafter, she is expected to behave like an adult, even if she flaunts those expectations. The parents, relatives and school authorities spend much time over the preparations, sewing the dresses, buying presents and so on, so that they too are party to the moral teachings through ‘doing’. This is partly why the ritual does not simply express abstract ideas or prior concepts. The ritual also does things, creates physical objects (dresses, presents) and has an effect on the world. In other words, ritual performance does not merely represent social structure, but acts upon it. This means that it can also lead to change. Learning through doing does not mean that the actors cannot reflect on what they do.10 This brings to light the problematic concept of shared understanding entailed in the notion of ‘socialisation’. The expression of learned behaviour can be highly variable. For instance namaz, despite being a highly formalized activity, can be used strategically to gain a competitive edge over others by an overt display of piety, or it can be used explicitly for political ends, as with the Friday congregational namaz.11 Expressions of conformity in the ritual context do not necessarily lead to submission or conformity in daily life, as attested by the presence of vice squads on the

9

Cf. Bourdieu (1992) on body ‘hexis’ (the embodiment of ‘habitus’), and Foucault (1977) on the body as a target of disciplinary practices. Cf. also Mahmood’s analysis of salat in Egypt (2001b, 2005: 122 ff.). 10 See Starrett’s (1995a) critique of Bourdieu’s concept of body hexis. 11 Cf. Bowen (1989) on political uses of salat in Indonesia; cf. Humphry & Laidlaw’s comment (1994: 81).

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streets to control subversive uses of hejab. These tell a different story to the docile bodies and conformist subjects celebrated in the song sung at Shokufeh’s house about veiling. What the novices are supposed to have learned in the ritual is neither necessarily equally effective or indisputable. The possibility for challenges to learned behaviour is inherent in the ritual itself. There is an underlying tension between the contradictory values of conformity and autonomy, whereby individual responsibility (or autonomy) is promoted at the same time as duty to society. Different thresholds and degrees of maturity are imagined for boys and girls. A girl of nine, though deemed mentally mature, is paradoxically curtailed from taking independent decisions by the very ceremony that celebrates that maturity. The public celebration of a girl’s life-cycle event not only subjects her conduct to wider public scrutiny, but also undermines familial autonomy over the child’s upbringing. Henceforth, the girl becomes socially visible. As a result, ironically, the very avowal of her maturity fails to result in a corresponding autonomy to make independent decisions over her own life. A degree of autonomy comes with marriage, but the gendered discourses deny women the same degree of independence as that granted to men. Her husband, society and the state expect obedience from her. Boys, by contrast, are less circumscribed. Pre-pubescent boys, despite being considered as mentally immature, are left to grow into maturity and develop ability for self-regulation without the degree of public attention given to girls. The tension between conformity and autonomy is a source for agency by default. The following example of a home-edited video recording made of an initiation ceremony held at a school in north Tehran demonstrates the point. Parents and school authorities commonly video the proceedings, but this is much more than merely recording of the event. It is a statement of the importance of the occasion for the individuals concerned. At the same time, the video can be used as a creative tool to re-present an event, thus opening up possibilities. In the home-edited videotape that one of the initiated girls showed me, the third-grade girls are veiled throughout the ceremony as they go through the various stages of performing namaz and singing songs about veiling. But the tape ends with a splendid display of a large collection of male and female American Barbie dolls, rather than the Islamic ones that can be found on the market. Some of them are wearing swimwear and the video film is accompanied

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by western music. Clearly, these dolls promote an American gender ideal, a polar opposite of an Islamic version based on female modesty. The video film is in effect a subversion of the school performance, even though the girl herself may not have been aware of it nor intended it to be as such. When I spoke to the girl, she told me that it was her idea to include her dolls in the tape. She seemed as proud of her collection of dolls, bought on a trip abroad with her parents, as she was of the ceremony in which she had taken part in veiled piety, even though she chose not to adhere to hejab in private. The simultaneous maintenance of two opposing gender values points to a gap between gender as discursively defined and the subjective experience of it. In effect, the girl dislodges the certainty of a given cultural order by contesting the imposition of an essential identity. Blurring the contours of an inscribed identity, the girl makes ambiguity a personal goal.12 She thereby reclaims and re-presents herself in her own terms. The example points to gender identity, or rather identification, as an ongoing process and how social values may change. Ritual performances are ambiguous and contain multiple perspectives. To ignore this diversity would mean an imposition of one set of values over others. While it is true that ritual may implicate people in relations of power, it can also be an effective forum for challenge. Even when they are ‘official’ performances with an ideological force, the identities they inscribe are porous and contested.13 Theorists of gender ‘performance’ have located this indeterminacy at the heart of performance itself. Contests over meanings inevitably begin at the point when actions are institutionalized, a process which is intended to control the very context within which actions are interpreted.14 Once back in their own homes, however, people appropriate official discourse in line with their concerns, contingent on certain cultural assumptions that are themselves subject to reinterpretation. The perspective taken by the mothers at the two events demonstrates the point. They see the event as an important first step for the girl in the process of ‘becoming’ a woman. Their main concern

12 Debbora Battaglia suggests we should appreciate “self-ambiguation” as a supplementary capacity of persons (1999: 118). 13 See Battaglia (1999: 126–28). 14 See Humphrey & Laidlaw (1994: 155–157).

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is her anticipated future marriage, which will be discussed more fully with regard to its gender implications further below. The event held in the villa in the north of the city was strongly linked to displays of wealth and the young girl’s perfunctory performance of her prayers went unnoticed. Prayers were taken more seriously at the downtown ceremony. In both events, however, there was far more a sense of having a party with fun and games rather than following prescribed performances as at the formal school ceremonies. It might be argued that the mothers are merely disseminators, preservers and arbiters of morality rather than agents in their own right. Their conversations indicate, however, that they see themselves as responsible citizens who make an informed, desirable choice and feel that they are taking part in the new religious order, thereby making it possible in theory to claim equal citizenship.15 In other words, they align their personal interests with public goals. This is not the same as the model of ‘false consciousness’ or social engineering. By acting as arbiters of the moral code, the women assert their moral worth within relations of power, rather than being merely passive consumers of those moral codes. They act both in self-interest and for common good as they see it. What makes this self-disciplining desirable are promises of reward in this world and the next. The disciplinary and salvationist are constituted mutually as virtuous. This is similar to what Mahmood (2001a: 203) calls a cultivated desire, shaped by non-liberal traditions. The state authorities in turn have a stake in this ritual. They designate it officially “Celebration of Worship” ( jashn-e 'ebadat), promoting thereby its spiritual and religious features. By appropriating and redefining a life course event, the authorities underline their definition of religion as a public, rather than an individual affair. The collective performance of namaz at schools is intended to present an image of unity, much like the televised Friday congregational

15 Afsaneh Najmabadi argues that at the turn of the century in Iran, with shifts in the concepts of ‘mother’ and ‘wife’, the womb began to be envisioned not simply as a vessel but as a school (maktab), which “imputed all the disciplinary and regulatory functions of school to the womb. Not only did the bearer of the womb regulate the character of the fetus, but now the regulatory process turned back upon the womb/woman” (1998: 93). This self-policing was not only workable but also a desirable project for women, since it made her place as citizen in the nation possible (ibid.: 113).

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prayers held in the University grounds. The initiation rite becomes, as it were, a rite of legitimacy for a state that sees itself as the prime representative of the ‘common good’. It can be seen as a propaganda coup, publicising people’s purported loyalty to the new order. Despite presenting a unified image, the girls’ initiation ceremony is alive with internal divisions based on class. The report in the magazine “Woman of Today” (Zan-e Ruz) mentioned above is critical of the appropriation of the ritual by the middle classes, arguing that they celebrate the event with conspicuous display, devoid of the required spiritual elements, like birthday parties. Individual birthday parties in Iran have traditionally been more prevalent among the middle classes, whose western styles of life during the Shah’s era contributed to class tensions. The influential pre-revolutionary social criticism of the Marxist writer Jalal Al-e Ahmad (1981) centred on the notion of ‘west-toxication’ (gharb-zadegi ). It was not so much the ‘West’ that was the target of his criticism, but rather the privileged middle classes who associated themselves with the West, focusing in particular on women, apparently spellbound by Western goods. These ideas are reflected also in the playground jingle that the girls sang as the novice opened her presents in the ceremony held downtown. The playful questions in the two last lines of the song (“Why did you not bring more? Why did you not give me a villa?”) clearly bear a comment on social inequality. The polarities and juxtapositions of East and West, down-town and up-town ( pa"in shar, bala shahr) continue as part of everyday discourses of self-definition in Iran.16 This new girls’ initiation ceremony must be seen in this context. Afsaneh Najmabadi argues that the Islamists have appropriated the class-based discourse of ‘westoxication’ as a means to control social conduct (Najmabadi 1991: 65–67). But it is equally possible to see the ceremony as an assertion of cultural distinctiveness vis-à-vis the West through appropriation and conversion of a Western birthday party into an Islamic event. Mrs Monir indicated as much in the ritual held in the north of the city. Describing the ceremony as a ‘birthday party’ with Islamic features, she added that one can be ‘modern’ and ‘Islamic’ at the same time.

16 See, Fischer & Abedi on discourses of authenticity and identity among Iranian immigrants and exiles in the US (1990: 253 ff.).

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Many of the traits of the Western birthday party are redefined in Islamic terms.17 For instance, the birthday is shifted to coincide with an auspicious religious anniversary rather than being fixed to the child’s birth date, implying a spiritual birth rather than an earthly one. Cakes, which are central features of the Western birthdays, are shaped like a Qur"an or the Ka'beh. The participants include as many adults (mostly relatives) as children, and it is strictly single sex, apart from pre-pubescent boys. The ideals promoted are simplicity and modesty, even if they are flaunted. The responsibility of the child to uphold the social and moral expectations of society are valued above independence and individuality. The songs and the presents reflect society’s expectations of the girl child’s role as an adult rather than cater for the child’s individual taste. This is reflected by the type of presents the girl receives in the ceremony held in the south (a ring, a veil, a toy sewing machine), which one of the relatives calls her “trousseau”. This moral order is distinctly feminised. Both gender and class have always been highly charged nationalist issues tied up in complex ways with the West.18 We know from Mary Douglas (1966) that when a society perceives a threat, social controls are used to regulate its boundaries. We also know that these boundaries are gendered (Kandiyoti 1991). As a marker of ‘pure’, ‘authentic’ self, one that is constructed as both ‘Islamic’ and ‘modern’, the girl initiate becomes a means for resistance to a perceived cultural ‘pollution’ from the West (cf. Harrison 1999). Nonetheless, since its inception, the ceremony has rapidly grown into a competitive, status-enhancing event for the newly rich, in effect subverting the feminized ideals of modesty and simplicity. Assertions of rigid cultural boundaries reify a ‘unified self ’, disguising continued internal inequalities. The politics of ‘authenticity’, as Deniz Kandiyoti (1991: 8) argues, are but disguised metaphors for internal disquiet and social conflicts based on divisions such as class. ‘Tradition’, as Hobsbawm (1983) notes, is ‘invented’ in the face of rapid change.19 One of the themes in the literature on globalisation

17

See, Gerd Baumann’s (1992) comparative analysis of British and Punjabi birthday parties held in the UK. 18 See, Kandiyoti (1991) and the many contributions in Abu-Lughod ed. (1998). 19 See, Sahlins (1999: 5, 399–421) on the opposed concepts of an ‘invention of tradition’ and ‘inventiveness of tradition’ in a discussion on the diverse anthropological interpretations of ‘culture’.

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is the paradoxical assertion of cultural distinctiveness by means of an indigenisation of modernity.20 Another specific example demonstrates the idea particularly clearly. At a staged girls’ initiation ceremony held at a private school in north Tehran, which I attended, the headmistress announced that they had invited a professional child psychologist to interview the girls. A clean-shaven young man came on stage and asked each girl what they believed was the purpose of namaz and what it meant to them personally. He thereby encouraged the child to consciously reflect on her religion rather than simply repeat by rote-received opinion. By contrast, in the video films that I saw of ceremonies held at state funded schools in south Tehran, clergymen, who asked each girl a few questions on their religious duties, performed this role. Possibly, the involvement of a psychologist was an attempt in a wealthy part of town by the school authorities to make the event more attractive to their secular minded middle-class parents whose children attended the school. In any case, the participation of a psychologist in a ritual presented as religious can be seen as an attempt to reconcile religion with modernity. It indicates a process of objectification and rationalisation that is part of the changing nature of religious discourse (Eickelman 1992). Far from creating unity, this relatively recent girl’s initiation ritual has become a forum of competing interpretations, where countless relations are negotiated and shaped, so that in practice, the ritual is neither merely reactive nor the product of shared meaning.

Constructing Binary Genders: Concerns over Reproduction and the Patriline Marilyn Strathern (1993) argues that puberty rituals are about producing gender difference, because pre-pubescent children are of an indeterminate gender. Physical difference at birth does not automatically produce a gendered body. This was shown particularly well by Janice Boddy’s (1989) study of female circumcision in Sudan. In other words, the genitalia do not themselves determine an identity as male or female. Rather the feminine and the masculine must be

20

Sahlins (1999: 40), Harrison (1999), and further references in Harrison (1999).

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produced through performance. The idea of an indeterminate gender with regard to pre-pubescent children is confirmed by the fact that in Iran, girls and boys can mix and play without adhering to the religious rules called mahramiyat, which concern separation of potential marriage partners through gender avoidance, such as veiling.21 As we have seen in the girls’ ceremonies described above, the rules of gender separation apply only at puberty.22 How exactly gender difference is produced through the ceremony will be examined more closely below. It was indicated above that Strathern discards the idea of ‘socialization’ through puberty rituals, suggesting instead that, “Far from arguing that such ritual displays society to the individual, we might wish to argue that ritual brings out of the person the social relations of which he or she is composed” (1993: 48).23 ‘Socialisation’ entails not just the problematic concept of shared understanding, but also the metaphor of ‘completion’; it is as though ‘society’ imposes its unified set of values on the unsocialized—hence ‘incomplete’—child and thus ‘completes’ them (1993: 44–45). Rather, persons are the outcome of the acts of others, such as the acts of parents toward producing a child (1993: 47–48). Thus, a pre-puberty child is already a ‘social’ being, composed of numerous acts and relations, and need not be made into one. What a puberty ritual does is to ‘decompose’ the male/female aspects of the ‘androgynous’ child (or render them ‘incomplete’, metaphorically speaking) by putting them in a clearly demarcated state of masculine or feminine, hence sexually differentiated, by gendering their capacities and potentialities (1988: 212). In other words, a puberty ritual is not just about transforming social roles and statuses, but about transforming capacities, such as the capacity to reproduce in preparation for marriage and reproduction. They may thus become reproductive members of society, and thereby become ‘complete’ in their new relationship as reproducers (1993, 1988: 14–15).

21

See Khatib-Chahidi (1993) for details of the rules of mahramiyat. Cf. Fischer & Abedi’s footnote reference to celebrations of Qur"anic literacy for five year old boys, which implies the androgynous status of pre-puberty boys: “The student is treated like a bride: tablecloth held over the head, nuts and sugar balls thrown over it into the air” (1990: 459: fn. 19). 23 See, also Strathern (1988: 11–15, 315, 321–24). 22

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I will apply Marilyn Strathern’s ideas to examine the ways in which gender difference is established metaphorically in the girls’ puberty ritual. I suggest that here, ideas about blood are a key to conceptions of gender difference, and as with the Muharram rituals, bear an ideological message relating to patrilineal descent. I also suggest that the puberty rituals held in the two home based ceremonies described above are modelled on the future marriage and wedding of the girl. For the mothers and other female relatives, the principal concern of the ceremony is the girl’s anticipated future marriage rather than the commencement of the religious duties. While the performance of namaz may be the most prominent aspect of the ritual, it is the least important with regard to establishing gender difference. Parallels will be drawn between the girls’ initiation ceremony and the male rites of martyrdom and circumcision as key rites of passage into manhood for the male gender. This, I suggest may be the reason why the boys’ puberty ritual has failed to receive the same degree of attention as that of the girls’ despite being mandatory.

Ideas about Blood A major theme that has emerged in the literature on personhood concerns the primacy of substance, especially sexual and bodily substances (breast milk, semen, blood), which are powerful metaphors that shape notions of identity and relatedness.24 Muslim scholars define a child’s identity primarily in terms of patrilineal ties of blood as discussed in Chapter 5. Marriage between patrilineal relatives who are conceived of as ‘sharing the same blood’ (ham khun) is forbidden.25 Breast milk, although recognized as creating ties, only comes

24 The primacy of substance as a relation is derived from the notion of ‘partibility’ (Strathern 1988: 12–13, who refers to Marriott 1976), and has generated considerable analytical impetus in social and cultural theory (see, Lutkehaus & Roscoe 1995: 14). Consequently, anthropologists have looked more closely at idioms of relatedness, questioning classic models of kinship based on conceptions of ‘biology’. See, Carsten (1995, 1997, 2000) on ties of food and feeding, and see Strathern (1993b) on the debate underlying the new reproductive technologies about whether priority should be given to biology and body substance (woman who lends her womb) or to intent (parents who pay someone for the womb). 25 Ladislav Holy argues, expressions of preference for marriage with patrilateral parallel cousins (father’s brother’s daughter, FBD) are rare in practice and are not so much about a preference for endogamy or marriage to the actual genealogical

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into play in certain cases.26 In the initiation ceremony held in south Tehran at Shokufeh’s house, the girl’s patrilineal identity was emphasised through the presence of a paternal aunt. The fact that the father was missing in the aftermath of war makes the presence of the father’s sister all the more important, to the extent of delaying the celebration until she could undertake the journey from another city. She also takes a leading role in quizzing the novice on her religious duties. The significant attention the aunt receives during the ritual gives focus to the girl’s paternal affiliation. It brings out the hierarchy of value in the social relationships of which the girl is composed. The actual onset of puberty in the form of menses is however overlooked in favour of patrilineal descent and agnatic blood. A girl’s first menses is at the core of her reproductive power and marks the time when she can conceive, but this is eclipsed by means of cultural taboos. The beginning of a girl’s puberty is set at the age of nine, irrespective of the onset of the menses. These are, however, thought to be imminent, as indicated by reckoning her ninth year by the lunar (not solar) calendar, which implies the twenty-eight day ‘lunar’ menstrual cycle. Nonetheless, the ritual is treated as a marker of spiritual and mental maturity and focuses on the girl’s moral duties and responsibilities rather than her puberty, which indicates her capacity to reproduce. Far from seeing menstruation as reproductive power, the religious discourse construes it as a form of pollution, which is governed by numerous rules and taboos in the book of precepts. Menstruating women are for example not allowed to perform acts of worship, touch the Qur"an or enter a mosque and must abstain from sexual intercourse.27 Unlike semen, which is also considered to be polluting, menstrual blood cannot be ritually purified with ritual ablution. The consequence of this idea is far reaching. Given that ritual ablutions are a prerequisite for all acts of worship, women cannot perform

FBD, but represent an expression for the continued incorporation of the girl in the patriline (1989: 126). 26 Mother’s milk has a bearing in cases of ‘milk-mothering’. Those who have shared a wet nurse are considered as ‘milk relatives’ and marriage between them is forbidden. 27 The Qur"an (S2: 222) refers to sexual intercourse during menstruation as 'adhan, major sin. See Spellberg (1996) on constructs of menstruation in post-Qur"anic texts.

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as many acts of worship as men, hence it is reasoned by religious scholars that they are naturally spiritually inferior to men. This discourse is based on the controversial statement by Imam 'Ali discussed in Chapter 1.28 Menstruation (heyz) also has connotations with shame and things problematic, and people meticulously avoid drawing attention to it, for instance, by using indirect terms of reference like adat (habits) or taklif, (puberty) instead of heyz. What is important is that the taboo on menstrual womb-blood (heyz) eclipses female reproductive capacity in favour of agnatic blood (khun) that runs, as it were, in the arteries and metaphorically binds the patriline. The contrast between the two types of blood is also reflected terminologically. One is called heyz and is construed as dead and polluting, the other is called khun and is considered as pure and fecund, a blood that lives on to regenerate the community at large. The idea of male blood as fecund receives its most elaborate cultural elaborations in the men’s ritual of martyrdom (Chapter 5). The exaltation of a martyr’s blood is set against the taboo of menstrual blood.29 Gender opposition centres here on conceptions of blood, the body, human fertility and reproduction. While the passage into womanhood is constructed on the denial of reproductive capacity, the passage into manhood is constructed on ideas about regenerative blood. Apart from military recruitment and martyrdom, male circumcision is a key rite of passage into manhood for the male gender as various other scholars note in different contexts.30 In Iran, male circumcision (khatneh) (removal of the foreskin) is a key ritual for male

See, Imam 'Ali’s statement. In Chapter 1, Fn. 39. Douglas argues (1966), that which poses a threat to the social system is categorized as ‘matter out of place’—like ‘dirt’, hence elaborate rules for purity/pollution. See, also Buckley & Gottlieb (1988: 37–39) and Delaney (1988) on ideas about menstrual taboo in relation to more fundamental conceptions like fertility. 30 See, Bilu (2000), Bouhdiba (2000) and Hoffman (1996). In anthropology all rituals are seen as ‘rites of passage’ (van Gennep 1960) not just initiations into puberty: birth, marriage, death, illness, religious anniversaries, the recitation of the Qur"an, dreams (see Chapter 2), or even a wet dream by a boy counts as a rite of passage. See, Fischer & Abedi for a celebration of competent recitation of the Qur"an for a five-year-old boy whose teacher was a female mulla (1990: 28); cf. v. Bruck (1994) for a ritual performed formerly for both girls and boys in Yemen for competent recitations of the Qur"an. For an account of a wet dream at the age of fourteen, following which the religious duties were observed, see Fischer & Abedi (1990: 40–41). 28 29

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identity. It is now commonly rationalized on medical grounds and is performed unceremoniously in hospitals for newborns or in early infancy (formerly up to around the age of five), but it is widely treated as the hallmark of Muslim identity. It is not, however, among the pillars of Islamic faith but based on practice (sonnat, Arabic sunna). Moreover, religious affiliation is not dependent on circumcision, but is automatically determined at birth by being born to a Muslim father. For religious converts, an expression of will suffices to become Muslim. Parallels may be drawn with male circumcision in Judaism, which is also treated as a hallmark of Jewish identity. Lawrence Hoffman (1996) sees the significance of the circumcision in Judaism in terms of gender differentiation focused on the shedding of blood. He argues that it is not the removal of the foreskin that is central, though necessary, but the shedding of blood, which not only paves the way for salvation, but also provides the necessary contrast to menstrual blood to symbolize gender dichotomy and women’s marginal status within the rabbinic system (1996: 96).31 The different treatments of male and female blood in Iran support Hoffman’s argument. In addition, the genital organs have differing valuations. While a girl’s genitals are associated with shame ('eyb), that of a boy receives playful endearments like ‘golden penis’ (dudul tala). Unlike menstruation, male circumcision is openly acknowledged and in the past, even celebrated much like marriage ceremonies.32 In fact the word for circumcision (khatneh, from the Arabic khatana) makes the wedding connection clearly. The Arabic khatana means both to become related by marriage and to circumcise, while in Hebrew, hatan means ‘bridegroom’ or ‘son-in-law’ as well as circumcision (Bilu 2000: 37–38). In tandem with ideas about male blood as pure, fecund and regenerative, the initiated girl wears a white dress, which is a common sign of purity and virginity, denoting that to conceive, she is dependent on the male. Motherhood, though highly prized, is associated with nurture rather than creation. The act of giving birth is associated with pollution in the religious discourse. After childbirth, a mother

31 For structural links between Moroccan sacrifice and circumcision blood, see Elaine Combs-Schilling (1989). 32 On the parallels between circumcision and marriage ceremonies see, R. Tapper (1979: 167–173), and also Bouhdiba, who describes a Tunisian circumcision (2000: 27) and Bilu (2000: 37–38) among Jews.

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and anyone who has come in contact with her at childbirth must undergo elaborate ritual ablutions in observance of the religious rules. Men do not and cannot claim credit for, or ‘appropriate’ (Strathern 1988: 329–332), the act of giving birth.33 They can only intervene by causing the action through ‘encompassing’ female reproductive power (Strathern 1988: 332).34 An emphasis on semen and male blood comes to stand for the cause. Hence, a boy’s transition to puberty depends primarily on his first seminal emission. The idea corresponds with the still widely held popular monogenetic theory of reproduction that sees only semen as the crucial reproductive agent, with women providing the womb/uterus.35 Semen both begets and promotes growth, transforming the boy to manhood. Paradoxically, men come to encompass the reproductive capacity of the symbolic ‘woman’. Just as males embody femininity by virtue of semen, which like breastmilk, assumes the power to make things grow, effecting the transition of the boy into a man, females embody masculinity through agnatic blood. A ‘unitary role’ only exists in the imaginary discourse of gender. The ‘composite person’ is rendered ‘incomplete’ through processes of depluralisation, such as detachment (by gender avoidance), eclipsing (of womb blood) and encompassment (of reproductive capacity) of an imaginary opposite. It is for this reason that, as Marilyn Strathern elucidates in a

33 The anthropological explanations that initiation rites are merely a device to bring female reproductive power under men’s control and that men claim female procreative power to themselves is a contentious theme in anthropology. See, Lutkehaus & Roscoe (1995: 15–22) and Strathern (1988: 98–100), whose concern is not whether the rituals establish male supremacy as such, but the way analysts promote such claims by the imposition of their own (Western) gender assumptions. For psychological theories, see Gilmore (2001) and for an incisive, humorous critique of Gilmore, see Diski (2001). 34 Strathern rejects the use of the term ‘appropriation’ in these contexts because of the implied domination, and prefers the notion of ‘encompassment’ (an entity distinct from, yet enclosed and caused by something that is not itself ), since each action rests on a previous act or leads to another (1988: 329–332). 35 Theories of generation are varied within Islamic texts as well as in popular discourses. For instance, the Qur"an alludes that there is only sperm and uterus, but no ovum or female seed for the sperm to meet and fuse with: “women are given to you as fields to be sown, so go to them and sow [your seed] as you wish” (S 2: 223) (Delaney 1987). By contrast, in medieval theories, both men and women were thought to contribute to generation, corresponding to the classical Islamic understandings of Qur"anic doctrine of creation (Mussalam 1983: Ch. 3, Sanders 1991, op. cit. Ch. 5). The contribution of both male and female elements for human reproduction was scientifically established in the West as late as the 1960’s.

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different context, “a sex cannot be conflated with its attributes” (1988: 102). Indeed, the initiated girl’s femaleness comes to be based in part on an all-male substance. In other words, the symbolic categories ‘woman’ and ‘man’ cannot be reduced to actual women and men (Moore 1999: 25, 28). It is clear that the contrast between the menstrual taboo and the positive acclaim of male blood and semen is neither about the glorification of ‘men’ nor the denigration of ‘women’. Nor does it attribute to men sole agency for childbirth. Rather, the initiated girl comes to represent a means of establishing the legitimacy of the social and moral order based on the ideology of patrilineal descent. As Jean La Fontaine points out, “The apparent concern in girl’s initiation rites with marriage and maternity is not only a concern with reproduction, but a dramatic enactment of the moral order which is a society’s constitution” (1978: 7). Ideas about reproduction provide thus a powerful lens for wider social and political processes.

‘Repluralisation’ Symbolic gender constructs have a powerful effect on lived reality in daily life. They are neither merely representations nor imaginary ideals, but have an effect on the world. However, the relation between the social and the symbolic is neither determining nor straightforward (Moore 1999: 25, 28). Motherhood being central to feminized identity, there is clearly a gap between the symbolic eclipsing of women’s reproductive capacity and their experience of their body and its capacity to reproduce. So how do women relate to the symbolic representations? They have a rather different take on things. Their preoccupation is with what lies ahead for the girl. The mothers are concerned with the girl’s anticipated future marriage and the contributions they themselves as mothers make to social life. In the two ceremonies I attended, the women’s conversations convey a manifestly positive attitude to the girl’s expected marriage and to their own role as mothers. They refer to the girl as a ‘bride whose groom awaits her somewhere out there’. The bridal metaphor is further reflected in the prominent display of items like the large doll in bridal gown surrounded by presents like a ring, toy sewing machine and picture of a house, which one of the women calls her trousseau. In contrast to the ceremonies held at schools, the girls

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wear make-up or gold jewellery as an expression of a transition to womanhood and are complemented for their good looks. The adornment also sexualises the body, transforming the body into an object of desire, subverting thereby the symbols of purity and modesty denoted by the colour white, the bridal gown and the veil. The theme of fertility is suggested by the prayer called ‘Fatemeh’s rosary’ (tasbih-e Hazrat-e Zahra). At Shokufeh’s house, the paternal aunt teaches the girl this prayer, saying that it is highly meritorious and propitious. Fatemeh is associated not only with modesty and duty to husband and father, but is also a symbol of fertility, with links to votive dishes like kachi and samanu, which have regenerative associations (see Chapter 4). Samanu is made of germinating wheat and is associated with Fatemeh’s craving during pregnancy. This, together with her designation “Mother of all Imams” as the sole link between the Prophet and his male successors, makes her a prime symbol of fertility. For the girls, marriage is made attractive as they take centre stage, thoroughly enjoying being the centre of attention. Their mothers appear to be both delighted and proud that their girls are admired. Children are to them not only a source of emotional satisfaction, but also a source for marital stability. They say that they pity childless marriages and consider voluntary childless marriage unthinkable. Marriage provides possibilities for the mothers themselves to make political claims by initiating the marriage alliances. A father’s formal consent for a girl’s marriage is required, but mothers control the arrangements and negotiations leading to the marriage. Their interlinking ritual networks are a rich source for seeking and spreading information about familial histories, so that women play a key role in spouse selection and strategic alliances, through which they can also negotiate familial status, thereby becoming conduits for social relationships and ties, which strengthen their own position. The energy they devote to marriage-‘making’ makes evident their stake. So, from the women’s perspectives, the girl’s anticipated future marriage and motherhood takes on a positive, central role in the ceremony. We have here women reclaiming their maternal contribution to birthing and sociality in a way that shapes their positive self-conceptions. Continuing with Marilyn Strathern’s metaphors in a reverse sequence, the ‘decomposed’ girl is ‘repluralized’ whereby a mother/child image is added to the child’s unitary paternal composition. Birthing reappears as an outcome of multiple interactions and relations. ‘Birthing as a social act’ (Strathern 1988: 314–16) involves men as

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husbands as well as the actions of women as mothers and makers of marriage alliances. In a sense, men ‘make the babies’ while women ‘make the exchanges’, which flies in the face of much conventional social theorizing.36 What I am suggesting is that if children are construed as corporeally continuous with fathers through ties of blood in this patrilineal system, they embody their mothers in various other kinds of actions, like marriage exchanges initiated by mothers. In other words, successful ‘reproduction’, as constructed by the women, does not depend solely on human fertility and bodily substances, but also on performance and various exchanges. Men’s claims to ties of blood rests on the maternal contributions. Gender comes to represent different types of agency in different contexts.

36 Much of anthropological theorizing on marriage is presumed on men’s control of marriage arrangements and the idea that men exchange women to gain access to their fertility, with implications for wider social control. See MacCormack (1995: 12) for a critique of such theories.

CHAPTER SEVEN

REVERSAL AND LICENCE ‘OFFICIAL’ AND ‘PERFORMATIVE’ MEMORY1

The high-spirited performances I describe here have much in common with what anthropologists have commonly called ‘reversal rituals’. They are characterized by carnival-like inversions of norms of conduct, whereby the participants not only tolerate, but also are expected to indulge in the very acts that they normally scorn outside the specified ritual context. I had heard of but never seen one of these rituals. The ones I attended toward the end of my fieldwork dispelled any lingering assumptions about modesty that I had seen as central to women’s piety. My outlook had been continually modified and tested in the course of my work, but never to this extent. Nowhere are matters to do with the body and sexuality dealt with so explicitly in a public forum as in these rituals, which call for letting go of all reserve and inhibition. They were without doubt the most popular in the women’s annual ritual cycle, gleefully recalled and anticipated. The ritual ostensibly celebrates the death of the Sunni Arab Caliph ‘Omar (ad 634–644), who was assassinated by a Shi'i Persian slave called Abu Lo"lo". In the verses composed for the ritual, 'Omar is apparently the main object of ritualized humiliation, mockery and abusive mirth while Abu Lo"lo" is praised. In the past, 'Omar’s effigy was publicly burnt festively, so that the ritual bears the popular name “Killing the Caliph” ('Omar koshan), or mockingly “Celebration for 'Omar” ( jashn-e 'Omar, 'eyd-e 'Omar), or “'Omar’s dirge” (rowzeh-ye 'Omar).2 It needs to be emphasized that the clergymen leaders of the

1 The term ‘performative memory’, coined by Connerton (1991), is employed here in the sense of contestation over ‘official memory’ and hence the present social order, rather than in the sense used by Connerton, as a means of conveying and sustaining images of the past, hence as legitimising a present social order (1991: 3–4). See the Introduction on the discussion about ritual performance as a site of contest rather than a means of communicating ‘collective representations’. 2 Literature on this ritual is scant, based mostly on secondary accounts. See Alberts (1963: 899–901), Beeman (1991) and Fischer, who writes that, “effigies were

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Islamic Republic have officially banned this ritual on the grounds that it insults a figure revered by Sunni Muslims. But although the ritual is framed within a Sunni/Shi'i oppositional discourse, this only deflects from the ‘carnivalesque’ (Bakhtin 1968) questioning of the ‘high’ and ‘low’ internal to the Iranian society itself, which is the central point of interest here. According to Shi'i, 'Omar usurped the rightful succession of 'Ali to the Caliphate after the Prophet’s death in AD 632. In the jalaseh and other rituals that I attended during my fieldwork, antagonism toward 'Omar, along with the two other Sunni Caliphs, Abu Bakr (AD 632–634) and Othman (AD 644–656) was kept up throughout the year by the women, who regularly accused the Caliphs of wrongdoings. A popular story narrated in their dirges and poems was that 'Omar insulted and threatened Fatemeh, injuring her when he pushed open the door as he stormed into her house, so that Fatemeh damned (la'n) him.3 Accordingly, the mere mention of 'Omar’s name brought forth spontaneous oaths of damnation (la'nat) and I often heard the women say, “If you love the Prophet’s household (Ahl-e Beyt), you must share their joys and sorrows”. Hence, another designation frequently used for the ritual was ‘Celebration in honour of Fatemeh’ (mowludi-ye/jashn-e Hazrat-e Zahra). It denotes Fatemeh’s joy and approval of those who celebrate 'Omar’s death. Certainly, the women who took part saw their participation in terms of their devotion to Fatemeh and self-definition as Shi'i. But as with other rituals in present-day Iran, this one is fraught with contemporary political resonance. What were once popular and widespread rituals, openly celebrated also in the streets, now take place only indoors among trusted circles of acquaintances. It came as some surprise to me to hear toward the end of my fieldwork that the ritual was still alive and popular. I had heard that it had almost died out. Michael Fischer, writing just after the revolution (1980: 177) was of the same impression. There is no doubt that political considerations are involved. The

constructed of 'Umar with wood, straw, cloth, donkey turds, fire crackers; neighbourhoods would compete to make more impressive effigies, and obscene verses would be composed” (1980: 177). For historical overviews see Algar (1990) and Calmard (1999: 161–63), who provides also early travellers accounts. 3 A popular refrain of a dirge that I heard in many rituals expresses empathy with Fatemeh’s physical injury and pain: “Your broken ribs, the blood from your chest injury” (pahlu-ye shekasteh-at, khun-e zakhm-e sineh-at).

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evident insult to Sunni sentiment has always been a cause of tension in relations between Shi'i Iran and its Sunni Arab neighbours. The ritual was first instituted alongside the Muharram passion plays in the sixteenth century to legitimize the change in religious direction as a hallmark of Safavid rule and had a nationalist flavour.4 During the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, a religiously inspired hostility was re-directed against the European powers and political considerations led to attempts to ban the ritual cursing.5 With the establishment of the Islamic Republic (1979), the clergymen leaders took various steps to prevent the celebrations of 'Omar’s death in their attempts towards creating unity among Muslims as a means of confronting Western cultural and political incursions (Buchta 1994).6 The anniversary of 'Omar’s death is no longer marked in official calendars, replaced instead by a “week of solidarity” (hafteye vahdat) among Muslims. The celebrations are officially denounced as “rituals of debauchery and cursing” (majales-e sabb va la'n). Slogans of ‘Death to America’ replace curses against 'Omar, the traditional foe. Ever since Khomeini expressed the view that the Caliphs “adhered to the example of the Prophet in the outer conduct of their personal lives” (Algar 1990), derogatory references to them are carefully avoided at official levels. In a televised Friday sermon at Tehran University, I heard that rather than resort to degrading behaviour, Shi'i should respect 'Omar as an ideological opponent, whose deeds, including his contributions to the spread of Islam, should be remembered in written form.7 The figure of 'Omar has thus been the locus of shifting discourses and conflicting meanings. He has been variously a demonized ‘other’,

4 Under the Safavids, 'Omar was singled out among the first three Caliphs, for it was under his leadership that the Arabs finally defeated the Persian Sassanid Empire at the battle of Nahavand (AD 640–642); the ritual may have preceded the Safavids, since abusive poetry was publicly recited against the Caliphs as early as the Saljugs and continued with the Mongols (Algar 1990). 5 Under Nader Shah Afshar (1736) and the Qajar Naser-al-Din Shah (1848–96) (Algar 1990). 6 The suppression of the ritual seems to have been still in force in 2000 though with less effect. According to an on-line feminist journal based in Europe, the ritual was celebrated in homes in Qum, the theological centre itself, with children burning effigies in the streets (BadJens 2000 < http://www.badjens.com>). 7 Even derogatory writing has been criticized, so that the works of the Safavid cleric Majlesi about 'Omar are no longer reprinted (Buchta 1994: 567 n. 15).

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a legitimate ideological opponent, or a figure praised for the survival and spread of Islam. In each case, the 'Omar ritual has always served political leaders to consolidate their own rule. But it would be too simple to see the 'Omar ritual merely as a site of conflict between Iran and its Arab neighbours or the West. Given the concern of nation states with the representation of the past, it is important to consider how people relate to official discourse about their history and identity. The 'Omar ritual is not simply about a knowledge of the historical past. Not all the women with whom I spoke were aware of the historical roots of the ritual in the sixteenth century, and this theme did not emerge in any of the performances or conversations that I witnessed. In one instance, 'Omar’s identity itself seemed to be in doubt.8 Rather, stories of the past depend on the experience of the present and become true through ‘doing’. But instead of ‘performative memory’ legitimising the established order (Connerton 1991), it becomes a site of contestation. As one woman told me, they ‘do’ what they do so as not to forget. She made clear that forced forgetting only opens the way for remembering a censored ‘official’ history, thereby repossessing their identity by redefining their history through performance. The rituals described below will reveal that far more is at stake in these rituals than a concern with religious or national identity. I argue that 'Omar serves as a prime symbol for critique internal to the society itself. The performances address fundamental social and cultural values and assumptions, negotiating boundaries of gender, class and political authority. The women told me that in the first decade after the revolution of 1979 they had stopped celebrating the ritual as a measure of continued support for the new regime. But as people became increasingly disillusioned, attempts to suppress the ritual merely led to its renewed vigour, and it soon became politicized by the very attempts made to abolish what the women so clearly enjoyed. Mrs Omid did not admonish any of her followers for taking part in these rituals. As an established preacher, she herself prudently no longer participated,

8 'Omar’s role in the invasion of the Sassanid Empire did not surface in these rituals and may not have been widely known. One woman even thought that 'Omar was among the forces that killed Husseyn in AD 680, an idea which may have been more widespread (cf. Alberts 1963: 900, Beeman 1991: 300)

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though in the past, she had relished taking part, making her presence felt through the verses she had composed for the ritual. At the time of my research it was celebrated intermittently over a period of about three weeks, from the eve of the 9th Rabi I, the day 'Omar is said to have been assassinated, up until the 27th of the month, when I attended the last of the four rituals to which I was invited. They were all downtown. Three were by invitation to private houses, but one was an open house held at a religious centre (Hosseyniyeh) in the basement of a private house. Each one was a gripping performance. The air of secrecy before the rituals took place added to the excitement, so that they all had a quality of charged expectancy even before they began.

Field note Diary Entries 10 Rabi-I 1414 AHQ/28 August 1993 On the eve of the 10th Rabi I, I received a mysterious phone call from Minu, who is one of Mrs Omid’s dedicated followers. She told me we had been invited to a 'mowludi in honour of Fatemeh at a neighbour’s house. As it was long past Fatemeh’s birthday anniversary, I was puzzled. Minu realized my hesitation, but merely stressed that I would certainly enjoy it. I met Minu the following day at her house downtown and on the way, she told me that this was an 'Omar ritual and that it was particularly propitious for making vows to Fatemeh. She added that our hostess, a very pious woman, celebrates 'Omar’s death every year in fulfilment of a vow she had made to Fatemeh, through which she had been able to buy her house. My field notes read as follows: The house has a merry atmosphere, with lots of giggling and shrieks of laughter. As we enter, someone announces with glee, “Whoever is not wearing bright colours with an item of red should go back home and change”. Red is the colour associated with 'Omar. One woman tells me brusquely that I must leave my black chador downstairs. Realizing that I am a newcomer, she adds mischievously that it is religiously disapproved of (makruh) to wear black on a day of mourning such as this (meant mockingly). Minu and I join the impatient queue of women waiting their turn to reach the mirror in a small room filled with guests putting on makeup, changing their

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thick black stockings to light nylon ones, donning colourful festive clothes, removing their headscarves and folding their black chadors into a neat pile. Minu insists on colouring my lips with bright red lipstick and painting rouge on my cheeks. It would have been futile to protest. I let Minu do as she sees fit. Upstairs there is an assembly of around a hundred women of all ages and young girls wearing festive clothes. They are seated all over the carpeted floor of a large sitting room laughing and talking with each other. The centre of attraction is Mrs Sima the hostess. A short stocky woman in her early forties, she is dressed in a deliberately comic and frivolous way in bright red from head to toe, with red slippers and stockings, a colourful sack-like tunic dress, a child’s red plastic shoulder bag, a funny red cap on her head and large dangling earrings. From time to time she lifts her skirt to reveal a pair of long frilly underpants. She bends over to display a caricaturized portrait of 'Omar drawn on the backside of her underpants. Her clowning makes everyone laugh with delight, for she is a good performer. Turning to me she says with mock sadness, ‘Today is 'Omar’s death, but I’m the only real mourner!’ She is a star of the burlesque. We are served sherbet instead of tea and help ourselves to standard 'Omar ritual refreshments that are intended to be comic. In front of us are dishes piled high with salted popcorn and dried seeds (tokhmeh), which are cracked open between the teeth. Popcorn resembles small sugar balls (noql) associated with weddings, but it is salty not sweet. The term for popcorn (chos-e fil, lit. elephant’s fart) is a scatological pun. Minu told me that they used to string popcorn, calling it 'Omar’s rosary and that white melon (kharbuzeh) and turnips coated with flour are also popular for these rituals. The first syllable of the term for melon (khar-buzeh) means ‘donkey’ and turnips are commonly understood to have a flatulent effect. The conversations stop as Mrs Sima’s daughter, dressed all in white, announces: Today we are invited to join Fatemeh in her celebration. This ritual is held in her honour. Whoever does not join in the revelry and joy is not a friend of our great lady. We cannot love the Prophet’s household (Ahl-e Beyt) and remain indifferent to their enemies. Their enemies are our enemies, just as their joys are our joys. If on this day we do vulgar acts and use obscene language, it is because it is appropriate for 'Omar. Some say we should only damn (la'nat) 'Omar. But we think he deserves more than that. This is why we will use obscene language. Such language is not sinful if directed at 'Omar. The more we insult him the

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This announcement might have been partly for me the stranger in their midst, but as I later realized, it was also intended to appease some of the women who were critical of the use of obscene language. She then immediately begins to sing a whole array of 'Omar compositions in rhyming couplets in an engaging voice. Without needing to be prompted, the guests accompany the songs with rhythmic hand clapping and much gusto. Someone fetches a large metal pot and begins beating skilfully in a dance-like tempo (rengi). No one actually gets up to dance at this point, despite the repeated prompts in rhyme that the singer intersperses with her songs: It is the month of Rabi I Whoever does not dance is lazy

mah-e rabi-ol-awwal-e har ke naraqs-e tanbaleh

This singing and clapping continue throughout the ritual. The compositions are directed primarily at 'Omar, but also at the two other Sunni Caliphs, Abu Bakr and Othman, and are intended to mock and humiliate, while pretending to honour them. The verses contain many puns with double meanings, including scatological innuendos that result in roars of laughter. For example, one of the compositions is called ‘alms for 'Omar’ (kheyrat bara-ye 'Omar). It is presented in the form of a mock trial. The lead singer begins by accusing 'Omar for claiming the Caliphate and continues with a series of other accusations in question format. Each time, the chorus of refrain by all those present confirms the accusation by saying: “You did wrong”, using a colloquial Persian phrase (goh khordi), which has scatological innuendo: Did you say I am the Caliph? gofti ke man khalifeh-am [Chorus] You did wrong Did you say I founded the house? boniyan gar-e sagheefeh-am [Chorus] You did wrong On the day of Ghadir, amidst the umma ruz-e Ghadir miyan-e jam'-e ommat Why did you not swear allegiance to 'Ali? magar nakardi ba 'Ali to bey'at

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Did you say I am the Caliph? gofti ke man khalifeh-am [Chorus] You did wrong You didn’t have courage for jehad Shoja'ati tu-ye jehad nadashti You didn’t remember divine command hokm-e elahi ra be yad nadashti Did you say I am the Caliph? gofti ke man khalifeh-am [Chorus] You did wrong You only created havoc and corruption be gheyr-e fetneh va fesad nadashti You who always took pride in yourself to ke be khod hamisheh zuri kardi You were blind to justice haqq mididi cheshmat-o kur mikardi You took the wrong path az rah-e birah-e 'obur mikardi You buried your daughters alive dokhtarat-o zendeh begur mikardi You consulted your friends ba rofaqat neshasti showra kardi You were full of greed baraye loqmeh dahan va kardi You bled the hearts of 'Ali and Zahra khun be del-e 'Ali-o Zahra kardi All the havoc you created ke che fetneha"i to be pa nakardi Did you say I am the Caliph? gofti ke man khalifeh-am [Chorus] You did wrong

Two other titles for such compositions that I noted were ‘Dirges for 'Omar’ (rowzeh-ye-'Omar) and ‘Curses for 'Omar’ (hajviyat baray-e 'Omar). Minu told me that one called ‘Damnation of the Twelve Imams’ (la'n-e davazdah Imam) is particularly popular and considered highly propitious for obtaining favours if repeated 360 times following the

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prayer dedicated to Fatemeh until the third day after 'Omar’s death. Another song is called a ‘Lullaby for 'Omar’, supposedly sung by 'Omar’s mother as a nursery rhyme. One song, sung to a standard wedding tune (ey yar mobarak-bad ), supposedly congratulates 'Omar on his wedding, but uses many insulting words. At one stage, the young lead singer assumes the role of a preacher. Adopting what she believes to be an exaggerated Arabicized preaching tone, she begins as though reciting a standard Arabic greeting formula “as-salam-o-'alay-ka” (I greet you) that precedes prayers to saints. Her rendering becomes “as-sam-o-an-ka”, a scatological pun, in which the first syllable of the Arabic pronoun 'alay-ka (to you) is replaced by a similar sounding Persian word for body waste. The girl then continues in the same preaching manner to sermonize in a hilarious fashion, during which she lists various countries (the US, the UK, Russia, Algeria, Nigeria). Because at the time these were targets of contempt in the televised Friday sermons held in the University grounds, her references to them immediately suggests a critique of the politicization of sermons. At various intervals, Mrs Sima jumps into the middle of the room, clowning and dancing around to everyone’s delight. About halfway through the ritual, she runs in wearing a light- coloured veil, holding a water pitcher (aftabeh) commonly used for ablutions in the lavatory. She jumps about while grimacing and contorting her face in a burlesque fashion. She then squats down, pretending to be having difficulty defecating, then suddenly gets up, produces a replica of excrement made from dried mud and, while repeating that it was in honour of 'Omar, she takes it around for all to inspect while some call out that it should be placed on his grave. A riotous laughter accompanies this performance throughout. After an interval with further 'Omar songs by the young lead singer, Mrs Sima takes centre stage once more. Returning this time with a cushion tied to her bottom under her long red underpants, she begins to sing a song in rhymed couplets called “Yes, yes, just like a shelf ” (baleh baleh takhcheh dareh). It contains women’s familiar grievances and she pretends to sob as she sings. After each line, everyone joins in with gusto with the refrain, “Yes, yes, just like a shelf ”, the shelf being here a simple metaphor for a woman’s large posterior:

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[Chorus] Yes, yes, just like a shelf

showharam poshtesho be man kardeh baleh, baleh, takhcheh dareh

He has cut back my house-money [Chorus] Yes, yes, just like a shelf

pule khunamo kam kardeh baleh, baleh, takhcheh dareh

He has stopped speaking to me [Chorus] Yes, yes, just like a shelf

harf zadano ba man tark kardeh baleh, baleh, takhcheh dareh

He has now left me [Chorus] Yes, yes, just like a shelf

mano digeh tark kardeh baleh, baleh, takhcheh dareh

He says I’ve developed a shelf [Chorus] Yes, yes, just like a shelf

be man migeh takhcheh kardeh baleh, baleh, takhcheh dareh

With each refrain, Mrs Sima targets one of the women, burying her head in their lap with a shriek of protest. The act is repeated several times, each time giving rise to more roars of laughter. Minu tells me that in the past, 'Omar’s caricature would be painted on bare stomachs, and that this would be displayed and made fun of in gross ways while dancing. More 'Omar songs follow, this time alternating with standard poems of praise for Fatemeh and 'Ali, and accompanied by rhythmic handclapping and refrains of ritual greetings (salavat). In the following, the refrains are repeated twice after each verse sung by the lead: Fatemeh you are God’s flower You are the basil of Mostafa’s garden God has given to Ahmar A bouquet of Mohammadan flowers [Refrain] Greetings to Mohammad [Refrain] Greetings to Mohammad

Ya Fatemeh to gol-e khoda-i Reyhaneh-ye bagh-e Mostafa"i Dadeh khoda be ahmar Dasteh gol-e Mohammad Sall-e 'ala Mohammad Salavat bar Mohammad

In between, the lead repeatedly prompts everyone to get up and dance in the rhymed verse: This is the month of Rabi I Whoever doesn’t dance is lazy

mah-e Rabi-ol-Avval-e har ke naraqseh tanbaleh

Finally, some women begin to dance but, surprisingly, they are criticized by one of the guests reminding them that dancing is sinful. The irony of this does not escape Minu, who whispers that there would be much dancing after those against it had left. She adds that she was sorry that it is no longer permitted to burn 'Omar’s effigy outdoors. Early in the evening towards the end of the ritual, we are served with a thick noodle and bean soup (ash-e reshteh), the votive

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dish prepared by the hostess. The woman next to me urges me to make a vow at this propitious ritual. After some more songs, the lead singer concludes with supplications to God and Fatemeh for the granting of everyone’s favours and we all respond with a resounding 'Amen’ (Elahi ). As I prepare to leave, rubbing off the makeup and donning my headscarf and veil, one of the guests says to me, “We only do this so that our children don’t forget,” and surprisingly encourages me to write down all that I had heard and seen. When I asked if they are not afraid of the authorities, she says defiantly, “They can’t cope with women!” A brief exchange follows between a few women, expressing mixed feelings as to whether one should go to such extremes of behaviour. One woman, despite having participated in the ritual, says that her children have learned at school that 'Omar was a wise man who had fought many battles for Islam. Another justifies the insults, claiming that Sunnis make merry on the day of Husseyn’s martyrdom, but is contradicted by another woman, who says that some Sunnis even fasted on that day. Mrs Sima joins us, saying goodbye with expressions of condolences in mock sadness. Minu told me later that she had dreamed of a woman surrounded by a bright light (meaning Fatemeh), who told her that celebrating 'Omar’s death would make her happy. Other women justify 'Omar rituals with accounts of their dreams or hearsay stories. For example, Mrs Omid’s daughter knew of a tale, which she believed to be true. It was about the miraculous appearance of the Mahdi at a crucial moment to rescue a renowned performer of 'Omar songs, who was about to be tortured and permanently muted by having her mouth burnt with a brazier and iron tongs by a Sunni couple. 27 Rabi-I AHQ 1414/14 September 1993 This 'Omar ritual was a much smaller gathering. About fifty women were present (roughly half as many as the one before). This time the ritual began as though it was a standard mowludi. The lead sang mowldui poems in praise of Fatemeh, accompanied by everyone’s handclapping, which continued almost non-stop for about an hour. During the songs, someone scattered sugar balls (noql ) over everyone’s head, which the participants considered to be imbued with barakat, collecting them to take home. After the mowludi songs, one of the women told her son, a boy of about seven, to recite some

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verses of the Qur"an for everyone. The boy stood shyly at the top end of the room and recited the verses by rote in a melodic style, for which he was praised with loud applause. Then, all of a sudden, the 'Omar songs began with gusto. The songs that were sung were similar to those already described, continuing non-stop until a second surprise. The hostess appeared with a stuffed male doll, much larger than life. It had a moustache, and was dressed in a contemporary suit with a tie. She pulled it into the centre of the room with a thick rope tied around its neck, giving rise to much laughter. A few other women stood up spontaneously, joining the hostess in vehemently punching, slapping, pinching and kicking the effigy to the delight and encouragement of everyone else, who shouted obscenities at it. In the end, they all helped to hang the doll with the rope around its neck on the wall at the head of the room, where it was left for the remainder of the ritual for all to see. More songs and hand clapping continued, but this time mowludi songs in praise of 'Ali and Fatemeh alternated with 'Omar songs. This fusion of the serious and the grotesque in the ritual was particularly pronounced, as with the next ritual described below. 11 Rabi-I AHQ 1414/29 August 1993 Unlike the other two rituals described, this one is open house and held in the large basement of a private house owned by a professional Qur"an reciter who has converted the basement into a Hosseyniyeh centre for Qur"an classes and rituals. Instead of calligraphy and the various religious emblems that cover the walls of such centres, there are displays of colourful paper cuttings, blinking lights and popcorn strung on a long string hung on the walls. A woman seated next to me reminds me that the popcorn on the string is called ‘'Omar’s necklace’. The venue attracts a large attendance of at least 200 women, including many teenagers, children and a few small boys, many of whom crowd into the small courtyard that leads to the basement due to the lack of space. The ritual begins formally in the name of God with recitations from the prayer book (Mafatih-al-Janan), followed by the long Qur"anic chapter khatm-e "an'am (S: 6), which is particularly popular because of the many names of God mentioned therein. It is recited first by the niece of the hostess who then takes over and continues with explanations of some religious precepts. Failing to hold the attention

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of the restless crowd, she reminds them that they should keep quiet while God’s name is spoken but she is unsuccessful. She then gives way, speeds through the rest of the recitation and the precepts. She concludes with the mock reproof that the Muharram rituals held at the centre had not attracted such a crowd, and that this clearly showed the women’s preference for ribaldry to mourning. The response is a resounding chorus of salavat and, almost immediately, an old woman with a blackened face gets up from the middle of the crowd and starts to clown, dancing and singing bawdy 'Omar songs. She is dressed in frivolous red clothes with metal discs jingling from a mini-skirt, which she wears over a pair of bright red, baggy, satin trousers. Others stand up, clowning, gesturing and bending right over, wriggling their bottoms towards the crowd. The woman with the blackened face resembles a male troubadour jester (hajji-Firuz). He appears traditionally for the New Year (nowruz) on the streets in the role of a servant ( gholam), dancing and singing songs of mock deference to the passers-by, whom he addresses in his songs as his masters (arbab). These, in turn, are obliged to hand him money for his performance. The main body of 'Omar songs begin shortly after. One woman from among the guests acts as a lead, accompanied by rhythmic hand clapping, laughter and merrymaking from all present. About half way through her songs, she stops to make an announcement. She says that she heard of similar 'Omar songs being sung by men during a ritual held nearby and mockingly accuses them of being so rowdy, that passers-by had heard their vulgar language and talk of their penis. Throwing her head back with a gust of laughter, she points toward her genitals and says: “We can’t very well talk of ours, so let’s speak of our farts instead!” A roar of laughter follows and everyone repeats noisily joyful what she has asked them to do, competing with the men’s performance, contesting women’s lack of free expression by implication. Seated next to me is a woman who says that her son had attended an 'Omar ritual sponsored by one of the local men’s religious associations (hey"at) during which, ‘a mullah had started to dance and make merry, distributing coins to everyone’. She wished to justify her own actions and those of the others present, by pointing out that the clergymen themselves do not all follow the official line.

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A Mock Wedding 14 Rabi-I, 1414 AHQ/2 September 1993 Strictly speaking, this one is not an 'Omar ritual as there are no 'Omar songs or mention of him throughout. Nonetheless, the sponsoring hostess has decided to hold this ritual during the month when the 'Omar rituals are held and also serves popcorn, which is characteristic of 'Omar rituals. Instead of 'Omar songs, she entertains her guests with a mimed performance of an officially approved passion play (shabih) called “The Bride of Qureysh”.9 This is a moral story based on a popular Hadith. The plot centres on the mocking of an ostentatious wedding held by the elite members of the powerful, idol-worshipping Meccan clan called Qureysh, who at the end of the story convert to Islam when shamed by Fatemeh’s simplicity and majesty as she arrives at the wedding scene. Volunteers from among the guests act the play, without any prior rehearsal. They are guided step-by-step through the story by the young cantor who specialises in this play and has been engaged for the occasion.10 An old woman volunteers to be the bride, a young woman is chosen for the role of Fatemeh (Zahra) and six children play angels. Ideally, these roles should be played by seyyed, but only two seyyed are found among the children present. The cantor has brought the necessary costumes with her, red for the bride and green for Zahra and the angels.11 She begins her narration with a moralistic prelude, in which she contrasts the ostentatious display of the Meccan clan with Fatemeh’s simplicity, echoing the calls for modesty and sobriety at official levels. The following is a shortened,

9 Qureysh was a powerful clan in Mecca and the Prophet Muhammad belonged to one of its branches. According to Anassori, the play dates from the Qajar era (1796–1925) (1987: 123–128), cf. Beyza"i (1966). 10 I heard of three well-known professional groups who specialize in the performance and demand high fees. When I phoned the leader of one of them to ask permission to attend one of their performances for my fieldwork, she was offended and refused, saying curtly that religious plays should not be used for research purposes. 11 For the uses of colour in ta'ziyeh see Anassori (1987: 235), and for colour symbolism in the Qur"an, see Schimmel (1990). Red, black, green and white have particular associations. Red is associated with Shi'i enemies, green is the colour of the Prophet, white is associated with goodness and nobility, black with misfortune and mourning.

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though relatively close rendering of the notes I made as the play proceeded, as well as the transcripts of the tape recordings, which I was given permission to make. The guests listen intently while helping themselves to refreshments of fruit, sweet pastries, tea and popcorn: The bride was the daughter of the head of the Qureysh clan, who were distant relatives of Hazrat-e Zahra. They invited Zahra to their wedding. The Prophet told her that His ‘Beloved’ (Habib, i.e. God) had commanded that she should attend, but Zahra was sad. The Prophet asked, ‘Dear Zahra, why are you sad?’ She replied, ‘Dear father, they have not invited me for my joy. You know how much Arab women like personal adornments and jewellery. An Arab bride changes clothes seven times on the wedding night. Arab women pay less attention to their homes, and even if they are not all like that, many are. They know that I am not like them. You know I have no clothes. Would you want them to mock the Prophet’s own daughter?” [The narrator explains] Zahra was not sad for lack of clothes. She had given away her own wedding dress because someone else needed it. Nowadays women are ashamed to wear the same clothes twice to a reception. They have forgotten the love of God and their faith. The Prophet consulted God, “My daughter will go as you command, but would you be pleased that they mock her?” Then, angels appeared from heaven, clothing Zahra in the most magnificent garments and veils. [The narrator proceeds with details of the materials and the garments].

The cantor then sings mowludi songs, accompanied by the guests with hand-clapping, salavat choruses and refrains of, “Dear Fatemeh, don’t be sad, we are all your friends” (Fatemeh-jan gham makhor, ma ham-e yar-e to"im). The singing ends with ululation (helheleh) and further rounds of salavat ‘for the joy of Zahra’. Then the dramatic performances begin. Dressed in red, the bride of Qureysh enters and the guests scatter popcorn (instead of noql) over her head. In a burlesque performance played out at great length, the hostess begins to groom the bride, an act that gives rise to much mirth and laughter. She hands the bride a plastic shoe to use instead of a mirror and proceeds to smudge red lipstick around her lips. She then uses a piece of charcoal to line her eyes and eyebrows, altogether producing a grotesque clown-like face. Following this, she produces a coarse piece of rope with which she pretends to remove the bride’s facial hair.12 The

12 String was traditionally used for removing hair from the face and the body and used to be prevalent before the wedding night. Men also removed body hair, but with a powder rather than string.

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bride prances around in an unseemly fashion, while repeating that this is all for the joy of Zahra. The cantor then continues with her narration and the actors follows suit: “When Hazrat-e Zahra entered the wedding ceremony, she dazzled all those present with her majesty and splendour.” Zahra enters with a thin veil covering her face. Six young angels dressed in green and carrying lighted candles follow her. Everyone applauds and some of the women are moved to tears. The cantor reminds them that they are merely actors and maidservants (kaniz) of Zahra and that it was forbidden (haram) to impersonate the saints. She also asks them to applaud with rounds of salavat rather than clapping. A round of salavat follows. She continues: “The Qureysh bride fell down fainting, struck by the unexpected arrival and splendour of Fatemeh.” The actor forgets to fall down, so the cantor repeats the cue and the bride falls down with a shriek, inviting spontaneous exegeses as a critique of female vanity put to shame by Fatemeh’s majesty. Meanwhile, the person playing the role of Zahra sits on the bridal chair in the middle of the room and is surrounded by the angels. The cantor continues: “According to the Hadith, all the wedding guests converted to Islam and as they jostled to kiss Hazrat-e Zahra’s hands and face, they forgot about the bride, trampling her under their feet, until someone said that they should pull her out of the room.” The actors follow suit and the story ends, followed by more mowludi songs, hand-clapping and refrains of, “Dear Fatemeh, don’t be sad, we are all your friends”. The cantor reminds everyone that, in their joy, the guests should not forget the unfortunate, the ill and prisoners of war. She then invites us to sit on the chair occupied by Fatemeh during the play, cover our heads with the green veil worn by the actor and make a vow to donate some money to buy a wedding dress for a poor bride. As with the 'Omar ritual, the performance of this play is particularly popular for making vows to Fatemeh and many of the women take it in turns to sit on the chair, cover their head with the green veil, make a vow in silence and then put some money into a bag provided by the cantor. The hostess is pleased with the performance and prompts everyone for loud rounds of salavat for the fulfilment of their vows and for the cantor. Fruit, sweet pastry and tea are served again until people begin to leave. I had seen this play once before early on that year at a statefunded cultural centre for women in south Tehran, where it was

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staged for the first time on a raised, curtained platform on a weekly basis for several weeks following Fatemeh’s birthday.13 It was combined with a small exhibition called “The House of Fatemeh and 'Ali”. The ‘house’ consisted of a simple room constructed with a door and a window, to which visitors had tied many votive ribbons. 'Ali was represented by a large painting of a red rose. A simple dowry represented Fatemeh, consisting of various objects like pots, pans and a few items of plain clothing, including a veil. The moral messages of simplicity and modesty conveyed by the exhibition and the play are clear. In addition, the story of idol worshippers conveniently replaces 'Omar as an object of denigration. The hostess had compromised for political reasons, choosing to celebrate 'Omar’s death with this play rather than with 'Omar songs. Her political affiliation was also suggested by a large portrait of Khomeini in an elaborate gold frame displayed on the wall. But, despite its moralistic tones, it would be too simple to see the play as an instrument of social control. Traditionally the play was performed at weddings and following childbirth, but the themes of a mock wedding and satirical grooming of the bride on the night of consummation are themselves subversive.

The Ambiguity of Inversions ‘Reversal rituals’ have always presented a puzzle in terms of analysis and there is now a substantial literature about them.14 The majority of studies are functionalist, revolving typically on social/political cause and effect, with Max Gluckman’s study of ‘Rituals of Rebellion’ in South East Africa (1963) being the most influential. Gluckman views such rituals as a form of authorized protest, seemingly against the established order, yet aiming to reinstate it. Ritual here operates as a means for social control. It ultimately serves the interests of those it apparently opposes by allowing cathartic licence (excess) to

13 I thank Jaber Anassori for bringing the play at this Cultural Centre to my attention. 14 Among the now classic studies are, Bakhtin (1968), Cohen (1982), Gluckman (1963), Greenblatt (1982), Leach (1977a, 1964). For a comprehensive reformulation of Bakhtin’s (1968) work, see Stallybrass & White (1986).

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ensure renewed obedience to the authorities. In a similar vein, Apter (1983) and Drucker-Brown (1982) suggest the possibility of viewing reversals rituals in the light of Radcliffe-Browne’s (1952) theory of ‘joking relationships’, which are forms of ‘permitted disrespect’ in given contexts. These are said to have a stabilizing effect when there is tension between various categories of ‘joking partners’.15 In the case of the 'Omar rituals, such tensions would be based on the relations between Sunni and Shi'i, or they could be based on gender or class. However, attempts to curb the 'Omar ritual by the authorities suggest that they regard it as being far too threatening to be domesticated or tamed into having a stabilizing effect. An alternative approach could be to see reversal rituals in terms of theories of ‘resistance’, such as Scott’s (1985, 1990) ‘weapons of weak’, or in terms of Bakhtin’s (1968) “carnivalesque”. The term was employed by Bakhtin to describe a world outside and in opposition to the official, disciplinary social order, and as a counter-hegemonic, overt rebellion or subversion of the official order. But apart from the fact that the women do not see themselves as ‘weak’, they would never endorse the idea that they were ‘subverting’ the values and norms of conduct to which they normally adhere. Moreover, the popular assumption that carnival-like rituals are entirely free and chaotic is incorrect ( Jankowiak 1999). On the contrary, not only are the 'Omar performances restricted to the ritual context, but they are also bound by the social and cultural system of classification, which the performances invert. Lévi-Strauss (1963) argued that societies are ordered in homologous systems of contrast and similarity such as high: low/male: female and that tensions or contradictions in the classification system are resolved through myth, dreams and jokes. But the question remains as to why the authorities would wish to curb the ritual if it is supposed to resolve tensions. Just as the classification structure constructs social and political order, so, conversely, anomalies can deconstruct the order, remaining a potential threat, particularly during times of rapid change.16

15

‘Joking relationship’ according to Radcliffe-Browne (1952) can be either symmetrical or asymmetrical and the ‘joking’ itself can vary in degree, from teasing to obscenity. In his own study, the ‘joking partners’ were affines, whose relations consisted of simultaneous structural attachment (by marriage) and separation (by descent), so that ‘joking’ was a means of releasing potential tension and hostility. 16 Cf. Lincoln (1989: 165–66).

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Stallybrass and White (1986) go beyond seeing such rituals in terms of mutually exclusive processes—either politically conservative or progressive. They suggest that the most fruitful approach to reversals is a combination of both processes. In a political reformulation of what they call Bakhtin’s (1968) celebratory, folkloric approach to the ‘carnivalesque’, carnival becomes “a generalized economy of transgression and of recoding of the ‘high’ and ‘low’ relations across the whole social structure” (Stallybrass & White’s 1986: 19).17 The process involves, on the one hand, symbolic inversions of commonly held values and norms, therefore seemingly logically related to the cultural classifications and codes (Leach 1977a, 1964), hence apparently reinforcing the established order. On the other hand, the reversals also have subversive potentials, because of the merging of binary elements, especially the ‘high’ and ‘low’. This ‘hybridization’ of binary opposites unsettles the very terms usually perceived as binary and incompatible. What needs to be stressed here, however, is performance, or ‘doing’. Performance is more than simply critical reflection.18 To mediate subversive ideas through concrete performances become an embodied perception ( Jackson 1983). Inversions might well undermine the power of the supposed norm by virtue of its exposure, but this alone would not guarantee its subversion, nor necessarily call it into question. Embodied perception extends beyond the ritual context so that the reversals may not be limited to the confinement of the ritual.

Exclusion and Differentiation: The Paradoxical Power of Filth and Demonization To understand taboos such as those concerning body waste, Douglas demonstrates the need to understand the human body as the prime

17 Bakhtin’s (1968) work on Rabelais helped toward an understanding of the contradictions and ambiguities of the ‘carnivalesque’. It deals with the pre-Puritan Church, which actively sanctioned carnivals, the mockery of priests included, because they saw laughter as important for overcoming fear and revealing truth. Cohen’s (1982) study of the Notting Hill carnival also emphasises the structural contradictions of carnival. 18 See, Introduction for a discussion of the fruitful move away from an ‘informative’ to a ‘performative’ approach to ritual.

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symbol of social classification (1966: 122–5).19 The concern with ‘filth’ has therefore nothing to do with filth itself, but with social and personal identity, which is symbolically related to a perceived vulnerability of the boundaries of the self and one’s social group. How does all this relate to 'Omar? He is, as Douglas would say, a structural anomaly, ‘matter out of place’, hence powerful, dangerous and to be scorned. Not only is he a Muslim like oneself (those who perform the ritual), but he is also a close relative of the Prophet.20 Yet, unlike the self (the ritual performers), he is a Sunni, thus more threatening to the identity of the minority Shi'i. The 'Omar rituals also follow on from the Muharram passion plays (ta'ziyeh), one forming a burlesque counterpart of the other. The structural parallels between them are striking.21 Husseyn is venerated, while Omar is scorned. One represents the ideal moral order, the other questions that order (cf. Beeman 1981, 1991). These symbolic opposites come to stand for self and other in a process of self-definition. The attribution to 'Omar of all that is base is a construct in antithesis to the self. The demonization of difference is a protective, self-affirming tactic of identity politics. Aversion serves to affirm the self and to reinforce one’s own sense of respectability. In other words, the negations of 'Omar by the ritual participants are not so much about 'Omar, or the Sunni, but about self-representations. For this, they need to set up an internal contrast of sorts (in the same way as women or men define themselves by setting up the opposite sex as an implied contrast). The main paradox at the heart of demonization is the ambiguous relationship between negation and desire (Greenblatt 1982: 4). The celebrants not only despise 'Omar, but also delight in him. What they mock they also relish and celebrate. 'Omar is not only an agent of impurity, but he is also a conduit for barakat and wish

19 Douglas states that the power of body symbolism is based on anxiety about the boundaries of the body, its orifices and matters issuing from them (blood, tears, spittle, milk, excrement). In ritual, it may be expressed as an anxiety about external boundaries, such as the protection of the political and cultural unity of a minority group, or a concern with transgressions or contradictions within the classification system of the society (Douglas 1966: 123–25). 20 'Omar was also closely related to Fatemeh and 'Ali. He married their daughter Umm-e Kolsum and his own daughter Hafse was married to the Prophet (reported on the feminist, online journal Bad Jens 2000). 21 Cf. Hammoudi (1993) who links Moroccan sacrifice and ritual licence among Berber men in the Moroccan masquerade.

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fulfilment.22 The celebrants constantly reiterate the potency of the ritual to bring about desirable ends. They eagerly eat the votive dishes served at 'Omar rituals which they consider to be imbued with barakat. The symbolism of food is particularly striking in the context of this ritual. Food is fun and pleasurable; it not only nourishes the body and the spirit as a medium for barakat, but is also becomes body waste. Popcorn, a staple food at the 'Omar rituals, illustrates the ambiguous relation between aversion and desire. The Persian word for popcorn (chos-e fil, literally ‘elephant’s fart’) alludes to defecation and breaking wind. In the 'Omar rituals, popcorn is served as a substitute for noql, which are small sugar balls with almond inside, resembling popcorn in shape, size, texture and colour, although popcorn is salty rather than sweet. Noql are associated with weddings where they are scattered over the bride and groom, like confetti. In the context of the 'Omar ritual, popcorn alludes to a wedding, which is being mocked. It is also playfully likened to 'Omar’s necklace strung on the wall of the Hosseyniyeh, but also to a rosary, which is a medium for prayers. This ambivalence is carried over to poems of praise for saints, which alternates with scatological songs, and where ritual greetings normally used to address saints become Arabicized puns. As Greenblatt comments elsewhere, it is as though eschatology is warded off with scatology (1982: 4). In other words, what matters in this ritual seems to be the here and now rather than a promise of reward in a world beyond. The fusion of the licit with the illicit is particularly subversive because distinctions become blurred. Important categories are confused. As Douglas observes, dirt, which is normally destructive, sometimes becomes creative because it transgresses the established classification order (1966: 160). This suggests that the 'Omar ritual should be seen not as conservative, confirming established codes, but rather as transformative. Filth is here not only a sign of destruction, but also of renewal and change. 'Omar’s symbolic death paves the way for a symbolic renewal.23 Just as renewal is linked with death, body waste is a sign of both plenty and degradation.24 This ambiva-

22 Cf. R. Werbner (2001: 139, 141) who refers to an earlier article (Wernber 1981: 61) for a similar comment on allusions to fertility in the Moroccan masquerade as a conduit for barakat. 23 Beeman considers the 'Omar ritual as a ‘rite of renewal’ (1991). 24 Cf. Greenblatt (1982: 7).

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lence applies equally to sexuality, which is another prominent theme in the 'Omar rituals. Female sexuality is constructed as dangerous, but it is of course also indispensable to human reproduction. It seems that in the 'Omar rituals, body and flesh or nafs must necessarily triumph over spirit and mind or 'aql in the service of social continuity.

Mixing the High and Low The inversions in the 'Omar ritual depend on regulating the relations of what Claude Lévi-Strauss (1963) calls the ‘high’ and the ‘low’ across the whole social structure. In the context of the rituals of this book, the relations of ‘high’ and ‘low’ are based on the complementary pair of mind/body or 'aql/nafs. Classification categories are ideals. In practice, they are never rigid. Taking us back to the body as the ultimate locus of social classification itself, Bakhtin’s (1968) central notion of the ‘grotesque body’ in the ‘carnivalesque’ reverses the limits and constraints placed on it. He shows how everything in carnival plays on bodily excess. The limits of the acceptable are stretched, becoming unbounded sexuality, open orifices that defecate or break wind and so on, thereby also mocking and rendering obscene the hierarchies inscribed on the social body, bringing down the high to the lowest bodily realms. It is understandable that attempts to control society often focus on the body or its parts. The body is subjected to scrutiny, regulation and disciplinary attention in numerous ways, particularly in times of rapid change, when gender ideas and relations are being challenged and redefined. Against the background of the constant displacement of identity in the crusades of forced veiling and unveiling under the banner of ‘tradition’ or ‘modernity’, the desire for selfdefinition is not surprising. What Bakhtin (1968) calls the ‘carnivalesque’, I call the women’s sense of fun, their love of the lewd, rude and popular, their glee at dirty jokes, at mingling of the ‘high’ and ‘low’, such as the erudite with the bawdy and realism with fantasy. Seemingly abandoning all ideals and conventions of modesty, probity and constraint, older women dance and frolic, impudence replaces a reserved attitude; food is associated with what the body discards and scatological invectives rather than sermons or praise permeate the performances. The women delight in their competitive claim to ‘outdo’ men in abusive

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verse and in vibrant and flamboyant celebrations of the lower body. The ‘grotesque’ lower body (or nafs) is of course a powerful critique of the deceptive language of reason (or 'aql ). The ‘grotesque’ not only counters the repressive discourse of ‘high’ and ‘low’, but also encourages recognition of the interchangeability of the categories of ‘high’ and ‘low’ (Stallybrass & White 1986: 43–44, 53–59). The performance of the ‘shelf-like bottom’ is an excellent example of how the ‘grotesque’ carries a multiple critique of the supposed norm associated here with the slender body of ‘respectable’ middle class women. The hostess achieves the effect of an enlarged posterior with a stuffed cushion under her dress. She draws further attention to her posterior by repeating in mockingly sad tones that her husband no longer desires her. The act of exaggeration (of the body shape) reveals the imaginary status of the supposedly ‘natural’ (body) (cf. Butler 1990: 146–47). The bottom is presented as being antiseductive in its grossly enlarged state. It refers, by implication, to the taboo of sexual practice divorced from reproduction. Thus, in effect, the women are celebrating the female body as sexual, not merely reproductive. Similarly, 'Omar’s caricaturized portrait is painted on a bare belly, making a mockery of the site of the fertile womb and thus also of motherhood as the central marker of female identity. A similar exegesis is suggested by the farcical grooming of the bride on the nuptial bed on the night of consummation, and the parodic nursery rhyme called 'Omar’s Lullabye’. This is not to say that the women devalue reproduction or nurture, but that they simply display a desire not to be contained by their reproductive or nurturing function.25 It is a powerful critique of the construct of woman as either mother or temptress, both of which effectively forbids female sexual pleasure on women’s own terms, notwithstanding counter discourses in Islamic jurisprudence.26 The many interpretations of the Qur"anic story of Yusuf and Zuleikha show the difficulty

25 On the decoupling of female sexual pleasure from reproduction in some Western discourses, see Jacobus (1990) and Jacobus, Fox Keller and Shuttleworth (1990). 26 Mussalam (1983: 28) shows that women’s right to complete sexual fulfilment is recognized and stipulated in Islamic jurisprudence, which generally allowed contraception provided the woman gave her consent, not only because she had the right to children, but also to complete sexual fulfilment, which coitus interruptus was judged to diminish. Mussalam also notes that mut"a union, so-called temporary marriage, is literally ‘marriage for pleasure’, the basic purpose being pleasure without progeny (1983: 36–37).

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experienced by Muslim scholars in accounting for female desire in any other terms than as shame or guile (see Merguerian & Najmabadi 1997, and see Chapter 1: pp. 60–61). Sexuality is perhaps the most taboo subject, but satiric performances concerning female sexuality are particularly popular in women’s social gatherings.27 There are many popular comic songs called generically ‘of the streets and bazaars’ (kucheh bazari i.e. popular), which women sing as they seductively dance and act (sometimes with costumes) in single-sex social gatherings, formerly particularly at weddings and following birth.28 Persian dance can be particularly coquettish (ba naz) teasing (ba eshveh) and flirtatious (ba kereshmeh).29 A central feature of these performances is the transgression of taboos that govern the relations between women and unrelated men (namahram). Particularly striking is the high degree of frankness about female desire freed from its reproductive destiny. In these performances, women mock the morality that refuses to acknowledge female desire. Casting themselves as sexual with dramatic comic expertise, they use their sexuality as a resource to control and manipulate male desire. Most of them are quite explicit, as the following examples demonstrate. The song called “Easy Aunt” (khaleh ro-ro) concerns a flirtatious woman, unabashed at being pregnant outside wedlock. One called “Who is Knocking at the Door” (kiyeh kiyeh dar mizaneh) is about a mother who encourages her daughter to respond flirtatiously to local traders who come knocking on their door one after another bringing their wares with them. In a similar song called “Uncle Green Grocer” ('amu sabzi forush), a housewife flirts shamelessly with her local green grocer with whom she has fallen in love. One song called “My Body has Ants” (murcheh dareh), seductively suggesting a body that itches with sexual desire, is designed for performing a ‘sexy striptease’. All these songs subvert the normatized structure of desire. Women are the subjects who desire, and not the object desired by men. Men also cross-dress as women and perform some of these songs, in particular the one called “Easy Aunt”, but the focus of

27

The celebrated female poet Forugh Farrokhzad, who publicly celebrated her sexuality in her poetry, became a social outcast, even among other intellectuals of her time (Najmabadi 1991: 66). 28 Many of these songs are recorded by the folklorist Anjavi Shirazi (1973), some of which are analysed by Safah-Isfahani (1980). 29 See Azar Nafisi’s vivid description of such a dance (2004: 265–266).

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their concern is clearly different.30 When men imitate women, it is to appropriate and contain the threat of demasculinization that occurs when women take charge of their own sexuality. Destabilizing the fixities of gender further are the subtle forms of gender reversal and cross-dressing, as in 'Omar’s popcorn necklace and the female who impersonates the male jester. In an 'Omar ritual reported elsewhere there are scenes of mock seduction of women by other women dressed as men.31 Cross-dressing is a popular form of entertainment in single-sex gatherings of either sex and is by no means confined to the 'Omar rituals. The popularity is partly due to the rigid differentiation of dress and other gender codes. The freedom to define one’s own gender focuses on reversing the gendered codes, in particular codes of dress. Crossing the boundaries simultaneously recalls and displaces gender opposition, thereby destabilizing the fixities of gender. As with all performances, the significance of performing the outrageous is that it is an incorporated disruption of ‘habitus’, which Michael Jackson argues, “lays people open to possibilities of behaviour which they embody but ordinarily are not inclined to express [enabling them to] control and recreate their world, their habitus” (1983: 335–336).32 It matters less, therefore, if transgressive performances are restricted to the ritual context. Even if rules are not easily suspended outside the ritual context, they are none the less contested, incorporating experiences through performing. It would seem, then, that more is going on in these 'Omar rituals than a concern with Shi'i/Sunni or Persian/Arab identity. The ritual goes far beyond the demonization of the historical figure 'Omar. The inversions address a host of contemporary internal social tensions and hierarchies defined as ‘high’ and ‘low’. These hierarchies are inscribed across a wide range of social contexts, including divisions

30 See Anjavi Shirazi (1973: 1) Cross-dressing and dancing by men impersonating women is a popular form of entertainment, but there seems to be no written records about this or similar performances in male social gatherings. 31 The online, feminist journal Bad Jens reports: “Some women dress up as men, wearing false beards and moustaches, suits and ties, and choose a woman to dance with. At one point, a rival woman shows up to attract the man’s attention, and seduce him into dancing with her instead. Traditionally, in these mock seduction scenes that are played out during 'Eid-e 'Omar, the newcomer has her way” (2000). 32 Jackson refers to Bourdieu (1977: 116) on the difference between ‘practical mimesis’ and verbal analogy or metaphor (1983: 343 Fn. 37).

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based on class and various forms of authority, which are redefined by the interactive quality of the performances. The woman dressed as the New Year jester plays on the inequalities of class by acting the role of the servant who mocks his ‘masters’ in pretence deference. Mrs Sima relinquishes her claims to status as a hostess through horseplay, clowning and serving low-prestige foods. Her daughter comically enacts the role of a preacher and delivers a hilarious, satiric parody of a sermon. She thereby taps into popular grievances against preachers, whom she apparently mimics with a profusion of unintelligible Arabicized words. This performance reveals a healthy disrespect for the elevated status and supremacy of the Arabic language, associated with authority, erudition or learning. The oversized male puppet, supposedly 'Omar, takes us to the heart of these social issues. Its beating suggests a parallel with the story of Fatemeh’s physical injury as 'Omar stormed her house. However, the puppet is dressed significantly in contemporary clothing with a tie, which has become a symbol of middle class, secular values in the Islamic Republic. It recalls in its inflated size the arrogant stance of the middle classes. However, the ferocity with which the women beat and kick the puppet is not an expression of pent-up aggression and grievances against men or gender oppression. The women are far from docile in daily life. Rather, the beating draws attention to an apparently natural order. Underlying all these performances is an implicit criticism of rules of inclusion and exclusion that structure the social order based on the hierarchy of ‘high’ and ‘low’. The heights of subversion are reached when leaders are scoffed at, filth is permitted and most of all, when genders are muddled, as when 'Omar, the male and the masculine, wears a popcorn necklace. Even if it is not a case of actual transformation, the transformative ‘potential’ of the 'Omar ritual is immense. So if the 'Omar rituals reveal continuity with the past, they are also characterized by spontaneity and creativity, constantly pushing against the acceptable limits in a double play of both opposition and reaffirmation of the established order. This ambiguity, and the pleasure it generates, lends the performances an acknowledged potency that scripted rituals seldom have (Stallybrass & White 1986: 37). At times it seems that not all taboos and rules are suspended here, as when the women protesting say that they can’t name their genitals in the same way that men easily do when referring to the male

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genital. But even if the social rules are not suspended entirely, they are vehemently contested. The possibilities of free expression and creativity are immense. Despite the many ‘standard’ comic features, I often had the impression that the performances were improvised while in progress. Certainly, the most innovative and spontaneous of the performances were the most memorable, bringing renown to their creators. These innovations may in turn become standard. It might be argued that the exhilarating sense of freedom and loosening of restraint that transgression affords is a momentary freedom, not necessarily a political freedom that could pose a threat to those in power (Stallybrass & White 1986: 37, 201).33 But, in their attempts to prohibit the ritual, the authorities make it clear that they consider unregulated ‘private’ space a breeding ground for subversion. They are aware that the ritual encourages pleasure for pleasure’s sake and the kind of unruly conduct and abandonment that they associate with loss of control (lack of 'aql) and ‘impiety’. This is perceived as a threat to the new puritanical moral order on which the religious regime grounds the legitimacy. Their admonition to reflect on the Caliphs through rational and enlightened critique in ‘written’ form reflects partly the changing nature of religious discourse. It amounts also to a strategic attempt to monopolize authorship through a written appropriation of popular practice. The idea that measured critique can only exist in the language of ‘reason’ ('aql ), ‘seriousness’ and through knowledge that is ‘literate’ is a distinctive, powerful and biased discourse that divides people into ‘high’ and ‘low’. It allows the literate and the learned to define and redefine the terms of a discourse, which is constructed around the opposition of reason as masculine and body or nature as feminine. It also stigmatizes and excludes the possibility of critique from below, the lower strata of society.34 Far more is at stake than ‘lewd’ behaviour and simple conflict between people and the authorities of state, which wish to prohibit the ‘lewd’ behaviour. These rituals are also about anxieties of a new

33

Cf. Deborah Kapchan, who likens the Moroccan market to Bakhtin’s ‘carnivalesque’, but argues that metaphors of regeneration and the liberating potentials of the grotesque must be relativised in the Moroccan context of her study (1996: 36–37); cf Limón (1989). 34 See, Stallybrass & White (1986: 43 ff.) on a very clear exposition of this play with the categories of ‘high’ and ‘low’ in the context of the ‘carnivalesque’.

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middle class that defines itself increasingly through a puritanical respectability. The emerging identity of the new, religious middle class depends crucially on separation from popular activities to indicate that they have ‘arrived’. In their civilizing offensive against the masses, they indicate that they are aware that their conduct is also under scrutiny by the West. This intersection of the local and global is similar to, but contrasts with the obsession with modernity characterized by acculturation during the Sha’s era. Ironically, the attitude of the new ‘religious’ elite and the ‘secular’ modernist middle classes is strikingly alike. Both categories distance themselves from rituals, which in their view are offensive in terms of good manners and civility.35 However, during the Shah’s era, the 'Omar ritual was not actually banned. It was easily categorized as vulgar or ‘low’ and regarded as far too distanced from the ‘high’ upper classes to seem threatening. The image here is of silent critics who maintain their distance and probity from the pleasures of the ‘lower classes’. Selfexclusion from the popular and vulgar seems important for selfdefinition. This process of denigrating those who are lower is a form of “displaced abjection” (Stallybrass & White 1986: 53). During the 'Omar rituals that I attended, inevitably more as ‘observer’ than ‘participant’, I was painfully reminded of the judgemental, middleclass gaze that had always ‘placed’ the ‘lower’ class (tabaqeh-ye pa"in) ‘downtowners’ ( pa"in shahr-i ), designating them as uncivilized and backward. This kind of self-affirming respectability became one of the main causes for civil unrest that led to the revolution of 1978–79. In the context of widespread censorship and media control, these rituals remain an important source for creativity. Paradoxically, the new conservative religious order has created the very conditions that are fertile for religious innovation. I have resisted censoring the frank language used by the women in these performances. It is not so much because the rituals were not secret, nor that some of the women themselves insisted that I make a record of the ritual (although others might disapprove). To re-present the frank language in a ‘neutral’, sanitized, academic language would make me complicit in a system of domination. It would amount to the censorship of voices

35 As Greenblatt (1982) shows, ethnographic accounts of ‘reversal rituals’ are replete with distinctions between civility and vulgarity in claims based on culture or race.

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raised in opposition and anger (at the risk of offending those who are in the business of censorship). It is perhaps because of their high degree of subversion, and the elements of anarchy, surprise and spontaneity, that the 'Omar rituals are so eagerly anticipated and gleefully recalled. I would suggest that these skilled women performers, with their talent for innovation and enterprise, and with their healthy contempt for the elevated status of all that goes under the banner of the socially ‘high’, stand out in their efforts to protect their social agency by defying the ban on a sociologically significant ritual, which the socially ‘high’ has re-defined as ‘debauchery’. The continued vitality of popular culture owes much to their enterprise.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE HEAD AND HEART TANGLE: RAMADAN

The Annual Ritual Cycle During Ramadan, the familiar order of events changes for Mrs Omid’s jalaseh circle. The days are busy with prayers, recitations of the Qur"an and fasting from dawn to dusk, but the evenings are lively, with convivial fast-breaking meals among friends and relatives. In the months preceding Ramadan, the women’s ritual activities take them through a variable experience with alternating moods, pace and momentum. The daily jalaseh rounds that continue throughout the year are interspersed with the events on the formal Shi'a lunar calendar (Table 1). In the first two months of Muharram and Safar commemorations of Imam Husseyn’s death ('azadari ) predominate (Chapters 1 & 5). There is a dramatic shift of mood in the third month of Rabi I, when mourning becomes ribaldry (Chapter 7), with further celebrations (mowludi) for the birth of the Prophet before the relatively calm month of Rabi II. The next two months of Jamadi I and II generate new momentum. Commemorations of Fatemeh’s death (dahegi-ye Fatemiyeh) continue for about three weeks, giving way to joyful mowludi for her birth in Jamadi II (Chapter 2) until the end of the month. The festive mood continues in Rajab and Sha'ban, with yet further celebrations for the birth of Imam 'Ali, the beginning of the Prophet’s mission on mab'as, and then in Sha'ban, for the birth of the Mahdi. The busy ceremonial life continues on a daily basis during Ramadan, followed by a relatively quiet month in Shavval. In the last two months of Ziqa"deh and Zihajjeh, the ceremonial life regains momentum. These two months are considered particularly auspicious for weddings, pilgrimage and for embarking on new projects like moving house. Throughout this time, the daily jalaseh continue. These are in turn interspersed with the individual life course events, like initiation into puberty (Chapter 6), funerals (Chapter 5) and life crises that call for rituals of intercession by saints (Chapters 3 & 4). In addition, many other rituals are recommended as highly meritorious by the prayer

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book “Keys to Paradise” (Mafatih-al-Janan) to be performed individually or collectively. All of this is observed conscientiously by Mrs Omid’s circle of women, in addition to the obligatory acts of worship such as the daily prayers. The peak of the annual ritual cycle is reached with the arrival of 'eyd-e fetr at the end of Ramadan, which is a particularly busy month. “May your acts of worship be accepted” ('ebadat-ha qabul, or ta'at-ha) is the common way of greeting during Ramadan among the women. After Ramadan, Mrs Omid’s jalaseh circle stops their ceremonial activities for an entire month. This is a ‘month of rest’, as Mrs Omid puts it, which gives her circle of women and herself time to rest from the intense ritual activities of the preceding months.

A Ramadan Preliminary 15 Rajab 1413 AHQ/9 January 1993 This Ramadan preliminary is called “The Deeds of David’s Mother” (a'mal-e umm-e-Davud). It is a demanding ritual performed two months ahead of Ramadan exactly in mid Rajab. It is intended to prepare worshippers so that they may be receptive to the barakat that is said to flow in abundance in the month of Ramadan. It is not among the obligatory rituals, but it is highly recommended by the prayer book “Keys to Paradise” (Mafatih-al-Janan) as being particularly meritorious ( por savab). Those attending the ceremony should ideally be fasting and before arrival, they should have performed the major ritual ablutions (ghusl, complete immersion of the body in water). The ritual that I attended was presided over by Mrs Omid and consisted of extensive recitations from the Qur"an and the prayer book Mafatihal-Janan. It was particularly well attended, with hardly any room for us to move as we sat close together shoulder to shoulder on the carpeted floor. By the time we finished just before dusk my legs felt numb with pain. When I arrived at about half past two in the afternoon, one of the women was in the middle of recitation of the lengthy al "an'am sureh (S: 6) from the Qur"an. Mrs Omid then nodded to various other women in succession, each of whom recited twenty or more verses from the Qur"an. Altogether seven sureh (Qur"anic chapter)

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were recited without pause.1 She appointed the more competent women for the recitations. These were rendered fluently by heart, pleasingly intoned, but at great speed in order to complete all the sureh in the available time. Sometimes the women ran out of breath in the middle of a word, so that they had to go back and start again at the beginning of the verse as a precaution in case they had changed the meaning by breaking off in mid word. Everyone was fully engaged in the recitations, following with the index fingers on the lines, moving their lips as they did so. Mrs Omid did not stop to make any comments on the verses, apart from reminding us of a particular verse ahead in the last sureh (S: 41). This verse requires an obligatory prostration ('ayeh-ye sejdeh). Mrs Omid told us that anyone menstruating was forbidden to recite it. However, they were permitted to prostrate, though only after the others, as there was not sufficient space for manoeuvre.2 For the same reason, she said that we did not have to face Mecca for the prostration. A basket piled high with prayer-tablets (mohr) was passed around.3 Mrs Omid intervened again to say that we need not worry if there were not enough prayer-tablets for everyone, explaining that in special circumstances, the religious rules (ahkam) allowed the use of the back of the hand, or simply a tissue, since it was the intent (niyyat) that mattered. Soon after, she declared that we might have to continue the recitations at home and stop, in order to reach home in time so as not to miss the beginning of the namaz (avval-e namaz). It is considered particularly meritorious to perform the namaz as soon as they are due. Various supplications from the prayer book followed. One, called ‘The Deeds of David’s Mother’, after which the ritual is named, is said to have restored the sight of David after his mother recited the verses. Mrs Omid recited this supplication herself, pausing half way

1

The sureh recited were S: 6, 17, 18, 31, 36, 37, 41 respectively. I learned that four verses in the Qur"an required obligatory prostration which, I was told, was generally not recited in public broadcasts in case people did not adhere to the obligatory prostration. 3 A prayer tablet is a small flat piece of hard clay which Shi'ites use for the daily prayers. It is placed on the floor and the worshipper places the forehead on it when prostrating. People say that it is, or represents, the Karbala earth on which Imam Husseyn’s blood was shed. 2

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to pray for the sinful, the ill and all those who had called out to her “begging prayer” (eltemas-e do'a) from her on her way to the ritual that afternoon. One of the supplications called do'ay-e yastashir consists of long lyrical praise for God’s greatness and mercy. It was a favourite of Mrs Omid and she recited it herself in emotive tones, rocking gently to and fro, during which she and several other women were moved to tears. Another that followed included a ‘prostration verse’ and in conclusion, Mrs Omid asked God to forgive our sins, so that we could enter the month of Ramadan in a purified state.

Subjugating the Body In Ramadan, more than at any other time, the goal is to attain spiritual excellence. Based on the implicit assumption of the link between corporeality and spiritual inferiority, Islamic texts highly value the subjugation of the body and its passions (nafs), conveying thereby the primacy of 'aql over nafs. This idea is central to fasting (ruzeh), the second pillar of faith after the daily namaz. The main purpose of the fast is to discipline nafs (tahzib-e nafs).4 Mrs Omid’s emphasis is less on the subjugation of the body than on the refinement of the spirit or ‘soul’ (tazkiyeh-ye ruh). In her view, the goal of the fast as with all acts of worship is to gain proximity to God (qorbat va rabeteh ba khoda) by refining the spirit. She stressed this at the beginning of almost all the jalaseh meetings she led. Nonetheless, the stress on body disciplines was marked in both her and other preachers’ formal teachings for Ramadan. These go far beyond the abstention from food and drink from dawn to dusk with which Ramadan is usually associated. The notes I took from the discussions during the jalaseh in Ramadan include a series of obligatory abstentions from, for example, smoking, swallowing saliva and particles left in between teeth, malicious gossip, malicious intent, lustful thoughts and sexual activity. There

4

Abolkarim Sorush, a religious intellectual, used the phrase tahzib-e nafs in a talk delivered on 28 June 2002 at Westminster University in London. See also, Eickelman who links 'aql (Arabic root ‘control’, ‘confinement’) to Ramadan (1998: 236). Cf. Bryan Turner (1996: 21–22) on ‘diet’ as a method of ‘governmental control of the body’, presented in religious terms of controlling desire and regulating the self to protect the soul from the ravages of sexuality in ‘traditional Christian culture’.

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is also a range of recommendations. These include moderation and avoidance of all forms of indulgence, such as much sleep, excessive laughter or weeping and overeating at the fast breaking meals (eftar). An elaborate economy of spiritual credits and penalties help sustain this morality for body discipline. The observance of ‘recommended’ acts builds up a good deal of religious merit (ajr or savab). For example, I often heard that the recitation of one verse of the Qur"an during Ramadan is equivalent in points of merit to the recitation of the entire Qur"an at any other time. Among the deeds particularly recommended for Ramadan are generosity, charity and the sharing of fast-breaking meals with others, which according to the prayer book is ‘equivalent to freeing a slave’ in religious merit. Some women provided fast-breaking meals for the public in mosques, and the local bakers donated so-called ‘salavat bread’ (nan-e salavati), gaining merit from the ritual greetings (salavat) said in their honour. At such times, attendance increased, giving the women’s section in the mosque a festive ambience. The religious emphasis on giving, and generosity during Ramadan culminates at the end of the fast on 'eyd-e fetr with the obligatory alms called fetriyeh, which together with other charitable handouts like sadaqeh, are destined for beggars and the poor. The women endeavour to adhere to as many recommended acts as they are able, including ‘welcoming’ the month (pishvaz raftan) by beginning the fast a few days before Ramadan. Mrs Omid regards this practice as an innovation and generally criticised merit collecting activities when these were devoid of the required spiritual commitment. While adherence to the prescribed recommended acts accumulates savab, failure to adhere to the obligatory rules results in heavy penalties. These rules are written in the book of precepts (ahkam), which are written by leading Ayatollahs and according to Shi'i doctrine, believers are bound by the edicts of the religious leaders they choose to follow.5 For instance, for each fasting day lost deliberately, a person is punished either with two months of fasting or feeding sixty people, although I did not hear anyone admit to paying such a penalty.6 Fasting ‘debts’ (ruzeh-ye qarzi) that accrue, for example for

5

See Chapter 1, Footnote 2 for details. See rule number 1660 in Khomeini’s book of precepts, translated by Fischer and Abedi (1984). 6

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not fasting due to ill health or menstruation, must be redeemed (pas dadan) at another time. Characteristically, people choose the shortest day to make up the missed days and because travellers are exempt from the fast, some women admitted to undertaking short trips in order to avoid accumulating fasting debts. After an individual’s death, the relatives may ‘buy’ outstanding fasting debts (ruzeh kharidan) by paying someone trustworthy to perform these by proxy. Seyyed, including some of the women in Mrs Omid’s circle, are sought after for such activities, providing them some income as well as spiritual merit. Practices such as these reflect the popular story of angels on each shoulder keeping count of the deeds with points of reward or penalty, paving the way for entry to Paradise or Hell. As with the other religious rules (ahkam), those regarding fasting give rise to anxieties and many questions during the jalaseh (see Chapter 1). Mrs Omid did not dispute the rules as such, but argued that because of the minute details, people often lost sight of the goal. She would allay their anxieties by reminding them that the intent was more important than the act and that rules were merely a means to an end. Notwithstanding Ramadan’s significance for Mrs Omid, she told the following witty anecdote during the jalaseh she led on the second day of the fast to liven up the sleepy women who had been up before dawn for the fasting meal (sahari ): A Lur villager came to town and saw a lively festive atmosphere with displays of food everywhere.7 He asked, “What month is this?” They told him, “It is Muharram, the month of mourning (Muharram al-haram, lit. ‘forbidden’ month)”. The Lur returned to his village and came back another time. This time the town was very quiet with hardly anyone around. He asked, “What month is this?” They said, “This is the blessed month of Ramadan (mah-e mobarak)”. He wondered why things were reversed in town. Jokes are difficult to translate, but this one reveals an incongruity between what might be expected and what actually occurs. It points to the paradox of the apparent preoccupation with food and feasting in a month of mourning (Muharram) and with sleep in the month of blessing (Ramadan).8 7 The Lur are an ethnic minority from the province of Lurestan in Western Iran and are popularly characterized as being naively frank, as are villagers. 8 Buitelaar (1993: 183–87) makes a similar observation on the jokes and cartoons regarding fasting in Morocco, which commented on the paradoxical preoccupation with food and sleeping, as well as on social control.

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The Ramadan ideal of attaining spiritual excellence heavily favours men. This is based on the prejudicial assumption that nafs is stronger in women and 'aql more developed in men.9 Physicality or loss of control over the body renders the fast invalid, unless it is involuntary. But this is interpreted idiosyncratically. For example, seminal discharge during sleep or dreaming of sexual activity does not render the fast invalid, because they are considered involuntary acts. However, menstrual blood, which is involuntary, is defined as rendering the fast invalid. Such a construct condemns women for physicality and spiritual inferiority, so that women face a difficult choice. They must deny the female aspect of self, reduce their subjectivity to the male element, strive more than men to control their nafs and collect spiritual merit to compensate for missed days in worship, thereby paradoxically destabilising gender normally cast in fixed and dualistic terms. For example, collecting spiritual reward or ajr is predominantly a preoccupation of Moroccan women, who experience menstrual pollution as a failure and assume that their fasting is generally less valuable than that of men (Buitelaar 1993: 112–113, 119). To conclude, however, that women’s piety is merely a reflection of anxieties over prior concepts like excess nafs, inferiority and physical pollution would be misleading. Such a perspective merely reinforces the masculine bias, which demands that the ‘female’ aspect of self must become ‘male’ to attain spiritual excellence, remaining thereby within the prejudicial mind/body dichotomy. The women, whose Ramadan practices I followed, were willing participants, but their performances offer a way of understanding a female subjectivity that does not depend for value on adopting a male model of reason.10 Rather, their performances are designed to educate the emotions and waken the senses as a channel for barakat or divine grace.11 They thereby construct a female subjectivity that 9 On ‘female spiritual inferiority’ see Imam 'Ali’s contentious statement (Chapter 1: Fn. 39). On the 'aql/nafs discourse in Morocco, see Rosen (1984: 32) and Eickelman (1998: 196–97, 236). 10 Here I have found Gatens (1991) inspiring. Gatens shows that the intellectual discourses about female liberation, from Rousseau to feminists like Simon de Beauvoir and Irigary, are based on the idea of transcending nature and becoming disembodied, unknowingly reproducing the concepts they set out to challenge. 11 Cf. Bynum (1991), who argues that far from negating the body, female mystics in medieval Christianity relied on the body to somatize their experiences of the divine despite the critique of human fleshliness, as the medieval Christian assumption was that physical resurrection was fundamental for the redemption of the soul.

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counters the official mind/body dictates and show that the conceptions formed around the male subject are limited, partial and distorted. Far from separating the two aspects of self and negating the body, the women affirm it.

Reclaiming the Body New prospects have been opened by the return to the body in feminist scholarship.12 The focus on embodiment can reveal how experience is grounded within a social and material environment and makes it possible to admit women’s particular position in the world and their difference to men. The project is by no-means straightforward, as it can easily shift and fall prey to an over determination of the category ‘woman’, with the attendant problems of biological essentialism and a failure to register other forms of difference like class or race. For instance, Caroline Bynum’s (1987: 30) study of medieval Christianity suggests that the women’s focus on the body is grounded in ‘natural’ experiences and sensations derived from giving birth, lactating, serving and sacrifice such as preparing and distributing food (food being a powerful symbol of both sacrifice and service). These differ from the experiences of men, who, according to Bynum (ibid.) focus more on symbols of wealth and power. Implicit in this formulation is that women are different to men because of their ‘bodies’. It implies that their body genderizes their acts, even if they ‘do’ the same things as men. But women’s particularity in relation to men is precisely because they ‘do’ things differently (Strathern 1988: 129–30). Identification is what one does and thus becomes rather than what one is and therefore does. What is essential, however, is to examine those contexts in which a particular discourse on gender becomes more appropriate or powerful. Talal Asad (1987: 173) powerfully argues that in the religious context, sensual desire becomes converted into virtue and love of God.13 The women’s

12

There is a large body of literature on the prospects opened up by the reclaiming of the body and focus on embodied subjectivity in feminist scholarship. See, Moore, who also provides further references (1994: 17–25). 13 Scholars have interpreted constructions of desire in various ways. Abu-Luhghod (1986) argues that poetry provides the Bedouin women a valid channel to express their otherwise ‘veiled sentiments’ and that poetry is a context-controlled counter-

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focus on the body as a channel for barakat can be placed within this context.

The Sentient Human Body: The Concepts of Niyyat, Tahart and Hal People do not ‘think’ necessarily in verbal media, but through the body and its senses. Privileging embodied perception through meaning-laden sensations produces a body that is an active agent rather than a ‘passive’ object of discipline (Foucault), representation (Douglas) or desire (Lacan).14 Studies of emotion rightly see it as actively constructed and not a passive or irrational thing that ‘happens’ to a person.15 Others argue that studies of emotion based on ‘cultural construction’ still see it as a ‘mental’ process, ignoring somatic and social dimensions.16 To understand the use of the body and the senses in the women’s Ramadan performances, we need to consider three concepts that gain particular salience during this month, though they apply also to acts of worship at other times. They are niyyat (intent), taharat (ritual purity) and hal (‘feeling’, see below). An examination of these concepts reveals that despite the emphasis on the disengagement of the body from the spirit or soul in Ramadan, the two are intimately related and central to the women’s Ramadan practices. Fasting, like all other acts of worship, must be preceded by an expression of intent as a conscious commitment to the act. Unlike the prescribed formula preceding namaz, the niyyat made at the beginning of each fasting day is left to the worshipper to formulate, hence becoming more ‘meaningful’ or intentional.17 Niyyat is thus an aspect

discourse, which both reaffirms, and articulates discontent against, the established structure. Malti-Douglas (1991: 22) understands Shahrezad’s narration of the ‘1001 Nights’ as transformation of desire into one that is continuous, non-exploitative and permits the forging of relationships. 14 See, Csordas (1994 b) on a phenomenological approach to the body. See also, Michael Jackson’s (1983) early critique of the intellectualist tendency that assimilates bodily experience to conceptual formulations. 15 See, Abu-Lughod and Lutz (1990), Good Del Vecchio & Good (1988), Jackson & Karp (1990), Lynch (1990), Parkin (1985), Rosaldo (1980, 1984). 16 Lyon (1995). 17 For example, the formula for the morning namaz is, “I perform two sections of morning namaz seeking closeness to God” (do rak'at namaz-e sobh beja miyavaram qorbatan 'illal"llah). For a discussion of the relation between intention and ritual commitment see, Humphrey & Laidlaw (1994: Ch. 4). In daily speech, people often

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of responsibility, reason and intellect. But it is located in the heart (niyyat be del ast), the seat of emotion, so that a person’s action is propelled through a combination of both intellect and emotion. Mrs Omid’s use of niyyat is not just an expression of the responsibility toward her faith, but also an expression of her passion for the divine. She always stated that her niyyat in all acts of worship was to approach God. One of the requirements for approaching God is a state of ritual purity (taharat). The first day of the fast must begin with the major ablutions ( ghusl), consisting of complete immersion of the body in water, and thereafter only the simpler ablutions (vozu) that are performed also for the daily namaz are required. These consist of rubbing water over the cardinal points of the body from the top of the head to the big toes in a specified order.18 The women also ensured that water penetrated their body cavities, such as inside the mouth and the nostrils when washing the face. The ritual ablutions render the body receptive to the flow of barakat from God rather than, as some academic scholars suggest, symbolically ‘seal’ its contours.19 The opening of the body is particularly salient in moments of transformation and Ramadan is perceived widely as the month of transition par excellence. As Deborah Kapchan argues (1996: 160) following Douglas (1966), concepts such as barakat are needed to balance social conceptions of pollution.20 In ritual performances, the expectation of transformation is expressed by the term hal. In everyday Persian, hal has a range of different meanings, but in the ritual context, the women use it to indicate a pleasurable feeling (hal dadan, hal amadan), indicating the extent to which a ceremony moves or fully engages them.21 They frequently use niyyat interchangeably (as in Persian dictionaries) with a range of other terms like wish, will, motive, purpose, goal and so on. On the notion of niyyat, see also Fischer (1980: 63–64), Mir-Hosseini (1993a: 169,184) and Torab (1996: 240–41). For other Muslim context see, Bowen (1993: 23–25, 301–306, 319–320), Laghzaoui (1992: 89–97), Rosen (1984: 47 ff.). 18 The precepts (ahkam) concerning taharat are among the most comprehensive. See, chapter 1 Fn. 10 for the examples of different types of ritual ablutions. 19 See, Julie Marcus (1984: 208) and Reinhart (1990: 20) who argue that tahart is a symbolic ‘sealing’ of the body that relates to ideas about control and pollution (in line with Douglas). 20 Kapchan (1996: 160) uses the notion of the permeability of the body to explain the use of henna by Moroccan women in moments of transformation and contexts when ‘impure’ female blood is an issue such as weddings (before consummation) and before childbirth. 21 Hal means variously as feeling, state, condition, circumstance, ecstasy or rapture,

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use the term when listening to a stirring piece of Qur"anic recitation, a dirge or mowludi poem rendered in pleasing tones, or when they are moved by a preacher’s talk. The term carries overtones from the noun tahavvol, which means to undergo change or transformation from one state (hal ) to another.22 For instance, when Mrs Omid recited her favourite prayer called do'a-ye Yastashir, which lists God’s many names and attributes, she would sometimes begin to rock gently, and her eyes would become glassy ‘as if ’ in a state of abandon. Later she would say that it had induced hal in her (hal dadan). At such times, she would recite a piece of poetry to express her love of God. Ritual tears are an important means of inducing hal or creating a state of well-being (hal-e khosh).23 Integral to dirges (rowzeh, zekr-e mosibat), such tears are distinct from tears shed for personal grief and sorrow (gham va ghosseh), even if there are overlaps. Rather, ritual tears are conceived of as a positive, meritorious devotional act, something one learns to do at will.24 I was told not to worry and be patient if I was unable to weep during the rituals because my tears would flow in time. The positive connotations of tears are amplified in the Hadith and in the Qur"an, where there are multiple associations between running water, eyes and spirituality.25 Breaking off in the middle of a dirge, cantors prompt people to weep, saying for example, “Weep and your tears will be rewarded”, or “Your tears are an act of worship, they will purge sins, cure ills”. Mrs Omid condemned excessive weeping as religiously disapproved (makruh), especially if induced artificially by sensational tear-inducing descriptions from the Karbala tragedies (Chapter 5), such as vivid accounts of severed heads gushing with blood. As Mrs Omid scornfully said,

natural disposition, humour or health, as in the expression hal-o-ahwal (mood and health), to come to one’s senses or to recover (be hal amadan), seeking pleasure (colloq. hal kardan) (Haim 1975). On the use of hal by women for their rituals, see also Kalinock (2003: 181), Torab (1998: 314–329). 22 In Sufi doctrine, hal is an expression of a state of ecstasy, which transposes a person from ordinary experience toward spiritual exaltation. See, Eickelman (1998: 277), Rosen (1984: 166–67). 23 See, Fischer (1980: 100) for a similar observation. See also, Grima, who notes the link between weeping, poetry and song in women’s rituals in Pakistan, suggesting the need for further research (1992: 146–147). 24 See also Christian (1982) on collective weeping as a formal ritual act. 25 R. Tapper (1994: 225).

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some preachers and cantors use such techniques for effect to increase their own popularity. In her view, tears should be in response to spiritual stimuli, bringing ‘presence of heart’ (hozur-e qalb). Such comments underscore the idea that ritual performances are not intended to merely appeal to the intellect, but are meant to be embodied, emotive experiences, which counter the primacy of mind over body associated with Ramadan.

Educating the Senses: Reciting the Qur"an Ramadan’s significance is above all for its connection to the Qur"an and the prophecy of the Prophet Muhammad. It was during this month that the first ‘revelations’ came to the Prophet via the Angel Gabriel on specific nights known as “the Nights of Qadr”, based on interpretations of a short Qur"anic Chapter or Sura called “al-Qadr” (S: 97). For Mrs Omid, these sacred nights are unrivalled in significance to any other event on the calendar. She celebrates this sacred event over three nightlong vigils (ahya, also revival) with extensive namaz and feasting. In effect, all the ritual activities of the month are oriented towards these sacred nights, as indicated by various auspicious references to the month. Among those that I heard are ‘the spring of Qur"an’ (bahar-e Qur"an), ‘the month of barakat’ (mah-e mobarak, from barakat), ‘mercy’ or ‘compassion’ (mah-e rahmat), ‘forgiveness’ (mah-e amorzesh) and the month of ‘worship’ (mah-e 'ebadat). Thus, although Ramadan is known mainly for fasting, its significance is more profound.

Khatm-e Qur"an ceremony Ramadan 1413 AHQ (February/March 1993) Prominent among all the devotional activities are the recitations of the Qur"an, for which the women meet every morning throughout Ramadan in a ceremony called khatm-e Qur"an (khatm, to finish). Each day, they recite one of the thirty sections ( joz") in order to complete all the Chapters by the end of the month.26 One of the women in 26 The Qur"an is divided into 30 sections ( joz"), 114 chapters (sureh), 120 parts (hezb) and 6625 verses (ayeh).

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Mrs Omid’s circle had sponsored these meetings in her house for the entire month for twenty years. This year, the pious woman was severely ill, but her husband, who is a local grocer, insisted on continuing with the meetings so that “the flow of barakat would not stop”, as I was told, and by that he hoped to avert her death or collect for her benefit spiritual merit in preparation for afterlife. Their daughter and sister-in-law helped host the event. Mrs Omid presided over the meetings, beginning with prayers from the prayer book, followed by questions and answers over the precepts. The major portion of the time was spent on Qur"an recitations, so that unlike the jalaseh meetings at other times, there was no time for exegeses or any commentary by her. She ended the meetings as usual with a series of supplications and before we left, she always asked us to recite a Qur"anic verse quietly and then blow gently towards the ailing woman, as a means of channelling barakat toward her.27 A set of elaborate codes prescribe and regulate the ways in which Qur"anic recitations should be performed.28 However, apart from the requirement of an inward expression of intent preceding the recitation, so that it did not become an empty gesture or show, Mrs Omid did not adopt an intellectual approach to the recitations in the rituals she led. Rather, the women’s performances under her guidance indicate that the recitations are meant to waken their senses through the sight, sound and touch of the sacred verses as a means of somatising barakat. Mrs Omid appointed various women to recite ten to twenty verses each. Some of them preferred to begin and close their recitation with an optional formula, although Mrs Omid did not do so herself.29 During the recitations, she made sure that they vocalised each word correctly and occasionally pencilled in corrections of the diacritical marks in the book in her hands. Wrong vocalisation is counted as a grave sin and the women were grateful of the corrections. Mrs Omid gave everyone a chance to recite, alternating the more competent with the beginners, who kept to a simpler, speechlike, only slightly intoned style of recitation (tartil ), as did Mrs Omid

27 For further examples of blowing recited verses, see Alberts (1963: 876) and Donaldson (1973: 180–82). 28 See, Kristina Nelson (1980) and Fischer & Abedi (1990: 101 ff.). 29 The opening formula was: “May God give refuge from the devil” ('a'uzo be"llahi-mina-sheytan-irrajim) and the closing formula, “God has truly spoken” (saddaqat-o"llahol'azim).

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herself, though for didactic reasons.30 She discouraged competitive display of what she called the ‘fashionable’ embellishments of the more melodic style of recitation (tajvid ), which she would mimic by exaggerating the guttaral 'ayn and nasal sound for comic relief whenever she detected signs of distraction, inattentiveness or dozing among those who had been up before dawn for the fasting meal (sahari ). Few of the women understand Arabic, but Mrs Omid rarely translated the verses. This does not mean, however, that the text was unintelligible. For those who do not understand Arabic and for the illiterate, intelligibility is not so much a matter of understanding the logic of the text, but a matter of meaningful sound and sight of the sacred verses, which the women expressed in terms of “having an effect on them” (asar gozashtan) or “having a pleasing transformative effect” (hal dadan). In other words, in the context of Qur"anic recitation, the senses allow for participation, so that the recitation itself derives performative force. The idea of meaningful sound of Qur"anic recitation is based on the widespread belief in the divine origin of the Qur"an and its ‘revelation’ to the Prophet in oral form in Arabic. Scholars and commentators attribute the appreciation of Qur"anic recitation among devout Muslims to the power and beauty of the Qur"anic language, its poetic rhythms, allusions and imagery (see, Nelson 1980, Sells 1999). Michael Sells (ibid.) uses the phrase “sound vision” to emphasize the elusive interplay of sound and meaning, reinforced by the visual experience derived from Qur"anic calligraphy (1999: 12, 16).31 Judging by the women’s emotive responses to the more melodious forms of intoned recitations, sound was the most salient sensory experience. They say that the Qur"an should be rendered in pleasing tones and recited aloud, even if they are alone. The rhythm and assonance of the verses create a pleasing continuous flow and the

30 Qur"anic recitation (qera"at) is distinguished from ordinary reading (khandan), and intoned recitation (called either qera"at-e ba sowt or telavat) is distinguished from a singing voice (ghena", sam"). There are various styles of Qur"anic recitation, such as the simpler tartil, and the more elaborate tajvid. 31 See, Sells (1999) for an interesting interpretation of the relationship of the Qur"anic sound to gender. He notes that despite the largely male historical context of the ‘revelation’, there is an extraordinarily balanced gender dynamic in the interplay of Qur"anic sound and meaning, which is embedded in implicit metaphors, such as ‘the night of destiny becoming pregnant’, or ‘the earth giving birth on the day of reckoning’ (1999: 183–204).

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more competent among them drew appreciative rounds of salavat. On one occasion, one of the listeners was so moved by the recitation of one of the more competent women that she sprayed rosewater over the person reciting. But the female voice was a sensitive topic with Mrs Omid and she did not encourage such actions. Conservative religious scholars promote the idea that the female voice is particularly seductive.32 Based on this construct, Mrs Omid had even told her daughter to speak firmly when answering the phone, so as not to sound flirtatious. During the Qur"an recitations, she made sure that doors and windows were closed so that their intoned voices would not carry to unrelated men. In her view, the Qur"an was neither for entertainment or sensual pleasure, but to reveal the truth. My own response to the more competent renderings was as if I was listening to some moving music. When I mentioned this to Mrs Omid, she told me that the proper response to Qur"anic recitation was a ‘stirring of the heart’ (be del neshastan) and to become aware of God’s greatness with humility and awe. She used terms like hozn (‘sadness’), khoshu and khozu' (both words mean humility, submission, awe) (Haim 1975). Qur"anic commentators and scholars have also used these terms as characteristic responses inspired by Qur"anic recitation.33 Thus, Mrs Omid was gently channelling my emotions toward spiritual contemplation. The sight of the verses seemed to reinforce the women’s sense of divine presence. Commonly, vision, like sound, is constructed as an active agent. As Mrs Omid once said, the mere sight of a shrine during pilgrimage validates the pilgrim’s journey and it was not necessary to touch the shrine itself. She and other preachers reminded their listeners over and over again that the mere sight of the verses of the Qur"an was meritorious (ajr, savab) and brought ‘light’ (knowledge, truth) to the heart and the eyes. The women always followed the lines, even if they had learned the verses by rote, a particularly praiseworthy act. I often heard them speak highly of a deceased woman who, though illiterate, had learned the entire Qur"an flawlessly by rote (hafez-e Qur"an). As one woman recited aloud, the others would follow by moving their lips in a quiet whisper with their index finger

32 In the Islamic Republic, public broadcasts of female singing voices are not permitted, except in choirs. 33 See, Kristina Nelson (1980, 1985) and Michael Sells (1999).

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on the lines—a highly recommended act. One preacher said the index finger would bear witness to the recitation on Judgement Day. During recitation, it was common practice to place sugar lumps on the printed lines or an open medicine bottle in front of Mrs Omid as she recited, so that the medicine could be imbued with barakat. Mrs Omid did not consider such actions orthodox, but did not discourage them. It has been often pointed out that by virtue of their divine origin, the words of the Qur"an are perceived to be efficacious in themselves. To understand the ‘power of words’ in other contexts, Tambiah’s (1968) influential study examines features like images, metaphors, redundancy, sequence and interconnections between words and actions. This verbo-centric approach privileges the literate and the learned.34 Even the Qur"an states (S2: 1–6) that the verses are not self-explanatory and can mislead ordinary people without appropriate supervision.35 For the illiterate and uninitiated in Quranic exegeses, the power and attraction of the sensory experience of the sacred verses is evident. Meaning is here conveyed unmediated through the senses rather than being based on the deductive reasoning of a specialist exegete. In effect, with each recitation of what they perceive to be God’s Words, the women evoke the moment of its ‘revelation’, which they celebrate on the nights of Qadr.

A Ceremony on “The night of Qadr” 22 Ramadan 1413 AHQ/16th March 1993 The word ‘Qadr’ derives from the title of one of the short Qur"anic Chapters or Suras (al-Qadr S: 97) and has multiple meanings of power, destiny, divine decree, worth and measurement (Haim 1975). Most commentators associate the word with destiny and power and the Qur"anic Sura is frequently called the “Sura of Destiny” (Sells

34 Howes (1991: 9 citing Stoller 1984), rejects the widely accepted explanations by Tambiah (1968) and Searle (1968) for the ‘power of words’, arguing that their suggestions are too discursive and that instead, one should take at face value local explanations for the efficacy. 35 See Fisher & Abedi (1990: 111–112).

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1999: 100–103). The al-Qadr Sura is associated with the first ‘revelation’ (vahy) of the Qur"an from God to the Prophet on one of the odd-numbered dates between the seventeenth and twenty-seventh of the month. The significance of the night is stated in the five verses of this Sura.36 These state that the ‘revelation’ took place on the night of Qadr, when the spirit (ruh, or the angel Gabriel, generally associated with carrying God’s Words to the Prophet) descended to earth by God’s will, bringing a continual flow of barakat until dawn. According to the prayer book Mafatih-al Janan, on the night of Qadr people’s destinies are determined and that those who keep the vigil with namaz and Qur"an recitations will have their sins forgiven and their favours granted. It is a night, therefore, that is associated with extraordinary power and potency. The women referred to the ceremony held for this sacred night simply as “The Night of Qadr” (shab-e Qadr, layla in Arabic), or also vigil (ahya), because devout Muslims may spend the night in prayer, meditation, recitation of the Qur"an and feasting. This event was the high point of the month for Mrs Omid, who celebrated it on three night-long vigils between the 19th and the 22nd of Ramadan, which coincide with the public holiday for the mortal wounding of 'Ali on the 19th (ad 661) and his death on the 21st (ad 661). Interestingly, Michael Fischer regards Ramadan in its entirety as a memorial for 'Ali (1980: 25, 172–3). Other accounts also focus on men’s mosque commemorations of 'Ali’s death only, although features specific to the Qadr ceremony are included, such as holding the Qur"an above the head (see below).37 I did not attend any mosque ceremonies around this time. But I heard that 'Ali’s death dominated the men’s ceremonies at the local mosques down town. The three ceremonies that I attended instead were held by women in their homes, two of which were led by Mrs Omid on the 19th and the 22nd of Ramadan. None included a dirge for 'Ali. Mrs Omid told me later when I asked, that there was no time to include memorials to 'Ali in her ceremonies. She gave no further explanation. This opens up all kinds of questions that demand further exploration. Nancy Tapper and Richard Tapper argue that the relation between

36 37

See, Sells for three versions of translation of the al-Qadr Sura (1999: 100). See, Alberts (1963: 849, 856, 862) and Thaiss (1973: 162–63).

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gender and religious orthodoxy is a characteristic of practised Islam everywhere (1987: 88). This observation underlines a difference between Mrs Omid’s approach to religious practice and the official nature of mosque-centred rituals on this Ramadan occasion. All the three Qadr ceremonies that I attended followed more or less the same sequence recommended in the prayer book Mafatih-al Janan and lasted until after midnight.38 I will therefore confine myself to a description of one of the two ceremonies led by Mrs Omid. The first ceremony (on the 19th) was held in her neighbourhood downtown. It was open house, attracting a high attendance of over 150 women, by my rough estimate. I will focus on the other (on the 22nd) held at an exclusive ceremony in the wealthier north. This ceremony included an elaborate fast-breaking feast and was by invitation only. It was held at the house of a wealthy widow of the old Qajar elite, to whom Mrs Omid referred as an old friend. There were altogether sixteen guests, six of which were Mrs Omid’s daughters and granddaughters, apart from Mrs Omid and me. The other eight guests were elderly female relatives of the hostess. A domestic help and a male chauffeur remained in the kitchen throughout the ceremony. We arrived about an hour before dusk. Ideally, those attending the ceremony should have performed the major ritual ablutions (ghusl, complete immersion of the body in water). Shortly after our arrival, everyone performed lengthy namaz specific for this night, some lasting at least half an hour. I did my best to follow suit. Afterwards we were served an elaborate fast-breaking meal on a meal cloth spread on the floor, during which there was some polite conversation. After the meal was finished and the dishes were cleared by the maid, there were lengthy recitations of various supplications from the prayer book and the Qur"an as we sat around the meal cloth. The maid had meanwhile replenished this with fruit, deserts, cakes and tea. Mrs Omid, one of her daughters and one of the more

38

For other descriptions of the Qadr ceremony see, Fischer & Abedi (1990: 70, 287 ff., 307), Guppy (1992: 189), Vakilian (1992: 85, 107) and Kamalkhani (1996), who refers to the rituals held in Shiraz as “al-af ” (forgiveness). Buitelaar notes that in Morocco, the eve of the 27th Ramadan was the second preferred day after the 15th, but that it was ‘so sacred that many people spend it in prayer’ until late into the night (1993: 64).

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proficient reciters among the guests took turns to perform the recitations. Mrs Omid began with her usual announcement that the purpose of the ritual was to create proximity and a relation with God (qorbat va rabeteh ba khoda). Then she recited in a pleasing intoned voice various lengthy prayers specific to the occasion from the prayer book, during which we all joined in refrains at various points. One of these prayers, called joshan-e kabir, was considered particularly propitious and as the recitation was in progress, some women placed sugar lumps on the lines, in order to share the barakat with members of their household who were not present. Recitation of four shorter chapters from the Qur"an followed, the last of which was al-Qadr (S: 97).39 Common to them all is that they are among those revealed initially in Mecca before the Prophet moved to Medina. After the recitations, the lights were turned out. We all stood up, faced Mecca, holding a Qur"an above or resting on our head. Some of the guests had brought with them a miniature sized Qur"an for this purpose. Still standing, everyone joined in praying loudly to God to forgive our sins in the names of the Prophet, 'Ali, Fatemeh and the eleven other Imams, repeating their names in turn, once for 'Ali as the first Imam, twice for Imam Hassan as the second Imam, three times for Imam Husseyn and so on until the twelfth Imam, whose name we repeated twelve times. In conclusion, the lights were turned on. After some final, brief supplications by Mrs Omid, we helped ourselves to more refreshments, fruit and cakes that were considered imbued with barakat by virtue of the recitations. There was no discussion about the performances, but the symbolism of darkness and light indicate a rite of passage from a state of impurity and sin into a new purified state. Above all, this ceremony demonstrates, as with the other Ramadan ceremonies held by the women, a striking reliance on the body as a channel for barakat through the handling of the Qur"an.

39 The chapters were in the following order: S. 29 al ankabut, S. 30 ar-rum; S. 44 ad-duhan; S. 97 al-qadr.

CONCLUSION

This book has addressed the scope and diversity of ritual activities in the rapidly changing complex society of present day Iran. By using gender as an analytic category to elucidate wider social and cultural processes through ritual performance, it opens up new perspectives into the values and beliefs underpinning the gender constructions. The book reveals in particular the ways in which gender itself is inherently unstable and ambiguous, providing the possibilities of selfexpression, innovation and incremental change. Circumstances change, old rituals are redefined and new ones are continually in the making, inevitably with corresponding shifts in the gender constructs, so that a conclusive statement would give a false sense of closure to the study. What follows is, therefore, a summary of the line of inquiry of this study and some of the main issues involved that are relevant to the studies of Islam and gender. The study was based on current understandings of gender as contextually specific constructions (Butler 1990, 1993, Moore 1988, 1994, Strathern 1988). It did not seek to explain women’s ‘position’ or ‘role’ within Islamic discourses, or begin with a prior assumption of gender inequality, in order to discover the strategies that actors develop for resisting or subverting the gender constructs. Such an approach would imply that the categories ‘women’ and ‘men’ are given. The assumption of this study is rather that gender is a product of specific activities within particular cultural and historical contexts rather than their cause. The scope for analysis is considerably widened by the view of gender as a metaphorical base on which difference itself may be understood for many other aspects of life, rather than simply as gender roles and relations. The premise is on the ways in which the idiom of gender is deployed and contested as a sphere of political agency. This approach provides possibilities for exploring wider issues. It links gender ideologies and stereotypes to both cultural symbols and the lived experiences of individuals in the material world. The women and men who are the subjects of this study celebrate their gender values and capacities through same-sex rituals. They promote their own interests, but they also enable each other. Men

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recognize women’s contribution to the well being and prestige of the household, while women may uphold laws defined by men, even if they choose to interpret them in ways that address their own concerns. Both, nonetheless, also denigrate each other. For example, men promote the idea that women merely ‘gossip’, while women on their part continually assess men’s failure to maintain the standards they set for themselves (Chapters 1 & 4). It is as if gender difference needs to be upheld to make possible the functioning of gender relations in the service of social reproduction (Strathern 1988, Moore 1999a; cf. Butler 1990, 1993). Gender operates as a metaphor for social regeneration or fecundity. It may intersect with ideas about the body and substances, such as blood and food (Chapters 4 & 5). A martyr’s blood is linked to the theory of patrilineal descent and the political authority of men, which is of ideological significance for the organization of society (Chapter 5). Food imbued with barakat provides alternative conceptions of sacrifice and regeneration, through which women become the recognized agents (Chapter 4). The men’s Muharram ritual activities (Chapter 5) can be set against women’s votive meals (Chapter 4), through which women celebrate their social and moral worth as nurturers and channels for barakat.1 Ritual activity thus exposes the imaginary nature of gender constructs by the very fact that gender difference is continually reproduced and affirmed in the service of social regeneration. Even in the context of the images of self-reproducing males represented iconically in the elaborate nuptial funerary object (hejleh) (Chapter 5), female reproductive capacity is implied, setting the masculine in relation to and hence dependent on the feminine. These processes of gendering may be ‘symbolic’, but they are the recipes for social action (Strathern 1988: 271), including the promotion of political interests. ‘Politics’ is used here in the broadest sense, taking in interpretation of and contest over rules, symbols and discourses (Eickelman & Piscatori 1996: 7). This includes definitions as to what constitutes proper Islamic conduct.

1 Janice Boddy makes a similar comment about the zàr rituals in Northern Sudan where, “women publicly demand that their value be socially recognized not by competing with men in a common arena, but by artfully emphasizing their difference from men and using this as a positive source of self-worth” (1989: 345).

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Gender constructs lie at the heart of the putative levels of ‘formal’ and ‘informal’ Islam. Paradoxically, while women’s votive meals (sofreh) may be categorized as un-Islamic innovations (bed'at) (Chapter 4), similar votive practices may enjoy tacit support at the highest levels of the clerical regime (Chapters 2 & 3). The state may attempt to co-opt women’s activities, but it is also forced to listen to women’s demands. A healing ritual (Chapter 2) emerges as a direct consequence of poor healthcare provisions, whereby women resort to the cultural means at their disposal to seek redress for suffering, injustice and social ills. But far from resigning to misery as fate or test of faith, they act upon it in terms of the religious symbols in which they believe to demand justice here and now. This means the professionalising of home space at the very time when home and family are hailed as the prime responsibility of women. The monitoring of the ‘domestic’ sphere by the government suggests not only the state’s vulnerability to the activities of women’s religious circles, but also reveals the very ‘public’ dimension of women’s home-based rituals. The arbitrary, political nature of social and cultural categorizations such as domestic/public is thereby revealed. Ritual and gender are among the key elements in the new Islamist visions. In Iran, both have been manipulated by the state, but they are also sites of contest. For instance, the re-domesticization of women after the Iran/Iraq war as model nurturers and caregivers (Chapter 2) went hand in hand with the recasting of the military heroes as heroic protectors, providers and procreators (Chapter 5). A new girl’s initiation ceremony becomes a means for the reclaiming of a distinctive identity based on an Islamic moral order, which is feminized (Chapter 6). There are two basic positions regarding the relation of ritual and established authority or the state. Ritual activity can be seen as a mechanism whereby the established order is ultimately affirmed as an instrument for social control (Bloch 1986, 1989a). Alternatively, it can be seen as a form of political action from below, as a counter discourse that challenges the established order by using a performative approach to ritual activity (Bell 1992, Gerholm 1988, Hughes-Freeland 1998, Humphrey & Laidlaw 1994, Schieffelin 1985). In other words, ritual can be used in the service of power or deployed as power to prevent monopoly of power. Despite evidence of state involvement, manipulation and surveillance of rituals, what emerges is a decentred, plural, creative spirituality, whereby individuals strive to control their own destinies. Ritual activity is here far from being

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restrictive, limiting or affirmative of established order and authority. When attention is given to a wider range of both women’s and men’s rituals (N. Tapper & R. Tapper 1987), multiple voices and interests are revealed. This study suggests that religious practice takes on a different sense when lived experience is in conflict with powerful narratives. The idea that ritual ‘communicates’ cultural values reflecting or affirming prior concepts or ideologies (Geertz 1973), and that ‘dominant symbols’ achieve their intended purpose of resolving tensions to create social cohesion (V. Turner 1961) does not, therefore, hold. People imbue religious icons and symbols with their own meanings in line with their concerns through performance. The women’s ritual performances provide glimpses into a society in crisis, fraught with internal social tensions, with conflict over political and religious leadership and with disillusionment with unfulfilled revolutionary promises. The choice of the different saints as votive intercessors with God and the dreams and visions of the Mahdi are two examples of how individuals deploy cultural symbols to lay claims to what they are denied, but to which they feel they have a right (Chapters 2, 3 & 4). Cultural symbols are not static. They are products of power and politics at given moments, not simply of meaning or culture. One of the most effective ways of avoiding the pitfalls associated with the homogenizing and static effects of abstract categories such as ‘culture’ or ‘women’ has been to focus on individual life histories, and the aspirations, conflicts and struggles faced by individuals in their daily lives (cf. Abu Lughod 1986, 1997: 98–99, Friedl 1989, Longinotto & Mir-Hosseini 1998). The women encountered in this study indicate some of the complexities involved, in particular their conceptualisations of social class. It is a paradox that the concept of gender conceals differences of social class that are integral to the rituals in Iran. Examples are the vows made to the supernatural agencies for basic needs (Chapter 4), the recruitment of combatants prepared to be martyrs of their faith from among the economically poor (Chapter 5), the anxieties expressed over appropriation of the girls’ initiation ceremony by the middle classes (Chapter 6), as well as the verbal puns directed against the elevated status of all that goes under the banner of the socially ‘high’ (Chapter 7). These rituals reveal how conceptions of class themselves become gendered according to context, as in the case of working class men embodying masculinised virtues of stoicism, self-sacrifice and strength in the

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context of war (Chapter 5). Clearly, the experiences of being a ‘man’ or a ‘woman’ cannot be singular. Questions about differences among ‘women’ have been central in the relationship between anthropology and feminism, as well as in studies of Islam and gender. The issue is how best to deal with the political and theoretical complexities of speaking ‘about’ women while avoiding speaking ‘for’ other women (Moore 1991: 186, 1994). Gender is experienced differently, depending on the specific locations of the actors. The subjects of this study are middle aged and older women, with little or no education beyond primary school, and from the lower middle classes living in south Tehran. The observance of strict veiling is part of their claim to moral superiority, but essentially a means of maintaining gender separation, which is a key to their sense of agency in the world. They espouse motherhood and domesticity as the prime responsibility of women and as the source of their power. Using their ritual networks to inquire into familial histories, they ensure strategic alliances to strengthen their own positions as advocates of arranged marriages and guardians of familial status. They consider their rituals as a source of joy and support outside the familial framework and as the means toward leading spiritually rich and rewarding lives. The rituals provide them with possibilities for social competence as sponsors and hostesses, as teachers, mentors or spiritual guides, or enable them to act as intermediaries between people and the supernatural agencies or as channels for barakat. Same-sex rituals are the very means whereby women and men can celebrate their gender as the very source of their agency. Nonetheless, they may also dispute and blur the gender boundaries through the ritual performances, paradoxically revealing thereby the illusion of a fixed gender. The gap between official representations of gender and daily-lived experience encourages processes of critical self-reflection and reappraisal of the cultural concepts and values to which individuals may adhere while also introducing incremental changes. An orthodox female preacher extols the male associated virtues of reason and spirituality ('aql ) but also parodies a hermit’s quest for virtue that justifies any means (Chapter 1). Crossing the gendered boundary of self-interest and social good through votive practices (Chapters 2 & 4), the women affirm their allegiance to a higher moral order, but also reveal themselves as self-determining agents that claim the best. By shifting to the realm of social repro-

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duction, these female-specific votive rituals also alter the terms of a discourse that conceptualizes women as ‘merely’ reproductive by revealing the contradictions contained within the discourse. Gender volatility is also revealed through the gendering of an ‘ungendered’ child in the relatively new, post-revolutionary, state sponsored girls’ initiation ceremony (Chapter 6), which paradoxically promotes an essentialized Islamic image of female modesty and simplicity as part of a bid to cultural distinctiveness vis à vis the West. ‘Carnivalesque’ (Bakhtin 1968), self-parody, satire and dramatic performances provide the most vivid examples of gender flux (Chapter 7). The ludicrous caricature of the bride in the mock wedding (Chapter 7) parodies a quintessentially feminine ceremony on the very night that is intended to celebrate consummation and conception. Exaggerated displays, as when the posterior is bulked up by a cushion, reveal in their very overstatement the imaginary status of “the natural” (Butler 1990b: 146–147). Humour was integral to almost all the women’s rituals and is of course a most effective means of unsettling categories. The ritual performances reveal that individuals engage with multiple, even contradictory, gender discourses within their own culture, highlighting the disjunctions between the powerful discourses of gender and the lived experience of individuals. The partial effect of the discourses themselves is thus brought to light. This indeterminacy is an important source for the productive tension between cultural representations and how individuals relate to them. Much social theory addresses the complex issue of agency that can account for both the determining structures of social life and the ways in which change comes about (Giddens 1977, 1979, Bourdieu 1992). The issue of interpretation is here important and involves processes of ‘compliance’ and ‘resistance’ by individuals positioned in relation to powerful structures and discourses. Questions of resistance and compliance are notoriously difficult to analyse as types of agency (Abu-Lughod 1990, Boddy 1989: 344–348, Moore 1994: 49–50). The problem increases considerably in the context of religious beliefs and practices (cf. Hegland 1999, Mahmood 2001a, b, Torab 1996). It is clear that religious practice is intended to cultivate commitment to the moral, social and cultural values, including gender roles and relations. It is also clear that the relations between the sexes in the discourses of the influential Islamic scholars and clerics are not egalitarian (cf. Mir Hosseini 1999). For the subjects of this study, the religious teachings are the very source

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of their agency in the world in which they live. The apparent anomaly of a feminine agency that helps sustain a system that ranks women as second-class citizens is an underlying preoccupation of much of the literature on gender and Islam. The concept of the subject as a product of power relations (Foucault 1979) suggests one way of explaining why women might comply with this system. Compliance may be a cultivated desire, shaped by nonliberal traditions (Mahmood 2001a: 203). It may be part of the strategies of negotiation and resistance (Scott 1985), which may not be intentional or may even seem contradictory (Moore 1991: 180–183). The problem is how to account for resistance when it is not part of the conscious politics of the actors without resorting to concepts like ‘false consciousness’, which implies that people are either incapable of self-reflection or that they are cynical manipulators (Abu-Lughod 1990: 47). These issues merely point out that resistance and compliance cannot be generalized, but should be seen as specific and contingent on the cultural field within which they operate (cf. Huyssen 1990: 271). We have seen how the subjects of this study align their personal interests with the wider social good. Specific definitions of persons, including intentions (niyyat) and supernatural agencies as extensions of self are here involved. Persons are not simply self-interested individuals, but also ethical, acting with the expectations and intentions of others in mind. It means that persons are authors of their thoughts and actions, but these also depend on and are caused by others (cf. Strathern 1988: 272–73). This also suggests that identity is experienced as a constant reshaping of the boundaries of selfhood (Mc Clintock 1995: 317). It does not mean that individuals see themselves as ‘fragmented’ or lack an ongoing sense of self, which is a necessary condition for agency.2 What constitutes them as agents in the world are such things as the subjective experience of identity, the physical fact of being an embodied subject and historical continuity (Moore 1994: 55). The notion of multiple selves does not mean the disappearance of powerful discourses, but their realignment under

2 Feminist scholars, for example Susan Bordo (1990), have rightly asked whether it is possible to account for agency if identity is unstable, fluid and situational. But this debate touches on the issues of ‘sameness’ implied by the universal category ‘women’ (cf. Moore 1991: Ch. 6, Nicholson 1990).

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contest. It is therefore not simply that there are multiple discourses within cultures, but in addition, individuals themselves are multiply constituted, which allows them the scope to act on the world in which they live. This perspective opens up the possibility for the contextual evaluations of people’s actions beyond a simple resistance/compliance divide. Ritual activity is an important means whereby multiply composed persons are made into singular form because it is crucial to political agency as well as to the functioning of gender relations. This perspective of gender as a process helps toward understanding gender difference, without lapsing into essentialism or positing alternative male or female ‘world views’. Gender difference does not reside in the body. It is because women and men do things differently that their bodies are gendered, so that gender is an outcome of their specific acts (Strathern 1988). This ‘doing’ or ‘performance’ opens possibilities for change in the gender constructs. What makes the rituals so compelling for the participants is that they not only satisfy personal piety, but also are effective means for constructing and renegotiating the relations between the self, society and the transcendent. For the subjects of this study, linking the present with the transcendent gives shape and meaning to their daily routines and is the empowering goal.

GLOSSARY

adab va rosum adam 'adel ahkam-e din or simply ahkam

ahkam-e nazr ahl-e beyt

ahya ajil-e moshgel-gosha

ajr akhlaq akhund-zadeh 'alam

a'mal-e umm-e-Davud aqa 'aql 'aql-res 'arusi arbab arba'eyn asar, asar gozashtan ash-e nazri ash-e reshteh

manners and customs human being, humankind (the Persian term is gender free), also bashar, ensan just religious rules, injunctions or precepts (also vajebat), also called ‘explanatory text on problems [of religion]’ (resalat-e towzih-al-masa"el), which are treatises written by the leading Ayatollahs, who are designated as ‘source of emulation’ (marja'e taqlid ), who define the religious precepts for those who choose to follow them precepts regarding vowing (Arabic), ‘those of the house’, referring to the Prophet and his immediate household, who are Fatemeh, her husband Imam 'Ali, and their two sons, Imam Hassan and Imam Husseyn night vigil held during Ramadan celebrating the ‘Night of Qadr’, which refers to the Qur"anic Chapter or Sura called “al-Qadr” (S. 97); also revival. lit. ‘problem solving nut mixture’, which is a votive offering (nazri ) consisting of various kinds of nuts, raisins, almonds and dried seeds, distributed to guests at ceremonial votive meals called sofreh-ye nazri, or at shrines, in fulfilment of a vow (nazr) reward, spiritual merit (see also savab) ethics a mullah’s son an elaborate, heavy battle standard, carried by a standard bearer ('alam-dar) ahead of the Muharram street processions. It represents Imam Husseyn’s standard and is revered by men taking part in the processions as a sacred object. Some men controversially sacrifice sheep in front of the standards on the tenth day ('ashura). “the Deeds of David’s Mother”, a preliminary ritual carried out ahead of Ramadan in mid Rajab in preparation for Ramadan lord, sir reason, rationality mentally ‘ripe’, age of maturity wedding master Imam Husseyn’s fortieth day after his death effect, being effective, having an effect votive soup thick soup made with noodles, beans and whey, often used as a votive dish

252 'ashura ayeh 'ayeh-ye sejdeh 'azadari bab-ol-hava"ej bala-shahri barakat

bashar behesht bed'at Chahardah Ma'sum chador chadori chador-namaz chehelleh cheshm-e bad chos-e fil daf dahe-ye fajr dahegi danesh dar-ol-shaf-ye maktab-e Zeynab dasteh-ye sineh-zani dasteh-ye Bani Asad dasteh-ye sham-e ghariban

dasteh-ye 'osara dayereh did-o-baz-did

glossary tenth day of Muharram when Imam Husseyn was martyred a Qur"anic verse, a sign (of God) a Qur"anic verse which requires an obligatory prostration mourning ‘gateway to favours’ refers to the most popular saints that people consider to be particularly receptive to vows uptowner corresponds broadly to the notion of blessing or grace, which people identify in terms of bounty, prosperity, good fortune, well-being and so on. As an intransitive verb (tabarrok shodeh, imbued with barakat), barakat is transferable to people or objects humankind, also adam, ensan paradise (bid'a, Arabic) innovation, refers to a practice considered as ‘un-Islamic’ by the religious orthodoxy ‘Fourteen-Most-Pure’ refers to the Prophet, his daughter Fatemeh and his male successors, who are the twelve Shi'a Imams veil, piece of cloth covering head to ankles, worn without face covering in Iran. Veils worn for outdoors are usually black a person who wears a veil prayer-veil, usually a light colour, and used only for the daily prayers funerary ritual on the fortieth day following burial ‘evil eye’ popcorn tambourine ‘dawning of a new age’, ten days of public celebrations marking Khomeini’s return to Iran in 1979 ten consecutive days of ritual knowledge “Zeynab’s healing practice” street processions, lit. chest-beating group Muharram procession representing a passing tribe who helped collect for burial the corpses left in the Karbala desert by Yazid’s forces Muharram night vigil consisting of a candle lit procession representing the event when Zeynab searched for lost children and the wounded on the night of the tenth day when her brother Imam Husseyn was martyred on the desert plains of Karbala Muharram procession representing the captives from Imam Husseyn’s followers being taken away by Yazid’s forces tambourine return visits

glossary

253

do'a do'a darmani do'a-ye tavassol do'ay-e Yastashir do angoshti doniyavi dudul tala

supplication, prayer prayer-healing intercessionary supplication a prayer with a long list of praises for God (clapping) with two fingers secular ‘golden penis’ (playful endearment used for infants)

'ebadat 'edalat-e ejtema'i

eshveh eslam-e rastin 'eyb 'eyd

worship social justice, which was one of the maxims of the Revolution of 1978–79 and is attributed to Ayatollah Khomeini fast breaking meal after sunset control over knowledge to beg prayer modern revolutionary human being, humankind wild rue, popularly thought to dispel the ‘evil eye’ (a trope for envy) flirtatious teasing ‘true’ religion, Islam shame festive day, New Year

faqih, pl. fuqaha fatemiyeh fatwa fetriyeh fitna

religious jurists rituals commemorating Fatemeh’s death religious decree alms specific to Ramadan (Arabic) social disorder ( fetneh, Persian)

gereftar-ha gelim gham va ghosseh gheybat gholam ghusl gonah

those with misfortune, gereftari, misfortune Kelim, a flat woven rug (lower grade rug) sorrow and grief gossip male servant (old usage) ritual ablution by complete immersion of the body in water sin

hafez-e Qur"an hafte-ye vahdat

a person who has learned the entire Qur"an by rote ‘week of solidarity’ (among Muslims), public event instituted by the Islamic Republic of Iran wish, need troubador jester who appears for the New Year, 'eyd mood, humour, feeling, state, condition, ecstasy, natural disposition, health; linked to tahavvol, to undergo change, transformation; hal dadan or hal amadan, derive pleasurable feeling. a sweet dish served at ceremonies for the deceased. It is made with saffron, sugar, rosewater and flour tossed in oil and made into a smooth, thick brown paste ‘being of the same blood’, expression referring to patrilineal ties of kinship justice, truth religiously forbidden

eftar ekhtiyar 'elm eltemas-e do'a emruzi enqelabi ensan esfand

hajat hajji Firuz hal halva ham khuni haqq haram

254 Hazrat hejab hejleh hejrat

hejri qamari hejri shamsi hekayat helheleh hey"at hey"at-e mahalleh hey"at-e senfi heyvan heyz hezbollahi Hosseyniyeh hozur-e qalb hozn Imam-e Ghayeb istikhareh ithna 'ashariya

glossary Excellency, honorific title preceding a name (hijab, Arabic), modesty. Often used to refer to head covering by women (such as veil or head scarf ). nuptial memorial object, bridal chamber on the wedding night (hijra, Arabic) emigration of the Prophet Muhammad from Mecca to Medina, from which dates the Islamic ‘lunar’ (Hejri Qamari) calendar beginning in the month of Muharram AD 622 (see Calendars p. iii) Islamic ‘lunar’ calendar (see Calendars p. viii) Iranian ‘solar’ calendar (see Calendars p. viii) anecdote ululation men’s religious association men’s neighbourhood religious association men’s religious association based on professional interests animal menstrual blood ‘party of God’, a post-revolutionary self-designation of a political group forum used for religious meetings or ceremonies, funded by religious endowments (vaqf ) or individuals. These places are associated primarily with Imam Husseyn and are often dedicated to him presence of heart, often used in relation to the recitation of the Qur"an (huzn, Arabic) ‘sadness’, a response to Qur"anic recitation (see also khoshu', khozu' ) the Mahdi, the (Hidden) Twelfth Imam (b. 255 ah/868 ad) Qur"anic divination “Twelver” Shi'ism, the largest branch of Shi'ism, referring to belief in the twelve Imams as the successors of the Prophet Muhammad. The other major branches within Shi'ism are the Isma'ilis (the “Seveners”) and the Zeydis (Zaidi, Arabic)

jahaz trousseau jahl ignorance meeting, religious meeting jalaseh jalaseh-ye umumi open-house jalaseh jashn celebration jashn-e 'ebadat celebration of worship jashn-e 'Omar ritual celebration of the Sunni Caliph 'Omar’s death jashn-e taklif celebration for the onset of puberty jashn-e tavvalod birthday party jashn-e mas"uliyat celebration of responsibility jehad see jihad jens, jensiyat gender jesm body jihad (Persian, jehad ) endeavour, struggle, ‘holy war’ kachi kaniz kereshmeh khab

a sweet saffron and rosewater scented paste made with flour tossed in oil, served as a votive dish maidservant, slave flirtatious sleep, dream

glossary

255

burial, also dafn kardan shrine dust humble end, funerary ritual on the third day after burial ritual recitation of the Qur"anic chapter (S:6) al "an'am (Arabic pl. cattle, from the root n'm, Persian ne'mat, abundance, blessing khatm-e Qur"an Ramadan ceremony; recitation of the entire Qur"an, one of the thirty sections ( joz") on each day of the month khatneh male circumcision (removal of foreskin) kharji expenditure, ceremonial expenditure kheyrat alms for the benefit of the spirit of the dead khotbeh sermon khorafat superstition khoms religious tax, ‘one fifth tax’ levied on income and capital gains khoshu' (like khozu' ) humility, submission, awe (a response to Qur"anic recitation) khozu' (like khoshu' ) humility, submission, awe (a response to Qur"anic recitation) khorafat superstition khun blood kolah-e shar'i gozashtan ‘play legal tricks’ kucheh-bazaari popular, lit. ‘of the streets and bazaars’ khak kardan khak-e torbat khaki khatm khatm-e "an'am

la'n, la'nat latifeh laleh

to damn, damnation joke 1) tulip 2) candle-lit lantern with a tulip-shaped hub 3) icon of the Islamic Republic 4) a lover’s blood shed in his quest for love in Sufi inspired poetry 5) nuptial memorial object used for deceased men and martyrs

ma'ad maddah maddiyat mafatih-al-janan

hereafter a person who sings praises to the Prophet and the saints materiality (Arabic) ‘Keys to Paradise’ refers to a prayer book containing many prayers and supplications including those attributed to the Imams a permitted relationship, unrestricted by rules of veiling and avoidance between members of the opposite sex who cannot marry (see also mahramiyat and namahram) rules regulating interaction between the opposite sexes, depending on whether they are classified as either potential marriage partners or not (see, mahram, namahram) ‘rituals of debauchery and cursing’ gathering healing ritual religiously disapproved, but not prohibited doctrinaire, ideologically committed spirituality or morality wimple, worn with a long loose fitting overall over trousers as an alternative to the veil. It is obligatory for women working in state institutions, as well as for school girls and University students man

mahram mahramiyat majales-e sabb va la'n majles majles-e do'a daramani makruh maktabi ma'naviyat maqna'eh

mard

glossary

256 ma'refat mariz, mariz-ha marizi marja'e taqlid mazhab mellat menbar mohr

mojjarrab mo'men morad mostakbarin mostas'afin mowludi mowludi-khani Muharram mujtahid nafs nakam namahram namaz namaz-jama'at namaz-jom'eh namus nazar zadan nazar khordan nazr nazri nazr kardan nazr-o-niyaz naz nejasat niyyat noql nowheh nowruz 'Omar koshan

spirituality, esoteric knowledge the ill, the patient (s) illness ‘source of emulation’, leading Ayatollahs (or mujtahid), whose edicts are binding on those who choose to follow them as their spiritual guides religious nation, people pulpit in mosques prayer tablet used by Shi'i during the daily prayers, said to represent the earth on the plains of Karbala where Imam Husseyn’s blood was shed. The tablet is placed on the floor and the worshipper places the forehead on it during the act of prostration propitious (for making vows) believer desire, need, wish, favour powerful elite oppressed masses celebration of birth, poem celebrating birth singing mowludi poems first lunar month on the Shi'a calendar senior religious scholar ('ulama) who can exercise ijtihad, authoritative judgements on interpreting the law from the sources the animal part of human nature, lust, passion unfulfilled desire for progeny a relationship restricted by rules of veiling and avoidance between members of the opposite sex who are potential marriage partners (see also mahram and mahramiyat) daily prayers, Arabic salat congregational prayer Friday prayer, congregational prayer the ideology of male honour linked to women’s chastity or shame (haya) to cast an ‘evil eye’ (cheshm-e bad) (to envy) to be the object of the ‘evil eye’ vow offering to make a vow vows and needs coquettish ritual impurity intent small sugar balls elegy related to the martyrdom of Imam Husseyn in Karbala; see also rowzeh New Year

ommol ommol-chadori

lit. “Killing 'Omar”, a Shi'i ritual associated with the death of the Sunni Caliph 'Omar traditionally backward (pejorative) traditionally backward with a chdor (pejorative)

paki pa"in-shahri

purity, ritual purity downtowner

glossary panj tan parti-bazi pish-namaz pishvaz ruzeh qameh zani qorbani rahbar rahnama rak'at rast-dini reng, rengi ro"ya rowzeh

rowzeh-khan ruh ruz-e madar ruz-e zan ruzeh ruzeh kharidan ruzeh-ye qarzi

257

‘the five bodies’ referring to the Prophet, Fatemeh and her husband 'Ali and their two sons Hassan and Hosseyn lobbying prayer-leader welcoming Ramadan by starting to fast ahead of the month ritual cutting of the scalp with a blade during the Muharram street processions sacrifice leader guide section of namaz ‘true’ religion, Islam dance tempo dream (Arabic, rawda) a) dirge ritual commemorating Imam Husseyn’s martyrdom b) the narratives of martyrdom recounting the tragedies of Karbala c) the rendering of the dirge (rowzeh-khani ) by professional cantors (rowzeh-khan) d) a ‘garden’, associated with Paradise. See, also nowheh dirge cantor spirit or soul mother’s day woman’s day fasting to ‘buy’ outstanding fasting debts of a deceased by paying someone trustworthy to fast by proxy fasting debt

alms fasting meal at dawn “the Imam’s share” of half of the “one fifth” religious tax (khoms) levied on net income and capital gain, which he can spend as he considers suitable. It is a major source of wealth and independent power for the leading Ayatollahs saqqa water bearer sal year, annual commemoration ritual following death salat (Arabic) daily prayers, Persian namaz salavat ritual greetings to the Prophet and his descendants samanu votive dish made of germinating wheat associated with Fatemeh’s craving during pregnancy savab spiritual merit seda-ye garm warm voice seyyed descendants in the line of the Prophet seyyed-e tabataba"i bilateral seyyed colloq. propitious seyyed, lit. ‘seyyed of the hearth’ seyyed-e ojagh seyyed-e shohada ‘the king of martyrs’, refers to Imam Husseyn shab-e haft funerary ritual on eve of the seventh day following burial shabih passion play, see also ta'ziyeh shahadat declaration of faith, bearing witness, martyrdom shakk dar namaz doubt during namaz (as to whether a particular section has been missed), rules regarding this in the book of precepts (ahkam) Shamsi Iranian ‘solar’ civil calendar (see calendars p. iii)

sadaqeh sahari sahm-e Emam

258

glossary

Islamic law sweet saffron and rosewater-scented rice pudding, associated with Imam Hosseyn’s fourtieth arba'eyn shukhi joke sigheh temporary marriage sigheh-ye nim taneh be bala colloq. non-sexual temporary marriage, lit. ‘above midbody’ siyasat politics sofreh meal cloth, votive meal sofreh-ye nazri ceremonial votive meal as offering usually in fulfilment of a vow sonnat (sunna, Arabic) the Prophet’s traditions, custom sorud song sotun-e din pillar of religion sureh a chapter of the Qur"an shari'a shol-e zard

tombak towbeh

worship social class interpretation of dreams exegesis accurate exegesis liberal exegesis ‘idol worshippers’, a revolutionary slogan (used in opposition to hezbollahi ) to designate the secular, rich classes ritual purity disciplining the nafs shelf puberty, duty, task, imposition preoccupation with this world obedience, a controversial precept regarding obedience by women to husbands piety slightly intoned style of Qur"an recitation ‘Fatemeh’s rosary’, a short prayer in the form of a zikr, using a rosary to keep count the ninth day of Muharram circumambulation of the Ka'ba during the Meccan hajj passion play, see also shabih refinement of the soul/spirit temporary venue like a large tent set up for Muharram ceremonies tambourine repentance

ujrat-ol-mithl 'ulama umma

payment of like wages for housework scholars, clergy (Arabic) Muslim community (Persian ommat)

vajebat vaqf vasvas velayat-e faqih vozu

obligatory religious rules, see, ahkam-e din religious endowment fussy, preoccupation with detail guardianship (or government) of the jurist ritual ablution

ta'at tabaqeh-ye ejtema'i ta"bir-e khab tafsir tafsir-e daqiq tafsir-e azad taghuti taharat tahzib-e nafs takhcheh taklif talab-e donya tamkin taqwa tartil tasbih-e Hazrat-e Zahra tasu'a Arabic tavvaf ta'ziyeh tazkiyeh-ye ruh tekkiyeh

glossary zakat zan zanan zanjir zani zena zikr zikr-e mosibat ziyarat ziyarat-nameh ziyarat-e 'ashura

259

religious taxes on agricultural produce, livestock, gold and silver woman women ritual self-flagellation with chain flails during the Muharram street processions adultery, illicit sex (zekr, Persian) ritual repetition of a word or phrase from the Qur"an or from a prayer short dirge pilgrimage shrine visitation greeting (a prayer) dirge related to Imam Husseyn’s martyrdom on the tenth day of Muharram

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AUTHOR INDEX

Abedi, Mehdi, 20n, 32n, 42n, 43n, 45n, 107n, 132n, 141n, 142n, 154n, 162n, 182n, 185n, 188n, 227n, 235n, 238n, 240n Abtahi, S.H., 107 Abu-Lughod, Lila, 2, 13n, 17n, 27n, 65n, 92, 112n, 128n, 183n, 231n, 247, 248 Abu-Zahra, Nadia, 3, 21n, 68n Adelkhah, Fariba, 2, 6n, 21n, 32n, 115n Adle, C., 17n Afkhami, Mahnaz, 12n Afshar, Haleh, 2, 6n Aggarwal, P.C. 19n Aghai, Kamran Scot, 3, 19n, 144n, 149n Ahmed, Akbar S., 18n Ahmed, Leila, 96n Akhavi, S. 17n, 19n, 43n, 59n Al-Ali, Nadje, 2 Al Khalifa Sharif, Tayba Hassan, 21n 'Ali, A. Yusif, 86n Alberts, R.C., 19n, 194n, 197n, 235n, 239n Al-e Ahmad, Jalal, 182 Algar, Hamid, 19n, 195n, 196, 196n Altorki, Soraya, 27n Amir-Mo"ezzi, M.A., 46n 'Anassori, Jaber, xiv, 21n, 140n, 149n, 207n, 210n Anderson, Benedict, 17 Anderson, Jon W., 13n, 15, 57n, 114n Anjavi-Shirazi, S.A., 21n, 98n Antoun, Richard T., 21n, 53n, 154n, 155n Appadurai, Arjun, 134n, 137n Apter, Andrew, 211 Ardener, Edwin, 14n, 22, 22n Arjomand, Said Amir, 17n, 40n, 43n, 59n, 95n, 142n Asad, Talal, 18n, 19, 230 Austin, J.L., 23 Azari, Farideh, 12n

Badran, Margot, xiv, 2, 6n, 7, 7n Bakhtin, Mikhail M., 26, 195, 210n, 211, 212, 213n, 215, 220n, 247 Baron, Beth, 71, 71n Bateson, Gregory, 3 Battaglia, Debbora, 180n Bauer, Janet, 7n, 13n, 17n, 36n, 66n, 96n Baumann, Gerd, 183n Bauman, Richard, 92n Bayat, Mangol, 43n Beauvoir, Simone de, 14n, 229n Beeman, William O., 117n, 194n, 197n, 213, 214n Bell, Catherine, 1n, 3, 3n, 14n, 22n, 23, 24, 129n, 170, 178, 244 Betteridge, Anne H., 21n, 115n, 119n, 137n Beyza"i, Bahram, 20n, 21n, 149n, 207n Bilu, Yoram, 188n, 189, 189n Bloch, Maurice, 3, 20n, 21n, 47n, 137n, 139, 139n, 155n, 159n, 162–163 passim, 170, 244 Boddy, Janice, 3, 13n, 22n, 66n, 138n, 184, 243n, 247 Bohannan, P., 134n Bonte, Pierre et al., 131n, 155n Booth, Marilyn, 2 Bordo, Susan , 248n Borghei, M., 142n Botman, Selma, 2 Bouhdiba, Abdelwahab, 188n, 189n Bourdieu, Pierre, 11, 11n, 13n, 23, 23n, 24, 24n, 27, 33, 47n, 93n, 96n, 112n, 130, 132, 134n, 136, 137n, 154, 178n, 218n, 247 Bowen, Donna Lee, 2 Bowen, John R., 37n, 155n, 178n, 232n Boyer, Pascal, 21n Braidotti, Rosi, 66n Braswell, G.W., 21n, 115n, 136, 142n Bruck, vom Gabriele, xiii, 134n, 188n Buchta, Wilfried, 43n, 196, 196n Buckley, Thomas, 158, 188n

282

author index

Buitelaar, Marjo, 3, 21n, 228n, 229, 240n Butler, Judith, 10–11 passim, 112, 116n, 130n, 168, 211, 216, 242, 243, 247 Bynum, Caroline, 55n, 229n, 230 Calmard, Jean, 43n, 141n, 195n Cantwell-Smith, Wilfred, 18n Capps, Lisa, 92n Carsten, Janet, 128, 130n, 159, 186n Carter, Angela, 61, 126n Chelkowski, Peter J., 3, 19n, 70, 140n, 142n, 149n Christian, W., 233n Clifford, James, 9, 27 Cohen, Abner, 23n, 210n, 212n Comaroff, Jean, 44n, 114, 114n Comaroff, John L., 44n, 114, 114n Combs-Schilling, M.E., 3, 131n, 155n, 156n, 159n, 160, 167n, 189n Connell, R.W., 12n Connerton, Paul, 194n, 197 Cornwall, Andrea, 10n Csordas, Thomas J., 80, 83, 83n, 231n Dabashi, Hamid, 19n, 43n Davies, M.W., 18n De Groot, Joanna, 12n Delaney, Carol, 13n, 130, 131n, 155n, 158, 159n, 188n, 190n Del Valle, Teresa, 10n Diski, Jenny, 190n Donaldson, B.A., 85n, 235n Douglas, Mary, 23, 34n, 46n, 65, 91n, 158, 158n, 183, 188n, 212, 213, 213n, 214, 231, 232, 232n Drucker-Brown, Susan, xiv, 211 Early, Evelyn A., 2 Edgar, Iain R., 111n Eickelman, Dale F., xiv, 5, 7, 13n, 18n, 20, 43n, 52n, 116n, 117n, 130n, 141, 141n, 154n, 184, 226n, 229n, 233n, 243 El-Zein, A.H., 18n Ewing, Katherine P., 111n Ezzati, A., 140n Fabian, J., 22n Farsoun, Sami K., 17n, 59n Fawzi-el-Solh, Camillia, 27n Fernandez, James, 24, 48n, 154, 156

Fernea, Elizabeth W., 2, 19n, 20n Fernea, R.A., 20n Ferzacca, Steve, 89n Fischer, Michael M.J., 9, 17n, 19, 19n, 20n, 32n, 37n, 42n, 43n, 45n, 58, 59n, 69n, 96n, 107n, 132n, 141n, 142n, 154n, 162n, 182n, 185n, 188n, 194n, 195, 227n, 232n, 233n, 235n, 239, 240n Flaskerud, Ingvild, 19n, 20n, 21n, 94n, 107n, 149n, 160n Foucault, Michel, 10, 10n, 11n, 23, 33, 89, 89n, 111, 178n, 231, 248 Fox Keller, Evelyn, 216n Fraser, Nancy, 16, 90 Friedl, Erika, 2, 246 Gatens, Moira, 13, 229n Geertz, Clifford, 3, 21, 245 Gellner, Ernest, 18n, 46n Gell, Alfred, 135n, 137n, 161n Gerholm, Thomas, 3, 22n, 23n, 170, 244 Geschiere, Peter, 44n, 114n Gheissari, Ali, 17n, 44n Giddens, Anthony, 93n, 247 Gilmore, David, 190n Gilsenan, Michael, 19n, 111n, 113n, 114n, 141n, 142 Gluckman, Max, 3, 210, 210n Goffman, Ervin, 92n Good, Byron J., 20n, 80, 87n, 88n, 231n Good, Mary-Jo Del Vecchio, 20n, 231n Goody, Jack, 2n Gottlieb, Alma, 158, 188n Greenblatt, S., 210n, 213, 214, 214n, 221n Grima, B., 20n, 21n, 233n Grunebaum, G.E. von, 20, 111n Guppy, Shusha, 240n Haeri, Shahla, 2, 39n, 128n Haim, S., 233n, 237, 238 Hammoudi, A., 213n Haraway, Donna, 16, 64 Harris, Olivia, 15, 167 Harrison, Simon, 23n, 161n, 183, 184n Harrod, Tanya, xiv, 64, 64n Hartsock, Nancy, 93n Heady, Patrick, 139n Hedayat, Sadegh, 21n, 115n

author index Hegland, Mary Elaine, xiv, 6n, 7n, 19n, 21n, 141n, 142, 144n, 247 Henriques, Julian, et al, 93n Hertz, Robert, 13n Higgins, Patricia J., 4n, 6n, 7n Hobsbawm, E., 183 Hoffman, Lawrence A., 159n, 188n, 189 Hoffman-Ladd, Valerie J., 58n Hollway, Wendy, 66 Holy, Ladislav, 3, 108n, 186n Hoodfar, Homa, 2, 21n, 27n Hooglund, E., 17n Hourcade, B., 17n, 59 Howes, D., 238n Hubert, H., 129n, 131 Hugh-Jones, Stephen, 137n Hughes-Freeland, Felicia, 3, 244 Humphrey, Caroline, 1n, 3, 22n, 137n, 161, 171, 180n, 231n, 244 Huyssen, Andreas, 248 Jackson, Michael, 23, 23n, 24, 212, 218, 218n, 231n Jacobus, Mary, 60n, 216n James, Wendy, 157 Jamzadeh, Laal, 21n, 115n, 118n, 119n, 120n, 126 Jankowiak, William, 211 Jansen, Willy, 18n, 68n, 115n Jay, Nancy, 131n, 155n Jean-Klein, Iris, 165, 165n J\drej, M.C., 108n, 111, 111n, 112 Jenkins, Richard, 24n Johnson, M., 24 Jordanova, L.J., 10n Joseph, Suad, 2 Joy, Morny et al., 14n Kalinock, Sabine, 19, 21, 21n, 97n, 108n, 115n, 120n, 233n Kamalkhani, Zahra, 6n, 19, 21n, 31n, 240n Kandiyoti, Deniz, 2, 12n, 17n, 150n, 183, 183n Kapchan, Deborah, 2, 13n, 22, 35n, 65n, 91n, 111n, 112, 128n, 137, 160, 220n, 232, 232n Karp, Ivan, 231n Katira"i, M., 21n Kaufert, Patricia A., 88n Kazemi, F., 40n, 142n Keddie, Nikki R., 2, 5n, 17n, 19n, 59n, 80, 81n

283

Khatib-Chahidi, Jane, 185n Kian-Thiébaut, Azadeh, 5n, 7n, 12n Kondo, Dorinne K., 27n Kopytoff, Igor, 137 Kuper, Adam, 110n Laderman, C., 83n La Fontaine, Jean S., 10n, 191 Laidlaw, James, 1n, 4, 22n, 171, 178n, 180n, 231n, 244 Laghzaoui, Latifa, 37n, 232n Lakoff, G., 24 Lambek, Michael , 18n Leach, Edmund R., 139, 210n, 212 Lévi-Strauss, Claude, 3, 110n, 139, 159n, 211, 215 Lewis, Gilbert, 1n Lewis, Ioan M., 3, 22n, 132n, 138n Limón, José E., 220n Lincoln, Bruce, 166n, 211n Lindisfarne-Tapper, Nancy (see also Nancy Tapper), 58n Lloyd, Genevieve, 13 Lock, Margaret, 88n Loeffler, Reinhold, 9n, 86 Loizos, Peter, 139n Longinotto, Kim, 245 Lutkehaus, Nancy C., 186n, 190n Lynch, Owen M., 231n Lyon, Margot L., 231n MacCormack, Carol, 9, 193n Madelung, W., 42n Mahmood, Saba, 2, 3, 6n, 9n, 65, 65n, 66, 96n, 178n, 180n, 181, 247, 248 Majlesi, M.B., 129, 177n, 196n Malti-Douglas, Fedwa, 2, 60, 60n, 61n, 231n Marcus, Julie, 232n Marcus, George E., 9 Marriott, McKim, 10n, 186n Martin, Vanessa, 17n, 43n, 59n Mashayekhi, Mehrdad, 17n, 59n Masse, Henri, 21n Massoudieh, M.T., 140n, 149n Mauss, Marcel, 129n, 131, 136, 153 McClintock, Anne, 150, 248 Merguerian, Gayane Karen, 60n, 217 Mernissi, Fatma, 50n, 60n, 125n Meskoub, S., 140n Messick, Brinkley, 22n Metcalf, Barbara D., 43n

284

author index

Mills, Margaret A., 21n, 115n, 118n, 119n, 120n, 125, 125n, 126 Mir-Hosseini, Ziba, xiv, 2, 5, 5n, 6n, 12, 12n, 35, 37n, 39n, 49n, 50n, 51, 70n, 91n, 96n, 155n, 232n, 245 Moaveni, Azadeh, 20n, 148n Moeller, R., 143n, 150n Moghadam, Valentine M., 2, 12n Moghissi, Haideh, 6n, 12n Momen, Moojan, 17n, 42n, 43, 43n, 59n, 141n, 144n Moore, Henrietta L., 9, 10n, 14n, 15, 24, 27n, 65, 66, 89n, 90, 90n, 92n, 112, 130, 157, 167, 178, 191, 230n, 242, 243, 246, 247, 248, 248n Moors, Annelis, 111n Moslem, Mehdi, 53n Motahhari, M., 12n, 70n Munson, Henry Jr., 157n, 159n Murata, Sachiho, 13n Mussalam, B.F., 159n, 190n, 216n Nafisi, Azar, 98n, 217n Najmabadi, Afsaneh, 2, 6, 6n, 12, 12n, 13n, 17n, 49n, 59n, 60n, 150n, 181n, 182, 217, 217n Nashat, Guity, 50n, 60n Needham, Rodney, 116n, 131 Nelson, Cynthia, 14n Nelson, Kristina, 235n, 236, 237n Nicholson, Linda J., 16, 248n Nichter, Mark, 88n Ochs, Elinor, 92n Okely, Judith, xiii, 92n Ortner, Sherry B., 9, 10n, 14n Paidar, Parvin, 2, 6n, 7n, 12n, 17n, 58n, 69n, 150 Parkin, David, 22n, 23n, 231n Parry, Jonathan, 19, 137, 137n, 139n, 155n, 162, 163, 163n Peristiany, J.G., 13n Peteet, Julie, 91n, 165n Pinault, David, 19n, 20n, 69n, 96n, 144n, 145n, 146n, 155 Piscatori, James, 5, 243 Pitt-Rivers, Julien, 13n Poya, Maryam, 2, 5n, 6n, 7n Radcliffe-Browne, A.R., 211, 211n Rastegar, A. 80 Rappoport, Roy A., 178 Reinhart, A. Kevin, 232n

Richards, Audrey, 176n Rosaldo, Michelle Z., 14n, 231n Roscoe, Paul B., 186n, 190n Roseman, M., 83n Rosen, Lawrence, 13n, 37n, 229n, 232n, 233n Rostami Povey, Elaheh, 12n, 49n Safa-Isfahani, S., 21n, 98n, 217n Sahlins, Marshall, 183n, 184n Sahraee-Smith, Angela, 20n, 21n Said, Edward W., 9 Sanders, Paula, 12n, 159n, 190n Schechner, Richard, 22n Scheper-Hughes, Nancy, 88n, 114n Schieffelin, Edward L., 3, 22n, 171, 244 Schimmel, Annemarie, 13n, 207n Schubel, Vernon J., 19n, 20n Schumacher, I., 21n Scott, Joan Wallach, 3n Scott, J.C., 211, 248 Sells, Michael, 236, 236n, 237n, 238, 239n Shaw, Rosalind, 108n, 111, 111n, 112 Shokurzadeh, I., 21n, 115n, 120n Shuttleworth, Sally, 216n Sontag, Susan, 25, 80n Sorabji, Cornelia, 21n Spellberg, D.A., 187n Spellman, Kathryn, 21n, 115n Stallybrass, Peter, 210n, 212, 216, 219, 220, 220n, 221 Starrett, Gregory, 178n Steedman, Carolyn, 132n Strathern, Marilyn, 3, 9, 10, 10n, 14n, 15, 15n, 51n, 67, 116n, 130n, 133n, 137n, 138, 138n, 159n, 163, 167, 177, 177n, 184, 185, 185n, 186, 186n, 190, 190n, 192, 230, 242, 243, 248, 249 Sullivan, Zohreh, 69n, 96n Tabari, Azar, 6n Tambiah, S.J., 238, 238n Tapper, Nancy (see also Lindisfarne, Nancy), 2, 3, 4, 13n, 18n, 21n, 22, 22n, 50, 50n, 84n, 87n, 115n, 116, 131, 131n, 135n, 137, 137n, 138n, 239, 245 Tapper, Richard L., xiii, 2, 3, 4, 5, 5n, 8n, 12n, 13n, 18n, 19n, 20, 21n, 22, 22n, 84n, 87n, 114n, 115n,

author index

285

131n, 135n, 137n, 138n, 144n, 189n, 233n, 239, 245 Tedlock, Barbara, 111n Thaiss, Gustav E., 3, 19n, 20, 40n, 50n, 53n, 60n, 140n, 142n, 239n Tohidi, Nayereh, 6n, 12n Torab, Azam, 6, 19, 19n, 21, 21n, 31n, 32n, 37n, 40n, 45n, 97n, 98n, 108n, 115n, 120n, 232n, 233n, 247 Turner, Bryan S., 80n, 87n, 88, 226n Turner, Victor, 3, 13n, 15, 22n, 23, 24, 142n, 158n, 170, 245

van Gennep, Arnold, 110n, 188n Varisco, D.M., 115n

Vakilian, S.A., 240n Valerie, Valerio, 131n Vali, Abbas, 42n, 43n, 44n, 59

Zipes, Jack, 126n Zubaida, Sami, xiii, 17n, 42n, 43n, 44n, 59, 59n, 115n

Werbner, Pnina, 214n White, Allon, 210n, 212, 216, 219, 220, 220n, 221 White, Jenny B., 58n Whitehead, Harriet, 9 Wikan, Uni, 13n Wright, Susan, xiv, 50n Yamani, Mai, 115n

SUBJECT INDEX*

agency, idioms, used locally, see, 'aql/nafs (conservative discourses), intention, piety (official discourses), supernatural agency sources of agency, empirically, see, body (sentient body), fertility and regeneration, tropes and symbols, gender, performance, innovation (strategic uses), marriage (exchanges, negotiations), motherhood types of agency, analytically, contingent agency, see, ‘compliance’/‘resistance’ default agency, 11, 179 duality of agency, 110–112, 181 extended agency, 161, 161n ahl-e beyt (‘those of the House’), the Prophet’s household, see, saints (concepts) alms or charity, fetriyeh, sadaqeh, 33n, 39, 74, 77, 85, 100, 109, 132, 154, 227 kheyrat, for the benefit of the spirit of the dead, 135, 200; see also, halva, salavat (gifts for the deceased) anecdotes (hekayat), used in jalaseh, 34–35, 49–56, 61–65; see also, Hadith, irony, jokes, satire 'aql/nafs (reason, rationality/passion, lust), key gendered constructs, blurring in ritual performances, 48–62, 98, 194–222, 135–138, 217–218 Cartesian mind/body legacy (parallels with 'aql/nafs), 13, 23 conservative discourses, linked to social responsibility, 12–14, 12–14n, 35, 49–51, 109, 111, 132–135, 162 discourse by 'Ali Shari'ati, 155n

revaluation of the body (in women’s Ramadan rituals), 27, 226–227, 231–241 tension between autonomy and conformity (in initiation ritual), 169, 177–179 women controlling men’s nafs, 128, 128n 'ashura, 31, 140–144, 146–148, 148n, 157, 157n, 165; see also, ritual ceremonies (Muharram) auspiciousness, popular associations and signs, 77, 95, 99, 102, 107, 109, 123–124, 145, 173, 192, 198, 201, 204, 241; see also, Qur"an (divination) ‘authenticity’, and relation to “west-toxication” (gharbzadegi ) discourse, 17, 60, 60n, 182–184, 182n; see also, ‘invention of tradition’, Islam (modernity) bab-ol-hava"ej (‘gateway to favours’), see, saints (concepts) barakat (‘blessing’), concept, associations and operations, 46n, 110, 128–131, 129n–130n, 225, 231–236, 238, 241 popular channels and signs in context, 15, 26, 32, 46, 92, 99, 101, 110, 118, 123, 129–131, 204, 213, 214, 224, 225, 229, 231–236, 238, 241 quantified, 147, 153, 225, 239 somatising, see, Qur"an (recitations), ritual ceremonies (Ramadan) Barbie dolls (American) and veiled piety, 179–180 Bat Mitzvah, 169; see also, Christianity (Catholic Confirmation), ritual ceremonies (initiation) bed'at (un-Islamic novelty), see, innovation

* Note for users: Subcategories of cross references appear in brackets.

subject index ‘belief ’ (religious convictions), believer (mo"men), attributes of, 46, 49, 107 diversity in practice, 8, 9n, 18n, 166; see also, innovation, religious injunctions (and interpretations) Islam (worldview theories, criticism of ) millennialism, modernity and politics, see, the Mahdi relation to gender and agency, 18, 21–22, 22n, 93, 93n, 112, 116, 247–248 religious healing and political economy, 71, 83–89 self-affirming function, 46–47, 107–108, 133 blood, multiple trope intersecting with, gender, 10, 26 ideology of patrilineal descent and relatedness, 186–195, 243 pollution, see, menstruation, purity/impurity, taboo regeneration, martyrs’ and patrilineal blood, 15, 130, 130n, 139–168, 243; see also, body (‘partibility’), body (symbolism), circumcision (male), martyrs, sacrifice, virginity body, balance in humoral system, 87–88 body/mind dichotomy, see, 'aql/nafs celebration of body and sexuality (in jashn-e 'Omar ritual), 27, 194–222 discipline, disposition, subjugation, 32–34, 173, 176–178, 215, 226–227, 226n embodiment (feminist theory of ), 230, 230n gendering the ‘ungendered’ pre-pubescent body, 26, 184–193 metaphor for social distress, 80, 80n, 81–82 performance theory, 23–24, 218, 230–234 see also, gender (performance), ‘habitus’ ‘partibility’, gendering of body parts, 10, 10n, 186n, 190–191; see also, blood, breast milk, semen purity, see, purity/impurity reproductive body, see, reproduction sentient body (as active agent), 231–234 spiritual body (as channel for

287

barakat), 27, 226–227, 231–241; see also, Qur"an (recitations), ritual ceremonies (Ramadan,) purity symbolism, 158, 158n, 212–213, 213n, 215 Bosnia, 99 breast milk, 159, 186, 187n, 190; see also, body (‘partibility’, symbolism), matrilineality Bride of Qureysh, see, ritual ceremonies cabaret star, see, dance calendars, xvi–xvii; see also, ritual cycles Caliphs, Abu Bakr and Othman, 195, 200 Mu'aviya, 52, 52n 'Omar, 74n, 194–222 Yazid, 140 Catholic Confirmation, see, Christianity cantors, see, ritual specialists ‘carnivalesque’, 26, 195, 211–222, 247; see also, ritual (reversal) ceremonial expenditure, see, ritual expenditure ceremony, see, ritual ceremonies charity, see, alms childbirth, 159n, 160, 163, 189–191, 210, 232n; see also, reproduction, fertility and regeneration, paternity Christianity (comparisons with), body concepts, 162, 226n, 229n, 230 Catholic First Holy Communion, 169, 177 divine will and agency in a Spanish community, 117n gender constructs, 60, 156, 162, 230 ritual weeping (collective), 233n saint, concept of, 116n “Stations of the Cross”, 140n Cinderella story, compared to story of “Lady Houri and Lady Light”, 125, 125n; see also, fairy tales, feminist critique of circumcision, female, (in Sudan), 184–185 male, as a rite of passage into male gender, 170, 186, 188–189

288

subject index

structural links (to marriage, sacrifice) 189n, 159n city space, and social inequalities, 17, 59–60, 143 Clare Hall, xiii class (social class, tabaqeh-ye ejtema'i), coalitions across class and divisions within, 6–7, 7n, 16–17, 44–47 intersection with gender, 3n, 4, 7, 7n, 16–18, 60, 60n, 166–167, 182–183, 245–246 military recruitment, 4, 143, 165–167 reproduction of difference (‘moralizing distinction’), 89, 112, 112n, 117–118, 134, 134n, 134–135 revolutionary slogans (class related), 17, 182 satiric performances (class related), 219, 208, 216, 219–222 socio-economic factors (lifestyle, veiling, city space), 4–5, 4n, 17–18, 58–60, 82–83, 133, 143–144, 170, 173, 174–176, 182–183 colour symbolism, 72, 94, 94n, 207, 207n commodity, see, ‘gift’/‘commodity’ complementarity, see, gender (dualistic models) ‘compliance’/‘resistance’, as types of agency contingent on cultural assumptions, ‘belief ’, power relations, 8, 11, 11n, 24, 66, 71, 92–93, 93n, 112, 116, 222, 247–249; see also, ‘symbolic violence’ conspiracy theories, 114, 114n ‘contested power’, 93, 93n cross-dressing, 206, 218, 218n, 219; see also, satiric performances dahegi, see, ritual ceremonies (Muharram, dahegi-ye Muharram, women’s) dahe-ye fajr, see, ritual ceremonies dance (tensions over, subversive aspects), 97–98, 98n, 102, 200, 203, 206, 217–218 cabaret dancer, female category defined as ‘low’, 92, 104, 109, 111, 111n

dasteh-ye Bani Asad, see, ritual ceremonies (Muharram, street processions) dasteh-ye 'osara, see, ritual ceremonies (Muharram, street processions) daste-ye sham-e ghariban, see, ritual ceremonies (Muharram, street processions) dasteh-ye sineh zani, see, ritual ceremonies (Muharram, street processions) death rituals, see, ritual ceremonies, (funerary, Fatemiyeh, Muharram) descent, ideologies, related ideas and imagery, see, matrilineality, patrilineality, seyyed (descent) devil, in story of “harlot, hermit and devil in disguise”, 53–56 dirges, see, ritual specialists (cantors), ritual ceremonies (Muharram, rowzeh) ‘distinction’, see, prestige, ‘symbolic capital’ dreams and interpretations, aspect of personhood, dream of saints, as revealing truth, guidance, justification for action, 18, 26, 55, 64,75, 77–78, 80, 92–114, 117, 204, 245 dream analyses, academic approaches, 110–113, 110n, 211 dreams of deceased relatives making requests, 108 wet dream, as rite of passage into puberty, 188n Durrani Pashtuns, 87n economic hardship and social disparities, 4–5, 37, 61, 80–81, 120, 121, 133, 175; see also, ritual expenditure, envy embodiment, see, body eschatology, 48, 83, 132, 214 ethics, 8, 48, 32n, 116, 248 ethnography, see, fieldwork envy, and relation to ‘evil eye’ and inequality, 76, 79, 84, 132–133, 132n ‘evil eye’, and relation to envy and inequality, 72, 79, 84–85, 94 ‘exoticism’, 9, 92 expenditure, see, ritual expenditure

subject index Fadak, 93 ‘fairy tales’ (feminist critique of ), 126; see also, Cinderella story ‘false consciousness’ model, 181 Farrokhzad, Forugh, 217n fasting, 224, 226–230 by children, 177, 177n; see also, religious injunctions, ritual ceremonies (Ramadan) Fatemeh, also Zahra, celebration of Fatemeh’s birth, see, ritual ceremonies (mowludi, jashn) commemorations of Fatemeh’s death, see, ritual ceremonies (Fatemiyeh) fertility symbol, 123, 130, 192 gender icon, 26, 93, 96n, 99, 156, 207, 210 ‘hand of Fatemeh’, ritual object and symbolism of, 146, 157 mowludi poems and dirges, 100–101, 195n, 203, 208 passion play centred on Fatemeh, see, ritual ceremonies (‘Bride of Qureysh’) spiritual intercessor, 116, 116n, passim stories or Hadith, 73–74n, 77, 96n, 101–102, 105, 107, 148–149, 149n, 195, 204, 207–210 structural anomaly in the patrilineal ideology, 109, 141, 156–158, 157n Fatemiyeh, see, ritual ceremonies fatwa (religious decree), 35 fees, see, ritual expenditure female preachers, see, ritual specialists femininity, see, Fatemeh, Zeynab (gender icons) feminism, and anthropology, 246 defined broadly, x “feminist consciousness”, 7 ‘Islamic feminism’, ix–x, 6, 6n Islamic feminist journals, 6, 69 religious education and feminist activism, 6–7 religious/political activism by women, 4–7, 32, 32n, 44, 47, 53–54, 59–63, 113, 197, 245; see also, Islam (modernity) fertility and regeneration, tropes and symbols as sources of agency,

289

15–16, 126, 129–130, 139, 160–164, 192, 214, 220, 220n, 243 infertility, 107, 160; see also, barakat, blood, Fatemeh (fertility symbol), hal, reproduction (concerns over, multiply linked imagery), votive dishes ‘fictive affinities’, (or ‘imagined communities’) formed around ritual activities, 16–17; see also, gender (performance) fieldwork, context (social and political), ix–xi, 4–9 ethnography as ‘partial truths’, x, 9, 27, 27n method and assistance, xiii–xiv, 27–29 fieldwork subjects, Goli, 92–114 Mariam, xiv, 84, 98–102, 120, 124 Minu, 198, 203–204 Omid, Mrs, xiv, 25, 30–67, 70–71, 86, 98, 120, 129, 147–148, 152, 197, 223–241 Parvin, Mrs, 121–122, 123–125, 136 Roya, 144–147 Sabri, Mrs, 68–91 Shamsi, 151–153 Sima, Mrs, 199, 202–204; see also, feminism (feminist consciousness), literacy (of fieldwork subjects) fitna (or guile), as social disorder, constructed as female, 50, 55; see also, Yusuf and Zulaykha ‘Five Bodies’ ( panj tan), see, saints (concepts) food and food symbolism, channel for barakat, 15, 32, 128, 129–131, 214; see also, barakat, votive dishes, ritual ceremonies (Ramadan, sofreh) comic food, 199, 214 ‘hot’ and ‘cold’ (humoral system), 87–88 Ramadan fast-breaking meals, 223, 227, 240 rationing, 41, 121 trope for gender identity, relatedness, 10, 15, 115–138, 115n, 130n, 159, 186n

290

subject index

“Fourteen-Most-Pure” (Chahardah Ma'sum), see, saints (concepts) Friday congregational prayers, see, namaz (congregational prayers) funerals, see, ritual ceremonies (funerary) ‘gateway to favours’ (bab-ol-hava"ej ), see, saints (concepts) gharb-zadegi, see, ‘authenticity’, and “west-toxication” discourse gender, analytical category (following Marilyn Strathern), 2–3, 9–10, 190–191, 242 category blurring (ambiguities, subversions, transgressions), 25, 26, 64–67, 91, 134–138, 180, 180n, 246–247; see also, anecdotes, 'aql/nafs (blurring), dance, irony, jokes, ritual ceremonies (reversal), satire class and gender, see, class (intersection with gender) competition (within and between genders), 40, 40n, 118, 136, 144–146, 178, 184, 206, 215–216, 236 dependency (mutual), 32, 95–96, 119–120, 127, 136, 138, 168, 242–243 dualistic models, of academic scholarship, (assumed antagonism, ‘female model’, “l’écriture feminine”, nature/culture, sex/gender, production/ reproduction), 9–14, 10n, 14n, 21–22, 22n, 90–91, 115, 138, 167 of conservative Muslim scholars, 11–14, 49–51, 49–50n; see also, 'aql/nafs (conservative discourses), purity/impurity femininity, see, Fatemeh, Zeynab (gender icons) gendering (of ungendered child), 122, 128, 184–191, 247; see also, hermaphrodites (treatment of ) in Islam identification, identity formation and political contingency, 93, 111–112 instability, 2, 10, 14–16, 22, 113, 115–116, 243, 247

masculinity, 139–168, 188–190 performance, creating unitary gender as a source of political agency through collective ritual performances (‘imagined communities’, ‘fictive affinities’), 15, 15n, 16–17, passim ‘performativity’ (following Judith Butler), 10–11 personhood (‘multiple person’), defined (following Marilyn Strathern), 10, 10n, 67, 185, 186n, 248–249 personhood, aspects of see, body (‘partibility’), dreams, intention, ritual objects (hejleh, as ‘honorary persons’), saints (as extensions of self ), food (trope) recasting of gender images, 69, 70, 93, 104, 109, 143, 143n, 150, 150n space, autonomy and professionalization of home space, 57, 68, 71, 94–96, 99, 198, 205, 214, 244 gheybat, see, gossip ‘gift’/‘commodity’, academic model, parallels in Islamic discourses and mixing in women’s rituals, 26, 134–137, 137n gold, sign of corruption, 62 status, of jewellery, ‘golden penis’, gold picture frames, 111, 111n, 189, 210 sign of transition into womanhood, 174, 175, 192 Goli, see, fieldwork subjects gossip, empowering women, defined as sin, 34, 34n, 50, 151 government (attempts to control rituals), see, state “guardianship (or government) of the jurist” (velayat-e faqih), 5, 43, 43n ‘habitus’, 23, 27, 178n, 218 Hadith, as tropes for representing knowledge, 47, 51–52, 58; see also, Qur"an (exegesis) hajj, see, pilgrimage hajji Firuz (New Year jester), 206, 219 hal, transformative effect of, 8, 41, 232–233, 232n, 233n

subject index halva, 129–130, 135; see also, religious merit (gifts for deceased), salavat, votive dishes ‘hand of Fatemeh’, see, Fatemeh harlot, story of “harlot, hermit and devil in disguise”, 53–56 Hazrat-e Roqiyeh, see, saints (female) Hazrat-e Sekineh, see, saints (female) healing and well-being, concepts and gendered aspects, 81–89, 152–153 healing ritual, 25, 69, 72–80 healthcare provisions, 71, 80–81, 88–89 hejab, see, veiling hejleh (nuptial chamber), see, ritual objects Hell, 48, 228; see also, eschatology, sin hermaphrodites, treatment of in Islam, 12, 12n hermit, story of “harlot, hermit and devil in disguise”, 53–56 heterosexuality, as disciplinary production of gender (following Judith Butler), 11 hey"at, (men’s associations), see, religious associations and circles hezbollahi (‘Party of God’), 44 ‘Hidden’ Twelfth Imam, see, Mahdi, the ‘high’/‘low’, mixing and subversions, see, ritual ceremonies (reversal) hojjatiyeh, 42n home space, see, gender (space) hospitality, see, visiting and hospitality Hosseyniyeh, 95, 99, 198, 205, 214; see also, gender (space), mosque humoral reasoning, 87, 87n humour, see, jokes ‘honour’/‘shame’, 13n, 150, 152, 154, 160, 161, 188, 189, 217 identity politics (representations of ‘self ’/‘other’), 17, 59–60, 182–184, 195–197, 213, 221 illicit sex (zena), 39, 54 ‘illness as metaphor’, 25, 80, 80n ‘imagined communities’, (or ‘fictive affinities’) formed around ritual activities, 16–17; see also, gender (performance) Imams, 'Ali Asghar, 107 Hazrat-e 'Abbas ('Abol Fazl), 94,

291

94n, 104, 105, 119, 133, 136, 146n Imam ‘Ali, 50, 50n, 52, 72, 73n, 77, 93, 195, 210, 239 'Ali’s controversial sermon, 50n mowludi poem in praise of 'Ali, 175 Imam-e Ghayeb (‘Hidden’ Imam), see, Mahdi, the Imam Husseyn, 140–168, passim; see also, ‘Karbala paradigm’ Imam Reza (eighth Imam), 82 Musa-ibn-e Ja"far (seventh Imam), 77, 116n, 120–124; see also, saints (concepts), saints (female) impurity, see, purity/impurity initiation ritual, see, ritual ceremonies (initiation) innovation, bed'at (‘un-Islamic novelty’) and khorafat (‘superstition’), as discourses biased against women, 14, 19, 46, 50, 115, 138n, 244 new post-revolutionary rituals, 7–8 dahe-ye fajr, 143 do'a darmani, 68–91 initiation ( jashn-e 'ebadat), 169–193 khatm-e amman yujibu, 86 ta'ziyeh-ye kharabi-ye sham, 149 “techno-'ashura” or “Hosseyn party”, 148n ‘wedding for a martyr’, 164–165 strategic uses (aspect of political action), 9, 40, 70, 95, 120, 148–149, 163, 220–222, 227; see also, ‘belief ’ (diversity), ‘invention of tradition’, Islam (worldview theories, criticised), jokes, piety (defined empirically), religious injunctions (and interpretations), satire, state (attempts to control rituals) intention (niyyat), aspect of agency and personhood (responsibility, will, desire, ethical conduct) determining outcome of acts, meanings and judgements, 22–23, 26, 37–38, 46, 105, 125, 131, 133n, 135, 138, 225, 226, 228, 231–232, 231–232n, 235, 248 of deceased expressed in dreams, see, dreams of deceased represented in ritual

292

subject index

objects, 161, 161n; see also, agency, gender (personhood) interior displays (for ritual venues), comic displays, 205, 214 portraits of political leaders, 72, 210 Qur"an inscriptions and calligraphy, 72, 85, 94 sacred cloth (product of instruction given in a dream), 72, 104–106 votive emblems and relics, 72, 94, 106, 107; see also, wild rue intermediaries with supernatural agencies, see, ritual specialists ‘invention of tradition’, 183, 183n; see also, authenticity, Islam (modernity) Iranian revolution, causes, 17, 17n, 53, 59n, 60, 60n, 182, 221 maxim of ‘social justice’ ('edalat-e ejtema'i ), 5, 59, 59n revolutionary slogans chanted in rituals, 44, 44n, 101, 142–143, 196; see also, feminism (religious/political activism), innovation (new rituals, post revolutionary), state (control of rituals), ritual ceremonies (Muharram, political uses) irony, 64–66, 65n, 111; see also, anecdotes, ‘compliance’/‘resistance’, dance, jokes, ritual ceremonies (reversal), satire Islamic feminism, see, feminism Islam (Twelver Shi'ism, ithna 'ashariya), 43, 43n ‘anthropology of Islam’ and ‘Islamic anthropology’, 18n ‘discursive tradition’, 19 ‘formal’ and ‘informal’, 18–19, 18n, 21, 244 ‘Islamic jokes’, see, jokes modernity, 6n, 12n, 45, 47, 175, 182–184, 215, 221, 215, 220–221; see also, Barbie dolls, ‘invention of tradition’, the Mahdi (modernity) Shi'a precepts and doctrine, 31–32, 31–32n, 140–141, 143, 156–157, 189 world view theories (criticism of ), 19–20, 43–44, 44n jalaseh, (religious meeting), see, ritual ceremonies

James, Wendy, 157 jashn-e 'ebadat, see, ritual ceremonies (initiation) jashn-e 'Omar, see, ritual ceremonies (reversal) jashn-e mas'uliyat, see, ritual ceremonies (initiation) jashn-e taklif, see, ritual ceremonies (initiation) jester, see, hajji-Firuz jokes, told during jalaseh, licit transgressions unsettling categories, 34, 36, 37, 57, 58, 66, 166, 228; see also, anecdotes, irony, ritual ceremonies (reversal), satire ‘joking relationships’, 211, 211n justice/injustice, 5, 65, 244 kachi, see, votive dishes Karbala narratives, 140, 140n; see also, Imam Husseyn, ‘Karbala paradigm’, ritual ceremonies (Muharram) ‘Karbala paradigm’, ix, 19–21, 19–21n ‘Keys to Paradise’ book of prayers and supplications, see, Mafatih-al-Janan Khameneh"i, Mr, leader of the Islamic Republic, 72, 75 kharji (religious expenditure), see, ritual expenditure khatm-e "an'am, see, ritual ceremonies khatm-e amman yujibu, see, ritual ceremonies Khomeini, Ayatollah, 5, 32n, 44, 44n, 59n, 72, 79, 143, 210 khorafat (superstition), see, innovation kinship notions, 130n, 159, 187; see also, food, blood, breast milk, semen (as tropes of relatedness) knowledge, anthropological (as ‘partial truths’, trope for representation), x, 9, 27, 27n, 58 and authority in interaction, 47–48 and power (following Foucault), 89, 220 associations with (divine inspiration, light, 'aql), 46, 162,163, 237 esoteric and exoteric, 46 metaphors structuring knowledge, 58, 154 official and performative, see, memory positive valuation of, 28, 39

subject index practical, 48 shared, 58, 87, 188 Lady Houri and Lady Light (Bibi Hur and Bibi Nur), see, saints (female) “l’écriture feminine”, see, gender (dualistic models) liminality, see, ritual theories (rite of passage) literacy (level, of fieldwork subjects), 4, 39, 47, 48, 70, 103, 111; see also, fieldwork subjects ‘Lord of the Ages’ (saheb-e zaman), see, Mahdi, the Mafatih-al-Janan (‘Keys to Paradise’) prayer book, 31, 33, 63, 85, 134, 205, 224, 240 Mahdi, the key tenet in Iranian Shi'ism, 42–44, 42n political aspects and modernity, civil society claims of justice, 18, 26, 42, 44, 113–114, 114n, 245 dream accounts, 26, 105–107, 110, 113–114, 204 metaphor upholding moral framework, 78, 99 millennial resurgence and political instability, 5 shifting discourses of just leadership, 43, 43n slogans and prayers, 44, 62–64, 102 mahramiyat (gender avoidance rules), 39, 104, 122n, 185, 185n; see also, veiling majles-e do'a darmani, see, ritual ceremonies (prayer-healing) Mar'ashi, Ayatollah, 104 Mariam, see, fieldwork subjects marja'-e taqlid, see, ‘sources of emulation’ marriage, exchanges, initiated by women and their stake in, 34, 38, 39, 39n, 77, 125, 127, 159, 174, 180–181, 185–186, 187n, 192–193, 193n, 246 marriage theories (academic), 191, 193, 193n marriageability, 159–160, 186–187,

293

186n, 187n; see also, mahramiyat, paternity, virginity spheres of power (women’s) within negotiating autonomy and obedience (tamkin), 35, 128, 179 men’s dependency on women (feeding, prestige, sex, vow making), 32, 35, 95–96, 119, 121–122, 127, 128 social reproduction, 90–91 wages for housework (ujra-t-ol-mithl), 91 polygamy and marital injustice (challenges by women), 65, 127–128, 128n temporary marriage (sexual, non-sexual, creative usage), 39, 39n, 216n; see also, male circumcision (likened to marriage), motherhood, reproduction, satiric performances, wedding martyrs, see, 140–168, passim; see also, ritual ceremonies (funerary, for ‘war martyrs’) masculinity, see, gender Mashhad, 104 matrilineality, as metaphor, 193, 193n reckonings for seyyed, see, seyyed through breast milk and ‘milk-mothering’, 159–160, 186–187, 187n; see also, patrilineality Mecca, obligatory hajj to, 33n orientation for salat, 36, 241, 255 prestige of hajj, cause of envy, social disparity, 57n, 74 popularity of Ka'beh for posters and model for cakes, 94, 176 Qur"an chapters revealed in, 241 relevance for calendar, xvi structural links of hajj rituals to Muharram rituals, 146, 147, 154; see also, pilgrimage medical anthropology, 88, 88n medicalization, 88 Medina, 94 mellat (nation), politicised terminology, 52, 52n memory (official and performative), 194, 197, 220; see also, knowledge

294

subject index

men’s religious associations (hey'at), see, religious associations and circles menstruation (menstrual blood) and symbolic construction of, association with impurity, 96n, 103, 106, 110, 232n in the religious injunctions, 35, 36, 36n, 50n, 96, 225, 228, 229 linked to concepts of relatedness and reproduction, 158, 186–189, 188n, 191; see also, body (‘partibility’), body (symbolism), blood military recruitment, female, 69 male, 4, 143 millennialism, see, Mahdi, the milk, see, breast milk Minu, see, fieldwork subjects ‘misrecognition’, 24 modernity, see, Islam (modernity) modesty, Fatemeh as icon of, 207, 210 for religious work, 38, 40–41, 71, 76, 108 ideal in girl’s initiation ritual, 177, 180, 183, 247 molla Nasreddin, 56 Montazeri, Ayatollah, 146 mosque, association with men and politics, 22, 52–53, 40, 99, 147, 154, 239–240 rules for women, 36, 96, 96n, 151, 158, 188 women’s use of, 40, 57, 69, 93, 96, 118, 137, 152, 227; see also, gender (space), Hosseyniyeh motherhood, language of and politics of reproduction, 60n, 90–91, 91n, 165, 165n, 216n ‘mother of martyrs’, 156, 164–165, 165n official discourses, 70, 70n, 90, 93, 150, 189, 191 positive valuation by women, 191–193, 246 satiric performances, 210, 216, 247; see also, reproduction mowludi, see, ritual ceremonies (mowludi, jashn, poems), ritual specialists (cantors) Mu'aviya, see, Caliphs

Muharram rituals, see, ritual ceremonies (Muharram) ‘multiple person’, see, gender (personhood) ‘multivocal symbol’, 15, 116–117 Musa-ibn-e Ja‘far (seventh Imam), see, Imams nafs, (passion, lust), see, 'aql/nafs Nahj-ol-Balaqeh (Imam 'Ali’s book of sermons), 50–51, 50n namaz (salat, ritual prayer), as act of worship (approaching God), 225–226, 238–241 as discipline (body and mind), 23,173,178, 181–182 as means to an end, including for initiation, 107, 125, 178 congregational prayer (namaz jama'at), 52–53, 96n, 178,181–182,196, 202 in relation to modernity, 184 jokes (ambiguity of rules, religious hypocrisy), 34, 36, 52–56, 57 moralised discourses (gendered), 79, 84 rules and practical concerns, 28, 33–37, 49, 50n, 231, 231n, 225; see also, prayer-leader ( pish-namaz), prayers and supplications nazr, see, vow making niyyat, see, intention nuptial memorial object (hejleh), see, ritual objects ‘nurses’ day’, 70 obedience injunction (tamkin), interpretations of, 35, 128, 179 offerings (for vow making) (nazri ), see, vow making (votive offering) Omid, Mrs, see, fieldwork subjects Ommol Bani, see, female saints Paradise, 48, 52, 77, 156, 228 parti-bazi (lobbying), 117, 117n, 121 ‘partibility’, see, body, gender (personhood) Parvin, Mrs, see, fieldwork subjects passion play (ta'ziyeh), see, ritual ceremonies (Muharram, passion plays) passion or lust, see, 'aql/nafs

subject index paternity, narratives of creation, and political authority, 130–131 structural link to sacrifice and virginity, 159–160, 159n; see also, patrilineality, semen, virginity patriarchy, and class distinction, 67, 167 structural links, 159n; see also, patrilineality patrilineality, distinguished from patriarchy, 16, 167 key metaphor (for regeneration, political authority) in men’s death rituals, 15, 26, 139–168, 243 metaphor in girl’s initiation ritual, 191 reckoning of seyyed descent and ambivalence over this, see, seyyed reckoning of a child’s identity and marriageability, 186–187, 186n, 193; see also, matrilineality, paternity, patriarchy Persian dance, see, dance personhood, see, gender (personhood) performance, see, ritual theories (performance theory), gender (performance) piety (taqwa), defined, empirically, 7, 8, 66 official discourses, and impiety, 31–32, 48–49, 93, 166, 172, 220, 229 outward manifestations, 32, 34, 38–39, 57–59, 118, 136, 170, 178, 180, 194 personal, 1, 145, 152–153, 249 pious hypocrisy, 34, 54–57, 57n politics of, 8, 8–9n, 18, 46–48, 55, 113, 133, 136, 153, 169, 174 pilgrimage, popular shrines, 72–73, 78–79, 82, 123–125 practices regarding, 33, 36n, 57n, 82, 96n, 97, 118, 123–125, 133, 223, 237 relics and shrine dust, as votive channels, 94 social disparity caused by, 74, 84, 133 Meccan hajj, parallels with

295

Muharram rituals, 146, 147, 154, 155n; see also, Mecca politics defined, 5, 243 unitary gender as a source of political agency, see, gender (performance); see also, agency (sources), Iranian revolution (religious activism), Islamic feminism, piety (politics of ), political economy, ritual ceremonies (Muharram, political use), sermon (political nature) political economy, of illness, 88–89 of vow making, 131–134 of reproduction, 90–91; see also, Mahdi, the, reproduction pollution, see, purity/impurity, taboo polygamy, see, marriage ‘polythetic category’, 116n, 131 popcorn, see, food (comic) postmodern subject, 65–66, 66n prayer leader ( pish namaz), 40, 50, 65, 65n, 99, 111 prayers and supplications, concluding jalaseh, 63–64 do'a-ye tavvasol (intercessionary supplication), 122 do'a-ye yastashir (in praise of God), 226, 233 do'a-ye gheybat (‘occultation prayer’), 63 do'a darmani (prayer healing), 68, 71–80 joshan-e kabir, 241 protective supplications, 85 ziyarat nameh (shrine visit greetings), 33, 74; see also, Mafatih-al-Janan, namaz (salat), salavat prayer tablet (mohr), 125, 225, 225n preachers, see, ritual specialists prestige, also ‘distinction’, ‘symbolic capital’, condemnation in religious discourse, 135, 136, 41 derived through ritual activity, 32, 95–96, 119, 134–138, 134n, 147, 243 ‘reversals’ of the structural ‘high’, 219–220 production/reproduction, 90–91; see also, reproduction

296

subject index

Prophet Muhammad, 46, 55, 66, 72, 105, 175, 207n, 208, 213, 213n, 234 prostitute, 54, 104, 109 pulpit, 57, 63, 96, 106 purity/impurity, 14, 26, 36, 104, 106, 110, 189–190, 241; see also, body (spiritual, symbolism), menstruation, ritual ablutions Qara"ati, Mr, 104 Qom, 104 Qur"an, diverse uses, legitimizing authoritative commentaries, 31, 32, 45, 45n, 51, 54 divination (istikhareh), 38, 108 efficacy (performative), 85–86, 234–241 exegesis (tafsir), 41, 45–62 gender balance, 236n inscriptions and calligraphy, 72, 85, 94 recitations and somatising barakat, 98, 147, 204–205, 224–226, 234–241; see also, ritual ceremonies (Ramadan) Qureysh (a Meccan clan), see, ritual ceremonies (‘Bride of Qureysh’) Rafsanjani, Mr, 75 Ramadan, see, ritual ceremonies reason, rationality, see, 'aql/nafs Red Crescent (helal-e 'ahmar), 74, 120 regeneration tropes, see, fertility and regeneration religious associations and circles, men’s associations (hey"at), 40, 40n, 136–137, 140–144, 142n, 151–154, 206 women’s jalaseh circles, 6, 32, 32n, 40, 40n, 43–44 religious education, 6, 39 religious endowment (vaqf ), 95 religious healing, cultural concepts of, 70–71, 83–87; see also, political economy (of illness) religious hypocrisy, see, piety (pious hypocricy) religious injunctions (ahkam-e din), and interpretations in jalaseh, 28, 31–39, 31n, 39n, 84, 226–230; see also, fasting, jokes, obedience, religious taxes, ritual ablutions, vow making

(injunctions), mahramiyat, marriage (marriageability), namaz (rules) religious/spiritual merit (savab), gifts for the deceased (with salavat), 42, 63, 122, 135 reward (ajr) for piety, 32, 33n, 46, 48, 78, 102, 134, 136, 144, 147, 224, 227, 237; see also, alms (kheyrat), salavat religious taxes (khoms, zakat), 28, 33n, 34, 37, 37n,, 39, 109 repentance (towbeh), 54, 92, 104, 112 reproduction, (biological, social), concerns over, in single-sex rituals, 15, 184–186, 191, 243 decoupling from female sexuality in Islamic discourses, 60–61, 190n, 215 reappraisal of dichotomies, production/reproduction, sexuality/reproduction in feminist scholarship, 60n, 90, 165n, 216n in women’s rituals, 89–91, 130, 165, 191–193, 210, 216, 247 eclipsed by men, 139, 162–163, 168, 186–191 multiply linked imagery (biological and social), 16, 26, 130, 139, 158, 159n resistance, see, ‘compliance’/‘resistance’ reversal ritual, see, ritual ceremonies (reversal, jashn-e 'Omar) rite of passage theory, see, ritual theories ritual ablutions, 36n, 37, 37n, 151, 187, 224 symbolic sealing or opening of body, 232, 232n; see also, body (spiritual, symbolism), purity/impurity, religious injunctions ritual ceremonies, overview of literature, ix, 19–21, 19–21n, 141–142, 141–142n ritual ceremonies, variations, ahya, see, Ramadan (The night of Qadr) a'mal-e umm-e-Davud, see, Ramadan 'aqiqeh, 85 “Bride of Qureysh” ('arus-e Qureysh), mock wedding, 149, 207–210 circumcision (male) (khatneh), see, circumcision dahe-ye fajr (‘dawning of a new age’), 143

subject index dasteh-ye sineh zani, see, Muharram rituals (street processions) dirges, see, Muharram rituals (rowzeh) do'a darmani, see, prayer-healing Fatemiyeh (or dahegi-ye Fatemiyeh), 137, 157 funerary rituals common practices, 42, 57, 63, 118, 122, 129–130, 135, 147, 164 for ‘war martyrs’ (celebration as ‘wedding’), 147, 164–165, 165n hejleh (nuptial memorial object for deceased men, imagery of ) 160–164; see also, Fatemiyeh, Muharram, rowzeh, religious merit (gifts for deceased), ritual theories (of funerary practices) initiation ( jashn-e 'ebadat, jashn-e taklif, jashn-e mas'uliyat) 18, 26, 169–193 jalaseh, 19, 25, 30–67, 70, 86, 97, 108, 133, 226–228 jashn-e 'Omar, see, reversal ritual khatm-e amman yujibu, 86 khatm-e "an'am, 85–86, 97, 205–206, 224 khatm-e Qur"an, see, Ramadan mowludi ( jashn), 63, 93, 97–102, 204–205 mowludi poems, 100–101, 119, 175, 200–203, 208, 214 mowludi cantors, see, ritual specialists Muharram rituals dahegi-ye Muharram, women’s, 30–67 jokes about Muharram in jalaseh, 166, 228 focus in academic literature, see, ritual ceremonies (literature overview) political uses for Iranian revolution, 19–20, 43, 141–143, 142n, 145, 156, 163–164, 166 rites of masculinity, 26, 140–168 structural parallels to, Abraham’s sacrificial model, 130–131, 131n, 154–155 circumcision (male), 159n, 186, 188–189, 189n

297

Meccan (hajj ) sacrifice of sheep, 146, 154 reversal rituals, 213 passion plays (ta'ziyeh), ta'ziye-ye kharabi-ye Sham, 68–69, 69n, 149–150 ta'ziyeh-ye Qasem, 160, 160n, 165; see also, “Bride of Qureysh” ('arus-e Qureysh) rowzeh, dirge ceremonies, 84, 85, 97, 104, 105, 119, 150–154 dirges chanted, types (nowheh, rowzeh, zikr-e mosibat), 41, 63, 76, 81, 101–102, 145, 151, 195n; see also, ritual specialists (cantors, of dirges), funerary rituals street processions, dasteh-ye sineh zani, 20, 144–149 daste-ye sham-e ghariban, 148, 148n dasteh-ye 'osara, 148 dasteh-ye Bani Asad, 148 prayer-healing (majles-e do'a darmani ), 25, 68–91 Ramadan, 27, 223–241 a'mal-e umm-e-Davud (“The Deeds of David’s Mother”) khatm-e Qur"an, 234–238 “The Night of Qadr” ceremony, (or ahya, vigil), 238–241 Ramadan joke, 228, 228n reversal ritual ( jashn-e 'Omar), 26, 97, 194–222 sofreh (votive meal), 19, 26, 71, 97, 115–138, 115n zikr, see, khatm-e amman yujibu ritual control (by state), see, state ritual cycles, 223–224; see also, calendars ritual expenditure, 136, 137, 147, 153 exchange rates, 74n fees for ritual specialists, 41, 71, 74, 124, 124n ritual innovations (post-revolutionary), see, innovation ritual objects, battle standard ('alam), for Muharram processions, 145–146 cradle, for Muharram rituals, 107, 107n effigies, for 'jashn-e 'Omar, 194n, 205

298

subject index

‘hand of Fatemeh’, for Muharram processions, 146, 157 hejleh (nuptial memorial object for deceased men), as ‘honorary persons’, 160–164, 161n votive emblems and relics, see, interior displays ritual specialists, cantors, of dirges (rowzeh khan) and poems of praise (mowludi khan), 45, 97, 101, 150–153, 207–210 female preachers, 6, 19, 31–48, 93, 97–102 male preachers, 20, 56–5, 142 women as votive intermediaries with supernatural agencies, 25, 68, 68n, 92, 107, 119, 121–122, 127, 128 ritual, terminology, anthropological debates, 1, 1n generic designations for ritual ceremonies (locally), 8; see also, ritual theories ritual theories, fluidity of boundaries, 8 funerary practices, 139–140 initiation (criticism of socialisation model), 170–171, 176–179, 185, 190n overviews, 3–4, 3n, 14, 20–21, 21n, 22–24, 23n, 140, 170–171, 180, 244–245 performance theory, 22–24, 22–24n, 178, 180, 212 ‘reversal ritual’ (theories), 210–213 ‘rite of passage’, 110, 110n, 145, 176, 186, 188n single-sex rituals as ‘imagined communities’ or ‘fictive affinities’, 16–17 terminologies (anthropological and local), see, ritual terminology rose-water ( golab), ritual uses and symbolism, 72, 118, 121, 123, 129, 144, 237; see also, saffron, votive dishes rowzeh (dirge), see, ritual ceremonies (Muharram), ritual specialists (cantors) Roya, see, fieldwork subjects Sabri, Mrs, see, fieldwork subjects sacred cloth, see, interior displays

sacrifice, anthropological theories and as polythetic category, 131, 131n 'aqiqeh ritual sacrifice of sheep, 85 Imam Husseyn’s martyrdom in Shi'a doctrine, 140–141, 143, 153 structural parallels to, Abraham’s sacrificial model, 130–131, 131n, 154–155 circumcision blood (male), 159n, 186, 188–189, 189n Meccan (hajj) sacrifice of sheep, 146, 154 men’s Muharram performances, in semblance of sacrifice, 145–147, 153–154 as rites of masculine virtue of working class men, 166, 245–246 mothers of martyr’s as icons of, 165, 165n sofreh, as a sacrificial rite, 131 trope of Imam Husseyn’s blood in relation to ideologies of patrilineal descent, paternity, virginity, 15, 26, 154–156, 155–156n, 159–160; see also, blood symbolism, ‘gift’/‘commodity’, martyrdom saffron, ritual uses and symbolism, 118, 121,123, 124, 129; see also, rose-water, votive dishes saints, (concepts), ahl-e beyt (‘those of the House’) or, panj tan (‘Five Bodies’), the Prophet’s household, 72, 94, 94n, 101, 104, 146, 195 “Fourteen-Most-Pure” (Chahardah Ma'sum), 86, 86n, 94, 94n, 104–106 ‘gateway to favours’ (bab-ol-hava"ej ), personal spiritual intercessors, 117 saints as extensions of self, 136, 138, 248; see also, (dreams of saints), Imams, ‘multivocal symbol’, ‘polythetic category’, saints (female), supernatural agency saints, (female), Bi Bi Hur/BiBi Nur, 119–123 Fatemeh, see, Fatemeh Hazrat-e Roqiyeh, 119, 123, 124

subject index Hazrat-e Sekineh, 125, 125n Ommol Bani, 124 Zeynab, see, Zeynab; see also, saints (concepts) saints, (male), see, Imams salat, see, namaz salavat, ritual formula, 41–42, 41n gifts for the deceased, 42, 63, 122, 135 strategic uses, 44, 52, 69, 75–76, 101–103, 106, 125, 128, 129, 206 satire (satiric performances), a mock wedding (‘Bride of Qureysh’, 'arus-e Qureysh), 149, 207–210 unsettling categories of class, 206, 219 relating to gender, sexuality, also cross-dressing, 202–203, 205–206, 216–218 comic food, 199, 214; see also, jokes savab, see, religious merit scatology (theme in reversal rituals), see, ritual ceremonies (reversal) School of Oriental and African Studies, xiii semen, monogenetic theory, 159n, 190 metaphor for (patrilineal) identity and transition to manhood, 186, 190–191 purity rules of in relation to menstrual blood, 187; see also, body (‘partibility’) sermon (khotbeh), Imam Ali’s controversial sermon, 50–51, 51n politics of, 20, 21n, 47, 52, 53, 57, 96, 96n, 142, 152, 196, 202 women’s criticism of sermons, 56–57, 152, 202, 219; see also, mosque sex, sexuality, 10, 10n, 60, 60n, 215–218, 216n; see also, gender, marriage, satiric performances seyyed (the Prophet’s descendants), colour symbolism, 94n, 98, 99, 109 descent reckoning (and ambivalence over matrilineal seyyed ), l04, 109, 158 prestige, status, 39, 104, 109, 172, 228

299

propitiousness of bilateral seyyed, 109 special privileges regarding religious taxes, 33n, 100, 109 treatment in passion plays, 69, 207 Shamsi, see, fieldwork subjects sin (gonah), gender specific morality, 34, 55, 83–84, 92, 98, 103–104, 132n, 187n, 235 social reproduction, see, production/reproduction socialization, see, ritual theories (initiation) sofreh (votive meals), see, ritual ceremonies ‘sources of emulation’ (marja'-e taqlid ), 31–32, 31–32n, 37, 50 ‘spheres of exchange’, 134n; see also, ‘value regimes’ spirituality (ma'refat), associations (esoteric knowledge, light, purity), 46 self refinement (tazkiyeh-ye ruh), 48 spiritual reward (savab, ajr), see, religious merit spiritual work, 41, 71 state (government), as multiple power centre, 53n attempts to control rituals, 6, 7–8, 19, 36, 44, 53, 71, 76, 99, 169–170, 181–182, 195–197, 204, 220, 244 Stations of the Cross, see, Christianity street processions (dasteh), see, ritual ceremonies (Muharram) subject positions, 66–67, 93, 93n subjectification, 89 subversion, 66, 215–222; see also, anecdotes, irony, jokes, satire supernatural agency, ‘divine will, 82–86, 117–118 ‘evil eye’, see, evil eye ‘fate’, 113, 134, 155n, 244; see also, agency, barakat, dreams (of saints), saints concepts (saint as extension of self ) superstition (khorafat), see, innovation supplications (do'a), see, prayers ‘symbolic capital’, 58, 96, 96n, 136; see also, prestige symbolic violence, 11n, 112n; see also, ‘compliance’/‘resistance’

300

subject index

taboo, social meaning of, 34n taqwa, see, piety ta'ziyeh, see, ritual ceremonies (passion plays) tears, see, weeping temporary marriage, see, marriage terms of address and reference (cross-sex), 57, 57n, 105 theodicy, 89 ‘Tobacco Protest’, 35 transformation, see, hal, regeneration, rite of passage Twelver Shi'ism (ithna 'ashariya), see, Islam vaqf, see, religious endowment ‘value regimes’, 134, 134n veiling (hejab), politicised usage,15, 54, 58–60, 58n, 215 management of cross-sex relations, 15, 39 moralised, 58, 79, 84, 99, 152 song about veiling, 172; see also, modesty velayat-e faqih, see, “guardianship (or government) of the jurist” vice squads, or morality police (female) called “Zeynab’s sisters”, 70, 178–179 video (use for rituals), 179 vigil, (ahya), 148n, 234, 239 virginity, 126, 159–160, 189; see also, paternity visiting and hospitality, 135–136, 153 votive dishes, symbolism of, 15, 77, 118, 121, 129, 203; see also, rose-water, saffron, ritual ceremonies (sofreh) vow making (nazr kardan), 18, 32, 68, 70–71, 86, 104, 107, 115–138, 198, 209 passim political economy of vow making injunctions, 131–134, 132n votive intermediaries with supernatural agencies, see, ritual specialists votive offerings (nazri ), 71, 94, 95, 115, 118, 131, 134, 135; see also, ‘gift’/‘commodity’, sacrifice, ritual ceremonies (sofreh), votive dishes (symbolism of )

votive emblems and relics, see, interior displays Wadud, Amina, 96n wages for housework (ujrat-al-mithl), 91 war, Iran/Iraq, 4, 120, 142, 146, 187 female military recruitment, 69 wedding, hejleh (nuptial memorial object for deceased men), 160–164 mock wedding ritual, “Bride of Qureysh”, 149, 207–210 ‘wedding for a martyr’ (funerary ritual), 164–165, 165n; see also, marriage weeping, positive associations and encouragement in rituals, 41, 63, 75, 76, 102, 104–106, 124, 145, 150, 152, 233–234 well (in the ground), associated with the Mahdi, 103, 103n, 110 west-toxication (gharb-zadegi ), 60, 60n, 182; see also, authenticity wet dream, as a rite of passage into puberty, see, dreams wild rue (esfand), to ward off evil, 72, 85, 85n, 94 Woman’s Day, 93, 99, 101 world view, see, Islam (world view theories, criticism of ) Yusuf and Zulaykha, Qur"anic story interpreted, 55, 60–61, 60n, 61n, 109, 216; see also, fitna, Qur"an (exegesis) Zanan (“Women”, feminist magazine), 6 Zan-e Ruz (“Woman of the Day”, magazine), 69, 168 zar (in Sudan), comparison with, 22n, 132n, 138n, 243n Zeynab, gender icon (multiple, shifting images), 68–70 association with miraculous cures, 68n, 68–90 passim, passion play, 68–69, 69n, 149–150 Zeynab’s sisters, morality police (vice squads), 70 Zeynabiyeh, 68 zikr, 86, 86n Zulaykha, see, Yusuf and Zulaykha

WOMEN AND GENDER THE MIDDLE EAST AND THE ISLAMIC WORLD ISSN 1570-7628

1. Sadiqi, F. Women, Gender and Language in Morocco. 2003. ISBN 90 04 12853 0 2. Jawad, H. and Benn, T. Muslim Women in the United Kingdom and Beyond: Experiences and Images. 2003. ISBN 90 04 12581 7 3. Droeber, J. Dreaming of Change: Young Middle-Class Women and Social Transformation in Jordan. 2005. ISBN 90 04 14634 2 4. Torab, A. Performing Islam. Gender and Ritual in Iran. 2006. ISBN-10: 90 04 15295 4, ISBN-13: 978 90 04 15295 3