Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory: Martyrdom, Revolution, and Forging National Identities 9781838607265, 9780755602094, 9781838607272, 9781838607296

Table of contents :
Cover page
Halftitle page
Title page
Copyright page
Contents
Dedicatory Preface
Abbreviations
Introduction
A General View of the Essays
As for the Individual Studies
Technical Matters
Part One Imagined History and Contemporaneous Political Behavior
1 Recovering and Invoking an Idealized Islamic Past: Problems and Approaches to Competing Narratives and Historical Memories
Problems
Historiographical Approaches to Historical Memories: Early Islam
Establishing the Stratigraphy of the Text: Early Historical Writing
Linguistic and Philological Criteria
Doctrinal Thrust as a Chronological Marker
The Modern Historian
2 Myths of Martyrdom and Rebellion: Recalling Muslim Self-Sacrifice and Tribal Virtues of Manliness and Honor
Terminology
Redefining Shahid and Istishhad: The Quest for Political Legitimacy in the Islamic Community
Searching for the Origins of Sacrificing Life for Islamic Principles
Al-Hasan b. ‘Ali13
Hujr b. ‘Adi17
Al-Husayn b. ‘Ali18
3 Martyrdom Versus Low-Profile Politics: Interpreting the Past for Alternative Paths toward Regime Change and Political Legitimacy
Zayd b. ‘Ali and the Later Ja‘farid Challenge: Prelude to the Abbasid Revolution5
The Abbasid Revolution10
Rationalizing Seeming Passivity in Light of a Legitimizing Past
In the Footsteps of the Prophet
Alid Martyrdom in the Post-Revolutionary Age
Martyrdom and the Contemporary Near East
4 Being on the “Right Side of History”: The Concept and Praxis of a Proper Islamic Revolution
The Concept of Revolution in Islam
Terminology4
Revolution as Return to the Past. The Ummah and Challenging Unwanted Authority
Dunya versus Din: Religion and the Politics of the Temporal World
Revolution and Violence
Counter-Revolutionary Activity in the Post-Revolutionary Age: Historical Perspectives
Why Revolutionaries Succeed and Fail and the Future of Revolution in the Arab World
Part Two Identity Politics and Contemporary Political Behavior
5 Forging National Identities in the Modern Arab Nation State: Inventing Legacies of Near and Distant Pasts
The Arab Nation State and the Universal Islamic Community
The Idealized Ummah and Political Realities Past and Present
Modern Iraq, the Background for the Quest of a Unifying National Identity16
Forging an Iraqi Identity and National Consensus: Legacies of an Invented Past
Arab Nationalism and National Identity
The Kurdish Problem34
Invoking the Ancient Near East in Search of an Iraqi National Identity
6 The Holy Land, Canaan, and Arabia: The Quest for Arab Polity: Inventing an Ancient Past in Response to Zionism
Genealogy, Territory, and Self-Identification
Invoking Ancient History to Unite the Arabs of Modern Palestine
The Arabs of Palestine as Descendants of the Ancient Canaanites
7 The Uses and Misuses of Modern Biblical Scholarship: Academic Politics and National Identity: Egypt, Israel, and Palestine
The Jewish Narrative of the Promised Land
The Promised Land and the Claims of Modern Scholarship
Archaeology, Biblical Revisionism, and the Unsettling of the United Monarchy
The Danish School: Biblical Minimalists and Arab–Israel Politics
Israeli Archaeology and the Erasure of Palestinian Memory
The Resonance of Scholarly Politics and the Arabs of Palestine
Notes
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

i

ii

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory Martyrdom, Revolution, and Forging National Identities Jacob Lassner

iii

I.B. TAURIS Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA BLOOMSBURY, I.B. TAURIS, and the I.B. Tauris logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2020 Copyright © Jacob Lassner, 2020 Jacob Lassner has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. Cover design: Adriana Brioso All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalog record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN:

HB: PB: ePDF: ePub:

978-1-8386-0726-5 978-0-7556-0209-4 978-1-8386-0729-6 978-1-8386-0728-9

Typeset by RefineCatch Ltd, Bungay, Suffolk To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

iv

Contents Dedicatory Preface Abbreviations Introduction

vi vii 1

Part One: Imagined History and Contemporaneous Political Behavior Essay 1: Recovering and Invoking an Idealized Islamic Past: Problems and Approaches to Competing Narratives and Historical Memories Essay 2: Myths of Martyrdom and Rebellion: Recalling Muslim Self-Sacrifice and Tribal Virtues of Manliness and Honor Essay 3: Martyrdom Versus Low-Profile Politics: Interpreting the Past for Alternative Paths toward Regime Change and Political Legitimacy Essay 4: Being on the “Right Side of History”: The Concept and Praxis of a Proper Islamic Revolution

17 37 59 77

Part Two: Identity Politics and Contemporary Political Behavior Essay 5: Forging National Identities in the Modern Arab Nation State: Inventing Legacies of Near and Distant Pasts Essay 6: The Holy Land, Canaan, and Arabia: The Quest for Arab Polity: Inventing an Ancient Past in Response to Zionism Essay 7: The Uses and Misuses of Modern Biblical Scholarship: Academic Politics and National Identity: Egypt, Israel, and Palestine Notes Bibliography Index

103 129 149 181 205 227

v

Dedicatory Preface It is customary for Hebrew speakers to wish those battling the actuarial statistics a fruitful life ‘ad meia ve-‘esrim, that is, “until 120.” I began this project when Bernard Lewis, the doyen of Near East historians, celebrated his 100th birthday and completed it just before he died two weeks short of reaching the even riper age of 102. I regret that he will not have had the opportunity to read this Preface dedicated to him, a small return for the many years in which he offered me encouragement to pursue my interests in subjects he commanded so well. I first met Bernard Lewis some sixty-five years ago on his initial visit to the United States, and encountered him again in 1965, when as a junior scholar I participated in a conference at the University of Oxford. He was then the celebrated historian at SOAS, the University of London’s prestigious School of Oriental and African Studies. During a coffee break, he inquired as to my work and, following that, asked to see my dissertation. From that day forward, he was a mentor and valued friend, thus allowing me to enjoy a privileged status that I share with many who studied with him in London and Princeton. Above all, he led me to appreciate the effects of a past, whether real, massaged, or invented on contemporaneous belief and action, a learned and most valuable approach to Near Eastern history that I fully embrace, as can be seen in the essays to follow. It is with the deepest of gratitude that I dedicate this book to his memory.

vi

Abbreviations ABD

Anchor Bible Dictionary

AJSL

American Journal of Semitic Languages

AJSJ

Association for Jewish Studies Journal

AO

Acta Orientalia

ArO

Archiv Orientální

ArOr

Ars Orientalis

BA

Biblical Archaeologist

BAR

Biblical Archaeological Review

BI

Bibliotheca Islamica

BASOR

Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research

BSAOS

Bulletin of the School of African and Oriental Studies

CBQ

Catholic Biblical Quarterly

EI 2

Encyclopedia of Islam (Second edition)

EJ

Encyclopedia Judaica

GMS

Gibb Memorial Series

IC

Islamic Culture

IEJ

Israel Exploration Journal

IES

Israel Exploration Society

IJH

International Journal of History

IJMES

International Journal of Middle East Studies

IOS

Israel Oriental Studies

JA

Journal Asiatique

JAOS

Journal of the American Oriental Society

JBL

Journal of Biblical Literature

JARCE

Journal of the American Research Center in Egypt

vii

viii

Abbreviations

JBL

Journal of Biblical Literature

JESHO

Journal of Economic and Social History of the Orient

JNES

Journal of Near Eastern Studies

JPS

Journal of Palestine Studies

JQ

Jerusalem Quarterly

JESAI

Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam

JSOT

Journal for the Study of the Old Testament

JSOTsup

Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement

JSS

Journal of Semitic Studies

LOS

London Oriental Studies

MEQ

Middle East Quarterly

MW

Muslim World

NEA

Near Eastern Archaeology

OC

Oriens Christianus

OIP

Oriental Institute Publications

PMLA

Publication of the Modern Language Association

PAPS

Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society

RMM

Revue du Monde Musulman

RSO

Revista degli Studi Orientali

SPDA

Studies in the Period of David and Solomon

SJOT

Swedish Journal for the Study of the Old Testament

VT

Vetus Testamentum

VTsup

Vetus Testamentum Supplement

WHJP

World History of the Jewish People

ZAH

Zeitschrift für Althebraistik

ZDMG

Zeitschrift der Deutschen morganländischen Gesellschaft

Introduction

This work consists of seven essays linked by a common theme, namely, the residual effects of a Near Eastern past on contemporaneous political culture. The initial focus is largely on Islamic history, with a special emphasis on the Arab heartland. It begins with the rise of Islam and continues until the present day. There are nonetheless necessary references to pre-Islamic times and other Near Eastern civilizations, as Muslim authors seeking to promote political agendas tend to scavenge for material along an extended historical landscape. They refer to the ancient peoples of pre-Islamic Arabia, Iran, the Graeco-Roman world, early Christianity, and more recently the indigenous peoples of Canaan. There are also extensive references to the Israelites of the Hebrew Bible, refracted largely through the prism of Rabbinic Judaism. Invoking these eras past serves as a template by which Muslims have measured the behavior of the “other” while considering their own political needs. For example, in modern times, the Muslim “Tales of the Israelites (Isra’iliyat)” are juxtaposed with the history of other ancient civilizations to blunt the Zionist challenge to Arab nationalism in general and Palestinian nationalism in particular. As Islamic politics and the experiences of other Near Eastern societies are often linked, exploring the extensive scope of political culture in the region calls for probing a wide range of material. The past and present explored in this work require familiarity with the broad sweep of Islamic history; grounding in several Near Eastern languages; a literary sensibility to unpack highly tendentious sources; and a knowledge of current trends in biblical studies, Judaism, and Syro–Palestinian archaeology, all subjects shedding light on modern Near Eastern history as well as distant eras. One is obliged to consider, therefore, the past, or more correctly perceptions of the past, whether one speaks of relations between Muslims and the “other,” or among Arab/Muslim political sects, parties, and polities from the rise of Islam until the present day. With the emergence of modern nation states in the Near East, native historians have cast their net to promote territorial claims and a national consciousness to unite heterogeneous communities in common polity. For example, the Iraqi embrace of Ancient Mesopotamian civilization; Lebanese Maronite Christians linking their ancestors to the ancient Phoenicians; and Palestinian claims to be the descendants of the peoples subsumed under the label Canaanites. The Palestinian claim was forged to preempt Zionist efforts to reconstitute the Jewish people in their ancestral homeland in accordance with a long-received Jewish narrative of history, a tale that begins with God’s promise of the Holy Land to the progeny of the biblical patriarch Abraham. 1

2

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

As do Jews, Muslim writers, whether in medieval or modern times, often invoke historic precedents, real or imagined, to promote and legitimize political agendas, in their case rulers or would-be rulers confronting the circumstances of the moment. As described, the events may echo some semblance of historical reality. More often than not, however, readers are presented with a pastiche of narratives, at times redacted versions of earlier texts, at times accounts woven from whole cloth. In either case, modern scholars looking to analyze Near Eastern politics, past or present, face winnowing historic grain from the polemical chaff of partisan authors. Serious historians currently writing about the region are therefore tasked with separating a world that might have been, is, and might be, from a world that should have been, and should be. Because the essays cover ground from pre-historic times until today, I originally chose to title my work Near Eastern Politics and Historical Memory instead of employing Middle East, the geographical label preferred by many academics and media experts who track events in the modern region. Although the term Middle East enjoys wide currency at present, scholars painting on a canvas dating back to remote times speak and write of ancient Near Eastern civilizations (never of an ancient Middle East). Similarly, many historians of pre-modern Islam still refer to the Near East as in earlier generations. Given the publisher’s preference for Middle East, I have altered the title while retaining Near East and Near Eastern where I thought it appropriate. As the two geographical labels are, more of less, interchangeable, I trust that those who focus on the modern region and prefer Middle East to Near East will take no offense. On the other hand, the central argument of the book may strike some readers as provocative. For if memories deeply etched in the historical consciousness of traditionbound Near Eastern societies continue to shape political attitudes and behavior, today’s highly volatile Near East—or if you prefer, Middle East—requires being viewed as part of an ongoing history of the region, a narrative that often blurs the intersections between times past and contemporaneous moments. This approach to traditional sources runs the risk of being labeled a historiography that privileges the West and Western scholarship at the expense of the “Oriental Other.” Put more specifically, of embracing an antiquarian bias that leads to essentializing Islamic culture, as if all Muslims have subscribed to the same beliefs and practices at all times and in all places. This alleged treatment of Islamic culture calls to mind the notion of the “Timeless Orient,” a concept in which history repeats itself with little if any variation from age to age. In this portrayal of the Arab/Muslim world, societies are locked in time, and are incapable of any significant change of thought or behavior. Such a view might lead one to believe that to understand Muslims and their politics in the modern era, or indeed any era, one need only turn to the Qur’an, the quintessential document that has shaped Muslim lives since the time of the Prophet Muhammad some fourteen centuries ago. No such view of past and present is embraced in the essays that follow. To the contrary, there is a profound appreciation for the vibrancy of an evolving Islamic civilization. The various studies call attention to highly nuanced Muslim uses of historical memory, noting that throughout the course of Islamic history, Muslims have shown resilience in adapting to challenges, including those occasioned by contact with other civilizations. In doing so, Muslims have confronted political realities by weaving the past and present into a tapestry serving their immediate needs. The same applies

Introduction

3

to peoples inhabiting the Near East before the rise of Islam and the region’s nonMuslims thereafter. Retrieving the past, to the extent that is ever possible, calls in this case for analyzing the testimony of heterogeneous groups and their polyglot communities. As regards Muslims, the meticulous examination of written and orally transmitted sources can often provide a useful, if complex path to better understanding politics and behavior throughout the entire course of Islamic history. Careful attention to philology also serves to illuminate the lives of non-Muslims dwelling among the faithful and the peoples of the Near East from more ancient times. Embracing the importance of textual inquiry, the following essays sift through memories that served Muslims of the Arab Near East, their non-Muslim neighbors, and their pre-Islamic predecessors, as in successive generations they each adapted to the exigencies of the moment. Despite discernible links between past and present, many acclaimed experts of the modern era have chosen to dismiss as irrelevant or at best unimportant the privileged narratives that have circulated throughout the Arab world and more ancient times. They see greater profit in analyzing current political trends as generic phenomena inextricably linked to paradigms of a universal nature. These approaches include theorizing about the effects of modernization; the crippling legacy of dependency under colonial rule; the uses and misuses of intellectual capital in the post-colonial period; the cultural effects of transnationalism; the fallout from a new global economy in individual states of the region; and less studied cosmic changes. No self-respecting scholar would dismiss these far-reaching and disruptive developments. However, as I am wont to say, mixing this yield with only a general knowledge of a distant past makes for a concoction that tastes flat to a cultivated historical palate. The vexing problems of the modern Near East transcend explanations rooted entirely in circumstances of the moment just as they defy explanations that invoke the Timeless Orient.

A General View of the Essays The seven essays that follow originated as rough-hewn papers at meetings of scholarly societies and academic symposia and conferences. What began as reflections on a wide variety of topics, usually in oral presentations ranging from twenty to forty minutes, eventually took shape in more expansive articles and chapters of books. This volume revisits the earlier material and presents what were originally freestanding studies, as reworked meditations all linked to the uses of historical memory. In conceiving this project, I had in mind several prominent scholars of the Near East whose articles were republished in a single volume of their collected studies, most often without significant revisions if any. What distinguishes this work from the others is the manner in which the essays are all revised with new material and thematically linked by a common concern, namely, the uses and misuses of the past in contemporary settings. As regards the reworked oral material, where I thought it advisable, I have tried to retain the breezy style of a lecture delivered to a broadly constituted audience. Where the essay calls for a close examination of scholarly minutiae, the rhetorical flourishes tend to be more subdued, the style more formal, and the annotation denser.

4

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

The book is divided into two parts. The first, titled Imagined History and Contemporaneous Political Behavior, probes the political culture of early Islam, and suggests that powerful traces of that culture have played a role throughout the entire course of Islamic history. The central theme of these first essays is the manner in which appeals to the life and times of the Prophet Muhammad have served to legitimize the ideology and political behavior of Muslims over many generations. Persons and groups seeking political hegemony over the Muslim faithful and non-Muslim minorities have sought to declare their policies a replay of the Prophet’s agenda, and the actions of their followers that of his idealized community. Shi‘ite propagandists, countering their Sunnite rivals, extend emulating the past to include the line of leaders designated imams stemming from the union of ‘Ali b. Abi Talib, the Prophet’s favored first cousin, and his daughter Fatimah. As the Alid imams were the only surviving male descendants of Muhammad, they have been regarded by Shi‘ite Islam as uniquely credentialed to lead the Muslim faithful. Accordingly, no other members of the Prophet’s extended family or clan, let alone outsiders, could legitimately claim to be his successor, not even a son of ‘Ali born to a woman other than Fatimah or Muhammad’s first cousins from the House of Abbas. One-time allies of ‘Ali and his progeny, the Abbasids commandeered an eighth-century CE Alid revolt against a usurper regime and succeeded in creating a 500-year dynasty that became the face of Sunnite Islam. That turn of events more than 1,200 years ago, led to ongoing Shi‘ite resistance, at times passive, at times in the form of open rebellion linked to claims of self-sacrifice and martyrdom. Seen in retrospect, today’s dramatic rift between Shi‘ite and Sunnite branches of Islam, which plays a significant role in the political configuration of the region is, in large measure, the extension of a dispute that erupted in the second Islamic century. Over successive generations, the quest for recognition by the two Muslim factions has evolved into an ongoing debate waged by partisans invoking self-serving versions of Islamic history that have guided religious beliefs and political behavior. Given actual states of the past that could be at odds with the declared aims of writers serving the interests of their patrons, apologists resorted to shaping and reshaping times gone by to make them consistent with the contemporary moment. Similarly, when the realities of the present proved embarrassing, the apologists reversed course and rewrote contemporary history to accord with the past. This exercise of historical license was especially true of expressed Muslim attitudes towards unwanted authority— whether to support the regime in power, however reluctantly, or offer a direct challenge, often at great risk of failure. In either case, the agenda of the Prophet and/or his Shi‘ite offspring, be it historic or invented, was made to justify a current course of action. The last study of Part One points to both activist and quietist options, as well as other links to the past when casting light on the concept and practice of revolution in traditional Islamic societies. The current version of the essay on Islamic revolution is inspired by dramatic events of the so-called Arab Spring. In that sense, the essay bridges the revolutionary impulses of an Islamic past with recent calls for regime change. It is also a convenient segue to what follows. Labeled Identity Politics and Contemporary Political Behavior, Part Two consists of three studies that focus on change in Near Eastern political culture following the

Introduction

5

dissolution of the Ottoman Empire, the emergence of the modern Arab nation state, and the rise of political Zionism. By reconfiguring the Arab provinces of the Ottoman realm into national entities that never existed, the international community altered completely the geopolitical face of the region. The newly-installed rulers of these nation states found themselves faced with uniting a populace whose loyalty and allegiance were and still are governed by narrowly-defined identities, cultural, ethnic, and religious. Among Bedouin tribesman, there is as always, resistance to the concept of any centralized authority. The formation of Arab states, as it were artificial polities lacking legitimacy derived from any Islamic precedent, thus created the need for bracing historical narratives, tales of the past with which to construct coherent national identities. Modern regimes, seeking to overcome the divisive effects of anti-state sentiments, have turned, therefore, to a remote past with which to create a sense of nationhood among their subjects. In addition to combating the centrifugal forces plaguing individual states, Arab rulers confronted an unexpected development, the threat of evolving political Zionism, a movement that called for extensive Jewish settlement in lands occupied by the Ancient Israelites and their Jewish successors in Graeco-Roman times. The ultimate Zionist objective was to settle the requisite number of Jews required to create an independent Jewish state in an area that had been under Muslim rule for the better part of thirteen centuries. To counter sympathy for Zionist aspirations among Bible-reading Christians, Palestinians and their supporters have selectively invoked recent text scholarship of the Hebrew Bible, comparative Semitic linguistics, and contentious archaeological debates to maintain that Arab Palestinians are the direct descendants of the indigenous peoples who preceded the biblical Israelites in the ancient land known as Canaan. When dealing with the evolving Arab nation state, the essays also focus on the powerful resurgence of Islam, now well recognized as a critical factor in shaping contemporary Arab politics and society. Reverence for the past is indeed the ubiquitous hallmark of Islamic movements, labeled Islamist or fundamentalist. Having grown influential over time, they are now able to traverse national borders and take root in local and regional environments. These movements call for reshaping the current political order by reconstituting Muhammad’s ummah, the idealized Islamic community of old. This return to the past, albeit in modern garb, marks the agenda of the Muslim Brotherhood and its various permutations within and beyond Egypt, as well as the more strident and militant strands of Islamic revival such as the Jihadis of ISIL and al-Qaeda. All the Islamist factions bar none champion replacing the modern nation state with a transcendent community that embraces all Muslims regardless of ethnic, cultural, or geographical difference, as in the time of the Prophet. They differ only as regards the methods and timing to bring about desired change. Deeply rooted as it is in events of early Islamic times, the Islamist agenda is often misunderstood by scholars, policy planners, and media informants who seemingly pay little if any attention to the origins and continuing influence of early Muslim political culture. This neglect of the past results in a skewed portrait of traditional Muslim responses to modernity. All told, providing a richer understanding of developments in the modern Near East requires invoking history portrayed on a very large canvas, a picture of the past and its residual

6

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

influence that goes back to the origins of Islam and at times even to the earliest recorded history of the region.

As for the Individual Studies The lead essay Recovering and Invoking an Idealized Islamic Past is an attempted tour d’horizon nearly sixty years in the making. When I began my studies in Arabic and Islam in the 1950s, there were few works that could serve as a model with which to approach Arabic historical writing, especially as regards the foundations of Islamic political thought and activity. The standard surveys tended to treat Arabic sources as if they reflected actual states of the past. These works were heavy on paraphrase and short on historical analysis. Attempting such an analysis with few, if any, appropriate models to serve as a guide, was like breaking out of a conceptual prison with no clearly marked exit. At first, my approach to the past was largely intuitive. Only later did I begin to conceive a critical vision with which to assess the complex narratives of the times. The first insights derived from a careful examination of individual accounts. With extensive reading, and close attention to parallel sources, larger patterns began to emerge. Readers of my early publications might have recognized the manner in which I approached primary texts, even though the writings lacked a fully articulated presentation of the methods employed. That is, not until 1992 when a presidential address to the American Oriental Society allowed me to present a carefully worked out vision of how literary sensibilities might explain the evolving politics of the Islamic world. The presidential address, “Doing Islamic History: Brooklyn Baseball, Arabic Historiography, and Historical Memory,” was subsequently published under a slightly altered but no less whimsical title in the society journal. The article in JAOS served as the starting point for a more detailed examination of early Arabic historiography that appeared in an extensive series of studies titled The Middle East Remembered: Forged Identities, Competing Narratives, Contested Spaces (University of Michigan Press, 2000). The essay on Arabic historical writing that follows this Introduction is a reworked version of material from that book, namely the segments listed as, “Reckoning Time, Recording History: The Formation of Historical Consciousness in the Medieval Near East,” and “Recovering the Islamic Past: Problems and Approaches to Competing Narratives.” Given the recent interest in the forms and substance of Arabic historical writing, the opening essay should find a meaningful place in the ongoing discussions of Near Eastern historiography as well as the broad interpretation of current events. As with the opening chapters of The Middle East Remembered, the initial essay of this volume serves as a general introduction to what follows: various case studies that juxtapose historical memory with Muslim attitudes and actions. The second essay, Myths of Martyrdom and Rebellion, stems from an invitation to participate in an international conference on martyrdom and self-sacrifice in Islam. The scholars invited to Jerusalem in 2015 presented a wide variety of papers. Many, if not indeed most, dealt with modern developments. The subjects included suicide bombings and similar acts of martyrdom. Some participants addressed the motivation behind such endeavors based on psychological profiles obtained by prison psychologists in

Introduction

7

Israel. The reference is to extended interrogations of incarcerated individuals who expected to enjoy the anticipated pleasures of Paradise had their explosive devices worked, or had they not hesitated at the last moment to detonate the deadly material. Also studied were individuals who were forcibly disarmed before they were able to carry out their assignments. The findings of the interrogators illuminated why particular figures were chosen for missions that meant certain death, and the psychological preparations for accepting that fate. Also discussed were would-be martyrs acting impulsively and without instruction from known terrorist organizations, the so-called “lone wolves.” Other contributions targeted arcane accounts of Jihadist preparations for self-sacrifice, such as the use of rhythmic chants to induce a sense of group solidarity and mission. Still other attendees addressed the deep roots of Islamic martyrdom, its role in modern national-sectarian conflicts, and the contemporary culture of seeking death for religious/political principle. My task at the conference was to present the lead paper on the origins of religious/ political self-sacrifice in the Islamic Near East and how early Muslim attitudes might affect present events. Having accepted the invitation, I plunged into previously uncharted waters to explain how a technical term in the Qur’an, generally meaning a person bearing witness (shahid), came to mean undertaking principled acts of selfsacrifice, even leading to an anticipated death. The result of my foray into the subject was the unexpected discovery of a link between the earliest described acts of Islamic martyrdom and tribal sensibilities of manliness and honor, a link that helps explain a willingness to embrace tribal values today and offer lives for declared noble causes. An enlarged account of my contribution to the conference forms the basis of the second and third essays. The first of these two studies deals with the origins of martyrdom in Islam. It traces the valorization of dying in defense of religious/political principles in retrospective portrayals of iconic Alid figures, especially Husayn, the “martyred” son of ‘Ali b. Abi Talib, the progenitor of Shi‘ite Islam. Vivid images of Alids and their supporters overtaken by death as they plotted or actively engaged in rebellion against unwanted rule, are enshrined in the memory of Shi‘ites and commemorated by them in highlyemotional religious rituals that carry on today. The third essay explores how the powerful appeal of self-sacrifice, originally linked to Alid martyrs, was invoked by their cousins, the house of Abbas, as they sought to legitimate their rule. Because the Abbasids had no real history of self-sacrifice, let alone claims to a martyr’s death, apologists pressing their case reimagined the past and created for their patrons a narrative of humiliation and suffering at the hands of the regime that had displaced the Prophet Muhammad’s family from power. Unlike the Alids, whose challenges to unwanted rule tended to be long on bravado and short on results, the Abbasids and their revolutionary operatives embraced a low political profile, a plan of action designed for success in the long run. They constructed a network of agents engaged in clandestine activities far from the prying eyes of the ruling authorities and waited for the opportune moment. To justify this seemingly passive behavior, they invoked memories of the Prophet who, despite increasing pressure, reportedly delayed taking the field against the non-believers until he felt the balance of forces swinging in his favor. Who better than the Prophet himself to provide

8

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

a proper model of revolutionary activity. As for the Alids, the disasters visited upon their leaders made a distinct impression within the inner circle of the family. The calamities that befell Alid “martyrs” led to tensions between those calling for brave but fruitless plans for restoring ‘Ali’s progeny to their rightful place at the head of the Islamic community, and those favoring a cautious agenda that would guarantee success at an inevitable but undisclosed future moment. In sum, a policy of activism versus quietism. Although these essays deal largely with times long past, they suggest alternative ways of looking at death risking, or death inviting behavior in today’s Near East, as well as the mounting conflict between current Shi‘ites and Sunnites in the Arab world and beyond. More generally, these deep-rooted approaches to unwanted authority help to clarify current revolutionary stirrings and the political activity to which they have given rise. That is, they reflect the intersections between past and present. The material dealing with quietism versus activism was first presented at meetings of the American Oriental Society, especially “Political Propaganda and the Uses of History of Early Islam (1982),” and “Islamic Historiography: Apologetics and Historical Writing in Early Islam (1986).” The political optics linking revolutionary behavior and appeals to martyrdom were subsequently explored in a monograph titled Islamic Revolution and Historical Memory: An Inquiry into the Art of ‘Abbasid Apologetics (New Haven, 1986). That publication serves as the point of departure for the current essay, revised here for the benefit of the general reader, but with sufficient scholarly annotation for historians whose specialty is the Islamic Near East. Unlike the first three essays that deal largely with the past but also speak to powerful memories that influence current attitudes and behavior, essay four begins with recent developments in the Arab world before juxtaposing attempts at regime change in modern times with the concept and praxis of revolution during the formative period of Islamic rule. Once more, the attempt is to demonstrate the intersection between memories of the “historic” past and present political activity. The essay compares how traditional Muslims past and present view the circumstances calling for the overthrow of regimes. Contrary to much that is written about current impulses towards revolution, especially as regards Jihadi extremists, Islamic revolution does not call for transformative change but a return to traditional forms of governance and behavior. Hence the importance of historical memory as a guide for revolutionary action. Even less militant Islamist groups, such as the Muslim Brotherhood and its regional offshoots, deny that the objective of regime change is to embrace a brave new world inspired in part by liberal attitudes and Western concepts of democracy. They have no desire to overturn traditional Islamic society by emulating the political institutions and values of the West, as some secular leaning Muslims and non-Muslim enthusiasts proclaim. To the contrary, their ideas of governance are derived from a privileged Islamic past. For traditional Muslims, revolution calls for reconstituting the pristine community of the Prophet Muhammad, a community they proclaim, marked by untainted politics and sublime moral behavior derived from deep religious commitment. They see no need to embark on an uncharted future based on democratic principles derived from European and American unbelievers, the ideological force driving American diplomacy and military intervention in the region. The democracy they proclaim is a form of governance rooted in Muslim experience and values.

Introduction

9

For historians who believe that the current turmoil in the Arab world is not entirely because of the political encroachment of the West and what traditional Muslims condemn as debauched Western values, the recent call for regime change has a familiar ring. It reminds one of the ideological thrust of an eighth-century CE Islamic revolution, the revolt of the aforementioned Abbasids. Following their decisive victory over the House of Umayyah, the dynasty that had displaced the Prophet Muhammad’s family from power, the Abbasids first cousins of the Prophet declared they had restored the family to its rightful place at the head of a reconstituted Islamic polity. Proponents of the new regime claimed that it had recreated the idyllic age of a time past and marked the historic moment as the revival of a unified and politically pure religious community. To be sure, comparisons to idyllic eras do not always stand up to historical realities. Violent upheavals often have an afterlife that is far from settling, let alone idyllic. There is the messy prospect of consolidating power in post-revolutionary times. As opposed to mere revolts or palace coups, political change resulting from large-scale events often leaves in its wake groups of disgruntled followers who can threaten newly established regimes with counter-revolutionary activity. In such uneasy times, individuals judged capable of mobilizing support against the new order are often eliminated with or without clear evidence of seditious intentions. Some become victims of their former ideological zeal, and a seeming incapacity to adjust to the politics of stabilization. In the wake of the unsettled conditions following regime change, new rulers forged in the crucible of Islamic revolution have tended to prefer technocrats of uncompromising loyalty to ideologically driven comrades in arms and at times even members of their own family. A number of Arab rulers, newly minted in the modern age, have exercised political skill in warding off potential challenges. Others have done so with displays of gratuitous cruelty, a sign of what could befall those who give even the slightest hint of dissatisfaction with established authority. Revolutionary regimes have faced and continue to face family feuds within the ruling house, in which case the options to restore stability can be exceedingly complex, especially if such feuds are not settled in-house but give rise instead to civil conflict. Essay four draws on a variety of examples from early and recent Islamic history. In each and every instance, the uses and misuses of historical memory are critical to analyzing the political phenomena of the occasion. The shape and thrust of essay four evolved over time, beginning with oral presentations at scholarly conclaves. These included: “Mansurid Traditions and Abbasid Historiography” (World Congress of Orientalists, 1976), and “Rhetoric and Revolution” (Shiloah Research Institute, Tel Aviv University, 1979). The views expressed therein subsequently informed a major study of transformative revolution and Islamic imperial power: The Shaping of ‘Abbasid Rule (Princeton, 1980). The sum and substance of this extended monograph was presented to a group mostly of non-Islamicists at a conference bearing the rubric “Tradition and Innovation in Late Antiquity.” The lecture was then published in the conference proceedings as “The ‘Abbasid Dawlah: An Essay on the Concept of Revolution in Early Islam” (1984). Some thirty years later, I was asked to give a public lecture on “The Meaning of the Arab Spring,” a presentation that caused me to review the links between historical memory and traditional Islamic responses to unwanted authority, this time in the contemporary settings that inform the present essay.

10

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

Having addressed regime change, the text then turns in essay five to state formation and grapples with a question long discussed by historians and political scientists. Why is it that the Arab nation states forged out of territories previously ruled by the Ottoman Empire have failed to cohere? That is to say, why have they been unable to win the firm allegiance of their heterogeneous constituencies or create effective systems of governance receptive to the needs of their citizens? Nearly all the former Ottomanruled regions of the Fertile Crescent are either undergoing or might soon be subject to disastrous civil conflict. Most are autocracies ranging from the politically astute and gently persuasive Jordanian monarchy, to the overturned brutal dictatorship in Iraq, and the current repressive regime in Syria. The overthrow of Saddam has not yielded the positive results that some Western statesmen and a number of Iraqi exiles had hoped for. Saddam’s ruling circle has been replaced by a dysfunctional leadership unable or unwilling to generate an overarching and sustainable sense of national consciousness. The central government of Lebanon, which witnessed a lengthy civil war in the not-so-distant past, remains weak, as power is apportioned along confessional lines with the Shi‘ites holding the dominant hand. The Palestinians, without a state, are badly divided and lack a united vision of the future, save the desire to establish a truly independent polity of their own. Should a Palestinian state materialize, it is not clear whether the extended family feuds of the past and the political strife of the present will enable it to cohere without an internal struggle, if at all. Moving further afield, Saudi Arabia and the Gulf States face potential problems with their restive Shi‘ite populations and an overriding fear of Shi‘ite Iran meddling in the Sunnite world. Libya, beset by tribal anarchy, has become a breeding ground for Jihadi elements. The military clique that rules Egypt has tamped down on actual and potential opposition, but has not shown a capacity to subdue completely the militant Islamists who create occasional chaos in regions remote from centralized authority. The outlook for Jordan, Tunisia, and Morocco is guardedly promising, but events there require careful watching. The Jordanian rulers fully understand and have great respect for Western achievements; they also have, more than any ruling order in the Arab world, a profound grasp of Arab political culture and its links to an Islamic past. Nevertheless, they may be confronted by circumstances that will fully test their ability to maintain a unified and smoothly functioning regime. At present, the Hashimite Kingdom of Jordan, financially challenged and inundated with refugees from other conflicts, faces potential resistance from its Palestinian subjects and from the disaffection of tribal configurations that have long been the main support of the ruling family. On a more positive note, the experiment with democracy in Tunisia has seemingly taken hold; the politic King of Morocco is at present secure. On the other hand, his Algerian neighbors are plagued with all sorts of difficulties, despite being rich in oil, gas, and extensive agricultural lands. The successful revolt against French colonial rule in Algeria has yet to pay full dividends some sixty years later. As for the Levant, it is now some seventy years since all the Arab states therein have achieved formal independence. The essay asks why is it that these modern Arab polities have been unable to chart a course like that of say Singapore, the orderly and prosperous state the Palestinians considered a model for the territory they administered in the narrow and overpopulated Gaza Strip? Why is it that those Arab states blessed with

Introduction

11

natural resources and arable land do not measure up to the economic tigers of Southeast Asia? The usual explanation is that various Arab nation states were carved out of a dissolved Ottoman Empire to suit the needs of the victorious Western powers, and so their boundaries were irrationally drawn. There was no historical precedent for the geographical configuration of modern Iraq, Syria, Lebanon, and Jordan, or for that matter the area of the Palestine mandate. Moreover, the freshly-minted Arab states of the Levant contained highly diverse populations feeling no great sense of allegiance to a ruling authority, which in several instances had been implanted by the colonial powers controlling the path to independence. There is of course much truth to this description of the region, but as the essay points out, there is more to the current failure of Islamic politics. The very concept of the independent nation state is at odds with a basic tenet of Muslim political thought: the time-tested view of governance that declares all regional Muslim polities inextricably linked to a universal Islamic community (ummah). In theory, that concept calls for a vast domain ruled by a single authority following in the footsteps of the Prophet, and conducting its affairs as he and his followers did. This explains the Islamist call to rise up against the regionally based modern nation state and an Arab nationalism rooted in local identities and allegiances. As the Islamists put it, Islam is the solution (al-hall), a slogan that trumpets governance based solely on traditional Islamic law and custom. As the transcendent Islamic community has always been an ideal rather than a reality, the prospects for enacting the Islamist agenda are remote at best and phantasmagoria at worst. Stabilizing the troubled politics of the Arab world remains in all respects a daunting task, especially at a time when militant Islam remains a powerful phenomenon. These and similar thoughts were publicly articulated in a 1993 public lecture of mine that was later shaped into “Regionalism and Regional Identities versus the Idealized Islamic Community (Ummah),” the fourth chapter of The Middle East Remembered. By adding material from recent developments, essay five supplements the picture portrayed in the earlier work and is intended to serve as a corrective to views served up by scholars and public officials who embrace the concept of nation-building through regime change. The essay on the modern Arab nation state ends with a discussion of Iraqi attempts to forge a national consensus by linking the current populace with the peoples of Ancient Mesopotamia. Invoking remote times in such fashion and to such purpose serves as a convenient path to what follows: two studies dealing with the appropriation and misappropriation of an ancient Near Eastern past to legitimize modern political claims. The major focus in the first study, essay six, The Holy Land, Canaan, and Arabia describes how debates surrounding the current Arab–Israel conflict are spiced with pungent references to the world of the Hebrew Bible. Supporters of the Zionist project—in effect the overwhelming majority of world Jewry—juxtapose the ancient Israelites, their land, and their polity with Israelis and their modern Jewish State. Various groups of Christians, including prominent statesmen, have also joined Jews in referencing the Bible. Their aim: to legitimize the Zionist enterprise as an expression of their Christian faith that the Jewish people are destined by God to regroup in their ancient homeland before the onset of the Messianic Age. In response, advocates for the Palestinian cause invoke a highly imaginative history of the ancient Canaanites to

12

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

make their case, not only for a Palestinian state, but to deny Israelis any “historic” right to the Holy Land based on Hebrew scripture. To promote these claims, supporters of Palestinian nationalism combine long-abandoned notions of the origins of the Semitic race—as if such a sub-segment of humankind ever existed—with imagined Semitic origins in Arabia that allegedly took place thousands of years before the invention of writing. This reconstruction of a remote and unknowable past is supported with various linguistic arguments that have earned highly negative responses from learned philologists. Nevertheless, this Palestinian shaping of a world that should have been has found a home in certain quarters of the modern academy and is subsequently discussed in the final essay, The Uses and Misuses of Modern Biblical Scholarship. The study of recent biblical scholarship and pseudo-scholarship builds on my presentation at the 2005 meeting of the Association for Jewish Studies titled “Political Uses of the Ancient Near East.” An expanded version of this paper appeared in Jews and Muslims in the Arab World: Haunted by Pasts Real and Imagined, by myself and Ilan Troen (Roman and Littlefield, 2007). The current essay is a reworked and much expanded version of earlier remarks. The concluding essay begins with an overview of the relationship between Israeli archaeology and the desire of Israel’s Jewish populace to recover the material remains and history of their ancient past. Given the lively nature of scholarly discourse in the Israeli academy, one encounters disagreements among archaeologists, and between those who dig for evidence in the ground and those who capture echoes of the past by digging through literary texts. These disagreements are generally the result of conflicting views argued in good faith by individuals with impeccable scholarly credentials. What is a thoroughly academic, if at times rancorous discussion of Syro–Palestinian history has been co-opted, however, by scholars drawn from disciplines other than biblical studies, or trained improperly in the Bible. Some of these scholars have turned what is in essence an academic debate into a project supporting the claims of Palestinian nationalists. They characterize the practice of Israeli archaeology as an effort to silence Palestinian history in favor of a constructed Israelite past that justifies the Jewish state’s existence. Israeli scholars stand accused of failing to promote studies of ancient Canaan and its indigenous peoples, whom the critics of Israel consider the precursors of the modern Arabs of Palestine. Instead, Israeli academics are said to devote all of their attention to the period of ancient Israelite settlement, and in doing so indiscriminately remove evidence of a once thriving Canaanite culture. Going a step further, the critics of Israeli scholarship accuse the nation’s academy of being, in effect, a client of the government and a willing agent to promote an allegedly anti-Palestinian agenda. Among the most vocal proponents of these views are certain scholars who espouse a minimalist view of Hebrew scripture, thus denying the subsequent Judeo–Christian interpretive vision of the historical background and text of the Hebrew Bible. Although, for the most part, the more extreme biblical minimalists have been discredited, at times with mocking dismissal, their views enjoy an afterlife in the academic wars over who has the legitimate “historic” claim to the Holy Land. Is it Israelis who identify with the experiences of their ancestors, beginning with the patriarchs of the Hebrew Bible, or the Palestinians who have come to claim descent from the original peoples of Canaan?

Introduction

13

The essay concludes with a discussion of how deeply reported associations with the Holy Land resonate among Israeli Jews and form a core narrative of Jewish experience. In similar fashion it asks what Palestinians as a whole understand of/or identify with claims of Canaanite ancestry. In other words, what are the effects of an ancient past, long received or recently invented, on a complex problem troubling the modern Near East and the world beyond? Shortly before completing the penultimate draft of this work, I attended a lecture sponsored by the Buffett Institute for Global Affairs at Northwestern University. The guest lecturer was a prominent scholar, the director of one of the most prestigious centers devoted to research on the modern Middle East. His central thesis was that the paradigms that guided research and thinking about the region in the twentieth century were completely unsuitable to evolving events in the twenty-first century. Whereas in the last century we sought to understand the problems of one of the world’s most complex regions according to grand theories, and with mixed success, it was now time to consider cultural understandings that have resonated among different peoples of the region for centuries and more. I do not know if that plea will take hold and lead to new discussions in universities and think tanks, let alone in circles of government. In any case, the pages that follow are a modest attempt to contribute to that evolving discourse.

Technical Matters In writing this book, I found myself faced with the difficult task of addressing multiple audiences, among them historians of the Near East. I have also attempted to reach scholars who show a general interest in historical memory. Last, but not least, are readers with broad intellectual interests, including a desire to understand the current situation in the Near East. Making the essays accessible to all these audiences required fine-tooling the text, beginning with the transliteration of Arabic and Hebrew terms. As for Arabic, I have followed one of the standard systems, but without diacritical marks, as they are probably not necessary for the specialized reader and might prove distracting to a general audience. The exception are the Arabic words usually designating “martyr” and “witness” where I have employed shahīd (read Shaheed) and shāhid (read shaahid). I have retained the standard Westernized spelling of various Arabic proper and place names as this is how these names appear more often than not in print. For example, Nasser, instead of ‘Abd al-Nasir, Feisal (King of Iraq) instead of Faysal, and the like. The same for historic collectivities, al-Qa’idah is thus rendered al-Qaeda. The holy cities of Arabia are given as Mecca instead of Makkah and Medina instead of al-Madinah. Similarly, dynastic names and the adjectives to which they give rise are recorded as they are in English. Read Abbasid as opposed to ‘Abbasi and Shi‘ite instead of Shi‘i. Arabic names often include extensive genealogies; the term ibn, meaning “son [of]” is, according to an accepted convention, printed b. As there is no agreed system of transliterating Hebrew, I have attempted to record place and proper names as well as technical terms as they are pronounced. Names and terms that will be easily recognized by most readers are rendered as they are found in the Encyclopedia Judaica.

14

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

Regarding the vexing problem of annotation, this book was conceived as a series of broad-ranging essays, studies that tend to be short on detailed endnotes and long on thought-provoking ideas linking histories of ancient and medieval times to the contemporary Near East. Assuming that historians of the Islamic Near East would demand greater annotation than readers who seek a general picture of developments in the region, the annotation varies with each essay. Where necessary, I have provided Arabists with additional material, including references to primary sources. As regards the material on the ancient Near East, I tried to strike a balance between philologically driven accounts and studies accessible to a broad readership. Be that as it may, given the veritable explosion of books on the Near East, ancient and modern, decisions concerning which works to cite, and more particularly which to exclude, be it for learned scholars or an interested reading public, has proved troublesome. Readers familiar with the literature on the contemporary Near East might well quarrel with the inclusion of individual sources, and just as likely, the exclusion of others. The same might be true for specialists of the ancient and pre-modern Near East. In given instances I have had second and third thoughts about choices made. In addition, there are a number of works that I have received too late to integrate within the text that follows. I trust that neither learned historians of the region, nor a general reading audience, will feel overly disadvantaged.

Part One

Imagined History and Contemporaneous Political Behavior

15

16

1

Recovering and Invoking an Idealized Islamic Past: Problems and Approaches to Competing Narratives and Historical Memories

Among the venerable civilizations extending from the Indus to the Nile, none seem to leave a more precise and identifiable record of their early development than Islam. Literally, tens of thousands of pages in printed works and yet unedited manuscripts record the dramatic events of the first three Islamic centuries, a time span that is arguably the formative period of Islamic civilization. Strewn among the memorabilia of the time, there is for a historian’s pleasure compelling material about politics and the growth of political institutions. For all the richness of detail, there is something disquieting about the accounts of the Muslim chroniclers. The tale they tell is too richly textured. One could argue that it is also too compelling. For the story of the early Muslim polity is a history that has been discovered, embellished and, when necessary, invented over many generations. That in an effort to enhance the public image of generous patrons, whether persons or political factions whose credentials to rule were not generally recognized, or those whose credentials were generally recognized but whose rule was not universally accepted. In any case, the portrayal of men and events by apologists cum historians can be so patently tendentious that it raises doubts concerning the basic historicity of specific episodes, if not also the larger events that frame them. In short, historical memory made so malleable can be misleading whether referred to by earlier generations of Muslims, or as is often the case, their modern counterparts.

Problems Scholars who use early Arabic accounts and their later permutations to illuminate past and present are obliged to ask what, if anything, we can learn from this literature. There is not enough evidence from archival sources and material culture against which to balance literary accounts. How then can texts so contrived shed light on events far removed in time and place and in cultural settings different from our own? Caution may force us to conclude that with the data currently available, it is improbable that anyone can successfully write a comprehensive narrative of early Islamic times, let alone describe the subtle nuances of an evolving story that has informed readers to this very 17

18

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

day. One can only conclude that the problems this complex literature present are a challenge not only to historians of the distant past but of contemporary times, because the changing perceptions of an earlier history continue to influence political thought and behavior among traditional Muslims. What kind of analysis should the historian interested in the broad sweep of Islamic history then consider? One might look to the historical exposition favored by historians of Europe and the Americas ever since the Annales School and its successors took root on the Continent and beyond. That is, a rendering of the past based on isolating minutiae drawn on an extended historical canvas while examining historical events and their reception as the culmination of long-term phenomena. Attempting this approach, the modern historian can paraphrase the Muslim apologist as in the past and follow the loose chronology of the more comprehensive annals, but only naive readers willing to accept traditions at face value or those arguing on behalf of parochial interests occasioned by contemporaneous politics are likely to sanction that effort. Not surprisingly, modern historians who think themselves methodologically aware, treat their subjects with proper caution. This seeming restraint can be compromised, however, by self-serving caginess. Having discredited received narratives of the early sources and their later versions as ahistorical, some scholars hunt randomly through Arabic texts in search of incidental information. They rightly suppose that the sum of the parts is contrived; nevertheless, they consider particular statements lifted out of context to be essential truths. Rummaging through difficult sources to ferret out these truths is then justified by the need for data with which to erect a theoretical scaffolding that can support complex interpretations, understandings of the past suited to contemporary sensibilities. This linking of text to theory is in part a quest for academic legitimacy. Historians of the Near East, at least in the United States, are often educated and employed by departments of history, as opposed to being trained and housed in departments of Oriental or Near Eastern studies (the case not all that long ago). They therefore perceive a need to resonate to the sensibilities of the most powerful constituencies of the host units: in most, if not all, cases, the historians of modern Europe and the United States. As a result, individuals who in previous generations would have been trained in Semitic philology and who would have felt comfortable in the analysis, if not in the writing of narrative history based on original sources, now march in step with colleagues who give higher marks for overarching theory. The concern with historical paradigms at the expense of close textual readings is admittedly the symptom of larger and more consequential developments within the American academy. Moved, if not stung, by the accusation that history as a discipline lacks theoretical elegance, many of Cleo’s practitioners have crossed disciplinary boundaries to drink the bubbly with social scientists and literary critics. Whereas in the past, the disinclination of historians to preoccupy themselves with theory might have been claimed a sign of intellectual restraint—if not maturity—or simply good sense, it is now considered a shortcoming. The perceived failure of a positivist outlook has made historical analysis an extremely messy enterprise. Doing history in the postmodern age conjures up images of blind men and women running barefoot and backwards through epistemological minefields. The prospects of negotiating so dangerous an area dulls the appetite for lively description and confident writing. Thick and flowing narrative once

Recovering and Invoking an Idealized Islamic Past

19

informed by an intimate acquaintance with sources has given way to fine-tooling methods of analysis as historians of the Near East scurry about in search of conceptual order. Invoking a skepticism that has penetrated other fields of the humanities, there are scholars who talk endlessly of historical processes and/or the limits of interpretation, as if it were impossible to demand a detailed and informed picture of a Near Eastern past and its effect on contemporaneous events. Men of genuine learning can shape the ambiguities of human experience into elegant, if artificially knit schemes. However, not all histories generate the kind of data with which to build ornate models, and not all historians have the substantive learning and conceptual skills to make use of, let alone formulate, theories that can apply to a wide spectrum of Near Eastern events past and present. The conceptions and models used by many modern scholars of the region are often derivative and not always suited to the local culture. Similarly, the attempts of imaginative social scientists to explain Near Eastern societies are frequently marred by a shocking ignorance of languages and textual traditions, the keys to understanding the extraordinarily rich and complex past of the region. We should be clear about rummaging through the Arabic sources to formulate theory or construct models of the past. In that scholarly enterprise, the use of extant sources does not suggest a theory or model, rather they are cherry-picked to buttress overarching conceptions that are often preconceived and in need of some semblance of textual support to gain authority. For even in today’s atmosphere of relaxed scholarly standards and cost-conscious academic publishers, footnotes still retain symbolic importance. It may of course be true that in specific instances, various data may reflect aspects of a genuine Near Eastern past, and that past might be used to illumine more recent events, but what are the criteria to make such determinations? The rummagers rarely pose questions about evidence with seriousness, let alone with a specific method in mind. The operative premise of hunt and peck history seems to be, if the data fit, employ them as required. It is as though the rummagers’ paradigms of Near Eastern history reflect a language with no weak verbs or exceptions to general rules of grammar. At times, these reconstructions of the past serve as the foundation of highly imaginative templates that explain an opaque history of times gone by as well as the influence of those times on a ubiquitous Near Eastern present. We would be mistaken to think that these discussions linked to theory and the analytical framework that they generate for understanding present events are models of clarity. Doubt as to the historicity of our sources may create a need for clear thought, but the search for answers to difficult questions often gives rise to increasing abstraction, made all the more abstract, or so would seem, by language that compresses ideas into dense technical terms. The prose of some theory seekers tends to collapse meaning rather than sharpen understanding. Still, they and the rummagers who represent different backgrounds, different interests, and, not the least, varying degrees of talent, are quite serious about their work. One would have to concede that the more reflective and able of these historians and social scientists have raised many interesting questions about pre-Islamic and early Islamic influences on the formation of Islamic thought and institutions, including those of modern times. This is certainly true as regards the politics of social organization, and, more specifically, the interrelationship of religious and ruling elites—questions deemed most relevant with current interest focused so

20

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

sharply on social history. Because of their broad scope, these questions are likely to engage us for some time. There is nevertheless the danger that questions, however elegantly put, and the answers they occasion, however artfully conceived, may be more than our fragile sources are capable of bearing. In this respect, the sophisticated musings of some modern historians and the models of human behavior they employ may be no less tendentious and politically driven than the discredited narratives of their pre-modern analogs. Some scholars, seemingly overwhelmed by the nature of Arabic historiography, and taxed by linguistic demands, have embraced antiseptic analytical frameworks that leave them much less dependent on the written word. There would seem to be an inverse relationship between the volume and complexity of the textual evidence that these scholars cite and the dramatic claims that they trumpet. For example, a celebrated historian suggested, I hope whimsically (but I fear not) that satellite imaging subjected to scientific analysis might determine traces of excreta from pack animals, and that traces of these droppings might reveal patterns of Near Eastern trade routes. Whether or not this is possible or how scientists might distinguish between ancient, medieval, or modern excreta did not enter into the discussion as I remember it. In any case, it is difficult to imagine, punning aside, that such raw data could be analyzed for historiographical purposes without a general framework dependent on literary sources. Other scholars, exercising extreme caution, have opted to withdraw altogether from studying the history of the first Islamic centuries. They favor, instead, safer periods marked by less troublesome documentation—that is, periods where there are what they consider reliable chronicles, if not also archival materials. This choice, while understandable, is also worrisome. Given the importance of the first four Islamic centuries to later developments, including those of modern times, we do the historical traditions, the discipline, and ourselves no justice by declining to do research rooted in early historical writings. To the contrary, historians can learn much about state and society past and present from these accounts if they are willing to shift the initial focus of their investigation. Rather than start with recorded events as if they boldly represent and/or misrepresent actual states of the past, scholars would do better to focus on the intricate process by which events were perceived and then recorded for political, or if one prefers, ideological ends. In this sense, retrieving the past from Arabic historiography is to retrieve officially sanctioned views—not history as it was (as if that is ever attainable, except in the very narrowest and broadest sense)—but history as it was likely to have been understood by historians and their audiences over generations. Yet in doing this kind of Islamic history, that is, seeking to recover official views, one can never quite escape grappling with historical memories of a past that might have been. Contrived as they are, the earlier Arabic historical traditions and their later versions are not always, or entirely, without reference to historical realities. Even when an Arabic account gives every indication of being fanciful, there may be beneath the storyline some allusion, however faint at times, to actual events deeply embedded in the historical memory of Near Eastern peoples. Paradoxically, this pastiche of fact and fiction can be as real as reality itself because contemporaries and subsequent generations of Muslims have accepted these accounts as certifiable truths. As a result, highly imaginative descriptions of the past have

Recovering and Invoking an Idealized Islamic Past

21

influenced directly the course of later events in the region. Indeed, this manipulation of historical memory continues to dominate consciousness and behavior in today’s Near East. The following pages will record any number of instances in which the residual effects of a received past have influenced and continue to influence decisions of contemporary actors. The manner in which Muslim apologists transform reality into an idealized view of history is, therefore, a rather appropriate question for historians of the modern as well as pre-modern Near East. We are obliged to ask if and how residual elements of an elusive reality can be extracted from the propaganda in which they are embedded. Suffice it to say, when the complicated process of transforming events into idealized happenings is better understood, historians will be able to speculate in a more informed manner about a dimly understood past as well as the influence of that past on a complex present and politically uncertain future. The starting point of any scholarly investigation is the tale itself. I refer here to extended narratives rather than detailed lists of eponymous ancestors. As a rule, apologists for various political factions did not invent traditions out of whole cloth. They preferred instead to authenticate their writing by weaving strands of historical fact into a larger fabric of their own making. In this fashion, they legitimized their creations by invoking historical memories still vivid among the faithful. For Muslims, precedent was and continues to be a powerful guide for political thought and behavior. There is, what I would label, a point of disturbance in each text. That is, a point at which the apologist, ever conscious of their patron’s image, finds it expedient to promote the latter’s accomplishments and, when necessary, alter unflattering realities. Attention is focused on juxtaposing contemporary events with earlier times, as the apologist justifying the present is obliged to search the past for inspiration, guidance, and, above all, evidence of their patron’s legitimacy. Conversely, it is necessary to indict political opponents and would-be opponents—this too based on evidence derived from memories of the past. Where historical realities were less than kind and patrons were lacking or even culpable, there is a need to exercise damage control and embellish details of an older tradition to obtain a more favorable historic verdict. Because of all this literary activity, even the more apologetic traditions are sprinkled with historical allusions. Informed contemporaries would have recognized these allusions. Some were eyewitnesses to the events in question; others might have learned of them through direct informants. In any case, given their detailed knowledge of the past, they and those who followed immediately after them were likely to have understood the intricate design of the apologist’s argument. Indeed, the coherence of an account may have depended entirely on understanding vague references to circumstances and personalities deftly embedded in accounts for the benefit of knowledgeable readers. Historians still clinging to a positivist outlook will find less comfort than meets the eye in this linkage between apologetics and history. There is no easy access here to the events of the past. Texts may contain references to authentic circumstances, but the link between the author’s message and the remembrance of things past can be extremely elusive. The author and the earliest generation of readers (or, in certain cases, the speaker and listeners) were partners in the original act of creating historical memory. The better-preserved authors more or less remain in the form of extant works that grace our manuscript collections or editions of

22

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

texts that fill the shelves of better-equipped libraries, but the author’s contemporaries have been replaced by others, who quite naturally, are less informed regarding the particulars of the discourse. Events clearly etched in the collective memory of early Muslims have become less familiar with each passing generation. Confronting earlier Islamic traditions, later readers, clever and learned though they were, might not have grasped the broad meaning of the author’s message, for want of access to the fine detail. To be sure, the same holds true for non-Muslim histories of Near Eastern peoples and of historians plying their craft today. If we allow our imagination to wander, we can envision a puzzled scholar a thousand years from now attempting to analyze a partially edited script of political cabaret not performed for a millennium. Or we might picture the historian of a future generation trying to contextualize a satiric editorial or, worse yet, a political cartoon, in each case without access to topical information. In these hypothetical situations, the historian’s tasks are formidable because satire, like apologetics, utilizes a language of multiple references, meanings, and ironies. This is precisely the kind of discourse diluted by fading memory. How then can we trace the relationship between earlier historians and their long-lost audience, and with that a more complete picture of the residual influence of these early narratives on the later reception of texts? If one cannot recover the relationship between author and audience, what is left to be said for rediscovering officially sanctioned views, the initial and rather limited objective of our inquiry? Some historians of the Near East, especially those who have flirted with modern literary criticism and have become true citizens of the postmodern age, may find even this kind of restricted inquiry too problematic and the objective not at all attainable. The concern with the intentions of earlier writers and the response that these writers elicited from contemporaneous audiences may strike those modern historians as chasing whiffs of smoke—intentionality having been declared a non-starter in a world of decentered and hence, for current historians and even earlier readers, texts ultimately judged unknowable. From this perspective, texts are merely language, and history is simply wordplay. Even if one were to reject the view that all attempts at recovering intention are fallacious, a problem would remain for those embracing the approach I have suggested. Having declared unattainable the detailed recovery of the historic past and having preferred instead a safer kind of research and analysis that retrieves officially sanctioned views, we trap ourselves in a heuristic snare of our own making. By our admission, the most that we can safely recover of the past is the outlook of the apologist/historian, but to recover idealized views in any depth, we are compelled to recover, as well, points of reference reflecting events that may themselves be beyond recovery. Simply put, we need the so-called facts of history to determine a literary context, but without that context, there is no framework for getting at the facts. Certain historical texts always seem to us beyond understanding. At which stage of inquiry can we then safely proceed with the analysis of “historical” data? Indeed, do we have a safe point of entry into any mode of historical analysis? Invoking an expression made famous by the historian Jack Hexter, when do we have license to “Do History”?1 To throw up our hands in despair and then declare that all of history or, rather, all writing about history is mere language, strikes me as being intellectually precious. Worse yet, by robbing us of our capacity to make decisive observations about a real

Recovering and Invoking an Idealized Islamic Past

23

past, such pronouncements about history and language have the potential of being morally obscene. Responsible historians as citizens of a larger civil society have an obligation to seek informed judgments about events and protagonists of a distant past, especially when resonances of that past dictate individual and group actions in the present. The uses and misuses of historical memory in the medieval and modern Near East are a case in point and therefore a source of serious inquiry in the essays that follow.

Historiographical Approaches to Historical Memories: Early Islam What if we were to look at the religious and dynastic struggles depicted by the early Arabic chroniclers as historically rooted, and not mere linguistic play? Might the broadest description of these events, firmly etched in historical memories, serve our investigation as touchstones or useful points of departure to combine with a literary analysis of texts? It often requires a leap of faith, but given the barest historical framework and enough variant sources, one may sometimes sense the basis of the apologist’s intentions and the contemporaneous issues that inform the author’s writing. What is required is educated conjecture and a sensitivity to narrative strategy. A sustained effort to explicate what may seem at first superfluous detail or stylistic ornamentation may at times reveal the way in which the author combines various elements of narrative to form a cohesive text. This is not to say that recovering the design of an account is easy, if it is at all possible. Even the surface meaning of a text can be elusive, because rarely does the medieval Arabic chronicler tell his story in an extended linear narrative that progresses coherently in time. The larger narrative usually frames a series of disjointed and highly anecdotal segments, brief items that may range from a few lines to a page or even several pages. The shorter statements can be particularly difficult to contextualize, and without an established context there is little that can be done to tease meaning from the written sources. Determining the design of an individual account can therefore become rather complicated even for readers gifted with philological skills and an acute literary sensitivity. Even when the design of the larger text seems evident, authorial intention can still prove extremely elusive. One can at times sense the tension of an author torn between artistic sensibilities and his political assignment. There are occasions when the temptation to turn a phrase, employ titillating imagery, or work within established literary conventions may simply overwhelm the author’s need to express their case and that of their patron effectively. Not every detail in the historical traditions can be ascribed to the subtle construction of political or religious propaganda. When at times the text appears overly ornate or marked by extensive digressions, the design may be literary and not tied to political concerns. Often the ability to see through walls is required when analyzing opaque historical traditions. There is, nevertheless, the danger that some highly imaginative readers will create walls where none exist, in order that they might penetrate them in search of a higher truth, a kind of reading known to modern as well as medieval readers. Such readers are more likely to misrepresent the author’s intentions.

24

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

Also obscuring authorial intention is the fact that the very author who felt the need to embellish their text for artistic purposes may have deliberately exercised restraint in detailing their political message. This self-imposed restraint may seem odd, but in addressing the reader, the apologist/author had to avoid excessive boldness. By invoking the obvious argument in support of their position, they would have immediately revealed their intention and alerted the audience to their deliberately partisan stance. That might make those not yet converted to their point of view suspicious. A transparent strategy was likely to compromise their objective: the embrace of a particular point of view; the certification of a particular regime or would-be regime; and, more specifically, the legitimization of a particular ruler or would-be ruler. Therefore, the author, ever so conscious of their audience—particularly of their more literate audience—preferred a less direct mode of discourse. They held back explication and merely directed the reader to a given position. Leaving behind traces of a subtle pattern woven into the text, the author relied on an inquisitive reader to discover the traces, make the necessary connections, and reconstruct the broader design that explains the central meaning of the account. For the author to have done more would have called the text itself into question and reduced the likelihood of its being accepted by readers valuing skepticism and intellectual independence. In effect, the argument gave the outward impression of being authentic because the author’s perspective was understated. The author encouraged the reader to combine historical memory with close readings of the text in order to discover the truth for themselves. Upon discovering the truth in this fashion, the reader, filled with intellectual triumph, was likely to abandon skepticism and defend the author’s view. In such fashion, the success of the argument depends on the economy with which the apologist argues their case.2 Viewing the same account, modern readers who know decidedly less of the context may be confused by the author’s strategy, for the apologist’s use of an indirect mode of discourse is likely to obscure for modern readers the message that had been so subtly implanted in the narrative. The same held true for generations of pre-modern Muslims who were removed from the events in question. Without adequate clues to reconstruct the internal logic of the argument, readers might very well regard such an account as another vague anecdote, a story valued more for its charm than for its importance as a mirror of times past. In that case, economy of argument leads generally to a breakdown in communication and perhaps even obfuscation. Because retrieving the author’s intention, and with it the original design of the text, requires historian’s past and present to understand something of the response the author expected from their audience, scholars must enter a different age and cultural environment. This will undoubtedly seem strange and difficult at first, particularly as regards current historians. As a rule, modern audiences read quickly and extensively, and so they develop strategies to scan pages and assimilate massive data. The data is all too often filed and forgotten. Duplicate volumes in accessible libraries, the photocopy machine, expanded computer memory, and now the internet, offer easy access to the written word. Paradoxically, this accessibility to the written word may discourage, if not subvert, careful reading. In contrast, traditional Muslims were and are still taught to listen and read with considerable care and to ponder repeatedly passages and accounts. Segments of texts, indeed entire works, were committed to memory through constant review in formal

Recovering and Invoking an Idealized Islamic Past

25

classes and self-study. This second tradition of learning encouraged familiarity with every conceivable nuance, so that when faced with a narrative that seemed to suggest more than actually said, readers invariably opted for the more expansive interpretation. In such fashion, the programmed audience satisfied its curiosity by skillful, if at times overly erudite, interpretations, and the author proved their point without belabored explication. Once having discovered the encoded message that was difficult to decipher, the targeted audiences were not about to admit they had been had, and that it was the game that had forced a change of mind. The reader was not inclined to forfeit the intellectual triumph that was for them both a source of entertainment and the confirmation of a truth discovered. In effect, the apologist induced self-manipulation on the part of a willing partner who was all too clever by half. Historical markers and literary devices were deliberately chosen and artfully embedded in coded language to exploit this cleverness. Words were carefully selected to convey double meanings; apocalyptic visions revealed by stock sage characters telescoped future occurrences that were in reality concealed current events awaiting discovery; mirror images reflected the careers of leading rivals; and there were alphabet acrostics and similar linguistic and literary puzzles. The reading of the text became an intricate game that succeeded in delighting as well as tantalizing players. The more difficult allusions gave rise to greater triumphs of recognition; more tantalizing puzzles resulted in more satisfying solutions; with each successful encounter, the apologist eroded the resistance of a potentially skeptical audience.3 The game depended on the ability of the reader to continue playing while subconsciously following the author’s rules, but in the end, the craft of the author in this literary game eventually overcame the interpretive skills of audiences. Contemporaries retaining established memories of a past, however embellished, could fit the pieces of these puzzles into a coherent whole, but later, less-informed readers often strain to decipher the encoded passages. Even when sensing the author’s strategy, later readers may lack the precise information to deal with an early text. The confusion is not limited to modern historians. The detailed understanding of many accounts was already beyond readers a generation or so removed from the original author. Because historical writing in the Islamic world did not give rise to the type of detailed and continuous written commentary that illuminated Muslim scripture and other religious sources, there was no critical mechanism to preserve contemporary interpretations of historical texts. There was no equivalent to Qur’an commentary, which early on preserved the accumulated wisdom of successive generations. As a result, there was no firm foundation for a subsequent understanding of older traditions. Elements of major historical texts were paraphrased and even slavishly copied in later generations; but in reviewing the older material, historians of each subsequent era made no systematic effort to subject received narratives to extensive literary or historical analysis. To be more precise, they left no known record of any such analysis. Because there was no adequate mechanism for retaining contemporaneous understandings of historical texts, the retrieval of earlier interpretations has become increasingly difficult as generations come and go. Fading historical and even philological memories have led in effect to the creation of new historical texts. For even when the transmitted account remained as scribes carefully copied and reproduced it for new readers, its basic

26

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

meaning could still be altered by interpretations rooted in the experiences of later generations who lost touch with the author’s message. In this sense, images of the past were continuously filtered through contemporary lenses and became distortions of their original meaning. At times, the original text became so obscure as to render all efforts of interpretation problematic. Muslim authors, unwilling to discard opaque traditions altogether, began extensive editing to make them more comprehensible. The more responsible transmitters employed glosses to explain difficulties, while faithfully retaining a language and vocabulary that had grown dim with time. Later authors paraphrased the original to smooth out rough passages. Still others rewrote the accounts, entirely avoiding highly problematic readings. At the more advanced stages of tradition building, earlier formulations, pregnant with nuance that was no longer fathomable, were displaced by simpler exposition. Scripters jettisoned important information previously conveyed through subtle expression, a sacrifice to the desire for a more felicitous style and, above all, the need for a structural conciseness that made for easier understanding. These editorial changes make it even more difficult for modern historians to recover the original meaning of the pre-modern text, for they provide less-informed readers with an easy way out. Faced with an account at each end of the chronological spectrum, an obscure older text and a more recent account that is more or less fathomable, readers invariably opt for the text they can comprehend.4 This process of transmission reminds me of a game played by schoolchildren in varied cultural settings. Interestingly enough, French-speaking Lebanese expatriates call the game “Téléphone Arabe.” The leader records an anecdote in writing, and then whispers the text into the ear of a student. The latter then relates it verbatim to a second child. The chain of transmission continues until all assembled have finished relating the story. When the oral process is complete, the last recipient has the responsibility of writing down the anecdote. Despite various controls built into the game, two very dissimilar stories always seem to emerge, and where there is a likeness between the first and last versions, there is invariably confusion of detail. Keep in mind that this game is played by individuals all the same age, with the same general cultural background and, broadly speaking, similar historical experiences. One can imagine what changes are likely to occur if, using the same story, the game was to be played by children reflecting different ages and geographical regions and, beyond that, children experiencing reality in different ways. Such a system of communication has built into it the seeds of its own destruction. If class size had no prescribed limit and the game continued endlessly, the retelling of the anecdote would ultimately result in a completely different tale and perhaps the beginning of an entirely new tradition. How, then, do modern historians unpack the layers of difficult tales that have been told and retold in varied environments and changing circumstances? To put the question somewhat differently, how might they differentiate the parallel, divergent, and often competing narratives of early Arabic historiography, or for that matter the interpretive accretions of later Muslim authors and readers? Without access to the individual accounts that together make up the sum of any tradition, the recovery of events and points of view rooted in place and time becomes very difficult, if not impossible. As these texts also have a way of influencing current thought and action in

Recovering and Invoking an Idealized Islamic Past

27

the Islamic Near East, scholars who write of contemporary events are obliged to grapple with how these texts were, and are now perceived.

Establishing the Stratigraphy of the Text: Early Historical Writing Borrowing a term from archaeology, one may refer to the identification and recovery of discrete textual layers as establishing the stratigraphy of the text. It may seem odd to compare the unpacking of Arabic historical traditions with archaeological fieldwork, but, in a manner of speaking, the objectives and methods of both disciplines are very much the same. Meticulously weighing evidence keyed to established chronological markers, trained archaeologists sift through multiple layers of rubble to retrace the outlines and then fine detail of sites long lost or, at best, dimly reflected in the consciousness of later generations. In similar fashion, historians of the Islamic Near East try to impose chronological order on repositories of accumulated literary material, a scholarly enterprise known as source criticism. Source criticism, like modern archaeology, became a subject of genuine scientific concern in the nineteenth century, a period when orientalists mastered several related disciplines. As it were, Islamology and, in particular, the understanding of Arabic historical traditions, was very much influenced by biblical studies. Julius Wellhausen, one of the more reflective Arabists of that learned age, is best known for his remarkable attempt to recover the literary strata of Hebrew scripture. His scholarly enterprise fired the imagination of Biblicists and Islamicists alike.5 Confident of their intellectual bearings, Wellhausen’s associates produced the rainbow, or polychrome bible, in which the Hebrew text was color-coded to represent the different strands that comprise the Pentateuch, the traditional Five Books of Moses. Some scholars added the Book of Joshua to the mix, and thus referred to the Hexateuch. In such fashion, fragments of passages and even words were torn out of context and highlighted in bright pastel shades to indicate discrete and very different literary–historical traditions: J(ahwist), E(lohist), D(euteronomist), and P(riestly). However, as source-critical scholars in many disciplines have since discovered, the search for a documentary hypothesis able to explain all textual sequences is bound to be elusive, if not unattainable. In the end, the rainbow bible proved to be a triumph of graphic illustration; less so a verifiable scientific achievement with regard to every sequence of words and passages cited. The conceptual foundations of the documentary hypothesis were sound, and the typology of sources explained the composition of large segments of the Hebrew text, but the color pattern of the polychrome Bible has since given way to more refined patterns of textual layering. Only those invested in the unicity of God’s revelation doubt that Hebrew scripture consists of disparate literary traditions, shaped in different periods by different hands, and by very different historic situations. The precise dating and provenance of specific literary sites remain, nevertheless, a source of heated debate within the source-critical community.6 Sorting out distinct traditions from the larger corpus of Arabic historical writing, also an objective of Wellhausen and his successors, has proved no less a challenge. Seeking to break down the composite picture of Muslim historiography and recover the

28

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

early Islamic past, nineteenth- and twentieth-century orientalists chose as their point of departure the retrieval of an early and highly diverse historiographical tradition. They sought to recover remnants of historical sources preserved by the great chroniclers of the third century ah . As if complying with a literary version of Gresham’s law, historians of the third Islamic century absorbed and then displaced the historiography of the previous century. In similar fashion, second-century purveyors of earlier historical literature absorbed and displaced a hundred years of tribal histories and other oral and written materials. In the course of time, only remnants or echoes of the earlier historiography remained, either fragments preserved in the later chronicles or merely references to titles and authors that found their way into biographical works and bibliographical encyclopedias. For Wellhausen and other scholars, the key to sorting out and classifying the preserved remnants was establishing the provenance of the original enterprise. After identifying the early transmitters, whose names are mentioned in chains of authority (isnad) preceding the individual accounts, the orientalists linked them to proposed schools of historical writing based in Iraq and the Hijaz, two major centers of religious and political activity. These schools—actually loose networks of scholars— were said to represent distinct perspectives on events that shaped an evolving Islamic state and society. When considering the historicity of a given account, the orientalists generally preferred the Hijazis of Arabia. The Iraqi transmitters were thought more biased, more flawed by improbable chronologies, and more given to tall tales of a legendary nature. In theory, then, one had only to identify the provenance of a given account to determine the likelihood of its accuracy. The consistency with which these so-called schools portrayed a particular view of history, has thus far defied detailed analysis. Given the limited sources then available, modern scholars could not interrogate a large range of individual accounts, and so they could not examine more closely the sum of the parts. Nor could they establish an analytical framework to apply to early Arabic historiography and its later permutations. In addition, they do not appear to have been sufficiently attentive to the very process by which historical materials were likely to have been collated and edited. In the end, the orientalists arrived at a schematic picture of competing regional narratives, each roughly consistent with its own declared position. A more recent and systematic treatment of the same sources and of early Islamic historiography in general has occasioned a revisionist stance that questions the very existence of Hijazi and Iraqi “schools,” if by school we mean groups of transmitters working more or less in tandem and over a period of time to produce a uniform perspective. A current generation of scholars revisiting the early sources has not found that either the aforementioned transmitters or the later receptors who preserve their work, sanitized presentations of the past to make them entirely consistent with identifiable positions.7 Allegedly biased chronicles present accounts that can be understood as promoting opposing views. That should not be surprising. We are speaking of literary culture in which Muslim scripters venerated the written word, treated individual texts with great deference, and, some might say, quoted them to excess over many generations. The formidable historian Tabari (d. 923 CE) was valued not for the acuity of his observations, or for having his own authentic voice, but for his extraordinary learning, as reflected by

Recovering and Invoking an Idealized Islamic Past

29

the extensive materials that he cited, often in multiple and conflicting versions. Indeed, few if any of the great chroniclers of the third and fourth centuries display an open and identifiable bias at the expense of all other points of view, save championing the cause of Islam. The same inclusiveness applied, or so it would seem, for second-century compilers of historical traditions. As best we can judge, the material that they transmitted was a composite of highly diverse accounts reflecting very different perspectives. Even Ibn Ishaq’s biography of the Prophet, a major work commissioned to legitimize the claims of the ruling Abbasid dynasty, features occasional traditions that seemingly favor his patrons’ opponents.8 No doubt, certain historians had political and/or religious inclinations, and others saw their views shaped by a desire for patronage. However, contrary to some accepted views, rarely do these preferences reflect systemic interference with drawing a broadly based picture of the past. Scholars need to be aware that 100 years is a very long time in the formation of any historiographical tradition, even in the formative period of Islam. All evidence aside, it simply does not seem conceivable that a school of historical writing, if indeed any did exist, could have remained consistent in its portrayal and interpretation of events over so protracted a period. The historiographical enterprise would have demanded periodic reassessments of the past based on emerging realities. That would have held true especially if there were schools of historical writing linked to evolving political concerns. Reassessments of the past would have been bound to appear in individual accounts freshly minted but also doctored earlier reports and inclusive traditions. The second Islamic century, much like the first, was a time of considerable political upheaval, socioeconomic tension, and ideological ferment. Traces of that tension, upheaval, and ferment would surely have percolated into a historiographical tradition that was bound to resonate ever so powerfully to the changing mood of the times. Any response to evolving circumstances would have complicated the efforts of current historians to retrace the past. Schools or no schools, sifting out evidence of historical developments in a diffuse literature preserved largely in a fragmentary form and without a tightly established chronology remains, despite the heroic efforts of Wellhausen and others, a highly problematic endeavor. Any prospect of sorting out the chronology of these texts and recovering traces of the past—or, preferring a safer formulation, recovering the historical outlook of a particular time and place—brings us back to the individual strands that together make up composite accounts that preserve historical memory. These individual strands are difficult to assess, because we still lack techniques with which to glean them from the extensive accounts in which they are embedded. The early chroniclers employed isnads or chains of transmitters to set apart individual accounts, but they did not develop a hermeneutic system to differentiate or otherwise evaluate the literary strata. Nor do our sources seem capable of yielding such a system, even to the most imaginative modern readers. Since literary scholars rarely have at their disposal definitive chronological indicators, such as those that guide the analysis of material culture (e.g. shards, coins, inscriptions, and the like), what evidence should they look for to establish the origin and setting of any particular tradition? On what basis can they proceed with dating and otherwise analyzing the literary material, the most abundant evidence from and of the past?

30

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

Linguistic and Philological Criteria Our first inclination might be to sort out texts according to linguistic criteria. Because language tends to change quickly, in theory, we must consider the text itself a potential marker of time. However, even if historians of the current generation have the requisite training in formal linguistics and Arabic philology, their path to uncovering the chronological layering of texts based on linguistic usage alone would be treacherous. They would have to account for the continuous and sustained influence of classical Arabic. Privileged by scripture and its need for commentary, the classical language became the preferred vehicle for expressing learned views. As regards literary production, classical Arabic withstood the challenge of local dialects, retaining as it did many of its linguistic peculiarities. That it did for an extended period of time and over a significant geographical landscape.9 On the basis of morphology, syntax, and, generally speaking, dialectical variation, even the most competent historians would be hard pressed to distinguish, for example, a seventh-century Syrian text from an early ninth-century Iraqi account, let alone two sources more closely linked by chronology and region. Philologists may be on firmer ground. In principle, the study of changes in technical vocabulary should yield representative chronological markers. Scholars might then differentiate the dates of accounts by identifying specific technical terms locked in time. Here, too, the historian-cum-philologist faces formidable problems. Although we possess enormously detailed medieval dictionaries and a number of highly specialized lexicons, tracing the path of Arabic words and expressions can be exceedingly vexing. Arabists lack a historical dictionary with a detailed philological history of each entry and representative illustrations of evolving usage. Even the most learned and experienced Arabists find many medieval words and expressions all too obscure. That is hardly surprising; the early literature of Islam contains technical terms not understood fully, if at all, by the next generation of Muslim scholars, including luminaries who avidly embraced the material of their immediate intellectual forebears. At times, the glosses in Ibn Hisham’s recension of Muhammad b. Ishaq’s biography of the Prophet leave the modern reader as mystified as Ibn Hisham must have been upon reading difficult passages in the original version, a work completed a scant seventy years before Ibn Hisham’s death (ca. 825 CE). Fortunately, Ibn Hisham is wont to preserve large segments of older texts, including obscure vocabulary and opaque phrases not fully understood by himself and his contemporaries. Later medieval authors were not always so inclined to retain words and expressions that were no longer fathomable. Instead, they edited the original version to produce a more readable text for their audiences. It is evident, even at first glance, that the opening volumes of Ibn al-Athir’s thirteenthcentury chronicle rely heavily on the annals of Tabari, a history written some 300 years earlier. Indeed, when reporting the events of the first Islamic centuries, Ibn al-Athir’s Kamil seems largely an abridged version of his famous predecessor’s Ta’rikh, albeit a version that has been abridged with considerable artistry. At the risk of being sacrosanct, one might suggest that, from a literary perspective, the later work might be considered an improvement over Tabari’s massive opus. The elegance of Ibn al-Athir’s editing makes his paraphrase of the original more delightful to read and certainly easier to

Recovering and Invoking an Idealized Islamic Past

31

digest. Be that as it may, readers seeking clarity from Ibn al-Athir, particularly as regards opaque words and passages in Tabari’s rich text, will find no consolation. Where the readings in the older source tend to be problematic, Ibn al-Athir deftly excises them from his narrative and then splices his text together leaving no visible seams. This pattern of omitting difficult passages and words is consistent enough to suggest that like his modern counterpart, our learned thirteenth-century author is occasionally baffled by Tabari’s specific use of words and phrases—and Ibn al-Athir was a formidable lexicographer.10 In the best of circumstances, historians relying almost exclusively on literary sources are hard-pressed to recognize many technical terms, let alone ferret out their precise meaning, for such terms are often identical with words commonly in use. Compared to other Near Eastern languages, Arabic features an expansive vocabulary whose individual items generally reflect a wide semantic field. Hence, there is the pithy expression that every Arabic word has at least four basic meanings: the conventionally accepted meaning; the opposite; something related to a curse or a blessing; and last, but certainly not least, something that is somehow linked to a species of camel or its anatomy. Although intended as a humorous quip, this statement and variations thereof trumpet an undeniable truth: the richness of classical Arabic, a language made even richer, so the comment suggests, by the multiplicity of terms linked to numerous types of camels and a never-ending need for more elaborate ways with which to praise friends and defame enemies. Humor aside, the aforementioned statement reflects a noteworthy reality, namely, the notable elasticity of many frequently used words. Current historians seeking a vocabulary with which to mark the approximate dates of literary accounts can sometimes sense when a word thought to be familiar masks a forgotten technical term. However, given the current state of Arabic lexicography, dictionaries may not confirm that intuitive reading. Even the great lexicons of the Middle Ages may prove no benefit when we suspect, based on a particular context, that a commonly used term is freighted with precise meaning that has been lost with time. The gap between the historian’s working vocabulary and the wide range of meanings that would be attributed to so many words were we able to place them in more specific contexts is probably far greater than suspected. These observations about lost meaning are not entirely conjectural. The elasticity of technical terms in Arabic is amply illustrated by evidence from the Cairo Geniza, a treasure trove of written material dated somewhat later than the aforementioned sources. The vast majority of the Geniza items are from the eleventh through the thirteenth centuries ce .11 Unlike the early literary texts utilized by historians, the Geniza materials, some 250,000 pieces in all, include thousands of documents and fragments of documents, and a vast array of letters. The individual items are often dated or datable. Were that not bounty enough, the handwriting of individual scribes and prominent writers is also identifiable. Moreover, the material is linked to specific locations throughout the Mediterranean and beyond. The Geniza records thus allow us to reconstruct the daily life of numerous types of people and areas of settlement, ranging from the grandees of Jewish society to the wretched poor, and from villages and small towns to the largest metropolitan centers. This unique and carefully researched body of material confirms that various technical terms, retained over generations and

32

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

even centuries, reflected rather different meanings at particular locations and moments of time. The Geniza also allows us to trace entirely new technical terms according to chronology and region. Checked and cross-checked, these documents of daily life reveal as well that at given times, seemingly discrete terms were in fact interchangeable; thus, clearing away much confusion as regards the function of specific institutions and the identity of various kinds of public servants. Unlike the Arabic dictionaries, the texts discovered in Cairo enable us to establish more precisely the place, time, and shelf life of specific terms, particularly those related to the communal organization and economy of contemporaneous Jewish society and its host environment. But the world of the Geniza and its operative language, which modern scholars label Judeo–Arabic, and describe as a form of middle, rather than classical, Arabic,12 are 200 years and more removed from the formative period of Islam. Even if Arabists were to discover the equivalent of a Geniza for the formative period of Islamic civilization, and, related to that, a comprehensive historical dictionary of Arabic words and usage—not a likely convergence of circumstances—they would still be unable to differentiate historical traditions by technical vocabulary alone. Linguistics and a narrowly defined form of philology have their obvious uses. However, Arabists need a more broadly based combination of criteria for establishing the chronology of problematic sources. The analysis of multilayered accounts preserving different versions of a single episode should be closely pegged, wherever and whenever possible, to some historical event or series of events that can be safely dated. As with shards obtained from an archaeological dig carefully planned and meticulously carried out, the allusions to datable historic moments are the chronological markers of choice. At the least, such allusions should indicate the earliest possible date of the last known recension. However vague, identifiable references to later historic moments or institutional developments in a text that purports to describe earlier events or institutions, are clear signs that in its present form, at least, the variant is a literary invention of a period subsequent to that described. But as in archaeological trenching, determining context can become an exceedingly dicey business. The cautious scholar soon learns that various texts may be without neatly positioned chronological markers. There may be no convenient references to salient historical developments, and when references to states of the past are recorded, the references to specific events may be so vague as to be beyond recognition. In addition, the accounts that represent individual literary strata may themselves combine several versions, at times even forming a text within a text. When an alleged eyewitness to an event testifies about a historical occurrence beyond his or her experiential range, it does not necessarily follow that the whole account is an invented construction of a later time. Writers embellishing particular episodes graft material or conflate versions that in all other respects may be authentic in portraying historical detail. Even the most contrived reports may contain the kernel of a historical truth. A text that appears highly embellished invites broad skepticism as a matter of course, but later accretions are not, in and of themselves, sufficient reason to deny the basic historicity of any account. As with archaeologists trained to distinguish between intrusive deposits and the genuine artifacts of earlier levels, learned and discerning readers can often spot the added material and sort out the original elements from the larger whole. The more

Recovering and Invoking an Idealized Islamic Past

33

variants at the scholar’s disposal, the greater the odds of successfully drawing an accurate cross section of the literary strata. The more outrageous the invented claim, the more likely it is that historians will identify the intrusion. No one would give credence to an account in which the Prophet’s warriors celebrated victory by firing their guns into the air, a tradition characteristic of more modern Arab armies and weapons. However, back-projections are often not identified as easily as is this imagined victory celebration. Our knowledge of particular events and the development of specific institutions may be lacking. Some moments of history are described in singular accounts and therefore cannot be checked against other versions. At times, several variants have been fused into accounts so unique that they simply defy separation by any known means of analysis. In such fused texts, the recovery of the individual levels is likely to be largely, if not entirely, a matter of conjecture. Descriptions of the rise of Islam, the Arab conquests, and the formation of the Islamic state, all major occurrences of the earliest period, and all cited throughout the subsequent course of Islamic history, including current times, have been particularly difficult to sort out.13 Prudence may dictate that some sources be set aside or, at best, discussed only with great circumspection. That is, until their parts can be distinguished from one another. Such caution may prove frustrating to scholars with bold inclinations toward broad interpretation. As a rule, historians searching for traces of events and institutions would be wise to recall what archaeologists have long known, namely, that there are circumstances when rubbish discovered at a site is simply rubbish and not a guide for establishing stratigraphy. In their quest for historical markers with which to flag specific variants, scholars may be forced to look for more than references to events and institutions.

Doctrinal Thrust as a Chronological Marker Because much of the historical literature has always been linked to apologetic discourse or polemics, traces of ideological positions may identify the time and place of individual accounts. When later doctrinal formulations give coherence to an “early” text that otherwise cannot be explicated, one may surmise that this version is the product of a subsequent age and later circumstances. Still, here, too, historians should be wary before embracing their “evidence.” As with references to historical events and institutions, doctrinal context can be misleading. Ideological positions are not always aired in discrete sequences of claims and counterclaims. To the contrary, they often overlap and address concurrently divergent audiences. There were moments when the battle for the hearts and minds of the faithful required more than a single historic claim, as indeed it required more than a single method of argumentation. The constituencies to be won over were too variegated to be wooed with one idea, however powerful, and one strategy however well-conceived and executed. In any case, the intrusion of later doctrine in what otherwise appear to be early settings does not necessarily signify that the entire account reflects a later authorial voice. Genuine formulations of a later time can be grafted onto reports that stem from an earlier period, a literary phenomenon common to narratives describing more narrowly defined political events

34

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

and institutions. Moreover, ideas, like institutions, have precursors. Without establishing the precise setting of a particular account, it is sometimes difficult to ascertain which referent draws our attention, the concept that originated in the past or a more recent formulation in which it is mirrored.14 How, then, are we to match ideas and the language in which ideas were conceived and expressed to moments that can be more or less fixed in time? For without proper sensitivity to the subtle differences in the way narratives are reported amidst changing conditions, even the most skilled readers will have trouble imposing order on ideas of the past and their influence on contemporaneous events. Again, the past for us is not a detailed description of political history as it was but the process by which political events were recorded by apologists for the benefit of targeted audiences. Is there then a marked point of entry into the highly complicated discourse of apologetics? Were modern historians better informed of the path by which political and religious propaganda entered the mainstream of early Arabic historiography, perhaps they would feel more confident when tracking doctrinal thrust, synchronically and/or diachronically. Nevertheless, the path that led from apologetics to historiography is extremely elusive. What is suggested in the pages that follow is at best scenarios of what might have been and how memories of that past affected and continue to affect the outlook and behavior of contemporaneous peoples, including those of modern times.

The Modern Historian Where does that leave the modern historian? As a rule, scholars looking to retrieve evidence of the past from a highly resistant Arabic historiography, should seek to employ, wherever and whenever possible, the widest range of interpretive weapons, even if those weapons misfire on occasion. In addition to sorting out various narrative strategies in detailed or general terms, one could add studies of literary forms, salient historical themes, etiologies, topoi, and other potential markers of tendentiously driven accounts. There has been, of late, a renewed interest in early Arabic historiography. Scholars of impressive learning and literary sensibility have returned to the textual sites where Wellhausen and an earlier generation of orientalists attempted to differentiate, classify, and otherwise analyze sources containing echoes of a much sought-after past. The renewed interest in source-critical studies at a time when new materials are being uncovered, promises an interesting future for researching early Arabic historiography and, related to that, recovering traces of the historic past with all that that implies for understanding the present Near East and anticipating the future of the region. We should be aware, however, that new sources and more refined analytical frameworks will merely reduce the gap between current knowledge and what actually happened in a place and time far removed from our own. Regardless of how painstaking and thorough the research, the results will always be problematic. In that sense, those who study earlier periods of Islam, especially the formative centuries, will have to content themselves with approaches that narrow the possibility of egregious error; but that is hardly a small accomplishment. Any trace of historical memory recovered is critical to our understanding of a civilization of extraordinary vibrancy and lasting influence

Recovering and Invoking an Idealized Islamic Past

35

among Muslims and others. As the following essays indicate, the use of historical memory is of vital importance to our understanding of how Muslims of Arab lands and beyond have ordered their world to accommodate the realities of the moment and expectations of the future, both in times past and at present. Take, for example, the subject of the following essay: the myths of martyrdom and rebellion that directly influence events in today’s Near East.

36

2

Myths of Martyrdom and Rebellion: Recalling Muslim Self-Sacrifice and Tribal Virtues of Manliness and Honor

With the rise of Jihadi movements such as al-Qaeda and ISIS (or ISIL), the print and broadcast media of the Western world have presented the public with gripping illustrations of violent acts committed by militant Muslims. These acts are often directed towards non-believers, as in the beheading of a well-known American journalist; to sectarian groups long settled in the Near East, such as the Yazidis; but also towards Muslims who have strayed so far from the righteous path as to be considered kuffar, that is transgressors punishable by death. On occasion, the violence takes the form of suicide missions by a single person or several individuals prepared to embrace martyrdom for what they proclaim is a just cause. The gory pictures of the dead and maimed speak for themselves and with telling effect; but when a particular event calls for an informed explanation, the media attempt to provide expert commentary. In most instances, the so-called experts are unable to situate the contemporary violence, particularly the declared acts of martyrdom, within a historical context that has been long rooted in the collective consciousness of traditional Muslims. As a result, the present actions of martyrs (shahīd pl. shuhada’) who plan certain death for themselves and others draw wide attention, while the very concept of Islamic martyrdom and its permutations throughout the extended course of Islamic history are rarely if ever mentioned. Barely noticed are detailed scholarly discussions, especially of suicide bombings and similar acts; discussions that take place among knowledgeable Islamicists and, most pointedly, among ranking Muslim religious authorities relying on historic precedent to guide the behavior of the Muslim faithful in an increasingly dangerous environment. Faced with the phenomenon of the shahid who straps on a vest of explosives, or drives a car filled with explosive material into a crowded area, Muslim jurists grapple with the fine points of Islamic law. The legal authorities are well aware that suicide per se is forbidden to Muslims. And so, the acts of so-called modern martyrs sacrificing themselves for the sake of the faith and faithful has produced a recent body of religious literature on such matters as the general permissibility of suicide bombings; who may or may not be permitted to undertake such actions; and to what ends. As in earlier periods, this literature often takes the form of a fatwa or legal opinion to a given question. In each case, opinion is based on an intimate knowledge of substantive Islamic law and jurisprudence. Jurists engaging these issues are well informed of 37

38

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

previous Muslim legal opinion prohibiting suicide. Nevertheless, since early Islamic times there has been a grey zone in which martyrdom, seen as an act that might certainly lead to death, is not only permissible, but it is commendable provided that the martyr doesn’t sacrifice himself out of psychological despair but as a conscious effort for the greater benefit of the Muslim faithful.1 The concern here is the historical background of Islamic notions of martyrdom and, more generally, self-sacrifice (istishhad), as they evolved during the formative centuries of Islamic civilization. At question is whether current understandings of what it means to be a martyr are direct parallels to persons and events in the first two Islamic centuries. Put somewhat differently, would the understanding of martyrs and martyrdom in the current Near East have resonated with politically active Muslims in early Islamic times? Simply stated, would the early Muslim community have understood what it means to be a shahid as do Muslims at the present, or for that matter as Muslims came to think of martyrdom at some point during the middle of the eighth-century CE? To restate the question, can todays’ suicide warriors and their like find justification for their actions in the behavior of revered Muslims of the past as they seemingly claim? Any such query invites from the outset comparison with ancient Judaism and Christianity, where martyrdom is equated with bearing witness for a noble cause. For Jews and Christians, the term martyr applies to a person who chooses suffering, even certain death, rather than renouncing their religious faith. The ancient rabbis, who stressed the sanctity of life, even to the point of having to compromise Jewish tradition and law, nevertheless insisted that martyrdom was obligatory in three instances. Rather than be forced to embrace idolatry or violate Jewish laws linked to idolatry, a believer is obligated to choose death. The same holds true for Jews as regards abominable acts, such as incest.2 The prototype of the early Jewish martyr was the woman Hannah who, together with her seven sons, endured torture by pagan Greek sympathizers rather than compromising her Jewish practice. Her poignant story, told in the celebrated book of Maccabees, inspired the outlook of later Christian martyrs under Roman rule—men and women, who like Hannah and her sons, had no means of physically resisting an all-powerful ruling authority. In effect, they went to their deaths remaining passive; their sacrifice bearing witness to the depth of their Christian faith. The same response to malevolent authority applied to Jews in medieval Europe, who testifying to their belief in the God of Israel, reportedly preferred death to abandoning Judaism. In time, martyr came to signify among people of the West, any person put to death or made to suffer greatly for believing in a cause or principle. Ultimately, the definition of martyr was flattened in European languages to include a person who suffers great pain or anguish irrespective of principle, and facetiously for those expressing great anguish in decidedly less dramatic circumstances.

Terminology Similarly, Arabic shahīd has taken on multiple meanings at different moments, reflecting divergent historical situations. As in Greek, Latin, and Syriac, shahīd, the Arabic term now used by Muslims to express martyr, seems originally linked with

Myths of Martyrdom and Rebellion

39

shāhid, both words meaning “witness.” At least that is the primary meaning of shahīd and shāhid as expressed in the earliest Muslim source, the Qur’an. Derivatives of the Arabic root sh-h-d appear more than 100 times in Muslim scripture. In almost every instance, the semantic register of these words is limited to “witness,” “bearing witness,” and by extension “giving evidence.” Thus, God enjoins the prophets of old to enter into a covenant with Him and then says: fa-shhadu wa anna ma‘akum min al-shahidin, “Bear witness and I will bear witness [to that agreement] along with you.” (Qur’an 3:75/81) Similarly, another verse condemns to severe flogging those who hurl charges [of adultery] against [accused] women without supplying four witnesses (shuhada’) and then adds: la taqbulu lahum shahadatan abadan “do not accept their testimony thereafter.” (Qur’an 24:4) Various readers of scripture note that the shuhada’ of an enigmatic verse reflects for them Muslims having engaged in combat. They read shuhada’ to mean “martyrs” or in any case Muslims who have fallen in battle. The verse in question is Qur’an 3:140: “If you have been wounded, a similar wound (qarh) has been inflicted on others [that is the enemy. Know] such are the days when We make for a turn in [human] fortunes. So that God will know those who believe [in Him] and recruit shuhada’ from among the believers. God [in contrast] does not love the blameworthy (al-zalimin).”Muslim Qur’an scholars are all of the opinion that the verse was revealed following the battle of Uhud where Muhammad’s forces suffered heavy casualties, including numerous deaths. Not surprisingly, there are authorities who interpret the verse in light of 3:165–72, a segment of the Qur’an that more directly reflects the events of the disastrous engagement. However, at second glance, the connection between the battlefield deaths at Uhud and the wounded of 3:140 is not so obvious. The term qarh appears only three times in the Qur’an: twice in the aforementioned verse and once in 3:172 where the reference to qarh indicates wounded individuals [seemingly survivors of Uhud] who have gathered to God and His Messenger [presumably to fight once again]. Some exegetes understand qarh in 3:140 as do the scholars who compiled the medieval Arabic dictionaries. That is, they understood qarh to be the equivalent of jirah “wound” [in this instance sustained in battle]. Others, cognizant of the Muslim dead at Uhud, added qatl signifying those slain “following the path (sabil) of God.” The “others” (mithluhum) in 3:140 are understood as a reference to the non-believers killed and captured by the victorious Muslims at the earlier battle of Badr. The turn of fortunes is a reference to the shift from the great Muslim victory at Badr to the calamity of Uhud. All that is part of God’s design to test the true believers among the Muslims so that He will have distinguished them from the blameworthy (zalimin) whom Muslim scholars equate with the hypocrites (munafiqun); that is those who declared themselves believers [among the Prophet’s helpers] but did not truly believe. As regards God recruiting shuhada’ among the believers, many authorities understand that to indicate those Muslims fallen in battle [at Uhud]. Stated most explicitly: God honored His earliest followers with martyrdom at the hands of their enemies. Others simply say that He distinguished between the true believers, those who testified to unicity of God and the legitimacy of the Prophet Muhammad, that is between the shuhada’, and those who are declared hypocrites. The implication is that those who suffered injury at Uhud will rally to the Prophet in the future. Or as Qur’an

40

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

3:172 puts it: Those [Muslims] who answered to God and His Messenger after the wound[s] (qarh) they sustained [at Uhud]; those among them who did what is right and good, they will receive a great reward.” Upon careful reflection, I find no compelling reason to maintain that in juxtaposing the shuhada’ of 3:140 with suffering wounds [while fighting], the Qur’an specifies “martyrs.” That is, if we are to understand martyrdom, not merely as being wounded or more particularly dying in battle, but as seeking probable or certain death for a noble cause. Some modern Muslim translations of the Qur’an seek to have it both ways. One authority translates shuhada’ in 3:140 as those who bear witness (that is to the truth of Islamic belief), but goes on to say in a footnote that the text might be read as God wanted to select some of them so He could bestow upon them the honor of martyrdom. Another combines the two meanings in a single term translating shuhada’ “martyrwitnesses.” Most of the translations I consulted prefer “witnesses.” A single version singles out “martyrs.” If Muslim scripture actually intended shuhada’ to mean martyrs, one would expect the term or some variant of it should appear in the likes of 3:165–72, the series of verses that allude to the Muslim dead at the battle of Uhud. That is, however, not the case. In conclusion, Muslim scripture is at best ambiguous regarding the evolution of istishhad. In which case, the exegetical comments that link the events of the earliest Muslim community with concepts of martyrdom, might very well be back-projections from a later age. Without clear evidence to the contrary, the primary meaning of shuhada’ in Qur’an 3:140 should be linked with the other references to shuhada’ in Muslim scripture, that is to witnesses and more generally to the act of bearing witness. Although shahīd, meaning witness, continues to be the first understanding of premodern Arabic lexicographers, they add, as did their Christian counterparts, a series of rather different meanings. Among them, someone killed in the cause of God’s religion (a rather loose formulation that can apply to many circumstances, including individuals and groups who go passively to certain death such as the Jews and Christians of old, as a testament to their faith). More narrowly, it may refer to a person killed by the unbelievers on the field of battle (a perception that certainly rules out a passive response in defense of Islam). How do Arabic lexicographers explain the shift of meaning among Muslims from witness, as in witnessing a document; giving testimony; or witnessing an event, to declaring a martyr someone who gives their life in defense of the faith in circumstances that may include engaging in holy war against unbelievers or wayward Muslims? Turning to the Arabic root sh-h-d, the great Arabic lexicons of the Middle Ages give no indication that Muslims at the very earliest stages of their history extolled the virtue of going to certain death defending religious or politically-linked religious principles.3 They do attempt to link, however, the concept of “witnessing” to calls for jihad, that is, ritual combat in defense of the faith. Some Arabic scholars lead us to believe that angels were present at [and thus bore witness to] the deeds of shuhada’ [that is, those who died in whatever circumstances defending Islamic interests]; or that the angels were present at the traditional rite of ghusl, the ritual washing of the corpse awaiting burial. Perhaps the intended meaning of the last statement is that the angels actually washed the shahid’s dead body; thus, suggesting an echo of a lively debate among jurists. The

Myths of Martyrdom and Rebellion

41

Muslim legal authorities divide over whether it was necessary to wash the body of a Muslim who died defending Islam. Some scholars held that merely dying in defense of the faith cleansed the body for immediate removal to Paradise.4 The lexicographers also note that angels witnessed the actual removal of the shahid’s body to Paradise [again linking martyr as “witness” to the concept of martyr as one “dying in defense of the faith”]. They also add that the angels will testify on behalf of the martyr so that someone who has given his life fighting for God’s way will be fully entitled to enter Paradise. In all these instances the shahid seemingly appears, not as a witness, but as someone whose meritorious deeds and final fate are witnessed by heavenly beings. Another lexical citation actually combines the two aforementioned senses of martyrdom: bearing witness on the one hand and dying in battle against the unbelievers on the other. It is said that Muslims who die upholding their faith against the unbelievers will be called upon to give testimony along with the Prophet when those who denied God’s prophets in the past [including one assumes those who did battle with the Muslims in Muhammad’s lifetime] are summoned before the heavenly tribunal on the Day of Resurrection. The assumption is that the personal testimony of the shahid will ultimately damn those who have perverted the will of the Almighty. In citing these examples, Arabic lexicographers drew on discussions of “martyrdom” in Qur’anic exegesis, the aforementioned body of oral and written material shaped 100 years and more after the events reflected in Muslim scripture and the rise of the Muslim community. The lexicographers also turned to the vast literature of hadith, pithy statements attributed to the Prophet Muhammad or those who observed his actions. Like much of Qur’anic exegesis, the canonical works of hadith are considered by virtually all Western Islamicists as essentially back-projections that speak more to a contemporaneous moment than the lifetime of the Prophet. That being the case, the previous Muslim comments concerning martyrs and martyrdom are presumably based on later understandings of shahid.5 In time, the sources widened the semantic field of shahid to include, among other Muslims, those who neither gave their lives in some vague defense of Islamic values, nor explicitly died on the field of battle. In such cases, one could achieve martyrdom if one merely asks God for the opportunity to be a martyr and then dies [peacefully] in bed. A pregnant woman who dies before delivering can be considered a martyr, along with those who drown at sea; or perish by fire; or are killed when a house collapses upon them; or die of pleurisy; or perhaps the still-born child (or whatever man mata fi-l-batan is intended to signify). According to ‘A’ishah, the Prophet’s wife—quoting the Prophet—even those who say al-hamdu li-llah “praise to God” twenty times on a Thursday will be considered martyrs after their death, even if they die in bed. In effect, almost anyone faced with adversity is considered a shahid. The list includes those who die in [presumably unrequited] love, or in foreign lands [as pilgrims en route to Arabia]; or on Friday, the day of communal prayer.6 Taking all of these meanings of shahid into consideration, there is a seeming convergence between the Arabic sources and the evolving Christian understanding of martyr. Ancient Greek and Latin “witness” gives way in ecclesiastical Latin to a person who suffers death by refusing to renounce Christianity or any of its articles of faith and practices. That description applies to the celebrated Christian martyrs of Roman times,

42

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

men and women of religious principle who allegedly followed a course described earlier in the Book of Maccabees when traditional Jews resisted the Hellenizers and their foreign pagan ways, preferring instead to suffer persecution, even death. Ultimately, the term martyr employed by Christians signified as it did in the medieval Muslim sources, anyone who suffers for any principle and then hyperbolically it referred to someone who suffers stoically from some sort of affliction that causes mental or physical anguish, thus widening considerably the community of martyrs and would-be martyrs. Given the linguistic convergences between Muslim and Christian notions of martyr and martyrdom, we might speculate whether the early Christian concept of a martyr as one who suffers persecution and death in defense of religious belief might have entered the collective consciousness of Muslims from direct cultural contact. If so, might that contact have taken place as early as the lifetime of the Prophet, although as pointed out previously, there is no definitive reference to shahid as martyrs in the Qur’an. Regarding the Prophet and Christian martyrdom, scholars have drawn attention to the south Arabian city of Najran, a place celebrated for Christian martyrs who suffered persecution under a Judaizing authority in the first half of the sixth-century CE. The reference is to the reign of Dhu Nuwas, an alleged convert to Judaism, or, in any case, a ruler who embraced elements of a Jewish faith known to him. His purpose: to combat the influence of foreign Christianizing elements.7 However, the attempt to identify Najran with the “blessed cities” of Qur’an 34:18—a connection which, if proved, would seemingly establish a possible link between the Prophet and Christian martyrdom, seems more than a bit of a stretch to say the least. Qur’an commentary indicates a difference of opinion in identifying the blessed cities. Most Muslim scholars situate them in greater Syria (al-Sham) or parts thereof. Others maintain that they are the Arab settlements between Medina and Syria to the north, the area called the Wadi-l-Qura; or to the illusive ard al-muqaddasah, “the land made holy,” or if you prefer “The Holy Land,” a geographical term in the Qur’an that gave rise to several different interpretations, including Mount Sinai. None of the numerous Muslim authorities referring to the “blessed cities” calls attention, however, to south Arabia, let alone Najran.8 To be sure, any number of the very early Muslim converts, either Christian or Jewish, might have introduced the Judeo–Christian concept of dying for religious principle to the Muslims, even as the earliest Islamic community evolved in its Arabian setting. How are we to know whether this was in fact the case? Unfortunately, the great Arabic lexicons of the pre-modern period are not historical dictionaries. Unlike the entries in say the OED , the great Oxford English Dictionary, the etymology of various Arabic words cannot be easily if at all traced to a specific time and place. Instead, the meaning given to words and expressions in Arabic dictionaries tends to homogenize an evolving language affected by changed experiences in diverse geographical locations of the Islamic realm. The concern here is the meaning of shahid in the first century or so of Islam, especially among the earliest Muslim community. The oldest Arabic lexicon is the Kitab al-‘ayn of al-Khalil b. Ahmad who died at the end of the eighth-century CE, roughly 200 years after the death of the Prophet Muhammad. At first glance, the relatively early date of this work might make it useful for determining how Muslims understood shahid, if not in the first Islamic century, then shortly

Myths of Martyrdom and Rebellion

43

thereafter. However, al-Khalil b. Ahmad’s work underwent several revisions; in its present form, it represents the collective effort of later scholars.9 How then can we know if the early Muslims had a fully developed sense of Islamic martyrdom currently associated with the term shahid? More important, given our concern with modern suicide warriors, how and when did the faithful first embrace the concept that forfeiting life in defense of Islam makes one a shahid with all the current merit associated with that status? As regards this query, we are obliged to return to philology. Muslim lexicographers of old were not the only scholars devoted to the meaning of Arabic words and expressions. Arabists at the Hebrew University compiling a massive concordance of pre-Islamic poetry have identified entries linking the shahid to combat, although not combat in defense of religious ideals or matters of religious faith.10 Among pre-Islamic Arabs, the shahid displays the broadly defined tribal ideals of muru’ah “manhood” and shaja‘ah “bravery” or “valor.” There is no evidence, however, that the pre-Islamic link between istishhad and muru’ah and shaja‘ah suggests valorizing martyrdom, particularly if we define martyrdom as choosing certain or even probable death in defense of a religious or politically linked principle. Arab tribal culture of Muhammad’s time did not place a positive value on behavior that terminated life for a religious cause. Such a concept would have been at odds with the residual influence of the tribal milieu that spawned the first Muslims and Islam. Ordinarily, Arab tribesmen carefully measured their adversaries and the allies the latter could muster. When the calculus of power was not clear, they were inclined to negotiate a compromise rather than enter into combat. Given the instability of tribal life and the short span of tribal alliances, there would always be an occasion to fight another day. What was imperative for them was preserving the bloodlines of extended kinship groups. That precluded any unnecessary loss of life. Parties about to enter into combat whose outcome was in doubt, would thus resort to arbitration or limit the loss of life by settling disputes through ritual combat between representative champions (mubarazah), as in the biblical account of David and Goliath. In these last two cases, we are dealing with groups of relative strength. Where the balance of forces is unequal, different measures are required. The usual means by which extended family groups salvaged an untenable military position was to enter into a well-choreographed diplomatic negotiation. All the parties to a conflict understood in advance the broad outcome of the discussions, especially when one of the parties was negotiating from an obvious position of weakness. The point of the negotiations was not to narrow differences, but to ratify objective realities and terminate the conflict. As these realities underscored, the weaker party would lose on the field of battle, both parties engaged in a diplomatic dance that would allow the would-be losers to salvage their precious honor. The loss of that honor would have resulted in unacceptable shame and degradation thereby making the losing party prey to other tribal groups sensing their weakness. For the stronger party to the dispute, the diplomatic arrangement served to end the conflict on terms most favorable to it and without further loss of life. However, when failure to do battle was perceived as leading to disgrace and shame, putting the honor of the weaker clan or tribe at stake, the tribesmen might feel compelled to take up arms and battle bravely, even at the risk of possible if not indeed probable death. One recalls in this respect that the term shahid

44

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

appears in pre-Islamic poetry juxtaposed with terms for “manliness,” “valor,” and “bravery,” particularly on the field of battle. As the understanding of istishhad equals muru‘ah and shaja‘ah predates Muslim scripture, it is only too likely to have informed the politics of the Prophet and the early Muslims, even though no such clear use of shahid, shuhada’ or shahadah is attested to in the Qur’an. How then might the early Muslims have linked the shahid of pre-Islamic poetry with their newly formed religious ideals, and in what possible circumstances? Like all queries of Islamic origins, the question is easily formulated, but all too difficult to elicit a confident reply.

Redefining Shahid and Istishhad: The Quest for Political Legitimacy in the Islamic Community In early Islamic times, Arab tribalism competed with an Islamic religion that was designed to diminish, if not eliminate completely, strongly entrenched tribal sensibilities. The ummah, the idealized early Islamic community, was based on religious affiliation rather than the traditional blood ties that bound kin into more or less cohesive societal units. From the very formation of the ummah, the Prophet enjoined Muslims not to draw distinctions as to ethnic affiliation or geographical origins. In fact, the transcendent and universal religious community of Islam remained more of an ideal than a reality, creating thereby a sense of tension between long-established and newly fashioned group identities and ubiquitous patterns of political behavior. Arab tribalism, which valued blood ties and linked them to honor and shame, continued to have a profound effect on the body politic of a recently forged Islamic world. Tribal sentiments of honor and shame eventually became intertwined with a concept of martyrdom couched in religious terms. In effect, Qur’anic shuhada’ meaning “witnesses” was transmuted into individuals who exhibited a form of muru‘ah and shaja‘ah by sacrificing limb and even life for the sake of Islamic principles, an act of political fortitude much in evidence among Jihadist militants today. As regards the link between self-sacrifice and bravery, we are obliged to ask how religious concepts of martyr and martyrdom intersected with the shahid of pre-Islamic poetry and contemporaneous political realities. Any attempt to answer the question posed requires interrogating a highly problematic early Arabic historiography, be it tendentiously driven chronicles or belletristic works rich in historical content—in either case not an easy task. The record of the first Islamic centuries is represented in accounts often shaped to promote the claims of those who ruled or demanded the right to rule. For our purposes read Alids and Abbasids, respective would-be dynasts and dynasts, all of whom were the descendants of Muhammad’s cousins by way of his paternal uncles, Abu Talib or al-‘Abbas. Ultimately, the champions of the Abbasids and Alids morphed into Sunnites and Shi‘ites, religious–political factions supporting the two closely linked branches of the Prophet’s family. The closest of relatives, the Alids and Abbasids were at one time sympathetic allies. Both sought to overthrow the existing Umayyad caliphate (661–750 CE) and restore the Prophet’s clan (Hashim) and close family (ahl al-bayt) to the head of the Islamic community. They fell out, however, when the descendants of the Prophet’s uncle al-‘Abbas hijacked an Alid revolution,

Myths of Martyrdom and Rebellion

45

overthrew the Umayyad usurpers, and established an imperial dynasty of their own that would last for half a millennium.11 To legitimize the claims of their patrons, the hired pens and representatives of the two competing factions produced written tracts and oral testimony. They pressed their case by coupling the behavior of their patrons to precedents drawn from the Prophet’s actions and that of his rightfully constituted community, the idealized ummah. As a result, the politics of the present were described in a manner that conformed to an idealized history of the past, often with considerable inventiveness. That held especially true when the realities of the present forced Alid and Abbasid propagandists to reshape an inconvenient if not damaging contemporary history to fit with the Islamic community’s collective memory of a bygone era. Such inventions of necessity helped to shape narratives of early martyrdom, mostly vivid accounts in which would-be Alid rulers and their supporters sacrificed their lives in defense of religious principle. Such valorous deaths were presented as positive proof of Alid claims to lead the faithful. The most notable examples of self-sacrifice were the early and unsuccessful Alid attempts to restore Muhammad’s clan to rule after it had been usurped by the clan of Umayyah, former enemies of the Prophet and his fledgling community. Not to be outdone, apologists for the Abbasid house massaged or invented the past to promote the credentials of their patrons, the existing caliphs who preempted ‘Ali’s descendants in overthrowing the usurpers and seizing control of the Islamic state. Where invented links to the past could not convince all of the targeted audience, the process of harmonizing past and present was reversed. Memories of an earlier history were now reshaped, however obliquely, to resemble the politics of more recent times. The present and past were fully intertwined.12

Searching for the Origins of Sacrificing Life for Islamic Principles As we search for the earliest instances of sacrificing life for religious principles, we find ourselves needing to distinguish between the blaring sounds of literary inventions and hoped for echoes of actual states of the past. Inevitably, the modern scholar confronts conflicting versions of a history in which both Alids and Abbasids demonstrate true valor and are moved to genuine self-sacrifice, even death in defending the honor of the Prophet’s clan against the caliphs of the Banu Umayyah. We are also required to consider a question that thus far seems to have received little if any attention. Can we understand the motives of key political figures, men who reportedly risked their lives and fortunes for religiously driven political principles, in light of other considerations? Namely, tribal sentiments calling for displays of manliness and bravery, even to the point of risking almost certain death when the all-important honor of the individual and/or collective group is at stake. Several cases drawn from the formative period of Islamic history illustrate the manner and circumstances in which traditional tribal notions of honor and shame were linked by later Alid and Abbasid apologists to a slowly evolving Islamic notion of self-sacrifice that included giving one’s life in defense of politically infused religious ideals. That notion appears to have first taken root in the eighth-century CE. It continues to exercise a powerful hold on tradition-bound

46

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

Muslims, as reflected in the political behavior of individuals, groups, or rulers expressing government policy. The first case of politically inspired martyrdom was linked to the chaotic situation that existed when ‘Ali b. Abi Talib, the fourth of the so-called “righteous” successors to Muhammad and the progenitor of the later Alid pretenders, was assassinated during an extended civil war. At the time, he and other members of the Prophet’s house were pitted against the rebellious governor of Syria, Mu‘awiyah b. Abi Sufyan. The issue of that moment and of later concern to Alid or Alid-leaning writers was the behavior of ‘Ali’s son and presumed heir, al-Hasan. The Alid apologists were particularly troubled by al-Hasan’s seemingly unheroic and self-serving response to Mu‘awiyah’s proposal that the two settle the dispute between them, thus ending five years of a heartwrenching civil war. Rather than exhibit the qualities of muru’ah and shaja‘ah, al-Hasan declined the leadership of the Muslim community held by his father, and acting against the wishes of his supporters, abandoned the campaign against the rebels, thereby allowing Mu‘awiyah to seek community-wide recognition as commander of the faithful. In time, al-Hasan’s failure to embrace the caliphate that was his father’s and then his to proclaim, followed by a second failure of not taking the battle to the rebels, was viewed as shockingly unheroic behavior. This was unbecoming of a figure who should have preserved the honor of the Prophet’s clan and family, while enshrining his and their right to rule. In that respect, al-Hasan’s actions, or better put, lack of action, did not measure up to the reported bravery later displayed by his brother al-Husayn, whose death in combat has been celebrated by Shi‘ites as the quintessential act of selfsacrifice in defense of religious principle. Faced with two conflicting responses to adversity, al-Hasan’s disgraceful surrender of his family’s honor and al-Husayn’s heroic fight against overwhelming odds, Alid apologists who celebrated al-Husayn’s martyrdom were tasked with mitigating the criticism of his brother’s behavior. The juxtaposition of al-Hasan’s decision to leave the field of battle and forfeit leadership of the ummah to the Umayyad rebel with al-Husayn’s valorous death at the hands of the Umayyads will be discussed shortly. The second case that draws our attention concerns the Alid sympathizer Hujr b. ‘Adi, a political prankster of sorts who challenged Mu‘awiyah’s right to rule, though not through any public call to arms. Following a highly unusual configuration of circumstances, to be considered later, we note Hujr was brought before the caliph and offered the choice of acknowledging the legitimacy of the Umayyad’s claim to rule or certain death. As the Alid supporter chose the latter, the caliph, defending his own honor, found himself forced to have Hujr executed, even though Hujr’s pranks led to nothing more than quixotic behavior and would hardly have merited so drastic a punishment. Hujr b. ‘Adi’s decision could well be considered the first established act of Islamic martyrdom in defense of a politically driven religious principle. Leaving aside Hujr’s later notoriety as a true shahid, we are left to ponder what his intentions were when interrogated. Why did the Alid supporter choose what might have been seen as certain death when a simple declaration recognizing Mu‘awiyah as commander of the faithful would have gained Hujr the pardon of a ruler noted for his legendary forbearance? Other Alid supporters and leading Hashimites reluctantly went through the charade of recognizing the Umayyad caliph in carefully modulated acts of political

Myths of Martyrdom and Rebellion

47

expediency. Can it be that the story of Hujr b. ‘Adi can be explained against the backdrop of tribal sensibilities as well as religious politics? Finally, there is the celebrated martyrdom of al-Husayn b. ‘Ali. Some twenty years after his brother relinquished his rights to rule the community of the faithful, al-Husayn took to the field of battle against what the medieval chroniclers describe as unsurmountable odds: a small company of Alid sympathizers against an entire squadron of heavily-armed Umayyad cavalry. The death of al-Husayn fighting on with no hope of success became the quintessential example of martyrdom in Shi‘ite Islam, a model of behavior for future Alids and their supporters intent on challenging unwanted authority by force of arms. Al-Husayn’s defiant stand, reportedly on behalf of a religiously inspired principle, has given rise to commemorative celebrations throughout the Shi‘ite world. Millions of their faithful participated and continue to participate in reenactments of the event, ritual acts that include self-flagellation, which produces bleeding wounds to the body of the celebrants. Does the contemporaneous Shi‘ite response to al-Husayn’s death and the testimony of medieval Arabic historians to the events leading up to Hujr b. ‘Adi’s execution speak to a fully developed concept of martyrdom, which is of knowingly sacrificing one’s life for religious principle? Or, are both narratives as we have them, along with the attempt to explain al-Hasan’s failure to embrace possible martyrdom, literary inventions of a later time when self-sacrifice for principle, even if it meant the strong possibility of death, was given political and religious purchase? If the latter is the case and we are dealing with inventions of necessity, what are the circumstances that gave rise to rewriting the past and to what purpose? In addressing these questions, I turn once again to well-known histories, both real and imagined.

Al-Hasan b. ‘Ali13 As reported by the chroniclers, al-Hasan was approached by representatives from his murdered father’s army, a force consisting of 40,000 fighting men. The number represents a literary trope signifying a formidable army corps consisting of ten units of 4,000 men, each represented by a thousand-man vanguard, rearguard, and right and left flanks. We are then left to believe that al-Hasan had at his disposal a massive force with which to confront the rebellious governor of Syria, and that he was strongly encouraged to do so by the Alid field commanders and relatives within the Prophet’s extended household. Nevertheless, ‘Ali’s son is seen as equivocating with regard to accepting the mantel of his father (and thus of the Prophet) and, more particularly of hesitating to engage Mu‘awiyah and his Syrian army. In retrospect, the modern scholar can sympathize with al-Hasan’s reluctance to accept the loyalist’s request to continue combat. The outcome of a renewed campaign was anything but certain. Mu‘awiyah, who had been governor of Syria for some twenty years, commanded an intensely loyal and battle-tested army. In contrast, al-Hasan’s force, inherited from his assassinated father, consisted of anarchic tribal contingents recruited from Arabia and more particularly from Iraq. Moreover, employing skillful diplomacy, Mu‘awiyah won the support of a former adversary, ‘Amr b. al-‘As, the popular governor of Egypt. With that,

48

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

the rebel could tap the vast human and financial resources of two wealthy provinces. In addition, the loyalist army suffered from the defection of a large fighting force seceding from ‘Ali’s camp, a group which then had to be subdued at the cost of much human capital and treasure. Although at the time the map of war might have been read as reflecting a military stalemate between the major opposing camps, the eventual outcome of the conflict might well have seemed to favor the governor of Syria. Under these circumstances, al-Hasan’s decision to negotiate does not seem exceptional. He seems guided in this matter by well-accepted tribal protocols of resolving disputes between parties that are essentially equal. There was in fact an important precedent directly related to the dispute between the warring camps. His father ‘Ali b. Abi Talib also entered into negotiations with Mu‘awiyah. That was at an earlier stage of the conflict when the standing caliph reportedly held the upper hand, but not decisively so. It would appear that, in agreeing to arbitration, ‘Ali expected a favorable outcome, an agreement ending the conflict that would have left him the unquestioned commander of the faithful, demanding the full loyalty of all Muslims while allowing his opponent Mu‘awiyh the means of salvaging his honor and that of his clan. However, ‘Ali was reportedly betrayed by his negotiator and was thus forced to resume the conflict, his position compromised by treating Mu‘awiyah as an equal without any compensation for himself or his supporters. For the more militant of ‘Ali’s followers, the very act of entering into negotiations with the rebel was seen as a breach of principle and they subsequently broke ranks. The emergence of the so-called Kharijites “those who secede,” forced ‘Ali to engage the defectors in battle while his hitherto weakened opponent rallied his forces and made alliances. ‘Ali no longer seemed to hold the upper hand. When a Kharijite assassin murdered the caliph, al-Hasan had to decide whether to renew the war in less favorable circumstances than before, or, following a previous precedent, enter into negotiations. He chose the latter. In the end, al-Hasan played his cards as if he held a very weak hand. After a series of negotiations, he relinquished his claims to the caliphate and Mu‘awiyah in turn declared a general state of amnesty for al-Hasan and his Alid followers. Mu‘awiyah’s generosity can hardly be interpreted as an exceptional act bargained for aggressively by his opponent on behalf of himself and his supporters. Given tribal sensibilities that ordinarily governed such negotiations, declaring amnesty was the logical outcome of the stronger party putting an end to a debilitating conflict by allowing the weaker party to claim having achieved a positive result. Such an apparent concession did not affect substantially the outcome sought by Mu‘awiyah; in this case the recognition of the Umayyad’s belated claim to be commander of the faithful and a mutually agreed upon end to five years of civil war. The Prophet himself granted general amnesty to his Meccan adversaries, including Mu‘awiyah’s father and especially his mother, the infamous Hind. Her nickname “The Eater of Livers (akilat al-akbad)” referred to her having chewed on the bloody organ of the Prophet’s uncle Hamzah as he lay dead or dying on the field of battle.14 The sucking or licking of an enemy’s blood is a demonstrable act of revenge embraced by tribal warriors. According to our sources, Hind feared retribution for having violated Hamzah’s body and so she disguised herself, only to be discovered by the Prophet when she could not resist making some

Myths of Martyrdom and Rebellion

49

intemperate remarks. The Prophet, acting magnanimously, applied the general amnesty to her as well. More damaging to al-Hasan’s reputation in agreeing to the Umayyad’s terms, an act explained as an attempt to spare the Muslims further bloodshed, was his accepting in perpetuity various provincial tax revenues. The agreement governing tax revenues was entirely self-serving. Following the compact with Mu‘awiyah, al-Hasan collected the monies promised him and lived on in relative seclusion for more than thirty years. He appears to have distanced himself completely from politics even after his brother al-Husayn died confronting the Umayyads. Nor did he leave a footprint when his clan and that of his brother, the Hashimites, revolted under the leadership of the Zubayrid rebels, a long-running rebellion that initially threatened the foundations of Umayyad dynastic rule. His behavior was a far cry for someone willing to risk his comfort let alone his life for principle, the very trait to which ‘Ali’s house would subsequently lay claim and with evident pride, a sentiment embraced with fervor by militant Shi‘ites today. Given al-Hasan’s reaction to the politics of the moment, the Alid faithful would eventually demand an explanation. For as time unfolded, the partisans of ‘Ali’s progeny would trumpet real or imagined heroic gestures that they attributed to the descendants of the Prophet’s daughter Fatimah and his favored cousin ‘Ali b. Abi Talib. Over decades and later centuries, they spoke glowingly of acts of resistance, first against the Umayyads, and later in confronting the Abbasids, close kin of the Alid line who seized rule opportunistically during the revolution that toppled the Umayyads from power. Hence, Alid or, if you prefer Shi‘ite traditions explaining what seemed at first glance implausible, al-Hasan’s refusing to renew the conflict with Mu‘awiyah and his support for the governor of Syria when the latter sought universal recognition as commander of the faithful. That last concession would eventually lead to the creation of a dynastic order for the clan of Umayyah, former enemies of the Prophet. Mu‘awiyah, going against familiar methods of choosing tribal leadership, later nominated his son Yazid to be his designated successor. To be fair, no one, not even al-Hasan could have anticipated that Mu‘awiyah would break with Muslim and tribal precedent and perpetuate a family dynasty. There was every reason for all the disputants to believe that Mu‘awiyah would act in good faith and in a reasonable fashion. Later Alid apologists defending al-Hasan, maintained that Mu‘awiyah guaranteed ‘Ali’s son that he would be the next caliph and/or that the Umayyad promised to establish an electoral body (shura) to choose his own successor. That is, he would invoke an electoral process used in pre-Islamic times to resolve issues of tribal leadership, a process then adapted by the early Muslims to choose the Prophet Muhammad’s successors. Readers of Alid apologetics and/or those absorbing oral traditions that circulated decades later by Alid propagandists, were led to believe that al-Hasan had every reason to expect the shura would choose a proper Hashimite, presumably a prominent Alid, namely al-Hasan himself. By the time these later traditions circulated, readers would have considered the shura guided, not by the give and take of tribal politics, as in previous deliberations of who would succeed the Prophet. Rather, the consultative body reflected the later invented claims of legitimacy linking those who sought to command the faithful with close blood ties to the Prophet himself.

50

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

As Alid apologists reshaped the past to coincide with a more current vision, they argued that none were better credentialed to lead the faithful than direct descendants of the Prophet by way of his first cousin and adopted brother ‘Ali, the son of Muhammad’s paternal uncle, who also served as the future prophet’s foster-father, and early protector. As Muhammad had no surviving progeny other than those born to his daughter Fatimah and ‘Ali, the only family line that could produce those worthy of the Prophet’s mantle were al-Hasan, al-Husayn, and their descendants. The concept of primogeniture embraced by the Alids and their followers was, to be sure, a dramatic break with tribal precedent where the removal or death of the sheikh occasioned an electoral body to choose a successor from among distinguished notables representing extended family units of the clan or tribe. The Alids argued, however, that Muhammad, having been chosen by God as his messenger and prophet, held a unique authority. Thus, his mandate to rule in both religious and political matters transcended that of any tribal sheikh chosen by notables from among the sheikh’s extended blood kin. With this conception of inherited authority, later Alid propagandists reinterpreted al-Hasan’s troublesome actions and placed him in a more favorable light. He delayed his inevitable ascent to lead the faithful in order to end a civil conflict that pitted Muslims against one another, and that created great suffering and personal loss. A later generation of Alid writers saw no reason for al-Hasan to have displayed outward signs of muru’ah and shaja‘ah, as continuation of the conflict would not have served the combatants and their long-suffering supporters. Moreover, the patience (sabr) for which his father was celebrated would eventually stand him, his clan, his family, and his followers in good stead. The caliphate would have been his for the taking when the Umayyad’s reign ended. How could al-Hasan have known that Mu‘awiyah would renege on his pledge to pave the way for the Alid’s succession after a brief Umayyad interlude? That, in essence, is the brief presented by Alid propagandists long after the civil war and its aftermath. That still left the taint of an apolitical al-Hasan living comfortably on the tax revenues that Mu‘awiyah guaranteed him. In less polite language, the political gift was a bribe to buy the Alid’s acquiescence to the dishonorable outcome that ended the great civil war. Put on the defensive, al-Hasan’s apologists argued that in return for relinquishing his claims to the caliphate, he successfully bargained lucrative financial arrangements (stipends of money and favored pensions) for his brother al-Husayn and members of his extended clan, the Hashimites. It could then be said that he not only negotiated peace for a beleaguered Muslim community, he also acted in the best interests of his kin and extended family, which would have included his Abbasid cousins. The apologists with several strokes of the pen allowed al-Hasan to be the champion, not only of the line by way of ‘Ali and Fatimah, but of their future rivals, the House of ‘Abbas. A reader following this Alid narrative could then conclude that the Abbasids, disregarding al-Hasan’s intervention on their behalf, hijacked an antiUmayyad revolution bravely started by later Alids, and established a dynasty of their own following the fall of the usurpers. The story of al-Hasan giving up what truly belonged to him to bring peace to the larger community and financial security for his family and clan may have been a later invention seemingly based on what appears to be a historical truth. Mu‘awiyah, the consummate politician, was well known not only because of his ability to absorb frequent insults from the Hashimites—that without

Myths of Martyrdom and Rebellion

51

resorting to action against them—he often favored them with gifts which they were only too happy to accept, albeit with outward expressions of reluctance and inner manifestations of resentment.15 One can readily see why later Alid apologists had to reshape, if not completely rewrite, al-Hasan’s history. They were well aware that the concept of martyrdom evolved linking sacrifice against unwanted rule to claims of political and moral legitimacy. Perhaps the most honest assessment of al-Hasan’s actions is that of a relative many centuries later, the Alid historian and polemicist Muhammad b. ‘Ali b. Tabataba, (ca. thirteenth-century CE). The famed chronicler of Islamic dynasties was named after Muhammad b. Ibrahim b. Tabataba, a descendant of ‘Ali and Fatimah who died a true martyr’s death, having given up his life in combat rebelling against the Abbasids in 815 CE. The later Ibn Tabataba (perhaps out of discomfort to the different reactions of al-Hasan and his own namesake Muhammad b. Ibrahim) devotes few words to the former’s behavior immediately following ‘Ali’s death. He indicates, ever so briefly, that when ‘Ali was assassinated the notables (al-nas) pledged their allegiance to his son al-Hasan [formally recognizing him as caliph]. The chronicler goes on to say that al-Hasan waited several months [taking no action to resume the conflict] before meeting with Mu‘awiyah. The result was a general peace agreement. The reason for the agreement remains with al-Hasan.16 Al-Hasan then relinquished his hold on the caliphate, paving the way for Mu‘awiyah to seek universal recognition as commander of the faithful—the Umayyad’s supporters had already recognized him as caliph, having sworn the official oath of allegiance (bay‘ah) to him during the latter stages of the civil war. The two men then traveled together to Medina, the Prophet’s city and stronghold of the Hashimites. With al-Hasan at his side, Mu‘awiyah received the oath of allegiance from his former enemies, thereby establishing near universal recognition of his claim to rule the ummah. Interestingly enough, the Umayyad did not initially covet being commander of the faithful. He only rebelled because ‘Ali, upon becoming caliph to replace his predecessor the murdered ‘Uthman b. ‘Affan, made no effort to bring the killers to justice. As the saintly ‘Uthman was linked by blood to the clan of Umayyah, the powerful governor of Syria quite correctly sought to have his kinsman’s assassins held accountable; the honor of his clan was at stake. Not only did ‘Ali fail to produce the regicides and hold them to account, there was seeming evidence that he and other Hashimites did nothing to protect ‘Uthman when the eighty-year-old successor to Muhammad was besieged in his residence by a hostile mob of disgruntled tribal warriors. Unrequited tribal honor thus forced, or if you prefer gave Mu‘awiyah license to don the mantel of the Prophet. The partisans of the Alids were hardly about to accept the Umayyad’s claim, and so they were only too ready to continue the struggle, this time on behalf of al-Hasan. We may assume, however, that they did not expect the Alid’s timid and entirely unexpected response to the situation at hand. A close reading of Ibn Tabataba’s sparse text reveals that the author is puzzled, if not deeply embarrassed, by al-Hasan’s failure to continue the struggle against the usurper, and even more so by his willingness to recognize Mu‘awiyah’s brazen claim to be commander of the faithful. Rather than ascribe any reason or set of reasons for al-Hasan’s actions, he prefers to leave the interpretation of events open. As he put it, only al-Hasan knew what prompted his strange course of

52

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

action. The question remains: Why did al-Hasan relinquish his rights and that of his clan and immediate family? It would appear that al-Hasan’s response to the circumstances of the moment were entirely consistent with the unpleasant realities confronting him. Despite the large army at his disposal and the support of its commanders, the military situation was uncertain. One might even wish to argue that it was unfavorable. Moreover, the larger community of the Muslims had grown weary of five years of civil war. It was, therefore, opportune to enter into negotiations in order to end the conflict that tore apart the community, pitting family against family, clan against clan, and region against region. The time was ripe to bring an end to the fighting, as would adversaries schooled in tribal culture, that is, without recriminations while providing the weaker party (alHasan and the Hashimites) with incentives to salvage their honor. To wit: a declaration of a general amnesty that would tamp down the potential for future blood feud, supplemented, as it were, by financial inducements meant to obtain Hashimite acceptance of Mu‘awiyah’s position, if not unequivocal allegiance to the new caliph. The grudging acceptance of the Umayyad continued until Mu‘awiyah, going against all tribal and Islamic precedent, planted the seeds of dynastic succession, in this case an Umayyad dynasty that would have forever denied that which the Alids came to consider their God-given right to rule. In sum, one could argue that al-Hasan was the victim of circumstances both foreseen and unforeseen. There can be little if any doubt that if al-Hasan had decided to fight on and been killed in battle, future Alid accounts would have described him as a true martyr, a shahid as the term was later understood.

Hujr b. ‘Adi17 An early Muslim who reportedly gave his life for Islamic principle—or at least celebrated for having done so—was Hujr b. ‘Adi al-Kindi. A well-known supporter of ‘Ali b. Abi Talib, Hujr strenuously resisted al-Hasan’s negotiations with Mu‘awiyah as well as his decision to relinquish his claims to the caliphate. Arabic historical writings portray Hujr as an Alid warrior and activist who was never reconciled to Umayyad rule. Conventional wisdom maintained that he was at the center of pro-Alid agitation in Kufa from the beginning of Mu‘awiyah’s reign. He went so far as to invite al-Hasan’s brother al-Husayn to come to the garrison town where ‘Ali had had many supporters, men with residual fighting skills who could assist al-Husayn in challenging the usurper caliph. Whether or not Hujr actually issued the invitation remains a moot question. Nor is it at all clear that al-Husayn would have been willing at this point to take up arms against a powerful Umayyad regime. As noted, there was the likelihood, if not the expectation that the choice of a successor to Mu‘awiyah would fall to an electoral council following the established practice applied during the period of the righteous caliphs. Surely, the shura would then turn Muhammad’s kin, among whom al-Husayn would have been considered a strong perhaps even the very strongest candidate to take charge of the Islamic realm. Be that as it may, the head of ‘Ali’s house did not leave the Hashimite stronghold at Medina for an uncharted political adventure in Iraq, at least not at this time. What then was Hujr’s role in the events that led to his death?

Myths of Martyrdom and Rebellion

53

When the Umayyad governorship of Iraq was in transition, Hujr, according to the accepted version, stirred up an unsuccessful uprising on his own. After an extended flight and chase, he was apprehended and found culpable by a tribunal of local Arab tribesmen. He was then brought to Damascus and given the opportunity to acknowledge Mu‘awiyah as caliph and renounce his support for the Alid cause. He refused and after some deliberation was executed, an indication of the maxim that Mu‘awiyah was quick to forgive, but when he decided to punish, he did so with the utmost of severity. By choosing to test the caliph’s patience, Hujr earned recognition as the first true martyr among supporters of ‘Ali’s line. A close reading of the relevant Arabic sources allows us to paint a more complex picture. It confirms Hujr’s sacrifice in support of the Alid cause, but it also points to his peculiar personality and places his actions and those of his contemporaries against the background of traditional tribal politics. In this reading of the past, Hujr appears less of a militant revolutionary and more of a nuisance, whose public displays against the ruling authority were treated by the Umayyad governor of Iraq as no more than pranks to be carefully monitored. While attending the Friday prayers at which time the Muslim community of Kufa was present, Hujr would react to the so-called “cursing of ‘Ali.” This was the declamation of deprecating remarks towards ‘Ali b. Abi Talib that were part of the prayer ceremony in which the Umayyad governor, as representative of Mu‘awiyah, expressed fealty to the caliph on his own behalf and that of the congregants. As was his custom, Hujr would substitute for the official language humorous remarks disparaging the Umayyad regime. He only did so before a small coterie of friendly worshipers in his immediate vicinity, individuals who like Hujr supported the ‘Alid cause and enjoyed mocking the established ceremony of the Umayyad Friday prayers. The governor was well aware of this activity but took no action. However disrespectful, this behavior did not occasion any problem for the city or state authorities. Above all, the governor of Iraq, who situated himself in both Kufa and Basra, had no desire whatsoever to antagonize the Arab tribes that settled in the garrison town and retained sympathy with the Alid cause. Hujr and the governor played their game according to mutually acceptable rules. Taking advantage of a new governor who was away from Kufa, Hujr raised the ante and created a disturbance at the mosque in which he and his small band of followers stoned (actually pebbled) the security forces; a mischievous act causing the latter no harm. Our sources report that Hujr also repudiated the caliph in public. In either case, the offense should not have called for a drastic response. These actions were an expression of defiance; they did not lead to an active rebellion against the established authorities, let alone the shedding of blood. Upon returning, the governor found Hujr repeating the antics when, as was the custom, Muslims assembled at prayer recognizing the authority of the Umayyad caliph and state. After consulting with Mu‘awiyah, an indication that circumstances were now so unusual that the caliph himself had to be contacted, the Umayyad official decided on a course of action. He gave orders to arrest the troublemakers, whereupon Hujr and a small band of followers took flight. What follows in the narrative is an exaggerated account of a dramatic chase in which Hujr and his associates fled to crowded tribal enclaves, areas of settlement resembling human rabbit warrens. As a rule, the government did not police the tribal settlements. Entering the tribal enclaves to exercise authority would have compromised

54

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

the tribesmen’s sense of independence. Respectful as ever of tribal sensibilities and the difficulty of pursuing fugitives in such congested and unhospitable environs, the governor did not seek to arrest Hujr and his cohort. From a tribal perspective, they could be accused of no worse than having initiated a series of disrespectful pranks. To defuse the situation and prevent the disturbances from morphing into a wider altercation, the Umayyad summoned the tribal notables responsible for their troublesome kin, whereupon the leaders of the representative clans reigned in their hotheads and pressured them to forgo any such future behavior. The majority of Hujr’s associates complied, recognizing that they would surely face the censure of their blood kin, which at worst could result in banishment. Not a punishment taken lightly but far short of the fate that awaited Hujr and a few others who defied their tribal leaders, an act that might have made them persona non grata among their own relatives and therefore more vulnerable to punishment by the Umayyad authorities. No doubt, the notables did not foresee the course of future events leading to Hujr’s execution. From their perspective, Hujr had done nothing wrong to merit severe punishment, let alone a death sentence. He led no armed rebellion, and above all spilt no blood, an act that would have called for some sort of serious retribution. For the most part, he merely did what the authorities had overlooked in the past. The “pebbling” of security personnel was more of a prank than a life-threatening act. Seen from the perspective of the authorities, several delicate issues were now at play. How to apprehend Hujr without causing turmoil among the proud Arab tribesmen, particularly his own kinsmen who were honor-bound by tribal conventions to assume responsibility for his wellbeing. The matter was resolved by the judicious application of tribal diplomacy. Hujr was handed over to the local authorities, not by his kin, but by another tribal unit closely linked to them by blood. In such fashion, Hujr’s closest relatives were spared the dishonor of surrendering him to strangers, and at the same time avoided the shame of tribesmen who were not their blood relatives arranging his surrender. Hujr was then handed over to the local authorities on condition that his case be heard by Mu‘awiyah himself. As the caliph was known for his legendary forbearance (hilm), Hujr’s kin presumably expected, that given the nature of his action, Hujr would receive no more than a reprimand, a mere slap on the wrist. The Alid supporter, together with a small group of holdouts, were then brought to the caliph’s court in Damascus. Mu‘awiyah apparently recognized how impolitic it would have been to treat Hujr’s “rebellion” as anything more than a minor incident occasioned by a well-known nuisance. With that, he gave the prisoners the opportunity to earn their release by acknowledging the legitimacy of his authority, or to be more correct, by renouncing any residual allegiance to the Alids and their cause. Most complied, but Hujr and a handful did not. It is not entirely clear why Hujr declined Mu‘awiyah’s offer, but given that response, the caliph famed for forgiving harmless indiscretions had no recourse but to execute the recalcitrant Hujr. For the caliph it was a matter of honor. Eventually, Hujr b. ‘Adi, was celebrated among those who martyred themselves in defense of a stated principle, namely the right of the Alid family to rule the community of the faithful. The adherents of ‘Ali’s line commended him for his steadfast refusal to recognize the Umayyad usurper as well as his earlier exploits on the field of battle in support of ‘Ali b. Abi Talib. On the other hand, Arab contemporaries gave his martyrdom

Myths of Martyrdom and Rebellion

55

an additional gloss. They seemingly viewed his “rebellion” in light of an incipient Umayyad policy that would evolve into a challenge to Arab tribalism. Hujr embraced a system and ideal that did not recognize the absolute legitimacy of any imposed government authority. The execution of Hujr was, in this respect, a harbinger of an increasing trend among later caliphs, especially the early Abbasids who attempted to break the back of tribal autonomy and introduce the hitherto unknown or at least unarticulated concept of sedition to Islamic politics. Sedition is only possible where there is general, if not always universal recognition of centralized authority. Such authority was not possible as long as there were large tribal configurations skilled in the art of war and given to privileging their anarchic sentiments.

Al-Husayn b. ‘Ali18 For Shi‘ites, the death of al-Husayn b. ‘Ali (680 CE) is without question the most discussed and celebrated martyrdom in the history of Islam. Despite the voluminous literature on al-Husayn, any attempt to recapture the details of his heroic stand against the Umayyads is subject to much conjecture. For the most part, the circumstances derive from the report of a single narrator, the unreliable Abu Mikhnaf. As his account is for the most part favorable to the Alids, we may assume that the description of the past is not intended to diminish the status of ‘Ali’s heir but quite the opposite. Without entering into detail, a cautious reading of the material reveals the following sequence of events. As did his brother and other leading Hashimites, al-Husayn recognized Mu‘awiyah’s caliphate and was willing to accept his largesse. In return for the caliph’s favors, al-Husayn rejected all suggestions that he engage the regime in renewed conflict. His reasons for this course of action were no doubt the same as governed that of his brother. Both favored a pragmatic approach to a controversy, the outcome of which was anything but assured. The failure to confront the regime that denied the Prophet’s family their rightful place at the head of the ummah, elicited the later concern of Alid apologists. They had al-Husayn declare that continuing Alid quiescence was limited to Mu‘awiyah’s caliphate. As nothing could be done as long as the caliph lived, justice had to await a more opportune moment. Al-Husayn was cautiously biding his time while enjoying the caliph’s substantial contribution to his well-being. His only challenge to the caliph was over various personal properties that the Umayyads coveted, a matter of economic interest and not religious or political principle. The sources picture alHusayn as adopting a pragmatic course rather than embracing a policy of confrontation, the outcome of which would have been at best unsure. However, when Mu‘awiyah chose his son Yazid to be his heir apparent, the Alid’s acquiescence to Umayyad rule ended. The caliph’s decision meant, in effect, that no new group of non-partial electors would be convened to choose the next commander of the faithful, and that the most deserving of the Hashimites, namely ‘Ali’s family, could well be denied the Prophet’s mantel for the foreseeable, perhaps even distant future. For, given the notion of dynastic succession, one Umayyad could succeed another in perpetuity. The usurper dynasty therefore had the means of holding on to rule for as long as military prowess and skillful use of diplomacy could sustain it. Still,

56

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

while Mu‘awiyah lived, al-Husayn gave no sign that he would lead an armed insurrection should Yazid actually succeed his father. With the caliph’s death, our sources—all favoring the Alids—report that al-Husayn refused to recognize Yazid when the latter sought the traditional oath of allegiance (bay‘ah) from the leading notables of the realm. Instead, he fled to Mecca, assuming that residence in the holy city would afford him sanctuary and protect him from any reprisals. Some supporters of the Alid cause suggested a forceful course of action. The tribesmen of Kufa who fought for ‘Ali b. Abi Talib during the civil war chafed under Syrian rule that compromised their cherished sense of tribal independence. They appealed to al-Husayn to come to Iraq, as did his father, in order to raise an army with which to confront the Damascus-based caliphate. Ever cautious, al-Husayn tested the political waters by sending ahead his relative Muslim b. ‘Aqil. The plot was exposed and Muslim was put to death, a response by the authorities that might have been justifiable even in tribal terms, as unlike Hujr b. ‘Adi, Muslim was actively plotting a full-scale insurrection when the Umayyad caliph was seeking universal allegiance. At the time, al-Husayn was already en route to Kufa accompanied by his household entourage and a small contingent to guard his presence. The group posed no threat to anyone, but a large force of loyalist troops monitored their movements. It is clear the Umayyads had no intention whatsoever of attacking al-Husayn’s small band, which included women and children, let alone killing the distinguished head of ‘Ali’s house, who was no less than a direct descendant of the Prophet. To the contrary, they made every effort to convince him to turn back, invoking diplomatic initiatives, and preventing the group from having access to water without which they could not complete the long journey. The narrative then takes a dramatic turn as it records three suggestions allegedly proffered by al-Husayn to the commander of the Umayyad force. The Alid presented the Umayyad field commander with three options to end the standoff, as he surely did not expect to continue on to Kufa to lead a non-existent rebellion. The first: that he go to the Byzantine frontier and join the holy warriors in the ongoing campaign against the unbelieving Christians. This would have represented al-Husayn with a dignified way out of his dilemma. Going to the frontier would have marked him as a man fully possessing the cherished qualities of muru’ah and shaja‘ah. For their part, the Umayyads would have placed him in an environment far removed from close associates and potential allies, thereby neutralizing what might become a future Alid threat. The suggested arrangement was entirely consistent with tribal negotiations in which the weaker party faces terms that do not outwardly compromise its dignity, while, at the same time, the stronger party reaches its desired objective. A second proposal was that al-Husayn be allowed to go directly to Damascus to meet with Yazid. The underlying assumption here is that Yazid would spare him any real harm because al-Husayn had not personally fomented an active rebellion against the caliph. In any case, the would-be rebellion was aborted and no Umayyad or Alid blood was shed save that of Muslim b. ‘Aqil. Nevertheless, any such arrangement would have carried with it a price to be paid. Yazid would most assuredly have insisted that the Alid finally swear the traditional oath of allegiance to him, thereby formally acknowledging the legitimacy of Umayyad rule. A last request from al-Husayn is that he return to his home in Medina. No doubt, al-Husayn imagined that at worst, he

Myths of Martyrdom and Rebellion

57

would face house arrest, or at least constant surveillance. In this case, the Umayyads would have also insisted that he pledge his fealty to the caliph. In return, the Alid, having abandoned politics like his brother, could have expected to live out his life peacefully and probably most comfortably. Presumably, al-Husayn could have expected continued financial compensation of the sort he and his brother received before this most recent episode put his well-being in danger. Does this description of events reflect an actual state of the past, or did Alid leaning historians introduce it to explain the disaster that followed? Keep in mind these proposals reportedly took place during a private conversation between two individuals: al-Husayn and the commander of the Umayyad force that had been shadowing the small band of Alids. If the specific details lack historicity, the nature of the proposals is still credible. Al-Husayn was proposing three manageable exits from the harrowing situation that he faced. All three proposals represented a solution to events that would have been acceptable at the time to both parties. Al-Husayn would have emerged with his honor, however tarnished, and the regime would have locked him into a position of political compliance However, the last Umayyad commander on the scene would not recognize the delicacy of the situation. He insisted that al-Husayn put his life and that of his small entourage into his, that is, the commander’s hands. One may speculate that the Umayyad would have done no worse than deliver him to Yazid who would have determined al-Husayn’s fate. In all likelihood, the caliph would have spared the Alid’s life and found some means of preserving al-Husayn’s dignity while completely neutralizing his political ambitions, but that was not to be. The Alid was now not only faced with the humiliation of capitulating unconditionally, the worst possible outcome given tribal sensitivity, he was also egged on by his kinsmen, the close relatives of Muslim b. ‘Aqil, to seek revenge for the latter’s death. Muslim may have engaged in seditious activity, but after all this had been an aborted revolt. Was there not some small window of opportunity to punish Muslim without taking his life? With his honor and that of his family and Muslim’s family at stake, al-Husayn took to the field of battle and is said (by ‘Alid leaning, or, in any case, anti-Umayyad historians) to have fought a truly heroic fight until certain death overtook him. The detailed descriptions of the battle reveal a continued reluctance on the part of the Umayyad forces to enter the battle in earnest. Only after much largely symbolic foreplay did the fighting wax hot and with predictable results. The major villain in this extended narrative is the last Umayyad field commander who insisted on unconditional surrender. Before his arrival, the text leads us to believe that in good tribal fashion there would have been a solution to the impasse, an agreement that would have been acceptable to both the caliph and al-Husayn. We have to remember that until this point the leading members of the Prophet’s family or, for that matter, any of those who led noble Muslim families were not fair game for killing unless they were engaged in open combat nobly conducted on a field of battle. AlHusayn had every reason to expect that the traditional codes of amnesty would have applied to him and his small cohort in circumstances and in negotiations that would have been acceptable to his code of honor and that of the caliph. The failure of the Umayyad general to apply this code and negotiate as required of him precipitated the dramatic ending to a revolt that never was. To make matters much worse, there are

58

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

reports that the body of the fallen al-Husayn was mutilated and his head sent to Damascus. In later times, such acts of brutality demonstrated the authority of the state. I am not confident, however, that this last account bears resemblance to the truth. After all, ‘Ali’s son never had the opportunity to contest Mu‘awiyah’s claim to rule. At worst, he refused to give outward recognition to the legitimacy of the Umayyad caliphate. Moreover, given the established precedents of declaring amnesty for one’s opponents, so brutal an act would have been unthinkable as regards a leading Muslim, let alone a direct descendant of the Prophet. Nevertheless, the account of al-Husayn’s mutilated corpse certainly adds to the moving story of his martyrdom, his self-sacrifice for not compromising on principle. What was that principle at the time of the events in question? Did contemporaries understand the death of the Alid, as it would be explained in later times? That is to say, choosing certain death in defense of a legitimate right denied to ‘Ali’s family by the Umayyad usurpers; or was his choice of dying on the field of battle forced by residual tribal norms prevalent in Arab–Muslim society? Related to that, at what moment did al-Husayn’s tragic end become a cause célèbre among the Alids? What is clear is that in the century following al-Husayn’s death, taking up arms to restore the Prophet’s family to its rightful place at the head of the faithful had taken root and then began to sprout. With that, self-sacrifice, especially martyrdom in defense of religious/political principle, became a badge of honor. That leaves us to determine when and in what circumstances did martyrdom, so defined, become an act that enshrined contemporaneous rebels in history and legend and with that set an example for modern Islamist militants to follow.19

3

Martyrdom Versus Low-Profile Politics: Interpreting the Past for Alternative Paths toward Regime Change and Political Legitimacy

When indeed did martyrdom become a bona fide credential for those seeking to rule the ummah; and, given the failure of Alid leaders to achieve regime change by quixotic acts of rebellion, what alternative strategies were considered by them and others to replace an unwanted authority? Above all, a question to be answered more fully in the following essay: How have lessons derived from the past affected attitudes toward unwanted governments in the turbulent Near East of today? One might well begin to reflect on these questions by turning to al-Husayn’s dictum that as long as Mu‘awiyah ruled there was nothing that he (al-Husayn) and his followers could do or should do to challenge the usurpers. The sons of ‘Ali by way of Fatimah, the Prophet’s daughter, can be seen as initially adopting a pragmatic course. There were the covenants negotiated by al-Hasan to end the civil war, agreements that called for recognizing Mu‘awiyah as commander of the faithful; a general amnesty for all the combatants; and perhaps not the least, a comfortable retirement plan for leading figures among the Prophet’s close relatives. The Umayyad caliph, anxious to steady the newly commissioned ship of state, bought off other members of the Prophet’s clan with lavish gifts. Of equal importance, Mu‘awiyah gave the Hashimites and their Medinese allies license to disparage his own family as long as they did not take up arms against it or encourage others to do so.1 Al-Husayn and other potential rebels also recognized that the Umayyad caliph enjoyed a special relationship with the most powerful fighting units of the Islamic realm. This relationship spanned decades, beginning with Mu‘awiyah’s command of the Syrian vanguard in 634 CE, the entire Syrian army some five years later, and for two decades thereafter as governor of al-Sham and then caliph of the realm. In contrast to the anarchic tribesmen of Iraq, the Syrian army, battle-tested in steady warfare with Christian forces along the frontier, owed firm allegiance to the dominant figure who ruled from Damascus. No wonder then that al-Husayn reportedly warned his followers of challenging the house of Umayyah. Although the first of their line still lived, there would be no martyrs taking the field to defend the rights of the Prophet’s extended family. The death of the caliph signified a decided change in outlook but not a concerted effort to overthrow the usurpers. Mu‘awiyah’s decision to establish an Umayyad regime 59

60

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

that could rule in perpetuity initially occasioned passive resistance. Only later would this passivity transmute into major political conflict. Still, it was not the offspring of ‘Ali and Fatimah who first commanded a full-blown insurrection against the standing Umayyad caliphs of the time, nor those of the Prophet’s uncle al-‘Abbas, but other prestigious Hashimites, the brothers ‘Abdallah and Mus‘ab b. al-Zubayr, whose father al-Zubayr b. al-‘Awwam was related by marriage to the Prophet’s wife ‘A’ishah. The Prophet reportedly gave his favored child-bride the matronymic Umm ‘Abdallah, “mother of ‘Abdallah,” in this instance an unusual naming said to honor her Zubayrid nephew and not any possible (but unlikely future) offspring of the Prophet. Moreover, ‘Abdallah’s father had twice been a candidate, albeit an unsuccessful one, to succeed Muhammad and don the mantel of the commander of the faithful. If not directly descended from the Prophet, the Zubayrids were considered worthy candidates to rule the Islamic community. Unlike the quixotic rebellion of al-Husayn and his small band that ended hours after the fighting began, the revolt of the Zubayrids lasted for more than a decade (681–692 CE), at times taxing greatly the resources of the Umayyad caliphs.2 The death of the Zubayrid brothers and the collapse of their ill-fated rebellion, coincided with what was arguably the high-water mark of the Umayyad polity. The innovative caliph, ‘Abd al-Malik b. Marwan (685–705 CE), initiated a series of measures that put the regime on a solid footing. He made Arabic the language of administration; introduced Islamic coinage; overhauled the monetary system; and established the Noble Sanctuary in Jerusalem. Moreover, he marginalized the internal opposition and for the most part neutralized the threat of a resurgent Byzantine regime.3 However, neither the able rule of ‘Abd al-Malik nor that of his accomplished successors could counteract the inherent contradictions of a polity that privileged Arab rule over a vast imperial landscape of mostly non-Arab Muslims. Nor could it prevent the internal conflicts within the ruling house from involving the larger Arab tribal configurations, groups whose loyalties were now divided among various Umayyad contenders for power. As there was no Mu‘awiyah to adjudicate these disputes, nor an ‘Abd al-Malik to enforce peace, the Umayyad state of the eighth century was buffeted by increasing turbulence. The fracturing of the house of Umayyah and the military forces that served it so faithfully in the past seems to have coincided with a flurry of messianic activity. The Byzantines looked upon these developments as heralding a return of Christian rule to the Holy Land and holy city, events said to presage the Messianic Age. Similarly, Jewish apocalypses anticipated the ingathering of the Jewish exiles; the revival of the dead; the final Day of Judgment; and the onset of the End of (Historical) Time. Not to be outdone, Muslim opponents of the existing regime, seeing the political disarray that compromised Umayyad rule, imagined a political upheaval that would bring about the collapse of the old order as it approached its first 100 years. A messiah-like “Redeemer (mahdi)” would make his appearance to successfully enact regime change and alter the course of a world sullied by corruption to one filled with righteousness and justice. Jews, Christians, and Muslims anticipated the appearance of martyrs dying for principle in the cataclysmic wars expected to lead to the Messianic Age.4 The precise dates for this flurry of Messianic expectations remains blurred in our sources. Apocalyptic texts are subject to reshaping time and again. As the Messiah

Martyrdom Versus Low-Profile Politics

61

never arrived when expected, medieval authors, be they Jewish, Christian, or Muslim, added more and more “historical” content to bring apocalyptic expectations up to date. The reshaped narratives thus included references to more recent events, usually disguised as vague prophecies of dramatic occurrences destined to take place at an undisclosed time in the future. The oblique prophecy borne out by current events indicated to the reader, or the listener in the case of an orally-transmitted tradition, that they were bearing witness to the unfolding of God’s grand scheme. Given how these reworked texts accommodated the changing tide of politics, the chronology of the messianic Urtext is always subject to question. Nonetheless, it seems evident that the late Umayyad period gave rise to messianic stirrings, and along with that, revolutionary activity to pave the way for the arrival of a redeemer, whatever title accrued to him and whomever he might be. As in the past, revolutionary intrigue was first generated by events in Iraq, long a breeding ground of pro-Alid sentiment. There is, however, a significant difference. Unlike al-Husayn who surely understood that going into battle when he did would most likely lead to certain death, some of the later Alids apparently anticipated success once they drew their swords; at least that is what our sources seem to communicate. In the end, they fared no better and were ultimately declared martyrs in defense of a righteous cause. That was certainly the case of Zayd b. ‘Ali’s abortive challenge to Umayyad rule.

Zayd b. ‘Ali and the Later Ja‘farid Challenge: Prelude to the Abbasid Revolution5 As noted earlier, when reading Arabic historical texts it is often difficult if not impossible to glean historical realities from literary inventions. Do the stories told of the leading Alids suffering death or humiliation at the hands of the later Umayyads reflect in whatever way actual states of the past, or are they mirror images of accounts depicting the alleged martyrdom of figures from the earlier years of Umayyad rule? If there is some kernel of truth to the narratives of the later martyrs, what might have been the historical factors that occasioned the shaping and assembling of such accounts? The same question applies to texts that appear to be inventions of necessity, texts woven entirely or almost entirely from new cloth to justify present behavior and legitimize contemporary actors. A useful point of departure is the tale of Zayd b. ‘Ali’s martyrdom. The basic outline of the events leading to his tragic demise seem abundantly clear. Around 740 CE, the reigning Umayyad, Hisham b. ‘Abd al-Malik (d.743), ordered Zayd b. ‘Ali the grandson of al-Husayn to leave his native Medina for the caliph’s court in Damascus. Following his stay with the caliph, the Alid received instructions to make his way to Kufa, the old Iraqi garrison town. After a short sojourn in the Iraqi city, the governor informed Zayd that he (Zayd) was obliged to return to Arabia. The request— or order if you wish—contains no reliable bill of particulars. There is an account that given Zayd’s shrewdness and eloquence, the caliph feared he could sway the Iraqis into open rebellion, but such suspicions of rebellion applied to a number of eloquent individuals during the formative centuries of Islam. The accounts of persuasive persons

62

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

considered dangerous to an established authority begin with Muhammad and the polytheist oligarchs of Quraysh. Fearful of his elegant tongue and forceful personality, the Qurayshite leaders initially earmarked Muhammad for exile but later set into motion a plot that called for his assassination, a heinous scheme suggested to them by the Devil disguised as a Najdi sheikh. Fortunately, for Muhammad and his present and future followers, he managed to avoid death thanks to the intervention of an angel assigned to protect him. We would be right to consider this and similar accounts as literary artifices and not the accurate reflection of historic moments. What better credentials for the Prophet than to have an angel of God intercede on his behalf? What better credentials to lead the Islamic community than to possess the Prophet’s eloquence and qualities of leadership? Our sources tell us that when Zayd was in Iraq, various local figures approached the Alid to lead a rebellion against the incumbent regime. They reported massive local support for him and that he was destined to be the “the Victorious One (al-Mansur).”6 That honorific title, later borne by the great Abbasid caliph and true founder of their dynasty Abu Ja’far al-Mansur, may have referred to a long-awaited messiah-like figure expected to set the ummah and the world on a proper course once again. In effect, the Kufans proposed restoring the alliance between the Prophet’s family and themselves. As with al-Husayn, the arrangement served the interests of the Iraqis grown restive under Syrian–Umayyad rule. It also fulfilled the ambitions of Muhammad’s kin, natives of Medina who were eager to replace the Umayyad usurpers and restore the Prophet’s family to its rightful place at the head of the Islamic community. The Arab tribesmen of Kufa would supply the necessary force to topple the Umayyads. In turn, the ‘Alid pretender would give the Kufans a legitimate figure for them to declare commander of the faithful, a role reserved from the outset for a member of the Prophet’s tribe, and before the Umayyads usurped rule, to someone from Hashim, the Prophet’s clan. Of the first four caliphs, only ‘Uthman b. ‘Affan was not a Hashimite, but he was in every sense a compromise choice when the leading Hashimites could not decide among themselves. It is safe to assume that the descendants of Muhammad’s inner circle, those who championed his cause during the early days of his mission, fully expected that succession would once again return to the clan of Hashim, if not indeed to the Prophet’s household.7 Not only was Zayd b. ‘Ali a Hashimite, he was, like his grandfather, a direct descendant of the Prophet by way of the latter’s daughter Fatimah. As was Fatimah, Muhammad’s three other daughters were all born to Khadijah his beloved first wife. Unlike the daughter who married ‘Ali b. Abi Talib, the others were barren. The Prophet produced no surviving offspring with the several women attached to his household after Khadijah’s death. Like all the other Alids of the Fatimid line, Zayd enjoyed the privilege of exclusive blood ties to the last of God’s messengers, a gift that took on great importance among future Fatimids and their sympathizers. When commanded to return to Medina from Kufa, Zayd mulled over his prospects. Advised by persons within the Prophet’s extended family to reject the Kufan overtures, he initially refused any involvement with an insurrection and left for home. However, shortly after leaving Kufa, a delegation of Arab tribesmen met up with him. This time, they succeeded in getting him to agree to challenge the Umayyad authorities. Zayd returned to the city prepared to do eventual battle. As had happened to his grandfather

Martyrdom Versus Low-Profile Politics

63

al-Husayn, the authorities discovered the plot before it hatched. The hard core of Zayd’s would-be army was then herded into the city mosque where they were held by the governor’s troops while he and a relatively small band of followers—numbers comparable to those who died with al-Husayn—entered the rabbit warrens of the tribal enclaves with swords drawn. They had no knowledge at the time that the rebellion had no chance of success. As was the case with al-Husayn, the Hashimite partner to marriage was left at the altar. Zayd and his small entourage suffered death after engaging in reportedly heroic resistance in the narrow streets and alleyways. Once committed to the fight, they saw no honorable path to capitulate even though the outcome was selfevident. The Alid was reportedly decapitated. The severed head was sent to the caliph in Damascus; the torso hung in public view, a demonstration of the power of the state and its ability to administer swift punishment. Heroic in life and mutilated in death, Zayd earned himself an honored place in what was to become a growing pantheon of Alid martyrs—or so the Arabic sources lead us to believe. As outlined, the l’affaire Zayd seems straightforward, but when we examine the extant sources for small details, the tightly constructed narrative of martyrdom begins to unravel. A close reading of different textual versions leaves us with a story that raises many more questions than it answers. Among the more important, did the chroniclers consciously make Zayd’s fate conform to that of his more famous grandfather, the prototypical Alid martyr? In both cases, the victim is reluctantly drawn into a revolt by Iraqi allies who do not show up to lend support. In both instances, the main protagonist dies fighting heroically with a modest force. On both occasions the plans of the revolt are revealed prematurely, unbeknown to the Alid pretender. Not surprisingly, in both accounts the martyr offers heroic resistance despite overwhelming odds. Are we dealing here with a grandson emulating or pictured as emulating his martyred grandfather? Or are both accounts embellished by the vivid imagination and polemical purpose of the enterprising chroniclers? Only one thing is sure, the accounts received by Muslims trumpet an idealized view of Alid self-sacrifice. This privileged view of religious/political martyrdom seems firmly established by late Umayyad times, or at the latest the outset of the Abbasid caliphate. It continues to move Shi‘ite Muslims even today. When the mini-rebellion of Zayd b. ‘Ali turned out to be a complete disaster, his son Yahya sought to rekindle the embers of his father’s would-be insurrection. Fleeing Iraq for Khurasan, the vast province to the east, he received shelter from various figures, including servants of the Umayyad regime. The best he could do after four years was to attract a small body of men, all of whom perished fighting alongside him. The outcome of their allegiance to the Alid cause replicated what had happened to the bands of followers who joined ranks with Yahya’s father and grandfather.8 Yahya would not be the last of ‘Ali b. Abi Talib’s progeny to be declared a martyr for defending principle without compromise. The failure of the Fatimid line to upend the Umayyads did not end with Yahya’s quest and that of his loyal followers. By the mid-740s, Umayyad rule had begun to unravel, the victim of internal squabbles and enmity among the tribal armies led to major civil strife. It would appear that the disturbances gave rise to heightened messianic speculation. Apocalyptical visions of the unwanted regime’s downfall circulated among the populace, and with that plots and plotters emerged to

64

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

achieve this end. Among them were persons and groups who had been closely aligned with and/or sympathetic to Zayd b. ‘Ali and his son Yahya. They now supported another Alid rebel, though not one of ‘Ali’s offspring and therefore not a descendant of the Prophet. Sympathizers with Zayd and Yahya found themselves drawn to the cause of ‘Abdallah b. Mu‘awiyah, the great-grandson of ‘Ali’s brother, Ja‘far b. Abi Talib. Given the instability of the Umayyad regime, the Ja‘farid revolt was potentially a more serious and widespread challenge to the ruling authorities than the abortive efforts of Zayd and his son, but, as in the past, the Iraqis did not go the full course and the revolt collapsed in that critical province. The Ja‘farid then fled to western Iran and then Khurasan where he was murdered under mysterious circumstances, a death that robbed him of being proclaimed a true martyr, that is, a brave soul who went to certain death with sword in hand.9 The Ja‘farid rebellion underscores that at this early stage of Islamic history, the list of eligible successors among the Hashimites was not clearly defined in favor of ‘Ali’s descendants via Fatimah, the sole bearer of Muhammad’s progeny. There was, in effect, a broad spectrum of what might be labeled “proto-Shi‘ite” groups, all seeking universal backing from Hashimite constituencies and their actual or potential allies. These groups included the likes of the Zubayrids and ‘Ali’s offspring not born to Fatimah. Among them were Muhammad’s first cousins, the descendants of the Prophet’s paternal uncle al-‘Abbas. In each case, their purpose was to restore the honor of the Prophet’s family and clan. Following the Ja‘farid’s death and the collapse of his bid to overturn Umayyad rule, the path was cleared for the Abbasids to promote the cause of the Hashimites and, more particularly, that of the ahl al-bayt, the Prophet’s extended family. This was a task for which they were well prepared, having long planned an insurrection that could actually topple the usurpers. The historic moment had finally arrived. Self-sacrifice may have become a declared virtue by the end of Umayyad rule, but it was not a blueprint for successful and far-reaching change. There would be no martyrs to a righteous but lost cause when the Abbasids gave the orders to unfurl the black banners of war, only victorious Hashimites taking revenge and righting the wrongs of Umayyad rule.

The Abbasid Revolution10 The Abbasid branch of the Prophet’s inner family set off on a path different from that of their martyred Alid kinsmen. Among the declared and potential rebels, the Abbasids alone understood the value of careful planning and the need to construct and maintain alliances that could end in a successful challenge to the Umayyads. Rather than be drawn into open rebellion with no real hope of success, they established a clandestine revolutionary apparatus that would bide its time until the proper moment to unfurl their banners and initiate a decisive campaign to bring down the usurper dynasty. Moreover, the leading Abbasids were well aware of the fickle nature of would-be Iraqi allies and the extent to which the ruling authorities could and did keep close watch on developments in the province. They were also cognizant that even as the House of Umayyah was feeling the effects of internal disorder, it could still muster a powerful,

Martyrdom Versus Low-Profile Politics

65

well-trained army led by able commanders tested in combat. To engage the Umayyads in an open revolt that could actually topple the regime, required from the outset longrange strategy and an opportune moment in which to raise a professional force. The Abbasid family thus turned its attention to the distant eastern province of Khurasan. At a time deemed proper by the Abbasid leadership, their political agents set about turning the restive Arab tribal units settled in Khurasan into the backbone of a fighting force able and ready to challenge the incumbent regime. The revolution was decades in the making. The Abbasids were in no rush to engage the usurpers militarily until they could successfully co-opt the disaffected tribal armies in Khurasan. Put somewhat differently, the Abbasids were in no particular hurry to push the issue until all the requisite pieces had fallen into place. They regarded patience as a virtue and not a sign of weakness, or worse yet, cowardice, two traits that undermined muru‘ah and shaja‘ah, the highly regarded Arab tribal values of “manliness” and “bravery.” As suggested previously, these tribal values ultimately compelled Hujr b. ‘Adi, al-Husayn, and Zayd b. ‘Ali and his son Yahya to accept certain death rather than seek life and shame by conceding to political reality. The nerve center of the secret revolutionary movement was Humaymah, an ancestral Abbasid family compound in the Jordanian desert. As Humaymah was a stopping point for pilgrims en route to Arabia, strangers could come and go without arousing suspicion. The same was of course true in the crowded holy cities during the pilgrimage season. As a result, the Abbasids were able to remain in contact with their conspirators away from the prying eyes of the authorities.11 Apparently the Umayyads never knew the Abbasids were involved in a grand plot to overthrow the regime, not even when the revolutionary forces unfurled their battle flags. Even after the tribesmen, co-opted by trusted Abbasid agents, defeated the Umayyads in Khurasan and were on their way to total victory in Iraq, neither the rank and file nor the general populace welcoming the change of regime knew the identity of the hidden figure on whose behalf the war was fought. The leader of the revolt was only known as the “chosen one (al-rida) from the Prophet’s family,” a descriptive label that could very well have suited a member of ‘Ali b. Abi Talib’s house, as many who welcomed the revolution thought. When pressure mounted to identify the future commander of the faithful, the Abbasid leadership had to emerge from the shadows. When the first of the Abbasid line was formally invested with the authority that accrued to Muhammad’s legitimate successors, there was immediate disappointment among those who had welcomed the revolution thinking that it promoted the claims of the Alid house. They asked who indeed were the descendants of al-‘Abbas to claim rule and by what right did they do so? By any yardstick of comparison, the Abbasids lacked a record of open and heroic existence during the long Umayyad interregnum. Their seeming acquiescence to the usurpers was in sharp contrast to the political activism of their Alid cousins. It is true that the Alid adventures were ill-conceived, ill-timed, and destined to fail, but they confirmed a well-known paradox of history in the Islamic Near East—a paradox much in evidence in modern times. Namely, in certain circumstances, total failure when properly exploited can lead to gains that partial victory can never achieve. In death, the lamented martyrs of ‘Ali’s line grew larger than life. Their example in having nobly and heroically

66

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

confronted the Umayyads to restore the honor of their clan and family was regarded as reaffirming the tribal ideals of muru‘ah and shaja‘ah and was considered in retrospect the quintessential melding of political and religious values. Forged as it was on the anvil of what was considered a true if ultimately tragic history of failed expectations, the dramatic saga of al-Husayn and those of ‘Ali’s progeny, who had and would later take up arms and embrace martyrdom, won the admiration of countless Muslims. Al-Husayn and other Alids who followed his path were declared martyrs retroactively. In death, they emerged larger than they had been in life. The bravura resistance of the Alids to Umayyad rule signified that they were true men of honor who defended cherished principles openly. Even as the Abbasids attempted to solidify rule, the house of ‘Ali b. Abi Talib attracted activist elements that seemed impulsively ready to join lost causes in an effort to obtain the fruits of victory that had gone to the overly cautious and underserving Abbasids. The Abbasids in turn felt compelled to act swiftly against potential and real rebels, as well as to address the accusations hurled against their family. They swiftly cleansed their nascent regime of individuals and groups perceived as threats, including old allies, whether or not they were guilty of Alid sympathies.12 As with many large-scale revolutions, veteran revolutionaries became victims of their success earned on the field of battle, or in coordinating the recruitment of rebel forces. In contrast, the Abbasid leadership observed the fight to overturn Umayyad rule from the relative safety of a war-free zone. Their dossier contained no instances of martyrdom or public resistance to those who had denied the Prophet’s family and clan its rightful place at the head of the ummah. The public emergence of the Abbasid caliph-to-be only after all of Iraq was about to be liberated, raised eyebrows among supporters of the revolution. Even then, the family was reluctant to reveal itself. The battle was still ongoing. The Abbasid armies had to conquer Syria and Egypt before the change of regime could be secure. As it were, the clamoring for a new commander of the faithful forced their hand. The current leader of the family received the oath of allegiance from his generals in the field and was proclaimed caliph. With the final victory over the Umayyads, the new rulers faced the formidable task of consolidating their rule. The arguments mustered by the new ruling house in which they stated their right to govern, did not win them total allegiance. Nor did their attempts to explain why they did not come forward and declare themselves against the usurpers until the latter lost the rich province of Khurasan and suffered a decisive defeat in Iraq. More than that, the Abbasids who stoked the embers of a revolution conducted by others found themselves tainted by a history of outward accommodation to an unwanted regime. For decades, they had enjoyed the pleasures of the Umayyad court in Damascus. In short, the new rulers had much to explain, especially to those moved by the leading Alids and the other Hashimites who had bravely confronted the Umayyads, at times against all odds.

Rationalizing Seeming Passivity in Light of a Legitimizing Past Once their patrons were entrenched, the Abbasid propagandists set about demonstrating that, in choosing a lengthy period of gestation for their revolt, the leaders of the house were not displaying cowardice or abandoning principle. To the contrary, they were

Martyrdom Versus Low-Profile Politics

67

adhering to a pattern of behavior established by the Prophet himself, and therefore a legitimate course of action. Drawing on a history of the past, apologists for the new regime stated that the earliest foreign recruits to Muhammad’s Islamic community were only obliged to take an oath that compelled them to accept Islam and embrace certain universal codes of behavior. This was the so-called pledge of women (bay‘at al-nisa’), an oath given at a secret conclave in Mecca where the Prophet set the early ground rules for his emigration to Medina. Only later during a second meeting with the Medinese did the Prophet enjoin his followers to take the pledge of war (bay‘at al-harb). Previously God had not given Muhammad permission to fight or shed blood. He and his followers endured insults and ignored provocations—a stance that would have gone against the grain of tribal sensibilities. Ordinarily, such aggressive behavior led to responses, whether a call to arms or a diplomatic engagement. Failing to offer any response whatsoever, an individual tribesman and/or his extended family could be shamed and lose honor and standing within his tribe and tribal configurations beyond. Without fear of serious repercussions, Muhammad’s polytheist enemies persecuted the more easily compromised of his followers. A number of Muslims abandoned their faith. Others sought exile. It was only when the Prophet had relocated to Medina and was capable of raising a substantial and loyal military force that the pledge of war took on significance for the future of the ummah.13 Even then, there were critical moments when caution ruled. Addressing revolutionary cadres anxious to do battle, an agent dispatched by the Abbasid leadership reportedly maintained that following their defeat at the battle of Uhud, Muhammad’s supporters were inclined to display black, the color generally associated with calamitous events and taking revenge (and not coincidentally, the color of battle flags and raiment of the Abbasid armies). They were dissuaded from this course, however, by no less than the angel Gabriel, the heavenly being who intercedes in human affairs to protect the interests of God’s messengers. The angel (whose views were no doubt relayed by the Prophet) suggested that the [brave] warriors [bent on revenge] put aside their black garments for a future occasion when displaying black would give them strength and hence victory. With these words, Gabriel (and the Prophet) predicted not only the Muslim victory over the polytheists of Quraysh, but that of the Abbasids over the house of Umayyah—or so Abbasid apologists maintained. Cautiously avoiding conflict until the propitious moment to depose of the usurpers was a suggested policy to satisfy those who would later ask: “How long will the birds eat the flesh of your family (that is, the Hashimites) . . . Fear has enveloped you while the evil house of Umayyah continues beyond the point of toleration.”14 With templates of behavior linking them to God’s wishes, the words of Gabriel, and the Prophet’s call for patience, to say nothing of having successfully extirpated the unwanted Umayyad regime, the Abbasid family conceded no talking points to their Alid cousins and their adherents. Descriptions of Abbasid revolutionary activity in Khurasan, also drawn largely from their historians, are congruent with deliberate attempts to link the house of Abbas and its activities to purportedly earlier developments. Here, the modern historian may find themselves on firmer ground. In organizing their revolutionary cadres, there is the possibility, if not also the likelihood, that the Abbasid agents referred to what may have been the Prophet’s playbook. As described in the Abbasid sources, the structure of the

68

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

revolutionary cadres and their leadership was modeled after the Islamic movement that brought the Prophet from Mecca to Medina, paving the way thereby for Khurasani tribesmen to organize and take up arms on behalf of the “chosen one,” just as the Medinese welcomed the Prophet in their midst. In any case, the Abbasids went to great lengths to seek justification for their actions from a privileged history of the past. Above all, the apologists for the regime continuously stressed that patience was a better model for overthrowing unwanted authority than impetuous calls to arms that were inevitably destined to failure. The Prophet was both wise and divinely inspired in waiting for the proper moment to act boldly. He clearly understood that Martyrdom qua martyrdom is not always the proper way to achieve positive results. To paraphrase an Arabic adage: “A dead lion cannot roar.”

In the Footsteps of the Prophet An exemplar of the political need for the Abbasids to have delayed gratification is the description of an incident that allegedly took place in the great mosque of Damascus. The event is recorded in the Akhbar al-‘Abbas, the pro-Abbasid chronicle that records their rise to power.15 The Abbasid patriarch of the time ‘Ali b. ‘Abdallah is pictured as sitting in the mosque, when he was joined by a man who sat down next to him. ‘Ali opened the conversation: “Listen to what these sheikhs are saying.” His companion turned around and observed that the Syrians were extolling the clan of Umayyah and defaming the Hashimites. Apparently offended, he started to counter their remarks, whereupon ‘Ali b. ‘Abdallah grabbed him by the hand [as if ordering him to desist]. Both men then stood up and exited the mosque without making an issue of what they had heard and seen. Upon leaving, the Abbasid explained his response—or more appropriately, his lack of response—by reciting some verses of the poet ‘Abdallah b. Qays: “There is no virtue in exhortation to action, if it is not tempered by forbearing; what compels events insures their conclusion. But there is no virtue in reasoned response, if there is no passion to protect what is pure from being sullied.”

In effect, the Abbasid maintained that no good comes of impetuosity not tempered by forbearance. Similarly, no good comes of all too compromising forbearance. Lest there be any doubt concerning the Abbasids reluctance to confront the Syrians, ‘Ali let it be known in his own rather subtle fashion that [as did the Prophet] he was waiting for a more propitious moment. Only then would he exact the revenge he and the other Hashimites so eagerly sought. When examined closely, the tradition seems to reveal a good deal more. The deprecating remarks of the Syrians towards the Hashimites seemingly reflect the socalled “cursing” of ‘Ali b. Abi Talib, which became part of the Friday prayers under the Umayyads. Similarly, the desire of the Abbasid’s companion to confront the Syrians recalls the celebrated case of Hujr b. ‘Adi mentioned earlier. We are obliged to ask whether the author of the Abbasid chronicle intended to contrast Hujr b.‘Adi’s feckless response to the cursing of ‘Ali and the Abbasid’s forbearance at the deprecation of his

Martyrdom Versus Low-Profile Politics

69

Hashimite brethren? There is no certain answer to the question, but it is safe to assume that readers would have been familiar with the facts of Hujr’s behavior and the disastrous consequences of his ill-timed and ill-conceived actions. The episode of his bravado, a series of futile gestures that accomplished nothing substantive, if anything at all, should have been a lesson for all future revolutionaries. There is a vast difference between posturing and acting wisely, and between impetuous behavior and the careful planning of a revolution. The partisans of the Alids may have shown great courage in resisting the Umayyads, as did their patrons, but such pyrrhic victories do not lead to the overthrow of entrenched and powerful regimes like that of the house of Umayyah. The true political activist knew better than to betray his cause by acting prematurely. By restraining his companion, the Abbasid patriarch could be seen as opting for a pragmatic policy that was geared to restraint and designed for the long run. Although a policy of restraint needed defense before and after the revolution, events proved the wisdom of the Abbasids in delaying a massive military confrontation with the usurpers, the retrospective designation of Hujr and the Alids as Martyrs notwithstanding. As regards the Alids, it could be said that martyrdom was a badge of courage worn by losers. Still, the Abbasids once in power had to demonstrate that they too suffered greatly at the hands of the Umayyads and that they suffered because the usurpers considered the house of Abbas a potential, if not actual threat to the very foundations of the Umayyad regime. Martyrdom may have been the badge of courage worn by losers but it was eventually regarded as a quintessential sign of muru’ah and shaja’ah, qualities much admired today by those adhering to residual tribal values. How could the Abbasids promote themselves as having been physically abused by the usurpers? How did that self-serving revision of history compare with the self-sacrifice of their Alid cousins whose story more or less reflected an authentic, albeit tragic history? Seen from our perspective, a view derived from close readings of problematic Arabic sources, the Abbasid attempts to show that they too suffered at the hands of the Umayyads seem rather strained to say the least. One can imagine how contemporaneous supporters of the Alids, or those opposed to the usurpers, but not directly aligned with either the Alids, or Abbasids, responded to such forced narratives of Abbasid suffering.16

Alid Martyrdom in the Post-Revolutionary Age The unexpected emergence of the Abbasid regime left the disappointed Alids and their most ardent followers with a dilemma of sorts. Should they accept the rule of their Hashimite cousins who had restored the Prophet’s clan to the head of the ummah, or should they take up arms to seek the caliphate that was rightfully theirs? Two precedents had been established, the first was that of al-Hasan and al-Husayn in response to the general amnesty offered by Mu‘awiyah. The second, the heroic but quixotic armed resistance of al-Husayn and other Alids against Mu‘awiyah’s successors. Put somewhat differently, is it better to follow the Abbasid strategy of accepting reality and await the correct moment to take up arms? Adopting a passive course could be confused with betraying honor, and with that the prospect of enduring shame. Might it be better to

70

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

redeem honor by linking the noble tribal sentiments muru‘ah and shaja‘ah with religious/political principle? That is, should one follow the path of the later al-Husayn and decide upon a manifest challenge to established authority even when the outcome is at best uncertain? Or, worse yet, should the righteous issue a call to arms when the pending battle is, by any normal calculus of power, destined to probable if not certain failure? Having successfully taken command of the Islamic state, the house of Abbas did not have to bother with such fateful choices. They had both the political acumen and the military means to shape a ruling polity that would prosper for several generations and then manage to survive for half a millennium. Disappointed by the unexpected Abbasid rise to power, the progeny of ‘Ali b. Abi Talib and the Prophet’s daughter Fatimah tended to express ambivalence. As if to compensate for al-Hasan’s timidity, his descendants initiated occasional acts of rebellion. In contrast, the offspring of the martyred al-Husayn drew a rather different lesson from the past. They tended to eschew violence and instead awaited the right apocalyptic moment for their redemption and that of the entire Islamic community, a time of messianic expectations when all evil will be swept away and the earth filled with righteousness. For the present, they outwardly acknowledged the rule of their cousins while inwardly keeping their hopes alive, an act of dissimilitude that stood them in good stead over many generations, as they longed for an authority that was not forthcoming. As with the abortive revolts in Umayyad times, the Hasanid attempts to overthrow the Abbasids all met with disaster. No doubt, the rebels were convinced of the righteousness of their cause and that by some act of God they could manage to defy the superior forces arrayed against them—an expected miracle that would salvage their honor and their lives. If not, they still had their honor. Their opponents, who had managed a successful revolution, left less to miraculous interventions. The proactive Alids viewed reality through a different lens. When the rebel Muhammad b. ‘Abdallah al-Mahd was about to be besieged in Medina by 18,000 loyalist troops (762 CE), he sought the advice of a trusted advisor. Should he remain in the Prophet’s old capital and stand against a vastly superior force or should he abandon Medina for a safer place? One of his entourage posed a series of thought-provoking questions. He inquired if the Alid pretender was aware of the limited resources at his disposal: the lack of food, weapons, horses, and fighting men in Medina and its environs. When Muhammad answered affirmatively, he was asked a second series of questions. Was he not also aware of the strength of the enemy, coming as he did from a wealthy region (Khurasan) blessed with weapons and [veteran] fighting men? Again, the Alid rebel answered affirmatively. Muhammad’s interlocutor then suggested that he set off for Egypt with his immediate following. Not only would he find acceptance there, he would be able to match the quantitative advantage of his adversary.17 This tactically sound suggestion brought cries of anguish from another party to the meeting. A second advisor turned to a traditional past with which to counter the logic dictated by reading the map of the contemporaneous battlefield: “God forbid that you should leave Medina. [Your namesake, the Prophet] Muhammad said, ‘I see myself in impenetrable armor.’ ”18 Although the reference to “impenetrable armor” was interpreted as the city Medina (fa-awwaltuha-l-Madinah), the metaphor refers more appropriately to the defensive trench that was dug to spare the city when the Prophet was besieged by

Martyrdom Versus Low-Profile Politics

71

a powerful alliance of polytheists. The hitherto unknown tactic of digging a defensive trench, denied the opposing cavalry an open field of charge. Befuddled, the enemy force eventually withdrew giving Muhammad and the Muslims what amounted to a great victory. From that moment on, the initiative in the conflict between Muhammad and the polytheists, led by the oligarchs of Mecca, passed on to the Muslims. With that history in mind, the Alid rebel, fighting more than a century later, did not abandon Medina. Nor did he follow advice to leave the static defenses of the city and engage the enemy in a tactile campaign featuring highly mobile forays [precisely the kind of tactics a gifted field commander would employ to offset the enemy’s advantage in numbers]. Encouraged by the example of the Prophet and no doubt wishing to be identified with him, Muhammad b. ‘Abdallah al-Mahd re-established the old trench as if the stratagem that worked for the Prophet was applicable to his current situation. There would be, however, no magical solution for the Alid. Fully aware of developments in siege warfare, the Abbasid cavalry laid planks across the trench and charged into the city. The Alid rebel was then seized and killed, adding still another unsuccessful martyr to the Alid cause. In death, he joined his brother Ibrahim who had previously staged a simultaneous rebellion against the Abbasids in Iraq.19 The sons of ‘Abdallah al-Mahd would not be the last of their kind to die for a principle. From time to time, various Alid followers challenged the incumbent regime with a similar lack of success. The proponents of the cause were left to console themselves by commemorating their martyred leaders, particularly al-Husayn whose death was eventually marked in highly emotional ceremonies that reenact his heroic self-sacrifice, events celebrated with great fanfare by Shi‘ites even today. The great sense of mourning occasioned by al-Husayn’s martyrdom was balanced by the outwardly accommodating stance of his descendants, Shi‘ite imams who drew a rather different lesson from his willingness to accept death. When Abu Salamah al-Khallal, the first vizier of the Abbasid regime, favored overthrowing his master for an Alid contender, he sent off three secret letters. One was dispatched to the Husaynid Ja‘far al-Sadiq, a second to ‘Umar al-Ashfraf, also a descendant of al-Husayn, and the third to the Hasanid ‘Abdallah al-Mahd, the father of the future rebel brothers Muhammad and Ibrahim. ‘Umar al-Ashraf never bothered to read his letter; he returned it to its sender unopened, as he did not respond to individuals whom he did not know. His reaction might have been an act of haughtiness. On the other hand, his failure to even peruse the missive might have been an acknowledgment of lurking danger at a time of unstable politics. It would appear that Ja‘far al-Sadiq was aware of its content but was opposed to pursuing any course of action. Only the Hasanid ‘Abdallah al-Mahd was prepared to throw caution to the wind and entertain thoughts of an armed rebellion. He sent word to his Husaynid kinsman Ja‘far seeking his advice. In his reply, the Husaynid indicated that he too received an invitation to head a revolution against the Abbasid cousins. He went on to point out the inherent weaknesses of the Alid branch of the family. In particular, they lacked any influence with the commanders of the tribal army from Khurasan. The reference to the loyal backbone of the Abbasid regime served to underscore the military impotence of the Alids and the potential for total failure in a foolish expression of bravado. ‘Abdallah was thus dissuaded from taking action, but the Abbasids, having become aware of developments,

72

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

eliminated their seditious vizier and forced the sons of ‘Abdallah al-Mahd into hiding until they emerged some years later to augment the list of Alid martyrs. From time to time, new names were inscribed on that list, but without altering the political landscape of the Arab world in a decisive manner.20

Martyrdom and the Contemporary Near East The caution that generally characterized Alid responses to unwanted regimes has been abandoned in recent decades, not only among Shi‘ites but also and with telling effect by Sunnite militants. As a result, sacrifice for religious/political principle has taken on new meaning. In a lengthy war that resulted in more than a million casualties, the revolutionary Shi‘ite government of Iran used boys barely post-pubescent to clear dense minefields so that their elders could advance to battle unscathed by explosive devices beneath their feet. Not to be outdone, Palestinians, virtually all Sunnites to the core, dispatched suicide bombers to terrorize Israeli civilians. Israelis, young and old alike, faced indiscriminate acts of violence in the heart of densely traveled civilian areas. At first, the Palestinian martyrs underwent meticulous training to carry out their missions. Their handlers chose them carefully, finding in their psychological profile an indication that they could actually pull the chord that would end their lives as well as those of their victims. The potential agents of death were at first isolated and prepared mentally for the critical moment of detonation. At times, and unknown to them, they were subjected to a dry run to see if they were likely to carry out their given assignment. With death, they and their families were celebrated. Many families received monetary compensation for their loss. Mothers publicly extolled their sons and hoped to provide additional children to perform similar roles. What thoughts the grieving family may have harbored inwardly tended to go unrecorded. Children too young for such missions demonstrated their quest for manhood by hurling stones at Israeli troops in the occupied areas of the West Bank and the Gaza Strip. Those youth fortunate enough to have been injured, if only slightly, were proclaimed as heroes among their classmates and in the community. Most survived the ritual combat unscathed. Some less fortunate students were maimed, others lost their lives. There would be no shortage of children to taunt the Israel Defense Force, but the pool of well-trained suicide bombers wore thin. With that, rank amateurs were sent on deadly missions, occasionally blowing themselves up prematurely because of a loss of nerve or failing to penetrate heightened Israeli security. More recently, Palestinians, including women, have resorted to unrehearsed and seemingly unplanned lone wolf attacks. What is striking about the emphasis on Palestinian martyrdom is that the leadership of the various resistance movements did not volunteer their sons to invite certain death in defense of principle. Instead, they sent their offspring to safe confines. A story is told of an intercepted telephone conversation between a fearful mother and the wife of a high-ranking leader of Hamas, the Palestinian nationalist movement that has for some years governed the Gaza Strip. The mother inquired when the well-placed woman would send one of her own sons to become a martyr. According to the account, the mother asking the question—it would appear with an edge to her voice—found

Martyrdom Versus Low-Profile Politics

73

herself rebuffed. The story may be apocryphal; it may contain a mustard seed of truth; it might even be true in all its details. What is certain is that in their deepest thoughts and private moments, families whose kin gave their lives as martyrs find themselves questioning their loss. What gains did the martyrdom of a beloved relative achieve for the Palestinian cause? Despite drawing considerable attention in the media and academic circles, the psychological foundations of modern Islamic martyrdom remain somewhat of a mystery to most Western observers with little understanding of the Islamic world. Moreover, the motivation for Islamic self-sacrifice may vary somewhat from place to place. For example, the populations of Afghanistan and the Palestinian territories are moved by a need to defend Islamic principles, but how those principles are conceived, and to what ends, would seem to vary in societies with histories of a very different nature. In viewing modern Muslim expressions of martyrdom, analysts would be best served to examine individual circumstances in a highly nuanced fashion. As the Arabs put it: The fingers of the hand are not of equal length. Israelis for one have closely studied patterns of random and not so random terrorist attacks for many years. Seeking a better understanding of Arab militant behavior, Israeli psychologists fluent in Arabic and well-acquainted with Arab communal life have sought to trace the background of individuals willing to give up their lives freely and looked to their extended kinfolk. They have also visited prisons to interrogate those who somehow failed to carry out their missions. This essay is neither the time nor place to review the accumulated data. Suffice it to say, the death of individuals attempting to redeem Palestinian honor is particularly hard felt in well-knit families and larger clans securely linked by blood ties. Within villages and neighborhoods inhabited largely by close relatives, there is a tendency to honor the hamulah or extended family by exacting vengeance for the loss of one’s immediate kin. In lesser circumstances, there might be a perceived need to wipe out the stain of some public humiliation shaming the individual and his or her relations. The tribal sentiments of istishhad are still on display when the occasion allows accumulated rage to run its course. Even women have now found a place in redeeming family honor. As regards the Palestinians, suicide bombing eventually proved counterproductive. Israelis displaying great resilience efficiently mobilized various agencies to deal with the immediate aftereffects of such attacks. Attempts of suicide bombing became increasingly sporadic and then exceedingly rare. Seeking vengeance against the Israeli enemy continues. Palestinian drivers have attempted to plow their vehicles into crowds of Israeli civilians and army personnel, this despite the extremely low odds of escaping unscathed, if at all. The drivers of death vehicles are currently augmented with knife wielding men and women of all ages. The tools they use are simple to obtain and relatively easy to conceal until the very moment of attack. It is also somewhat easier to disarm a knife wielder, especially if they bare their weapon at some distance from the intended victim. Nevertheless, in the heat of the moment, the first inclination of the defender may not be to disarm the assailant, even if it is a woman, but to strike to kill for fear of being killed or as an expression of previously concealed hatred. As a result, the list of Palestinian martyrs has now come to include children and female combatants, a situation that troubles some Muslim legal authorities. The end does not appear to be in sight.

74

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

For Muslims, jihad or holy war is a fard kifayah, that is, a collective responsibility and not an individual obligation (fard ‘ayn). The burden of jihad is borne by the entire Muslim community, absolving, thereby, the participation of the old and feeble; children who have not reached their majority; the blind and the maimed; and women who are better suited to the reproducing male losses on the battlefield. Hamas, one of the Palestinian resistance movements, has changed the traditional rules of the game. Personal obligations usually restricted by Muslim jurists to such matters as prayer and fasting or vowing to go on minor pilgrimages and religious retreats are now extended to include jihad to reclaim Palestine for Islam. By declaring the liberation of Palestine, a fard ‘ayn, the spiritual religious leaders of Hamas, assert that no adult Muslim can avoid his or her duty, regardless of circumstances. In theory, slaves—if there were still slaves among the Palestinians—can engage the enemy in holy war without consulting their masters. Similarly, women can join in the battle without their husband’s consent. Because boys reach their legal majority in early pubescence, even children are obligated to aspire to martyrdom and join the struggle. Theory does not always lead to practice. Hamas originally made it clear that women are not to be employed as suicide bombers. Nor have they recruited young boys for dangerous missions. Youths killed in demonstrations, some for merely being in the wrong place at the wrong time, are nevertheless declared shahid. Great throngs attend their funerals; their pictures bearing the designation martyr are hung in rooms of residences or are plastered on public walls, the living testimony of their supreme sacrifice to an inviolable principle.21 The examples of Palestinians embracing martyrdom for an Islamic cause pale in comparison with the industrial-sized carnage of the eight-year Iraq–Iran war and the recent situation in Syria and Iraq. I have already referred to Shi‘ite Iran’s use of children to clear minefields. The same holds true for al-Qaeda, whose operations in the crowded urban centers of the West, though less frequent than incidents in the Islamic Near East, have resulted in significant loss of life;cross the destruction of the World Trade Center Towers in New York being the iconic example of death and destruction. In Pakistan, the victims are most often other Muslims, or from the perspective of the perpetrators, wayward Muslims: Shi‘ites, Ahmadis (an offshoot of Islam), and Sufi mystics. In Afghanistan, it includes Western forces, but also Muslims who have turned away from what the Taliban and their allies consider truly Islamic behavior. Representing a militant Sunnite extremism, ISIL (or ISIS or DAESH), the so-called Islamic State of the Levant, dispatched drivers of explosive-laden trucks to clear a path through the enemy’s defensive positions. Were that not a sufficient demonstration of loyalty to an ideal, it has also dispatched numerous suicide bombers to densely populated civilian areas. Crowded marketplaces and Shi‘ite shrines have regularly been subjected to suicide bombings or car bombs rigged with explosives set to timing devices. These attacks have resulted in multiple deaths among non-combatant bystanders. Despite a veritable cornucopia of publications, ISIL’s early ability to recruit seemingly endless numbers of potential martyrs has yet to become a subject demanding thorough scholarly inquiry. What is it that makes militant Islamic movements so attractive to recruits from all segments of society and disparate regions? What vision of Islam and of an Islamic mission compels such intense needs to comply, be it out of abject fear, or, as is also likely, a desperate need of fellowship? In effect, ISIL has created

Martyrdom Versus Low-Profile Politics

75

a polity that embraces many sentiments reflective of an Arab tribe, albeit one held together by a broad-ranging ideology and not ties of blood. In that sense, the recently formed Islamic Caliphate that transcends ethnic bonds, and even a common language, reminds one of the idealized community of the Prophet, which still functioned much like a tribe in his time. How then are we to consider the responses of rank-and-file Muslims to ISIL’s demands for self-sacrifice? To better understand martyrdom among ISIL’s warriors, one would need to interview a broad cross section of would-be martyrs, as well as have detailed knowledge of those who have already sacrificed their lives. Such information is likely to become available only after the final defeat of the Islamic state and similar violent communities, or short of that conclusive battle, the surrender or capture of large numbers of their adherents. At present, two things appear certain. Islamic militants still call for resurrecting the caliphate and restoring traditional Islamic law. They see such accomplishments as a prelude to completing the Prophet Muhammad’s vision, where all of humankind embraces his prophetic legitimacy and faith. The universal acceptance of Islam has long been a desideratum of the more traditional Muslim faithful, if only as a dream destined for an undetermined future. The likes of ISIL wish to hasten that process so that it occurs in the near future. There is also the perceived need for total dedication among the leadership and of the militants and their heterogeneous following. Bringing the dream of a triumphant Islam to fruition requires the ultimate sacrifice of making oneself a martyr when required. When calling on their followers to make that sacrifice for the cause, both Shi‘ites and Sunnites have drawn and continue to draw on examples from an idealized past. The same holds true for similar demonstrations of violence and self-sacrifice in the name of the true Islam, events that occur beyond the Arab world considered here. As I write these words in early 2019, the territory controlled by the Islamic State has shrunk dramatically under pressure from an alliance of forces, Muslim and nonMuslim. Hard-pressed to retain areas under their control, ISIL’s leaders have ceased to call for volunteers to swell the ranks of their supporters in the Near East. Instead, they seek individuals to carry out missions in Western lands. Their purpose: to perpetrate acts of terror that may call for the ultimate self-sacrifice. The question for the modern historian is not restricted to determining whether tales of martyrdom going back 1,000 years or more are real or imagined. We have to be concerned with how such stories linking martyrdom and jihad are received and recycled, and how these narratives of self-sacrifice are used to combat the influence of the West and promote the overthrow of existing Arab nation states. Needless to say, more scholarly effort is clearly needed.

76

4

Being on the “Right Side of History”: The Concept and Praxis of a Proper Islamic Revolution

Among the more pungent statements inspired by the revolutionary impulses of the so-called “Arab Spring” has been the call to be on “the right side of history.” Because there are now, and have been since the rise of Islam, any number of conflicting Muslim visions of the future, it is difficult to understand why someone might think that they could predict with any measure of confidence what history holds in store for revolutionaries bent on overturning the governments of Near Eastern states. Embracing a specific view of an Arab future linked to recent revolutionary stirrings has thus far proved an ill-advised venture, especially for statesmen called upon to plan for the immediate and distant future. Only a true prophet sent by the Almighty can foresee in detail historical outcomes that are anything but clear to mere mortals, but who are the genuine prophets of our times? Observers commenting on the situation in the troubled Near East would be wise to recall a pungent remark of the ancient Jewish sages. The rabbis proclaimed that after the destruction of the Temple, the gift of prophecy was restricted to mad men, mutes, and small children, in effect declaring prophecy all but dead. The Muslim authorities are even less charitable when it comes to divine revelation. They hold that the Prophet Muhammad was the last of God’s messengers; there will be none destined to follow. Academics should be advised to exercise great caution when asked to apply their specific and often narrowly defined knowledge to broad-ranging and rapidly-evolving developments in the world. As a philologist and a historian of medieval Islamic and Jewish civilization, I’m only held accountable for interrogating the language and politics of a distant past, although in the interest of full disclosure, I am aware that delving into early Islamic times can significantly affect our understanding of the contemporary Arab world. Properly applied, specific knowledge of the past might even prove helpful in contemplating the near, if not more distant future. In any case, the role of this extended essay is to reflect on the concept and conduct of revolution in Islam, particularly in early Islamic times, and to suggest how delving into the history of early Islamic times, or to be more accurate, received memories of that history, might help understand current developments regarding regime change. Put somewhat differently, the essay explores how in the formative era of Islamic civilization—the period in which the foundations of Islamic beliefs and institutions were forged—Muslims responded to what they considered illegitimate and unwanted authority. Following that, it suggests, 77

78

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

albeit indirectly, and, to be sure, with considerable circumspection, even reluctance, possible links between earlier revolutionary impulses that gripped the Islamic Near East and recent events of the so-called Arab Spring. Note the cautious choice of language. “Considerable circumspection,” “reluctance,” and “possible links” are hardly expressions that denote the kind of certainty preferred by the media and proffered so often by a stable of experts in choreographed interviews. In suggesting possible links between a distant Islamic history and present Muslim attitudes and behavior, there is no claim that the Arab/Muslim world has remained static for the past 1,400 years, unable as it were to make any significant adjustments to evolving historical circumstances. Nor will knowledge of the Islamic past explain all that needs to be known about the present and future Arab world. Not even philologists trained in the old orientalist mode, that is, in the old-fashioned way that starts with reading classical texts in the original languages, would ever maintain that cultural explanations drawn from Muslim sources written more than 1,000 years ago shed light on each and every aspect of contemporary events. One surely has to account for the recent encroachment of the West that created what many if not most observers consider a significant watershed in Arab/Muslim experience. Before the political and cultural advance of the West, which included occupying vast swathes of territory within the Islamic heartland, the course of history signified for Muslims expectations of continuous triumphs over the infidels. There were to be sure setbacks: The appearance of the Crusaders and the Mongols being the most notable cases in point. But the Crusaders who resisted full integration within the checkered mosaic of Near Eastern societies saw their kingdom collapse under Muslim pressure. The expulsion of the Christian invaders serves present-day Muslims as a predictor of what will befall the modern Crusaders who have penetrated the Abode of Islam: The European and American imperialists and their alleged allies, the Zionists who carved out a polity for themselves in what had been a Muslim land for some 1,200 years. On the other hand, the fate of the Mongol invaders proved the extraordinary appeal of Islam. The Buddhist warriors may have conquered vast stretches of Muslim territory and put an end to a Baghdad based caliphate that had endured for five centuries, but they were converted to Islam shortly thereafter and went on to become great patrons of Islamic culture. Having successfully defeated the Crusaders and absorbed the Mongols, Muslims once again set their world on its proper course. They turned their attention to their most persistent enemy, the Christian empire situated in Asia Minor. Following 800 years of intermittent warfare, the Turks finally captured Constantinople in 1453 CE, bringing about the collapse of a Byzantine polity that had lasted for more than 1,000 years. The fall of Constantinople, which was a decisive blow to Christianity in the Near East, allowed for the beginning of a major campaign against the Christian states in Europe. In time, Turkish armies penetrated Eastern and Central Europe, establishing Muslim rule in the hitherto Christian Balkans and lands further west. Towards the end of the seventeenth century, the Ottoman Turks stood poised to capture Vienna, whose fall would likely have opened the rest of the European continent to Muslim rule. A Muslim general, looking at his forces situated opposite the gates of Vienna, would have expressed great confidence in their ability to overrun that bastion of the

Being on the “Right Side of History”

79

Christian faith, and no doubt would have looked beyond Vienna to cities and domains of Christendom situated further to the West and along the northern rim of the Mediterranean. However, Vienna did not fall. The pastry of choice remains strudel and not baklava, and kaffee mit schlag is still preferred to Turkish coffee. Not only did the Christian Europeans hold their ground against the Muslim Turks, they embarked on a counteroffensive. Beginning with Napoleon’s invasion of Egypt at the end of the eighteenth century, Western nations established footholds within the Arab world. In the twentieth century, the Ottoman Empire, the quintessential symbol of Islamic power imploded. With that, European states controlled or profoundly influenced the politics of the entire Arab world. At the same time, devout Muslims saw the moral timbre of their deeply traditional society increasingly rotted by what they considered decadent and debased Western values. The encroachment of the West has produced an unprecedented shock to Muslim sensibilities. The lingering effects of this shock are painfully apparent, especially to the most traditional of Muslims in the contemporary Near East. I refer to devout Muslims labeled Islamists in the West: militant groups ranging from the likes of al-Qaeda and its imitators; to various Salafi movements; to the Muslim Brotherhood and its regional offshoots; and most recently to what the Arabs refer to as DAESH, and the Western media as ISIS or ISIL. By whatever acronym, the latter is the self-proclaimed Islamic State (dawlah) of the Levant (al-Sham), a governing body that rules over a shrinking political landscape in modern-day Syria and Iraq.1 Its declared objective: to restore the Islamic caliphate, not only in the territory it has conquered by force, but everywhere in the Abode of Islam. Following that, the armies of Islam will engage the non-believers in an apocalyptic and decisive struggle that will usher in the long-expected Messianic Age, an event scheduled to take place in the not too distant future. Other Islamist movements carry different timetables for the ultimate triumph of Islam. However, all agree that the current system of religiously bankrupt Arab nation states must be replaced by a genuine and all-encompassing Muslim polity, that is, a mega-state that transcends present geographical borders and whose rulers adhere to a genuine Islam drawing inspiration from the Prophet’s age and that of the “righteous” caliphs who followed. After the creation of that genuine Islamic state and the restoration of a legitimate caliphate, the energized faithful will be able to complete the extensive Islamic conquest sought by the Turks as they camped on the outskirts of Vienna. That vision of the future, now embraced by militant Sunnite Islam, conforms to the ultimate victory of the true faith as allegedly envisioned by the Prophet Muhammad and his followers. One can hardly deny that the appeal of the militant Islam is directly linked to feelings of shame brought on by Western dominance on the field of battle, perhaps even more so by what is perceived as dissolute Western social behavior and godless values penetrating the modern Islamic world. The theme of Western decadence is repeated time and again by Muslim revivalists, especially Islamist revolutionaries calling for the overthrow of Arab governments devoid of traditional Muslim values. Although denied by some Western observers, this Muslim reaction to foreign political and cultural penetration is strongly influenced by the residual impact of early Islamic times. Memories of that distant past are firmly etched in the historical consciousness of all traditional Muslims and serve to affect, if not dictate, current views and patterns of

80

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

action, including calls to revolution, particularly among Muslims who embrace what has been broadly labeled militant Islam. There is then a delicate balance between the effects of a traditional Islamic culture forged in the formative period of Islam and specific reactions generated by current realities in the Arab World. Believing Muslims have never viewed the received narratives of previous Islamic experience dispassionately. Where bonds of religion are tightly wound, the past is not a subject of mere antiquarian interest suffered by restless students in tiresome history classes. For the Muslim faithful, what is loosely designated ‘ilm al-akhbar or ‘ilm al-ta’rikhat, that is, the “study of history,” has always lent itself to understanding the present and anticipating the future, be it the encounter with external forces or divisive political factions within the Islamic Near East. Recalling the past, whether remembered as it might have been, or reshaped to reflect what should have been, or simply invented from whole cloth, is the principal means that Muslims in every generation going back more than 1,000 years have sought guidance. This has been particularly true when internal strife led to intercommunal conflicts that threatened to undermine the political and religious foundations of existing Muslim societies. The same recourse to invoking history obtained when Muslims perceived circumstances as perpetuating the unwanted rule of corrupt regimes that had risen to power. Memories of the past were—and are still invoked today—by opposing Muslim factions seeking not only to combat the external enemies of Islam, but to also promote the cause of praiseworthy Muslims and their followers vis-à-vis blameworthy Muslim rulers as in the events of the Arab Spring, and more generally the concept and conduct of Islamic revolution. Confronting unwanted rule, Muslims of the Near East have always sought to align themselves with what they view as the right side of history, but, being on the right side of history is very often, if not actually most often, in the eyes of the beholder. The lessons of the past and the expectations of the future have always been, and continue to be, a source of contention among Muslims. As individuals and in groups, Muslims have argued and at times taken up arms over the meaning of the past and present, and have certainly held different visions of the future. There have been many right sides to history throughout the long course of Islamic experience. Some fervently held views have indeed given rise to revolutionary impulses of different scope and duration. What follows looks at the present through the prism of early Islamic times and explores how the so-called Arab Islamists of today employ revolutionary concepts of an earlier age to overthrow regimes under whose unwanted rule they live. Their purpose: to create what they hold to be an authentic Islamic society modeled on one of an idealized past.

The Concept of Revolution in Islam Bernard Lewis, considered in some circles as having been the doyen of Near Eastern historians, once warned of analyzing trends in the region through the indiscriminate use of categories and descriptive terms drawn from the political vocabulary of the modern West. As he liked to put it, looking at the Near East through European and North American spectacles is the equivalent of explaining British football, which is

Being on the “Right Side of History”

81

soccer, by the rules of a very different American game.2 Forewarned by Lewis’s observation, we have to ask what we in the West mean when speaking of revolution. More particularly, what Muslims meant by revolution in ages past; and what militant Muslim revivalists mean today when calling for rebellion against unwanted rule. There have been throughout the entire history of the Arab world so-called revolutions. Some are, in effect, the efforts of disgruntled relatives of the ruling house to displace their rivals with little if any change in the methods of rule, to which one can add restless military officers seeking to overthrow established rulers for their own aggrandizement, sometimes with, and sometimes without bloody consequences. The best examples drawn are from the problems that so often accompanied the accession of a new caliph in early Islamic times and, more recently, the coups that have marked the politics of the post-independence Arab world. At times, the forceful change of regime is fomented by relatively small groups of plotters intent on seizing the reins of state for a declared higher moral purpose, but who once in power, govern more or less as did their predecessors. They embrace traditional authoritarian methods according to political rules well understood by rulers and ruled alike throughout the lengthy course of Islamic history. In the modern Arab heartland, the best examples of this kind of “reformist” regime are perhaps the government shaped by young colonels in the Syrian army following the independence of their country; the Egyptian officers following the revolution of 1952; and the Iraqi regimes established after the violent overthrow of the monarchy in 1958. These historic developments initiated a familiar form of authoritarian rule, albeit marketed in modern slogans such as “positive neutrality (or non-alignment)” and “Arab socialism”—slogans that did not resonate deeply among traditional Muslims of the Arab street. Nor did the overthrow of established rule result in the kind of regime change that leads to dramatic transformation of society, an upheaval that dismisses and then thoroughly dismantles the ideological foundations and political infrastructure of the deposed ruling establishment. Such dynamic changes are accomplished by employing novel and previously untested codes and forms of political behavior. The purpose of these codes: to create a new and distinctive social and political order. Put somewhat differently: a complete break with the immediate and distant past; beyond that a conscious attempt to eradicate marked traces of the past through innovative social engineering, symbolic political gestures, and when necessary no uncertain amount of physical coercion. One might wish to argue, with a nod to comparative history, that this description of total change fits the objectives of the French, Russian, and Chinese revolutions, to name three events designed to alter completely the course of history. I should think one ought to include here the rise of the Third Reich, which somehow never seems spoken of as a revolution, although historians have spilled much ink describing the transformative events that took shape during the short period of the vast Nazi imperium. Looking beyond Europe and the Far East, we might inquire whether the impulses to dramatic change that gave rise to these modern revolutions could have informed the concept and conduct of revolution among traditional Muslims in early Islamic times. Advancing chronologically, can we presume that revolutions beyond the Abode of Islam may inform in some way the vision of current Muslim Arab militants

82

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

eyeing a future Islamic polity? To restate these queries: Did Muslim rebels of the distant past and do current militant Islamists seek transformative change for the communities and societies in which they lived or live at present?3

Terminology4 Arabs aware of the French revolution employ the word thawrah to describe it and subsequent revolutions both foreign and regionally based, including the current events that bring upheaval in the Arab world. In modern Arabic, thawrah, meaning revolution, is derived from the verb thawara “to stir,” as when a camel stirs, and by extension “to become excited.” It would seem that in classical Arabic a tha’ir signifies an individual “who stirs things up” and by extension perhaps “a rebel.” The first Abbasid caliph, al-Saffah (d. 754 CE), referred to himself as al-Tha’ir, “the one responsible for upheaval.” The title presumably suggested his role and that of his family in leading a revolution to overthrow an unwanted Umayyad regime (r. 661–750 CE), but as Lewis points out, thawrah is also used to describe the overthrow of legitimate order, referring specifically to the stirring up of sedition, or the undermining of centralized authority. At the extreme, such seditious actions could compromise the concept of a truly universal Islamic community. History informs us that the rejection of an existing Muslim authority could and did lay the groundwork for establishing petty dynasties, local or regional mini-states that at best paid lip service to the Caliph, who in theory was the commander of all the faithful. Hence, thawrah as applied in the Middle Ages can have a decidedly negative connotation. Nevertheless, so-called “progressive” revolutionary regimes of modern times employ thawrah to describe their political culture and the circumstances that brought them to power. The slogan of the “secular” Ba’th parties that took control of Iraq and Syria links directly the notion of revolution (thawrah) with modern concepts of Arab unity (wahdah), and socialism (ishtiraqiyah). At present, thawrah has become the generic term for revolution among Arabic speakers. But, it remains to be seen if thawrah has ever fully connoted a revolution marking a dramatic break with a long-established Islamic past, or whether any such effort to completely transform traditional Islamic society would be looked upon favorably by current religious authorities and the traditional Muslim communities they counsel. To be sure, classical Arabic employs various words for rebel and rebellion, many more commonly than tha’ir and certainly thawrah. Again, none of these words signify the kind of transformative change sought by those who promoted the likes of the French, Russian, and Chinese revolutions. Modern Arabs have also used the word inqilab to mean revolution based on the verb inqalaba, “to alter something completely,” or more pertinent to our discussion to “be turned upside down.” According to Bernard Lewis, the use of inqilab to signify revolution in modern Arabic “is rare, and when occurs it is usually derogatory.”5 Lewis seems to mean that complete upheaval is looked upon by [traditional Muslim] Arabs as a rather dangerous idea. That may indeed have been true for medieval political theorists and religious authorities who viewed dramatic change as a prelude to unraveling religious authority. Such a situation could well lead to a decline in faith and proper observance, and was to be discouraged

Being on the “Right Side of History”

83

even whenever and wherever the faithful are commanded by rulers given to highly questionable moral persuasion. Better a tyrant preserving order than a fitnah that is debilitating civil strife. With all respect to the prodigiously learned Professor Lewis, thawrah and inqilab seem interchangeable in modern Arabic. Stretching the semantic register for inqilab when it refers to “turning something upside down,” one could argue that at least here is a term that could closely approximate the concept of transformative change in politics. It is not certain, however, that modern Arabs have widely employed inqilab with that specific meaning in mind. In any case, the great Arabic lexicons of pre-modern times do not invest inqilab with a meaning that speaks to revolution or indeed even rebellion of any kind.6 Linked with rebellion, inqilab is like much current Arabic political vocabulary, the result of a modern Arab world opened to direct European influence. More recently, the term intifadah, “shaking things up” described Palestinian civil disobedience, the forceful response to Israeli rule in the West Bank and Gaza. Note, however, that intifadah has not yet been employed to indicate a large-scale military campaign to overthrow an unwanted authority, nor has it described even the likes of events in Cairo’s Tahrir Square. At present, the term seems restricted to the Palestinian struggle, and even then, not to a wider vision of dramatic change in Palestinian society. For those who would ask: What is the point to these arcane linguistic observations? I would respond with another question: Why is it that no word existed in Arabic before the penetration of Western political ideas to denote the kind of changes envisioned by the French, Russian, and Chinese revolutions? To the contrary, the notion of eradicating the past in favor of creating an entirely new order is completely antithetical to traditional Arab Muslim understandings of what it means to overturn unwanted authority. For traditional Arab Muslims who seek Islamic revival, by whatever means, the point of declaring open rebellion against the existing authority of the modern nation state is not to create a brave new Islamic world, but to return to a longed-for old world, namely to the idealized ummah of the early Muslims. I refer to the all-embracing universal religious–political community of the Prophet Muhammad.

Revolution as Return to the Past. The Ummah and Challenging Unwanted Authority The Muslim faithful described the ummah that served as the foundation of the earliest Islamic state, as a model for all Islamic polities to follow. It was a polity marked by pristine political conduct; an egalitarian community that in theory at least declared all Muslims equal regardless of ethnicity, geographical origins, and linguistic affinity; a community marked by din or religious spirituality and untainted by dunya, the quest for material gain. As portrayed by Muslims throughout the entire course of their history, the ummah was also unmarked by fasad, meaning political and personal corruption, the very kind of political behavior that current Muslim revivalists believe is rampant in what they consider morally compromised, secular leaning nation states of the Arab Muslim world. Such modern states are led by autocrats, if not indeed dictators, some of whom were until recently, or still are, caretakers of widespread

84

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

kleptocracies with overarching personal interest in material gain at the expense of their neglected subjects. For traditional Muslims, recapturing the moral high ground has always required endorsing the religious ideals and reenacting the transparent politics of the early ummah, while making sure that the universal Muslim community reborn—or if you prefer reconstituted—is ruled by leaders who embrace the outlook of the Prophet Muhammad and the message he proscribed for his followers. The period of the Prophet’s ummah and the age of the righteous caliphs or early successors to the Prophet are trumpeted by modern Sunnite reformers as models for a genuine Islamic democracy. For these reformers, that idealized past serves, or should serve as a guide to proper Muslim governance, a form of rule that sidesteps reliance on Western concepts of democracy and Western democratic institutions. On the other hand, Western scholars regard the unblemished Muslim community of the past as having always been more of an ideal than a reality. As for the highly regarded early successors of the Prophet, three of the four, all chosen through the mechanism of a shura or tribal election, fell victim to assassins. The fourth was imposed on the community by a minority of three including himself; not what liberals of the West would consider democratic elections governed by universal suffrage.7 As regards choosing the caliph, the electoral process heralded by current Muslim revivalists as a proper model for modern democratic elections, this was in fact always limited to tribal elders, and then in Islamic times to leading members of the ruling house and their relatives, sometimes in conjunction with the military praetorians who served them.8 In the case of the righteous caliphs, the candidates were vetted by a handful of figures who chose the leader of the ummah from among themselves, occasionally after much discussion and considerable discord—a system not unlike the manner in which the ruling circles of modern Arab nation states have often chosen to handle questions of succession. Moreover, two civil wars marked the period of the righteous caliphs, the last of which continued for five years and led to the house of Umayyah, former opponents of the Prophet Muhammad, usurping the caliphate. Their ascension to rule was at the expense of the Prophet’s kin, considered by many if not most Muslims as the rightful heirs to his legacy. Truth be told, the politics of the idealized early Muslim community so frequently praised as pristine by current Muslim revivalists left much to be desired. Based on the early Arabic sources and various verses in the Qur’an, Muhammad himself could be described as a compromiser who, were it not for dexterous Muslim commentaries, might have been considered a leader who achieved political objectives by what could well have been deemed embarrassing acts. Islamic tradition thus inserted a filter to remove any possible blame directed at the Prophet and his loyal followers. When read closely, the early Arabic sources seemingly go to great lengths to massage the description of certain events in the Prophet’s lifetime. With that, they absolve him from any apparent wrongdoing.9 Islamic tradition went so far as to decree defaming (sabb) the Prophet an act punishable by death. The only recourse for the defamer was to recant his words and reaffirm his faith in Islam and God’s Messenger. Unlike the biblical Moses in Jewish tradition, the prophet Muslims often compare with Muhammad, God’s last messenger to the faithful was, and remains, absolutely beyond reproach.

Being on the “Right Side of History”

85

Shi‘ite revivalists also look to the past but their template of an ideal community is, for the most part, restricted to the age of the Prophet. The figures who inspire them are the Prophet, his cousin ‘Ali b. Abi Talib, and the Shi‘ite imams, the descendants of ‘Ali and the Prophet’s daughter Fatimah. Of all the leading Muslims, only the Alid imams could claim descent from Muhammad. Unlike Fatimah, his other daughters were all barren, and Muhammad had sired no known children, at least none that survived from his other wives and various concubines. For the partisans (shi‘ah) of ‘Ali, this meant a privileged status for the imams born to male offspring of the Fatimid line.As did the Sunnites, the supporters of ‘Ali and the Shi‘ite imams found Muhammad beyond reproach. They then did the same for ‘Ali and the imams, though in light of certain unpleasant realities, the adulation of the Alid line required taking considerable historical license. In that regard, Sunnites and Shi‘ites alike have found recourse to shaping and when necessary inventing historical narratives that transcended any distinctions between truth and falsehood. The overwhelming reverence for an idealized past and idealized persons among varied Islamic communities in all ages and places simply swept aside any significant skepticism among Sunnites and Shi‘ites alike. Neither the critical Western view of the ummah nor the attempt of Muslim apologists to cleanse the Prophet and his followers of any blameworthy action has made much of an impression among Islamic militants today. As in the past, the concept of a universal Islamic community untainted by political corruption continues to be the model for the perfect Islamic society and hence the declared objective of would-be Islamic revolutionaries guided by their faith. In that sense, Muslim traditionalists do not consider revolution a linear moment reflecting a decisive break with the experiences of the past. They prefer instead to return to an idealized past, a dramatic turn in political fortune when the revolving wheel of history will come full cycle, putting an end to corruption and bringing about an age recalling that of the original ummah. In classical Arabic that turn is referred to as a dawlah, from the Arabic verb dala “to turn” or “revolve” as in the scientific rather than political meaning of revolution. From dala we obtain dawlah meaning “a change in time” or “a change of fortune” and ultimately “the revolving wheel of fortune bringing about a change of rule,” a concept rooted in the Qur’an (3:140) but also in ancient times and in languages other than Arabic. When the quintessential revolutionaries of pre-modern Islam, the Abbasids of the eighth-century CE, referred to the rise of their house as a dawlah, they meant a change of fortune (and rule) that had brought the Islamic ummah back full cycle to its desired state. Abbasid propagandists maintained, time and again that by overthrowing the Umayyad regime that had seized rule from the Prophet’s family, the revolutionaries restored the political and religious sensibilities of the Muslims, and the Islamic polity reverted to its idealized origins. Once again, there was a universal community fully committed to spiritual life as opposed to material gain and, along with that, a regime unsullied by political corruption.10 More than anything else, it was the idealized Islamic past that gave shape to the political outlook of Muslims in the formative years of the revolutionary regime created by the house of Abbas. There is perhaps no single text where this linkage of past and present is explicit. Nevertheless, that linkage is clearly implied throughout the officially sanctioned historiography of the times.11 Utilizing memories of the past stored in the

86

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

historical consciousness of all Muslims, the historians of the ruling house painted the new ruling order as if it were the ideal ummah of the Prophet’s time reconstituted by his close relatives. The organizational structure of the revolutionary movement mirrored by design that of the Prophet’s early community, thereby giving the revolution legitimacy. Similarly, the nomenclature of the various cadres within the revolutionary apparatus mirrored those of the Prophet’s agents. Even the political strategy of the revolutionaries, especially during the most dangerous phase of the struggle, drew upon what were said to be the experiences of the Prophet and the early Islamic community.12 Like the Prophet’s da‘wah, or call to Islam, the Abbasids referred to a da‘wah of their own. That is, they appealed for support to overthrow the incumbent dynasty that had usurped the role of the Prophet’s family and corrupted the body politic of the ummah.

Dunya versus Din: Religion and the Politics of the Temporal World There is no reason to believe that deposed Umayyads were lax in their religious observance. Rather, like the current Arab autocrats overthrown or made vulnerable during the so-called Arab Spring, they were from the outset accused of being mashghub fi riyasah wa-l-tartib, that is, they were intoxicated with the mechanics of rule. As a result, they compromised the spirituality of the original Islamic ummah as well as its transparent politics.13 In modern terms, we might be inclined to label the deposed Umayyads secular, although the common Arabic words currently used for conveying secularity dunyawiyah and ‘alimiyah do not mean secular in the Western sense of the word. They certainly do not suggest the American concept of separation of church and state, let alone by French laicité, which registers an almost anti-religious tone. Rather, dunyawiyah and ‘alimiyah connote commitment to the temporal world (for material gain) at the expense of spirituality born of religion—in Arabic, preferring dunya to din. Failure to draw a distinction between Western and Islamic notions of secularism may lull observers into misreading the intentions of militant Muslim revivalists and those Muslim revolutionaries who defy established authority for reasons not couched in religious terms. On the one hand, there are militant Islamists who accuse their unwanted rulers of secular leanings while calling for the establishment of genuine Islamic polities. On the other, there are protesters like some of those among the throngs in Tahrir Square; individuals who proudly identify as Muslims but who do not want to see Islamic law (shari‘ah) and law courts replace completely the existing legal framework of their states, even though much of the latter is borrowed from the West. These last Muslims reflect the religious sensibilities of traditional Islamic society, but they are reluctant to have their daily lives controlled or their horizons severely limited by overly zealous religious authorities. At the same time, they do not want the existing regimes to restrict their options while catering to the narrowly-defined interests of the ruling elites. Such attitudes towards religion and state, as expressed by many educated participants in the Arab Spring, are far from secularity in the West. What traces of Western secularism that exist in the modern Arab world are generally found among non-Muslims seeking equality with Muslims, or in circles of Muslim intellectuals who

Being on the “Right Side of History”

87

have lived and/or studied outside the Near East, particularly in the liberal atmosphere of Western democracies. Paradoxically, these frequently abused anti-establishment secularists share some common thoughts with the very autocrats they wish to replace. There is a common antipathy to the more dour religious authorities. Various repressive heads of state and their cohort see their rule as potentially, if not already threatened by elements of a religious establishment with broad appeal to what has remained a largely traditional Muslim society. Such perceived threats call for vigilance and when necessary, more decisive measures. Whatever reservations some of the more dictatorial regimes may hold towards religious authorities and/or religiously inspired movements, their hands are not always free to take truly decisive action. The occasional crackdown on religious groups is not the equivalent of the Soviet repression of organized religion, or even the American ideal of separating church from state. Nor are the objectives of the “secular” Arab autocrats comparable to those of the past Turkish Republic that outlawed various expressions of Islamic behavior in order to transform the Turkish state into a thoroughly modern polity. No broad, let alone finely detailed concept of changing a religious society into a secular one—however one defines secularity—informs the vision of modern dictators in the Arab sphere. What governed the behavior of Saddam Hussein and Hafiz al-Assad, and still governs the behavior of the Alawite elite in Syria, and the military clique who rule Egypt, is a desire for complete control of the temporal world. They were, and are, perfectly willing to give the religious authorities license to deal with matters of the faith and even shower them with favors as long as they do not interfere with policies of state. The brutal policy enacted by the military in Egypt against the Muslim Brotherhood was occasioned by the Brotherhood’s unprecedented attempt, not only to take over the reins of government, but to impose its vision of a state that melds politics and religion. In a similar fashion, Hafiz al-Assad was merciless with Muslim militants when, in defiance of the government, they took control of the city Hama. When not directly challenged by Muslim militants, the so-called secular leaders of Muslim nation states and the officially sanctioned religious leadership play the game by rules long recognized by both Muslim political and religious figures alike. As early as the first decades of Abbasid rule, some 1,200 years ago, the sovereigns of the realm consciously allowed the religious leadership to deal with matters of din as long as they did not interfere with the state’s conduct of dunya. This unwritten concordat did not at all signify a complete separation of religious seminary (madrasah) and palace, or allow the religious authorities complete autonomy. Real power always remained in the hands of Arab rulers and the forces of coercion at their disposal. This continues in today’s Arab world. What is important is that those accused of abandoning true Islamic values promote themselves as completely respectful of Islamic tradition, at least in public. As a rule, even the most irreligious of modern Muslim rulers have avoided the kind of profligate public behavior that helped bring down the Shah of Iran. When push comes to shove, the temporally minded Arab autocrats are able to put on their traditional Islamic garb in an attempt to win the hearts and minds of an overwhelmingly traditional society. However, those who exercise firm control over disgruntled constituencies have yet to win the final battle. It is clear that they have not managed to silence all or indeed most public criticism. Modern telecommunications

88

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

have made the task of effective, if not total censorship virtually impossible. In the end, the best outcome the current autocrats might hope for would be to maintain the status quo, either through the skillful manipulation of Arab politics, as in the case of a relatively enlightened regime in Jordan, or by direct forms of coercion such as those employed by the military in Egypt. In all likelihood, it will take a combination of both strategies to keep troubled Arab regimes on an even keel for the foreseeable future. What might we expect if Islamic militants managed to overthrow all of the autocratic regimes and solidify their hold over the territories the latter now control? For the most part, the events initiated by the Arab Spring have not proved encouraging to those who harbored hopes that the effort of confronting the autocrats would quickly give way to more democratic regimes. The reference is to polities capable of both maintaining order and addressing the genuine needs of the populace, a hope broadly shared by different elements of Arab society, including those militants who seek to mold the future in light of a privileged Islamic past. This comes as no surprise as attempted Islamic revolutions, however successful, however defined, and situated in whatever historic moment, pre-modern and/or modern, have given rise to unwanted consequences. During the long course of Islamic history, there have been times when the forced removal of an established authority earned general approval in various segments of society, particularly when order is quickly restored and the rhythms of daily life reflect much wanted stability. However, that approval did not imply that the populace was unreservedly in favor of the new regime or had a firm grasp of what intrusive changes to their lives might follow. Note the public disappointment that followed certain political upheavals in the modern Arab world. The revolution that overthrew the Iraqi monarchy in 1958 did not gain support among the populace because of a clearly defined ideological program broadly understood and embraced by all segments of society. Nor did the revolutionaries find general favor among the populace because they presented Iraqis with a clearly articulated vision of how to implement a dramatically new program.14 Similarly, the plotters of the many groups that periodically overturned post-independence regimes in Syria did not come to power because the public gave overwhelming approval to the small print of an announced platform, if indeed there was any.15 Likewise, the demonstrators in Tahrir Square hardly subscribed to a single detailed vision of an Egyptian future. What united them was a universal call that the oppressive regime be replaced by a government given to transparency and a true commitment to the welfare and advancement of its citizenry. When the Muslim Brotherhood took command of the government and established a detailed agenda for the future, the revolutionary impulse of the Arab Spring gave way to chaos and the populace elected to choose order, even if implemented by representatives of the old regime. The Palestinians of the West Bank, exhausted by the previous intifadahs that produced no positive change in their fortunes, remain divided about the specific future they seek. The only objective they and their brethren in Gaza all agree on is the end to the humiliating Israeli occupation and the creation of a Palestinian state. The character of that state-to-be is subject to debate among Palestinians; the debate will no doubt continue if, and when, that state comes into being. Will it be an Islamic state governed by Islamic law and tradition, as some Palestinian factions demand?16 Or will it be a polity that resembles the

Being on the “Right Side of History”

89

nearby Arab nation states, countries with a well-defined Islamic profile but with public institutions that reflect Western influence? Similarly, the future situation remains clouded as regards the states most unsettled during the Arab Spring: Libya, the Yemen, and most of all, Syria.

Revolution and Violence One thing is clear, the revolutionary call of militant Islam for a return to an irenic and spiritually pure past, as in the time of the Prophet, does not preclude continuing violence in the present, nor is it at all likely that the violence will disappear in the immediate or distant future. Witness events concurrent with the rise of ISIL, the Islamic State in the Levant. Like al-Qaeda and its other offshoots, the Islamic State is a throwback to traditional revolutionary impulses. Their public displays of brutality included the filmed beheadings of innocents; the burning alive of a captive combatant; the mass execution of prisoners and of civilians, be they infidels who would not submit and convert to Islam, or heretics as defined by ISIL and therefore with lives rendered licit by their unbelief and behavior. Consider as well the imposed, if not coerced marriages to satisfy the needs of its fighters; and the imposition of back breaking taxes to fuel the Islamic State. More recently, the horrific violence of the Jihadists has surfaced in Europe and the United States, and may soon become a truly significant problem. Some may say that Jihadist activity in the West has already reached that point. Jihadist behavior, so violently conducted and graphically illustrated, has led Western and many Muslim leaders to declare ISIL an aberration not representative of the true Islam. The real Islam is described as peaceful and tolerant of other religions. Similarly, the proper meaning of jihad, ordinarily referred to as holy war, is seen as personal striving to live a proper Islamic life.17 One would hope that such sentiments would become mainstream throughout the Arab world, just as they have begun to take root beyond it; especially among Muslims in the Islamic Diaspora who embrace Western Enlightenment values. This last modern sentiment towards jihad notwithstanding, there is more to the ideology of ISIL and even its excessively brutal behavior that should be familiar to historians who delve deeply and judiciously into the long and checkered history of the Islamic Near East. A careful reading of the Islamic past would seem to situate ISIL within well-recognized patterns of Islamic thought and behavior, particularly at times of revolutionary upheaval and its immediate aftermath. The overall objectives of the new caliphate under its assassinated caliph and present leadership remain the prevalent view of the Islamic State. Islam has been, and remains a triumphalist religion, albeit with Muslim rulers who have generally come to recognize the limitations of Islamic power at critical moments of history. They therefore invoked procedures to normalize relations with the world beyond the Abode of Islam. Nevertheless, the ultimate vision has always been clear. The Prophet’s mission was incomplete when virtually all Arabs became Muslims, or when unbelievers in the lands conquered by Islam either converted or accepted a discriminatory status decreed for them by Islamic law. The triumph of Islam would only be complete when all those living in the vast world beyond the geographical landscape where Muslims exercise

90

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

hegemony, would submit to the final manifestation of monotheism or join the nonbelievers subject to Islamic rule. An Islamic tradition maintains that the Prophet sent six messengers to rulers of lands beyond Arabia. Their mission to seek the conversion of the non-believers as if their submission to Muhammad and God was a foregone conclusion. The account is most assuredly a later literary invention; its aim to make the case for the legitimacy of Islam and of Muhammad as its prophet. The tradition did not appear, however, so far-fetched to the faithful. A pictorial representation of six unbelieving rulers paying homage to Islamic rule is portrayed on the walls of an Umayyad palace dating to the eighth-century CE. The Umayyad caliph would appear to have had a vision of how the extended Muslim wars with the Christian Byzantines and Zoroastrian Persians would end in favor of the true faith and how Islam would spread far beyond the familiar lands of the Near East.18 The triumphalist aspect of ISIL’s ideology resonates strongly among all Jihadists and would-be Jihadists. It has appeal as well to a more broadly-defined populace in the modern Arab world, believing Muslims repelled by ISIL’s mode of operation and willing contra ISIL to relegate the universal triumph of Islam to a Messianic Age in a distant and not immediate future. For these Muslims, who no doubt represent the vast majority of the Arab world, there are all too many local and regional problems that demand immediate attention. They are far less concerned, if at all, with the impending cataclysm that accompanies the onset of the Messianic Age, events fervently sought and expected by ISIL and its followers. Even some brutal actions of ISIL have established precedents going back to the formative centuries of Islamic history. There was at that time no “civilized” world, be it Muslim or non-Muslim, to hold the medieval perpetrators to account. The public execution of individuals declared heretics or apostates was commonplace, especially when they challenged the authority of the standing regime.19 Individuals were killed and their bodies drawn and quartered, or to be more correct, the heads were removed and torsos cut in half. Following that, the body parts would be hung where all could see them; a vivid demonstration of the authority of the state. There was something magical about the gruesome execution. A body so dismembered, or having its genitalia removed and stuffed in the victim’s mouth, was to dehumanize even the memory of the victim by depriving him of his manhood even in death. There are, to be sure, ancient precedents for such barbarity. The underlying principle in each case seems to have been that no body so violated could miraculously return from the dead to exact revenge. Much can be said of this phenomenon, but I will not dwell on it here.20 Suffice it to say, ISIL’s public exhibitions are anything but unique even to the modern politics of the region. When in 1958 Iraqis overthrew the monarchy, the mob in Baghdad tore the body of the nineteen-year-old King Feisal II limb from limb and hung the headless, armless, and legless torso from a streetlamp. A similar act was performed on the body of the former vice regent Nuri al-Sa‘id. The turn to such expressions of violence did not end with the emergence of the Iraqi republic. The “Free Officers” who overturned the regime installed one of their own, ‘Abd al-Karim Qassem, as head of state. Suppressing a revolt within the army the following year, Qassem was intent on purging the military. Supporters of his massacred hundreds of accused plotters, following which they mutilated their bodies according to established custom. There is an Aramaic maxim of the ancient rabbis: “He, who uses the crown, perishes.”

Being on the “Right Side of History”

91

In 1963, Qassem was overthrown, and his lifeless body taken to a TV studio where it was placed in a chair, and the head lifted to show a massive hole between the eyes where a bullet entered his brain. The gruesome display of the body was a clear sign that the coup had succeeded and a graphic warning to any supporters or would-be supporters of the old regime that they had best beware of what might follow. What eventually followed was Saddam Hussein, whose acts of public brutality need no further elaboration. Such acts that we label depraved, are hardly modern inventions. ISIL’s call for regime change and its brutal actions in service of a revolutionary cause remind us once again of the Abbasids and their followers in the eighth century. Looking to the Abbasids, we observe that for the first time in Islamic history a Muslim ruler attempted to eradicate the vestigial traces of the previous regime. This total erasure of the immediate past included the brutal murder of many leading notables of the deposed ruling family. When the armies of the Abbasids apprehended the last Umayyad caliph, the commanding officer beheaded him and sent his head emptied of its contents to the new rulers. Having formally put an end to Umayyad rule, the newly installed Abbasid caliph invited various notables of the deposed dynastic family to dinner. The event might have signified to the guests that the new caliph was about to grant them amnesty, a policy invoked when the Prophet took power and when the Umayyads replaced the Prophet’s family as commanders of the faithful. A recitation of poetry composed for the occasion preceded the dinner. Some of the Umayyads felt at ease by the ambiance, but the more literate who were able to decipher the meaning of the verses understood that the poet, Sudayf, was reciting their death sentence. Assassins then entered the room and succeeded in putting all the guests to the sword, at which point attendants reportedly placed carpets over the dead and dying bodies. With that, the Abbasid caliph entered and sat himself down on the carpets to partake of his dinner, which he ate accompanied by the last groans of those who were about to expire. The lurid description of this last supper is no doubt exaggerated, if not indeed largely invented. Placing assassins at a banquet for an intended victim or victims would seem to have been a literary convention of the times, but Abbasid intentions were certainly clear as they displayed the bodies of the dead in public. Not satisfied with annihilating the living, the new rulers violated the graves of the Umayyad caliphs in their family cemetery. It was as though the new body politic had to purge some ninety years of spiritual and political disease before there was the possibility of truly significant change.21 On a positive note, the new rulers of the supposedly reconstituted ummah replaced what had been in essence a kingdom based on Arab privilege, with a universal empire characterized by newer and more inclusive networks of social and political relationships. The Abbasids also completely overhauled a military composed largely of Arab tribal units beset by anarchical tendencies and continuing loyalties to their blood kin. To replace the tribal armies as the main fighting force of the regime, the Abbasids formed a professional army organized along regional lines, and transplanted many contingents from their eastern homelands to military cantonments in Baghdad, the newly established Abbasid capital. In this new setting, the imperial army became linked for all intents and purposes to the Abbasid family by personal and group bonds of loyalty. In effect, the military became the servants of the state rather than holding the

92

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

state hostage to their perceived needs, as had happened before, and would happen all too often later.22 There were also innovations in the provincial administration, and the creation of a highly centralized and massive bureaucracy, encased in monumental architecture, and reflected in lavish court ceremonial. In each instance extensive and sophisticated use was made of political symbols.23 The Abbasid revolution was not a palace coup orchestrated by some notable or notables with the assistance of a praetorian guard, or a plot of the guard seeking to promote its own interests, following which business went on as usual. Rather, it was as a rare transformative endeavor serving the real interests of its constituents. As such, it can be distinguished from much regime change in the modern Arab world where spilling blood gratuitously has become an end in itself. As did Saddam Hussein before them, the militant revolutionaries who have declared the emergence of a new caliphate in the Levant draw parallels between their regime and that of the Abbasids. ISIL propagandists are particularly impressed by the rein of the fabled caliph Harun al-Rashid (r.  786–809 CE).24 Traditional Muslims and Western scholars alike generally acknowledge that al-Rashid’s reign was the apogee of Islamic rule before the creation of the Ottoman Empire. The geographical footprint of the Abbasid’s domain extended from North Africa to Central Asia. Unlike future generations, there were at first no praetorians at court to exert a powerful influence over the commander of the faithful, or distant petty dynasties that pledged fealty to the central authorities but then acted independent of the caliph and his government. Despite occasional disturbances, the regime was solidly entrenched and set to expand its influence beyond the frontier that separated the Muslims from their Christian neighbors to the north. At the time of his death, the caliph was establishing a massive military base in northern Syria from which to launch a decisive campaign to crush long-standing Christian resistance to the advance of Islam. No small wonder then that ISIL looks to al-Rashid and the Abbasids for inspiration. Still, a closer look at state and society under the Abbasids might have given the self-proclaimed caliphs of ISIL pause to consider their chosen model. The religious authorities appointed by the house of Abbas were nothing like the dour versions that champion the modern Islamists. They did not closely monitor the behavior of the regime’s subjects with an eye to imposing harsh penalties for what in effect are relatively minor violations of Islamic tradition and law. Were they inclined to render such harsh judgements, figures in the caliph’s entourage would have been subject to prosecution. Above all, the Abbasid caliph at the end of his long reign seems to have realized the impossibility of ruling so vast an empire, as if it were a universal ummah with a single ruling authority situated in Baghdad. He was also all too aware that every succession to Abbasid rule created discord within the ruling house. There was then the possibility that his own succession might actually give way to civil war, the very situation narrowly avoided when his brother al-Hadi, once made caliph, attempted to replace him as heir apparent in favor of his own son. The house of Abbas was fortunate that al-Hadi died a mysterious death, thereby allowing Harun to assume his role as commander of the faithful without marked unrest.25 The Abode of Islam was vast and populated by so many heterogeneous peoples as to be ungovernable from the Abbasid capital, Baghdad. Considering the possibility of a

Being on the “Right Side of History”

93

contested succession following the death of the standing caliph, Harun al-Rashid devised a remarkable and entirely new plan to decentralize the empire and guarantee an orderly succession that would stand the test of time. Following a long-recognized custom, the caliph established an official line of succession that named three of his sons, each of whom was to administer a vast geographical area with extraordinary powers. In effect, the caliph divided the empire into three administrative units with three governors, each of whom bore the credentials of heir apparent. The central region consisted of Iraq and Greater Syria, as well as Arabia and several adjoining provinces. This territorial entity contained the Abbasid capital, Baghdad; the holy cities of Arabia; and a formidable professional army, its main force billeted in military cantonments at the capital. The designated future ruler of this centrally-located region was al-Rashid’s first heir apparent (wali al-ahd) the future caliph al-Amin. A second region contained the eastern provinces of the empire, a truly vast landscape that generated enormous wealth and contained military forces equal, if not greater than those in the central region of the realm. The eastern provinces were awarded to the future caliph al-Ma’mun, the son next in line of succession. This territorial expanse gave al-Ma’mun a powerful base with which to successfully resist his brother, should the latter decide to tamper with the path to the caliphate chosen by their father and name his own son as his successor, as had been the case with other Abbasid caliphs once ensconced in power. A third son was placed in Egypt and the Muslim territories of North Africa. The ruler of this region could not generate sufficient power to undermine or resist the other sons, but he could serve to balance power should there be an open conflict between the caliph based in Baghdad and the heir apparent situated at Marw far to the east. For those who have great faith in delicately balanced schemes as solutions to modern political problems, we should note that shortly after the death of al-Rashid, the Abbasid realm faced the debilitating civil war that he so fervently hoped to avoid.26 Arguably, the death of al-Rashid marked the beginning of a decline from which the caliphate never quite recovered. Over the course of the ninth century, various regional actors established their independence of the central authorities, although in public ceremonies they paid homage to the caliph, their ruler de jure if not de facto. The emergent petty dynasties never had the legitimacy of truly independent states; on the other hand, the all-embracing ummah, although celebrated in theory, was not a polity that had absolute purchase in the real world. The divisiveness created by ethnic, regional, and linguistic loyalties and alliances could not be swept under the large carpet of a theoretically transcendent and universal Islamic community. This understanding of the Islamic past should give us reason to pause when assessing the strength and staying power of revolutionary movements such as ISIL, movements that wish to recreate the idealized ummah both regionally and globally. Revolutions in the Near East have a tendency to give way to counter-revolutions. Many in the West and the Arab world will consider the disintegration of the Islamic State in the Levant, now well under way, a blessing. However, if history and not the euphoria of the moment guides us, we should expect clandestine versions of ISIL that will try to undermine the foundations of the existing nation states in the region. The concept of the ummah still resonates ever so powerfully among believing Muslims.

94

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

Counter-Revolutionary Activity in the Post-Revolutionary Age: Historical Perspectives At times, the forced removal of a previous regime met with general approval in segments of contemporaneous Muslim society. That did not imply that the populace, whether medieval or modern, was unreservedly in favor of the new regime, or had a firm grasp of the dramatic changes in Islamic society that might follow. That certainly has been the case with regime change in modern times. I have already referred to the revolution that overthrew the Iraqi monarchy in 1958 and its aftermath; the various coups in the early years of Syrian independence; the revolutionaries in Tahrir Square; and various Palestinian factions defying Israel and their own one-time political allies. Returning to a point previously made, none of these movements had a common vision, a truly detailed view of the future, let alone a fully-articulated platform for action that they shared with an accepting populace. It is no small wonder that large scale, dare I say even small-scale political upheavals have been marked at the outset by internecine conflict, each faction with its own vision of the near present and distant future, and each convinced that history is on their side. Nowhere is this more graphically illustrated than the manner in which events unfolded after the overthrow of Saddam Hussein, developments from which Iraq has yet to recover; one might go so far as to say, even begun to recover. On a smaller scale, one can point to the situation in Libya following American intervention in the recent civil war and the murder of the dictator Muammar Qaddafi. In essay three, I pointed out that the difficult transition from revolution to orderly and universally recognized rule plagued even the politically astute Abbasid dynasts and their clandestine circle. At a time of revolutionary rumblings and expectations of immediate change in the political order, the Abbasids were not the only movement to challenge those who had usurped the authority of the Prophet Muhammad’s house. There was then the danger that the emergent Abbasid dynasty would be forced to give way to other revolutionaries, particularly the followers of their better credentialed Alid cousins, relatives of the Prophet who had bravely challenged the Umayyad usurpers, albeit unsuccessfully. A new conflict on the heels of a bloody revolution, achieved only after a hard-fought campaign, could have unraveled the reconstituted political order. Once declared caliph, the Abbasid ruler had to solidify his power and legitimize his claims to command the faithful and the ummah against all actual or potential rivals, including former allies. These prospective rebels included members of the new caliph’s own family.27 In addition to forceful and, at times, brutal suppression of real or wouldbe challengers to their rule, the house of Abbas cultivated a propaganda effort to rewrite history, a massive project directed primarily against the imams leading the Alid family and their eager followers.28 The Abbasid efforts to rewrite history did not alter the course of their Alid kin who periodically took up arms against the ruling house, but never succeeded in removing the regime from its power base in Iraq and the East. The failure of the Alid pretenders and their supporters demonstrates an ironic truth of Islamic politics. Total failure, given the gloss of martyrdom, is more digestible than partial success. The legacy of Alid martyrdom has sustained their followers who awaited and still await a new dawlah or

Being on the “Right Side of History”

95

historic turn that will set the Islamic world right once again. We are presently witnessing a revival of militant Shi‘ism in the Arab world, inspired as it were by the revolution of the Ayatollahs of non-Arab Iran. The return of the Shi‘ites as major actors in the affairs of the Arab world is a sign that normalcy will not return soon to a Near East still rife with expectations of regime change in the near future. This is especially true in states bordering the Persian Gulf, as well as Iraq, Lebanon, Yemen and, to be sure, Syria, all lands where Alid partisans represent a majority or sizable minority. Nor are the Shi‘ites alone in destabilizing a currently fragile Near East. Sunnite Islam has given rise to militant Muslim movements of all sorts, Jihadists that share equal responsibility for disorder, if not indeed more so than Iran and its allies.

Why Revolutionaries Succeed and Fail and the Future of Revolution in the Arab World Given the unstable climate of the Arab world today, those who wish to be on the right side of history might ask why certain armed rebellions enjoy some success while others have failed or seem to be failing. In many instances, armed struggles in our time are the product of the same or similar environments, and broadly shared objectives that seemingly lie beyond reach. Prime examples are the Palestinian revolt in Jordan crushed during Black September. Similarly, the massacre of the Islamist rebels in Hama during the regime of Hafiz al-Assad, and the failure of the Muslim Brotherhood to consolidate its position in post-Tahrir Egypt, the victim of a counter-revolution. To these failed uprisings we could add the initial failure of the Shi‘ites in the marsh regions of southern Iraq to remove the yoke of Saddam Hussein’s authority following his defeat at the hands of an American-led coalition during the first Gulf War. Recently, we have seen the failure of Hamas to achieve any of its declared objectives in provoking unwinnable campaigns against the Israel Defense Forces. Each, and every one of these aforementioned events, requires a full study of its own. For our purposes, it is sufficient to say that in all these instances the factions that revolted did not calculate accurately the strength of the forces arrayed against them. Nor did they properly measure the capacity of their opponents to exercise damage control by limiting the rebellion to proscribed geographical locations while applying maximum force to crush the rebels and cower other would-be opponents of the regime. Current revolutionaries and would-be revolutionaries might be well-served by taking a page from the descendants of al-‘Abbas who succeeded while their cousins, the descendants of ‘Ali b. Abi Talib failed. Given a more cosmic outlook, those intent on regime change might ask why history has been largely on the side of the Sunnites and not the Shi‘ites. Is there a message in the answer for those who wish to be on the right side of history in our own time and in the immediate future? Is there anything in the revolutionary past of the Arab world that might help us understand the possibility of success in the revolutionary present and anticipate a post-revolutionary future? These queries may strike some readers as burdensome repetition, as they reflect the subject matter of an earlier essay, a study of the residual effects of early Islamic martyrdom and self-sacrifice. But as argued throughout the essays of this work, the past has always had

96

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

great influence on the conduct of future generations, especially at times when there are exhortations calling for political and military action. That being the case, I take license to refer as well to an earlier essay on alternative political profiles, and reiterate that if the Abbasids succeeded where the Alids and other revolutionaries, pre-modern and modern, failed, it was because they were able to overcome pressures from their revolutionary cadres to declare an open revolt before its success could be guaranteed. Two distinct approaches to challenging unwanted authority have generally served as models of political behavior when Muslims face a regime they considered lacking in moral or legal authority.29 For one, there is the outwardly quiescent response in which would-be opponents pay lip service to the ruling regime while potential challengers to unwanted authority await an opportune moment to up take arms. Or, instead of planning a military challenge to be initiated in the not too distant future, the disaffected Muslims patiently await God’s miraculous intervention at some unspecified moment, an event that will usher in a long-desired Messianic Age. As opposed to the quietist approach to unwanted rule, there have been at given moments of Islamic history, clarion calls for direct action. An activist program pursued regardless of circumstances on the ground—as if the pursuit of justice in God’s name has a magical quality that can overcome the immediate realities of war—is the reverse, so to speak, of the famous quip uttered by Napoleon, namely that God is on the side of the big battalions. Alas, fate has never been kind to Muslim rebels unable or unwilling to calibrate the realities of power. The failed Alid revolts discussed in essay two are vivid testimony of that. In contrast, the success of the Abbasids was based on the meticulous planning and a profound understanding of what forces were required to bring about the downfall of a still powerful ruling order. Although inspired by an idealized past, the early Abbasids were virtually unique among proto-Sunnite rulers in establishing a comprehensive agenda for political and social change. More important, they promoted that agenda vigorously and with considerable success. The emergence of the revolutionary regime may have coincided with a dramatic appeal to the ideals of a pristine and irenic past, but it also marked the creation of a highly complex and unprecedented Islamic government of the future. We ought to ask if there is a lesson in this history for today’s Islamic revolutionaries who identify themselves as the champions of a genuine Islam. Is it possible that sensible Islamic revivalists of the present, even some of the more militant among them, will be able to balance policies that link pragmatic approaches to current realities with reverence for ideals obtained from a reading of the Islamic past? Is there any possibility that the targets of Islamic revolution, be they regimes firmly in control or rulers of states that have been plunged into chaos—the most notable examples being Syria and Iraq—can somehow find a path to be more inclusive with their varied constituents while preserving stability and bringing normalcy to the daily lives of their peoples? Will the Islamist opponents of regimes be willing to engage in a constructive dialog to produce normalcy, even if it is at the cost of some of their most cherished objectives, such as the imposition of Shari‘ah law and the creation of what they consider to be genuine Islamic states? At present, the mood of the region militates against compromise, although that mood may change when the most militant Islamists are shorn of the political power they currently exercise. An accommodation between all the forces that

Being on the “Right Side of History”

97

have destabilized the Arab world would require the most delicate diplomacy and a coalition of rival factions willing to put differences aside. Only then would the principal actors overcome the great obstacles that prevent a return to some form of stability in the Near East. I do not see any signs at present to occasion optimism. The inherited political culture that weighs heavily on Arab societies, even allowing for contemporary mediation and innovation, represents a huge, perhaps even crippling burden. Since almost the very beginning of Islam, the tension between the concept of an idealized ummah that transcends all geographical, ethnic, and linguistic variation, and the reality of regional actors establishing for themselves some measure of autonomy has undermined any harmonious relationship that could have existed between religious ideals and necessary forms of political association. As seen in this essay and throughout the first segment of this volume, the religious authorities were unwilling to modify the Prophet’s dream of a universal Muslim community despite self-evident political realities. For their part, the regional rulers, petty dynasts who had established autonomous regimes within the ummah, still felt compelled to give formal allegiance to the caliph and/or sultan who represented the authority invested with the successors of the Prophet. However much power the petty dynasts wielded, they simply could not establish any religious legitimacy for their territorial sinecures in the Arab and Turco–Iranian worlds, nor did they have the undying support of their constituents. The petty dynasties of old and the modern nation states that have replaced them, confront subjects whose loyalty and allegiance are narrowly defined by sectarian, ethnic, linguistic, and local and regional designations. The modern nation state, which is the chosen address in the established global community, remains in many parts of the Arab world a polity seriously impaired by artificial borders and a populace riven with conflict when the state is too weak to impose order. In that configuration of circumstances, Islamist opponents of the regime can accuse its rulers of betraying Muslim ideals by creating a regional polity at the expense of the universal ummah. Existing social and economic grievances are interwoven with familiar religious concepts to undermine an unwanted ruling authority. Opposition to regimes in pre-modern times was normally couched in religious terms, even though grievances may have been rooted in temporal concerns. The question that begs for an answer is what kind of nation state can impose a sense of normalcy that will transcend the internecine disturbances that plague the Arab world today? And linked to that, what can its rulers do to earn the respect of traditionally inclined Muslims? Going from what seems at present improbable—that is quickly restoring some semblance of order that will take hold in the volatile areas of the Near East—to what some observers might deem nearly impossible, that of creating in the near future cohesive national communities that can transcend disparate religious and ethnic rivalries, one is led to ask the following question: Given the horrific situation that currently exists, would all the current actors in the region consider a significant, if not complete break with the past? A sort of equivalent of the Treaty of Westphalia that mandated an end to the wars of religion in Europe, and an Islamic reformation comparable in certain respects to the Protestant Reformation, but without the doctrinal acrimony and the ensuing bloodshed. Beyond that, could there emerge among today’s revolutionaries in the Arab world powerful voices with sufficient support to embrace as a legitimate model for Muslims the

98

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

values of the European Enlightenment? In other words, can traditional Muslims revisiting their institutions of governance, wholeheartedly endorse liberal constitutions, Western models of democratic government, and truly independent courts of justice? Above all, can they accept refashioning the concept of the ideal ummah as to allow for the emergence of religiously sanctioned regional polities that might develop as nation states commanding the full allegiance of their heterogeneous communities? Most important, is there a willingness to create a political and religious environment that renders unto an enlightened Caesar that which is Caesars? Linked to that, can an authority championing religious inclusiveness emerge? I refer to appointed officials immensely learned in Islamic tradition and law, and therefore respected by the overwhelming majority of Muslims who find themselves buffeted by modernity. Would such upholders of Islam take on the responsibility of guaranteeing that Muslims can embrace a religion truly geared to the vicissitudes of an evolving modern world while at the same time they resonate to traditional Islamic faith and behavior? Would they go a step further and remove the stains of dhimmitude, the demeaning treatment of non-Muslims prescribed by Islamic law, as the Catholic Church has officially changed its rulings on the relationship between Christians and Jews? There is, after all, as great if not indeed a greater similarity between traditional Judaism and Islam than between Christianity and Judaism. Would the same apply to the beleaguered Christian communities of the Arab world whose numbers are diminished yearly in response to the rise of militant Islam? Any changes in the orientation towards non-believers of the Abrahamic religions, as well as creating a more tolerant attitude to Muslims trying to come to grips with the cultural challenges of modernity, would seem to require dramatic steps—nothing short of a transformative change in attitude and behavior. In short, an intellectual as well as a political and social revolution that is far-reaching. For one there will be the need for new hermeneutic principles based on lessons derived from a modern interrogation of the past, as well as a refashioning of old methods that were and still are employed to interpret the traditional sources that govern Islamic belief and behavior. The growth of a Muslim Diaspora in the lands of Christendom has already required steps in this direction. An Islamic law geared to the particular concerns of the Muslim Diaspora is evolving. Perhaps the most interesting project in trying to define an Islam and Islamic institutions for the modern age is the effort of largely observant Muslims who have been exposed to Western ideas and have thoroughly digested them.30 Nevertheless, recent violence, undertaken in the name of a revanchist Islam, and an apparent hardening of the religious arteries among various Muslim groups, indicate that prospects for such transformative changes seem beyond reach at present, or even in the immediate future. As regards the Arab world, the revolution in outlook that I have outlined does not seem to be in the immediate offing at this moment. Lest critics accuse me of being overly judgmental and Eurocentric in vision, let us not forget that it took the West hundreds of years to establish liberal societies and even then, a “civilized” Europe fell victim to disasters that make the current morass in the Near East pale in comparison. Might I cautiously suggest that for the present, the best possible outcome as regards certain major problems in the Arab world would be to consider territorial realignment combined with more responsible governance. Iraq might well benefit from division into more or less autonomous regions governed by

Being on the “Right Side of History”

99

enlightened autocrats along the lines of the Jordanian royal family, a sort of truncated version of the territorial partition envisioned by Harun al-Rashid during the heyday of the caliphate. That is to say, a federal government in which the different regions representing the interests of the local inhabitants balance one another. One might also consider energetically pursuing the long discussed two-state solution to the Israel– Palestine problem, a scheme that will certainly be plagued by lingering resentments and occasional violence. With respect to more enlightened governance, can Egypt under military control be ruled firmly but with far greater transparency and respect for the rule of law and the well-being of the populace? The same question might be asked when the dust settles in Syria and order is restored through the imposition of centralized authority. With changes such as those suggested, we might expect progress towards stabilizing other places within the highly volatile Arab world, the hoped-for outcome that initially greeted the Arab Spring. Speaking of changes in the future, we might wish to consider some historical perspectives from the past century. The Arab Spring and its aftermath should remind us of other revolutionary strivings, namely the disturbing events of 1958. It is now nearly sixty years since the monarchy was overthrown in Iraq and the body of the king and vice-regent mutilated and hung in public view. The downfall of the Hashimite monarchy, a leading player in Arab politics, occasioned fears that the same fate might soon befall the Hashimites in Jordan. A young king Hussein, ruling over a resource poor desert kingdom, was buffeted by external Arab forces seeking to expand their influence and a potential insurrection by his Palestinian subjects. In Lebanon, a carefully balanced society of diverse ethnic and religious communities unraveled, leading to civil conflict that allowed for a Syrian intervention that would continue for many years. Egypt, ruled by a clique of colonels smarting from the ignominious defeat of the 1956 war with Israel, sought to retain its position as leader among the Arabs by boldly interfering in the domestic affairs of neighboring Arab states. The Egyptian desire for an Arab imperium would lead to an aborted union with Syria, a prolonged, but unsuccessful military campaign in Yemen, and ultimately the disaster of the SixDay War. Not all observers foresaw at first glance the possible outcome of the events of 1958. I recall a fellow student, a Palestinian whose family was living under Jordanian rule in Jerusalem. My confrere was jubilant at the changes he eagerly anticipated. He envisioned that the dramatic events of 1958 were the beginning of a new era, one that would produce the long-desired solidarity within the greater Arab nation, a vision in which the resource-rich Arab states would share their wealth with others and without imposed conditions. As he put it, “There is no longer Iraqi oil. There is only Arab oil, to be shared by all the existing Arab states [without energy independence].” Of particular interest were the pungent comments of H.A.R. Gibb to a group of students at Harvard University. As the dramatic events of 1958 unfolded, Gibb, introduced as “the greatest living interpreter of the Arab world in the West,” was asked to express his view of what was in store for the region. The celebrated English orientalist, spoke as he often did: sweeping pronouncements produced with extraordinary conviction as to make any other possible view seem superfluous, if not an arrogant denial of a self-evident truth. Highly respectful of Islam and, as always, a great supporter of Arab nationalism, Gibb was not certain of what 1958 would wrought. Nevertheless,

100

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

he opined that it was only a matter of time before the divided loyalties and allegiances within given Arab states and the internecine conflict between Arab states would give way to the creation of a unified polity along the lines of the idealized religious community founded by the Prophet Muhammad. As it turned out, neither the student nor the highly-esteemed professor accurately predicted the future drift of events. In similar fashion, many who looked upon the Arab Spring as possibly changing the paradigm of Arab politics have come to witness the onset of a most bitter winter. Realistically, we should expect the continued ebb of political fortunes in the region and human flotsam and jetsam washed ashore from wrecked ships of state.

Part Two

Identity Politics and Contemporary Political Behavior

101

102

5

Forging National Identities in the Modern Arab Nation State: Inventing Legacies of Near and Distant Pasts

I begin this essay considering the fragility of various modern Arab nation states. Put in the form of a question: Why is it that after some seventy years of independence—and in the case of Iraq some eighty-five—Arab nation states in the area between Iran and Egypt have either fragmented or reveal palpable signs of disarray? The same question could be asked about the Arab West, that is Libya and the Maghrib, lands that fall outside the scope of my remarks. I begin with Syria and Iraq where prolonged civil conflicts have been exacerbated by the infusion of foreign fighters and influence. The damage to the physical infrastructure of towns and cities in both countries is staggering; not even children’s hospitals have been spared from indiscriminate acts of terror and aerial bombardment. Add to that hundreds of thousands of dead; millions of civilians who are displaced; and those remaining in the war zones who are at grave risk. Lebanon is currently quiet, certainly when compared to the civil strife of the past. But, given the patchwork quilt of Lebanese society and its mafia-style politics, the presence of an armed Shi‘ite militia more powerful than the multi-confessional national army, is disquieting. The consequences of Hezbollah’s armed intervention in neighboring Syria and the extent of its homage to Iran are yet to be determined. The Hashimite kingdom of Jordan remains stable, although elements of the population are restive. The current king and the royal family have seemingly put aside differences within the ruling house, but King Abdallah II does not command the full respect and loyalty that key elements of the populace had for his father Hussein, admiring as they were of the latter’s grit in times of crisis. The Bedouin tribes that served and continue to serve as the backbone of Jordan’s military were particularly moved by Hussein’s personal valor and bravery. It remains to be seen what will happen if, and when, the current king is put to a test that seriously challenges his rule and that of his family. The instability that besets the region also applies to the Palestinians who have yet to establish a state of their own. The locus of their authority, such as it is, is divided between Gaza (ruled by Hamas) and designated areas of the West Bank of the Jordan (administered by the Palestinian Authority). There is, at present, no credible sign of progress towards reconciliation among rival Palestinians or even an agreement as regards a common national agenda. The leadership in Gaza and the West Bank remain very much at odds. Given the recalcitrance of the current government in Israel to 103

104

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

advance the moribund peace process, the prospects of an independent Palestinian state seem dim, at least for the foreseeable future. Academic specialists and media experts have offered varying explanations for the inability of these Arab states to forge stable regimes that can function effectively, let alone enjoy the full support of their constituents. Historians of the region point to the dissolution of the Ottoman Empire following WWI and the division of its Arabic-speaking provinces into truncated polities with artificial borders and extremely diverse populations, creating, thereby, regimes in search of an elusive national identity. That is, a unifying identity that can displace powerful local and regional allegiances as well as transcend time-honored tribal, ethnic, cultural, and sectarian loyalties. Describing the nature of these states one observer used the expression “tribes with flags.” By that, he meant societal formations whose self-identity and self-interest are narrowly defined by blood or sectarian ties, but who are called upon to display and rally behind a national flag, the manifest symbol of a united nation.1 Some scholars have added that the European powers administering these artificial states did not prepare them for independence. To the contrary, the Europeans stand accused of promoting divisiveness among an already divided native population, that as a means of extending colonial rule. Once direct rule was over, they used the fractious politics of the newly born states to exercise an indirect but still powerful influence. In such fashion, the crippling effects of colonial administration have stifled Arab regimes long after they were formally granted the independence that earned for them a recognized place in the international community of nations. More recently, various analysts of the region have called attention to the failure of the West to support latent democratic forces that have sprouted in the region—or so these analysts believe. Those holding to this view assert that the leaders of the free world have propped up autocrats who have imposed their rule over a populace ready and willing to embrace democracy, be it Western-style democracy or some form of democracy that can be traced to Islamic traditions of governance. The concept of shura or tribal election is often mentioned as a possible basis for a genuine Islamic style of rule, one that is consistent with the needs and objectives of Arabs embracing democratic sensibilities. A cynical West is thus berated for stifling a popular will that could rally a segmented population around a unifying national agenda, a path of action that could stabilize and give coherence to individual Arab nation states and the Near East at large. This charge against the West found particular traction during the so-called Arab Spring, the series of historic events referred to in the previous essay. For critics of Western meddling in the affairs of the region, there is an additional complaint. By endorsing the creation of a national home for the Jewish people in Palestine, the great powers added still another disturbing factor to unsettle the traditional map of the Near East. Some observers are of the opinion that the Jewish state of Israel, situated at the crossroads of the Arab world and in a land deemed holy by Muslims, bears a heavy burden for the state of affairs that beset the region. Along with Arab commentators and the so-called Arab street, they see the emergence of a powerful Israel as one of, if not the most salient factor that has destabilized the governments of its immediate neighbors, if not the Arab world beyond. Some go so far as to accuse the Jewish state of serving as a surrogate for Western political interests as well as promoting its own colonial designs.

Forging National Identities in the Modern Arab Nation State

105

Are any or all of these explanations for the failures of Arab nation states satisfactory? Do they suggest why Arab regimes find it difficult to create a common national identity for all their constituents, a seeming prerequisite to establishing a broad political consensus that can unite variegated elements of the citizenry in common cause? Might there be another line of inquiry? Should we broaden the current explanatory models by looking at an Islamic history that begins as early as the Prophet Muhammad (d.632 CE) and the formation of the ummah, the earliest Islamic polity, led initially by him, and then by a series of successors designated as caliph (khalifah) and/or commander of the faithful (amir al-mu’minin)? That is to say, while not denying completely the conventional explanations for the deplorable state of Arab governance, should we also consider political sensibilities long and deeply rooted in traditional Muslim societies? In other words, we might be well advised to draw attention to Arab/Muslim attitudes and behavior that existed well before the encroachment of the European powers; the dissolution of the Ottoman Empire; the creation of truncated polities that morphed into ill-formed Arab nation states; and the emergence of political Zionism and the state of Israel. As in all the essays in this volume, the treatment of Arab polity in this segment reflects a perception that Muslims regularly invoke the power of historical memory to justify contemporaneous political claims and shape political opinion and behavior. As noted in the earlier discussion of Arabic historiography, looking to the past in the form of received knowledge forges Arab Muslim interpretations of times gone by; influences how current actors understand the present; and helps to reveal how these actors anticipate the near and distant future. This privileging of the past is particularly true of the so-called Islamist movements that fall under the Western label political Islam. These movements range from the Muslim Brotherhood and its various regional offshoots to militant Salafi groups seeking to impose an austere version of Islam that will serve as a guide for current Muslims. The Salafi version of Islam draws legitimacy from medieval doctrines and behavior and then invokes the past, whether real or conveniently imagined, to conform to immediate concerns of the Muslim body politic.2 Most recently, our attention has been drawn to ISIL, the self-declared Islamic State of the Levant. As stated in the previous essay, ISIL is a polity that embraces a model of governance that recalls for its leaders and their followers the glorious days of the Arab caliphate. Such was a time when an Islamic state rivaled the old Roman Empire in territorial reach and cultural influence. The ultimate goal of ISIL’s leadership, duly noted in that essay, is to create a new Islamic empire capable of eradicating the humiliations imposed by outsiders on the Muslim world and of cleansing Islam and the believers from moral corruption and the influence of decadent Western values and behavior. Unlike mainstream Islamists who maintain that these objectives will only be met at some time in the undisclosed future—and then only after a lengthy effort of fully restoring and administering Islamic religious law in several existing nation states—ISIL, under the initial leadership of its self-proclaimed caliph Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, attempts to achieve the common goal of restoring the ummah of old in the present, and by any means possible.3 How then are we to understand and compare the Islamist aim of restoring a transcendent and universal Islamic community with the policies of current Arab nation states whose rulers attempt to forge discrete national identities? Today’s Arab

106

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

states are joined to an international order that represents a community of free-standing sovereign polities. The Arab regimes are thus bound to this larger assemblage of political communities in whose midst they dwell. In the absence of an ummah that can, and will unite all the Muslims everywhere, current Arab regimes jealously guard their independence. They are committed to forming strong national identities as a prerequisite to binding their societies divided by diverse allegiances and complex alliances.4 The underlying assumption is that when and if that objective is accomplished, the individual Arab nation states, led by their current leadership, will be able to carve out and secure for their people safe political space within their own geographical backyard, and beyond. For some ambitious Arab leaders, a vigorous and united nation state will enable them to expand their influence, if not exercise some means of control in neighboring lands they consider part of the nation’s historic domain. For example, Syria’s lingering desire to reconstitute al-Sham, the great Islamic province ruled from Damascus. A “Greater Syria” would embrace the current states of Syria, Lebanon, Israel, the Palestinian territories, the Hashimite Kingdom of Jordan, and slivers of land from other Arab countries.5 Similarly, had they had the power to do so, the Nasserists who dominated Egyptian politics would have carved out for themselves a zone of influence in territories corresponding to the expansive realm of the Fatimids of Egypt (969–1171 CE). At their peak, the Fatimids ruled lands including medieval al-Sham and parts of the Arabian Peninsula, while contesting the rule of the Abbasid caliphs in Iraq and points east.6 Because of modern political realities both external and internal to the Arab world, such ambitious schemes have not given rise to super-regional Arab states, let alone nation states able to negate the political and cultural advances of the West. Nor have the Arab states forced Israel to relinquish the territory it conquered from Syria and Jordan, let alone secure for the Palestinians a state of their own. Observing these failures, devout Muslims have looked to traditional templates of political organization and long-standing models of religious behavior to serve as guides for establishing a legitimate government for all the believers.

The Arab Nation State and the Universal Islamic Community An obvious question comes to mind. Does the very concept of an independent Arab nation state conflict with the sensibilities of traditional Muslims who look to the past and the idealized universal ummah for spiritual and political guidance? By traditional Muslims, I refer to Muslims who are not necessarily militant activists but who are nevertheless sympathetic to broadly expressed Islamist objectives. To phrase the question somewhat differently: Is the very idea of the modern nation state consistent with traditional Islamic values? If not, can it be defended as fully legitimate in the eyes of traditional Muslims, let alone politically-motivated Islamists? The very notion of a polity defined by geographical borders and a citizenry united by national identity and purpose has no deep roots in the Islamic Near East. Above all, it has no foundation in Islamic culture. The ummah was an imagined polity that transcended the limits of geography and, in an idealized sense, made all Muslims equal constituents in a universal Islamic community.

Forging National Identities in the Modern Arab Nation State

107

The conception of the Arab nation state is an invention of the nineteenth century inspired by European thought and advanced by the unassimilable Christian minorities of the Ottoman Levant. Christians saw in the concept of citizenship the possibility of elevating their time-accepted status under Islamic law as a tolerated minority (ahl al-dhimmah) to citizens of equal standing with the Muslims. By the early twentieth century, Muslims of the Arabic speaking provinces, seeking a measure of political and cultural autonomy from their Turkish overlords, promoted the cause of an Arab nationalism, though that did not necessarily entail a formal break with Ottoman authority. The notion of an Islamic imperium still carried political weight at an emotional level. Some three centuries earlier, the Turkish ruler had taken for himself the title of caliph (khalifah), thus signifying him to be a legitimate successor to Muhammad as ruler of the universal Islamic ummah. Like many Arab predecessors who bore the title, by the onset of the twentieth century, the Ottoman sultan/caliph became ruler in name only of an idealized polity that existed largely in the imagination of the Muslim faithful. Coterminous with the sultan’s acquiring the title caliph, a number of Muslim rulers in newly acquired lands beyond the earlier periphery of Muslim rule and, not coincidentally beyond the sultan’s reach, arrogated for themselves the title caliph, albeit without dreaming of imposing their will on all the Abode of Islam. Local rulers in various Arabic speaking provinces of the Ottoman Empire achieved virtual independence, sometimes by force of arms. Nevertheless, they continued to offer formal obeisance to the sultan/caliph. In the strange case of nineteenth and early twentieth-century Egypt, a ruling family that had established its de facto independence from the sultan/caliph as early as the 1830s, payed lip service to the latter’s authority while allowing a British army to invade Ottoman-controlled Palestine during WWI. This bizarre relationship between the acknowledged ruler of the ummah and a regional constituency that was in fact independent of the Ottoman Porte, was a modern manifestation of an earlier political phenomenon to be addressed later in this essay.7 Finding precedents for the modern nation state in the Islamic past is a daunting project. There was no word to express the general concept of “the state” until some 250 years after Muhammad and the rise of Islam; that is, there was no specific Arabic term with which to signify a legally constituted polity with formal institutions of rule. The Arabic word dawlah, which has the semantic range of “state” in English, assumes that meaning only at the end of the ninth-century CE, and receives wide currency only in the tenth. Before that, the ruling authority was described in light of familiar tribal forms of governance and/or of kingship, and was defined according to persons and families who ruled. There was, following Muhammad’s death, the rule of the so-called righteous caliphs, and following that there were the ruling houses of the Umayyads, Abbasids, and the agglomeration of pre-modern petty principalities. But there was no formally defined polity other than the ummah, the all-embracing religious community of Muslims. The caliphs, followed by the Ottomans, and later by other dynasts along the extended periphery of the Abode of Islam, exercised control as if they were masters of a recognized political domain with an identifiable constituency. Still, before the nineteenth century, there was no general conception of a populace united in polity simply by living within and identifying with a large and discrete geographical unit.

108

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

More often than not, individuals identified themselves according to their cities, towns, villages, and even residential quarters within an urban setting.8 Before European ideas penetrated the Levant, there was no conception at all of nationality, or even national identity, let alone citizenship. The Arabic term muwatin meaning “citizen” is a creation of the twentieth century9 and linked to watan, originally meaning “tribal land” and then any place that one considered home, usually a narrowly configured geographical area. An Arab woman complains when the head of the family household intends to move to al-Karkh, the great market suburb of medieval Baghdad: Baghdad watani [Central] Baghdad is my native abode.10 Regardless of her point of origin in Central Baghdad and her ultimate destination in al-Karkh, the move from the central city to the adjacent market area would have entailed no more than traveling a relatively short distance. Nevertheless, she felt compelled to declare that the central city her watan as if there were a real, and not merely legal, distinction between the two segments of the grand metropolis. The story of the unnerved Baghdadi woman, told by a historian of Iraq’s greatest city, is comparable to a New Yorker complaining of having to relocate from Manhattan to the borough of Brooklyn. For Americans who live beyond the Hudson River that divides New York City from the vast world beyond, anyone living in the five boroughs that comprise the great metropolis is a New Yorker. On the other hand, Brooklynites are likely to be offended by so general a label. When asked where you are from, the ultimate response is likely to be the borough of their origins, and then the specific neighborhood, if not the very street or even the corner of the street on which they live or lived. The account of the Baghdadi woman, whether true or not, serves to indicate how narrowly allegiances were defined even in the most cosmopolitan urban and imperial environment. I know of no instance where a person settled in Iraq goes so far as to proclaim Iraq is my watan. There are of course individuals whose names indicate them to be Iraqis in some manner or another, and many bearing the label Baghdadi fill the Arabic historical and biographical literature. However, there are many more names whose geographical affiliation is narrowly defined by the city’s extensive neighborhoods, streets, alleys, and markets. Watan as “nation” in the modern sense of a territorial domain and muwatin as “citizen” speak to an entirely different sensibility. The loose equivalent of the English word citizen in classical and middle Arabic is ra‘iyah, a word derived from the verb ra‘a, meaning, among other things, “to tend flocks” and by extension “to guard something as a ruler (amir) guards his subjects.” Ra‘iyah then comes to connote the actual subjects of a ruler. The image of the ruler as shepherd and the ruled as sheep or some other domesticated animal is a well-known topos of Near Eastern cultures going back to antiquity.11 Similarly, the word for politics in modern Arabic is siyasah, a term originally meaning the training of animals to be obedient. This conception speaks to the total subservient nature of subject to ruler, again a theme iterated in the pre-Islamic Near East, as in the Hebrew prophet’s admonition of a rebellious Israel: “An ox knows its owner and a donkey the feeding trough of its master. Israel does not know. My people do not perceive [that reality].”12 The two notions, ra‘iyah and siyasah, thus spoke of a paternalistic relationship between subject and sovereign; certainly not of a populace endowed with rights and responsibilities that stem from corporate affiliation, that is, something approaching citizenship in a modern nation state.

Forging National Identities in the Modern Arab Nation State

109

There is also ‘asabiyah, the zealous bonding of groups of individuals in joint purpose, a term often applied to Arab tribalism. In pre-modern Arabic, ‘asabiyah is often invested with the negative connotation of tribal xenophobia and expressions of anarchy.13 An Arab (‘arab) in pre-modern times generally referred to a Bedouin or someone linked to an Arab tribe by ties of clientage or patronage. It had nothing to do with the Arabic language or a distinctive Arabic culture, as would be the case beginning in the nineteenth century, nor of an Arab race, an invention of the twentieth. To be called an Arab in the formative centuries of Islam and later centuries was to experience the accusation of being primitive, unruly, and exhibiting anarchic behavior. Like the non-Arabs of the Abode of Islam, the Arab tribesmen identified with a particular place, be it their tribal zones (dirah); or areas of permanent settlement whose population consisted almost entirely of clans linked by blood or patronage; or self-contained tribal enclaves and neighborhoods within larger settlements. These familiar and privileged touchstones of affiliation also lacked corporate status. Unlike Europe, there were no charters specifying the rights, privileges, and responsibilities of recognized geographical entities in pre-modern times. The cement that held a highly diverse Islamic society together, other than the application of force—at times displayed in acts of extreme cruelty—was the loyalty compelled by Islam itself.14 In theory, Muslims owed their political allegiance to the sum of all Muslim societies, the Islamic community. As noted earlier, Muslims viewed the ummah as a universal community that transcends not only geographical boundaries but also linguistic affinities, and allegiance to regional and local entities. The concept of the ummah was first promoted by the Prophet Muhammad. As God’s chosen messenger, Muhammad challenged the societal organization of his environment, linked as it was to Arab tribalism, a system fueled by a rejection of centralized authority and subject to instability occasioned by the self-serving interests of the individual tribes and their clans. By its very nature, the Arab tribe was highly elastic. Although they strove zealously to protect blood ties, the Arab tribes were compelled to seek growth to protect their territorial enclaves against powerful predators and, when necessary, project influence beyond their domains. That often called for entering into multiple alliances with other tribes. As each of the constituent elements privileged its autonomy, the larger tribal configurations tended to implode when conflicts of interest could not be adjudicated by tribal negotiations. The breakup of tribal alliances sent individual tribes and sub-units of tribes scurrying in search of new alliances, a moment that was bound to produce political volatility and social dislocation. Recognizing that the Arab tribal system was inherently unstable and therefore ill-suited to the evolving politics and economy of a new Arabia—the changed situation in that great land mass increasingly called for larger and sustained cooperative ventures—Muhammad, acting in accordance with his earnest religious beliefs, valorized ties of religion rather than blood as the organizing principle of a stable society. In theory, the Islamic community replaced the tribal sheikh, whose authority rested solely with the approval of his kin, with a prophet appointed by God. Following the death of the Prophet Muhammad, his successors were invested with the authority to carry out God’s will. The present essay does not call for a fully detailed examination of the ummah as it evolved in place and time. Suffice it to say, there has always been a profound difference between the idealized community

110

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

embedded in the imagination of Muslims and the realities of history as it unfolded. It is safe to say that the Islamic community never existed as conceived, not even in the lifetime of the Prophet. Internal and external stresses posed an ever-present danger to the theoretical unity of the Islamic realm.

The Idealized Ummah and Political Realities Past and Present Time and again, throughout these essays, I have pointed out that Islamic politics were from the outset greatly influenced by lingering regional, local, ethnic, and religious conflicts. Nevertheless, the idea of the ummah proved so gripping, it prevented the creation of regional Muslim polities that could, given the realities of power, declare formal independence from the authority of the Sunnite caliphs and their representatives. Any such declaration of independence did not mean that regional rulers and their subjects would not have continued to profess Islam. Nor would they cease to act in accordance with the dictates of Muslim tradition and law. And yet, the creation of legitimate Islamic polities outside the framework of the ummah was beyond the thinking of Islam’s political theorists and the Islamic body politic. Among mainstream Muslims, it was inconceivable that there could be Muslim entities fully independent of the universal ummah and its supreme authority, the commander of the faithful. Even when the caliph was too weak to extend his rule to distant Islamic lands, or exercise control over the province and city that served as the center of his domain, his subjects, the rulers of provincial lands, continued to acknowledge his authority in public ceremonies. Powerful actors who established de facto control over their local and/or regional sinecures, still felt compelled to pay formal obeisance to the caliph, the theoretical ruler of the universal Islamic community. The only established challenges to the idealized authority of Abbasid rule were those of rival caliphates: The Fatimids of North Africa and Egypt and the Umayyads situated in distant Spain. The paradox of mighty governors and generals who had the resources to crush the caliph bowing down before him and kissing his hand, or walking alongside his horse holding the bridle, was duly observed by writers commenting on the nature of caliphal power, or more precisely, the lack thereof. They note that, however reluctant, men who had amassed far greater power than the caliph, complied with the established protocols of political etiquette. They feared agitating a populace that could not conceive of an Islamic ummah without a commander of the faithful, even if in name only. Observers could comment that the caliph (the officially designated leader of the ummah) is given the traditional oath of allegiance as part of the sermon (khutbah) in the Friday mosque, but the local or regional governor (the actual ruler) keeps all the tax revenue (with which to maintain himself in power independent of the caliph’s authority). So ingrained was the concept of a transcendent Islamic community led by a representative of God, some Muslims thought that the world itself could not survive if there were suddenly no universal caliphate. People allegedly believed that the absence of the institution would give rise to cosmic disorder. The sun would cease to shine, rains would cease to fall, and all vegetation would wither.15

Forging National Identities in the Modern Arab Nation State

111

For generations upon generations, the idealized ummah was the only Islamic polity that had absolute legitimacy for the Muslim faithful. That remains true even today for traditional Muslims, especially proactive Islamists. From the latter’s perspective, the modern Arab nation states are at best an anomaly necessitated by the organization of the current world order. The world may be as it is, but for truly devout Muslims conscious of the past, the very existence of independent Arab polities compromise basic Islamic values and deeply rooted political attitudes. Sunnite Islamists and their fellow travelers proclaim that the Arab nation state must give way; at first to a larger confederation of Islamic states governed by shari‘ah, that is traditional Islamic law, and later by a re-established caliphate as in the much-admired past. Such is the official view of the Muslim Brotherhood and its offshoots. The more strident Sunnite advocates of what has been termed political Islam, call, as it were, for hastening the process. As noted in the previous essay, ISIL went so far as to declare the re-establishment of a Sunnite caliphate in territories carved out of modern Syria and Iraq, and has named its leader a new commander of the faithful. The Shi‘ites have a future narrative of their own, a story of messianic expectations that has governed Shi‘ite doctrine and political activity since the first Islamic centuries. The redemption of the Alids and the Islamic world at large will take place at an eagerly awaited historic turn of fortune. For at the proper moment—and only then—the Hidden Imam, a messianic figure from the house of ‘Ali b. Abi Talib, will appear and redeem a Muslim world that has been filled with corruption. His appearance will set into motion a series of cataclysmic events that will end in a new age of justice and righteousness. In such an age, a unified Muslim world will have no need of regional or local constituencies. The emergence of militant Islamist movements with an agenda to reconstitute the idealized community of old, presents the rulers of Iraq, Syria, Jordan, and potentially Lebanon with the challenge of defending their legitimacy and beyond that the very nature of the modern state in a changing and dangerous environment. On the one hand, there is the need to satisfy traditional Muslims for whom the concept of a universal Islamic community has great appeal. On the other, there are those constituents who are aware that given the central role of the nation state in the organized world community, national entities are essential. In the present-day world, polities require an address with an internationally recognized country code. Given that state of affairs, the Islamist quest to do away with local and regional markers is no more achievable today than it was before the encroachment of the colonial powers. Defense of the Arab nation state is also occasioned by more narrowly defined considerations. Citizens born in such states have grown accustomed to their situation and do not necessarily feel the need to navigate through uncharted waters. Even individuals generally sympathetic to Islamic revival, are not willing to relinquish what there is of their national identities for some grand project of uncertain, if not also unlikely success. Many citizens who are highly respectful of Islamic customs and indeed religiously observant, still feel that strict compliance with religious dictates should be left, for the most part, to the individual and not an enforcer of public morality. There is also the disturbing legacy of modern Arab politics. Given that all previous efforts of Arab political unity have proven colossal failures, the prospect of a true confederation of states ruled by Islamic law seems highly problematic. The current

112

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

ruling regimes, described by critics as self-serving and self-sustaining entities, are hardly willing to commit politicide for the benefit of an idealized polity of the past. In any case, there is little reason to expect that the present nation state system will be swept away in the near future. That said, there has long been the danger that undermining the governing capacity of individual Arab nation states may throw the region, if not the larger international community, into chaos. Arguably, that process has begun. It is anything but clear how the challenge of Islamic revival, particularly that of militant Islam, will play out and how long that will take. On the one hand, states whose inhabitants are overwhelmingly Muslim do not wish to be seen as formally jettisoning the ultimate goal of the Islamists and their sympathizers, namely the restoration of a triumphant Islamic order that can roll back the political and cultural intrusion of the West. On the other hand, there is the immediate objective of bending heterogeneous populations to the will of a centralized ruling authority. In Syria and Iraq, autocratic regimes have relied on forces of repression with license to silence any opposition, but the ruling authorities of Arab states have also sought less draconian measures to elicit the support of their constituents. These measures aim to bind the disparate and at times competing elements of the populace into a unified body with a common sense of purpose—a mini ummah so to speak—but not necessarily a state displaying the full regalia of a religiously ordained society. In order to develop a sense of national consciousness, the Arab regimes spoken of here have attempted this difficult task by fashioning a common history that could overcome what seem to be irreconcilable differences of ethnicity, culture, and the broad effects of local and regional allegiance. In this endeavor, they have turned to the Islamic past as do the proponents of Muslim revival. However, they also tend to survey the fuller horizon of Near Eastern history, one that recalls memories of a more ancient Near East. Two examples of this attempt at forging a binding historical narrative are described in the pages below. One is Iraq’s dramatic appeal to an earlier Islamic history and, beyond that, an ancient Mesopotamian past. The other, the Palestinian effort to co-opt the history of ancient Canaan and Arabia in order to forge a binding common ancestry and preempt Israel’s historic claims to the Holy Land.

Modern Iraq, the Background for the Quest of a Unifying National Identity16 The possibility of creating an Iraqi national identity that all the disparate elements of modern Iraqi society could embrace was not promising. Created by the occupying British authorities in 1921 and independent since 1932, modern Iraq, like other Arab states, is delineated by colonial boundaries. In effect, the British combined three provinces (wilayah) of the shattered Ottoman Empire: Basrah (south), Baghdad (center), and Mosul (north), to form a single polity. The new state, forged out of hitherto separate administrative units, was called al-‘Iraq after the centrally located province (bilad) that had been home to the Abbasid caliphs in medieval times. From their magnificent capital at Baghdad, the Abbasids ruled for half a millennium. The sole exception was a ninth-century interlude when the caliphs transferred their rule to

Forging National Identities in the Modern Arab Nation State

113

Samarra, a city they built sixty miles upstream along the Tigris.17 In its heyday, the Abbasid state commanded a territorial expanse that extended from Central Asia through North Africa, a worthy forerunner for an ambitious modern regime seeking legitimacy from its constituents and international recognition for its territorial claims. The boundaries of modern Iraq do not correspond to the medieval Islamic province bearing that name. The inclusion of the Mosul region in the modern state made for a new Iraq that appropriated lands that had been part of the vast medieval province called al-Jazirah. The enlarged Iraqi state thus created a boundary dispute with the newly established Turkish Republic to the north. To the south, where the Ottoman province of Basra had been situated, there has been a dispute with Iran over the border in the Persian Gulf, a vital waterway renamed by the Iraqis and their Arab supporters, the Arabian Gulf, or the Gulf of Basra. The latest consequence of that border dispute was the bloody Iraq–Iran war that consumed eight years, and well over a million casualties. Were those disputed borders not enough to make for an atmosphere of potential, if not actual crisis, Iraq laid claim to neighboring Kuwait based on an earlier alignment of an Ottoman district. These last claims, together with the contested Rumeilah oilfield situated on both sides of the present border, set the stage for the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait and following that the Gulf War of 1991. Were that not sufficient to create serious discord, the house of Sa‘ud, descendants of desert warriors, took control of vast tracts of the Arabian Peninsula in the 1920s, including the Hijaz and its holy cities, Mecca and Medina. Unfurling the banners of a strict Islamic revival, the Saudis displaced the Hashimites, descendants of the Prophet Muhammad’s kin, and perennial guardians of the sacred precincts. Made rich by world demand for energy, the Saudis, sitting on massive oil reserves, have sought to play a role not only in the affairs of their Arab neighbors but the Abode of Islam beyond. The artificial borders of modern Iraq occasioned other difficulties for the newly sponsored British polity led by King Feisal I, a noble Hashimite transplanted from the Hijaz. As the contours of Iraq now included the Mosul region, the recently formed regime had to contend with large numbers of Kurds, some 20% of modern Iraq’s total population. Always averse to centralized government, the Kurdish minority sought and was actually promised autonomy by the European powers. But the British, who held sway in Iraq following Ottoman rule, let the matter pass without taking action. As a result, the Kurds have remained a discontented element of the larger population and within the neighboring countries in which they dwelled. A fierce non-Arab ethnic group, speaking an Indo-European language, they were inclined to rebellion, although they too were Sunnites, as were all the rulers of modern Iraq until the overthrow of Saddam Hussein. Since the fall of Saddam, the Kurds have carved out for themselves what amounts to an autonomous enclave with a thriving economy and institutions that promote a distinctively Kurdish culture.18 Equally if not more troublesome for the central authorities, were the Shi‘ite Muslims situated primarily in the former Ottoman wilayah of Basra. A minority in most countries of the Arab world, the Shi‘ites are an absolute majority in Iraq.19 At one time, most of the Shi‘ites were settled in the relatively poor regions of the South. Since the creation of the modern state, many migrated to the center, particularly to Baghdad, transformed by independence from a provincial Ottoman city into a cosmopolitan hub

114

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

of government and commerce, much as it had been in the time of the Abbasid caliphs. The growth of modern Baghdad and the increasing centralization of state power there created opportunities for enterprising non-Sunnite Muslims and other ethnic and religious minorities. The city, made great once again, became a magnet that attracted diverse groups, as did the Abbasid capital, even before its completion in 762 CE. As a result, the Shi‘ites located in and around Baghdad tended to be more fully integrated within the middle class and ruling Iraqi society than their brethren from the less wellto-do South. Others came to form the lumpen proletariat of what came to be called Saddam City, a sprawling urban neighborhood of more than a million souls and a hot bed of Shi‘ite militancy. Over time, the Shi‘ites became the majority, or close to it, in the capital and its environs, as the demographic balance shifted noticeably in what had long been the solid Sunnite center. Despite having played a role in the formation of the Baath party that ruled Iraqi politics and having served with distinction in the nation’s armed forces, the Shi‘ites in Saddam’s Iraq remained excluded, by and large, from the most influential positions of state. The majority, especially those who remained in the South, continued to resent the social and economic discrimination they suffered at the hands of the republican regime and the monarchy before it. When Saddam was toppled following the American led invasion of 2003, they celebrated his downfall and that of the Sunnite regime in anticipation of a better future. They are now the most powerful group in a war-torn and fractured country, and attempt to dominate the politics of the state to their advantage, as did their Sunnite predecessors. With their grievances and numbers, the Shi‘ites of modern Iraq were always a potential source of rebellion, just as they had been in the time of the caliphs who ruled Iraq more than 1,000 years ago. The links between the Shi‘ites of Iraq and those of neighboring Iran—the only state in the immediate region where Shi‘ites are the truly overwhelming majority—were a cause of concern for the ruling Sunnites in the capital. The Iraqi Shi‘ites proved loyal to the Baghdad authorities during the long and costly war with Iran, but they wasted no time in the aftermath of Saddam’s defeat in the Gulf War of 1991 to launch a widespread and initially successful revolt. The revolt, put down rather decisively once the central authorities regained freedom of action, raised concerns for the central authorities about future challenges. The Arab Sunnites represented at best some 20–25 percent of Iraq’s citizenry. They were outnumbered by the Kurds in the north and the Shi‘ites in the south. Even in the center, the Arab Sunnite stronghold, there was significant representation of other ethnic and religious groups. In effect, the Arab Sunnites had been a ruling minority throughout the entire history of the modern Iraqi state. During the years of the monarchy (1921–58), the country’s Sunnite rulers were foreign implants. As noted earlier, the dynasty that the British installed to govern their political creation was of Arabian rather than local origin. To be sure, the rulers of the modern state had a prestigious history. The Iraqi monarchs, claiming descent from the Prophet’s clan (Banu Hashim), had been, until the Saudi victories in the 1920s, the long-time custodians of the Haramayn, Arabia’s sacred precincts. The Hashimite king chosen by the British to serve their own interests experienced a number of setbacks before and after taking power in Iraq. In a sense, the Iraqi throne was inadequate

Forging National Identities in the Modern Arab Nation State

115

compensation for Feisal not securing the greater prize, the kingship of Syria, a more centrally located Arab province of the shattered Ottoman Empire. Feisal, a longtime Arab nationalist, was actually proclaimed king of a greater Syria in Damascus when the Ottomans were driven from the province towards the end of WWI. Although he ruled in Damascus with the tacit support of his British patrons, they offered him neither encouragement nor support with which to consolidate his power over a makeshift alliance of unwieldy Arab constituencies. Such support might have led to some form of real Arab independence, an outcome not in British interests of the moment. The French, taking control of Syria–Lebanon in 1920, and wary, as always, of British designs, allowed Feisal no room to maneuver, so he left Damascus to serve British interests in Baghdad. Kingship for the Hashimites in Iraq was part of a larger pattern where the British dispensed patronage to a prestigious Arabian family. They expected that the Hashimites would favor British interests in a reconfigured Near East.20 Feisal’s talented brother, Abdallah, was installed as Emir of the territory controlled by the British east of the river Jordan, and was later recognized by them as monarch of what became in 1946 the Hashimite Kingdom of Jordan. When Abdallah annexed the mandated lands of Palestine captured by his Arab Legion in the 1948–9 Arab–Israel war, Great Britain was virtually alone in formally acknowledging the legitimacy of his expanded domain. It should be noted that Hashimite rule beyond Arabia did not take root because of an organic relationship that evolved between the Arab kings and their native subjects. For the most part, the Hashimites were imposed upon the local populace and supported directly or indirectly by British power and influence. Only in Transjordan, a relatively unpopulated land, did the relationship between an Arabian ruler and the local Arab tribesmen take on a life of its own. Abdallah’s success was due in large part to his extraordinary ability to manipulate tribal politics; the same has been more or less true of his successors. In Iraq, which had a variegated mix of peoples and an Islamic history of internal strife that goes back more than 1,300 years, the story of Hashimite rule followed a rather different script. Captaining the Iraqi ship of state, the rulers of Arabian lineage had to steer a course through turbulent waters. The difficulty of forging an Iraqi nation state was summed up by Feisal I the year following independence. A confidential memorandum, distributed to the more senior notables at court, calls attention to the conflicting objectives of Sunnites, Shi‘ites, Kurds, and non-Muslim minorities, as well as the powerful tribes and [their] sheikhs who [in typical tribal fashion] want only to free themselves of formal government restraint. The king then goes on to indicate that there is no Iraqi nation in Iraq. There are only masses devoid of patriotism and espousing parochial attitudes rooted in nonsense. With nothing to bind them, the diverse segments of Iraqi society are inclined to anarchy and mischief. The king concludes by reflecting on how difficult it will be to mold a [modern] nation under these circumstances. Feisal could have added to his laundry list of problems those of dealing with the British.21 Officially independent since 1932, Iraq remained susceptible to British influence and political intrigues until the overthrow of the Hashimite house in 1958, at which time the monarchy was replaced by a republic. Unlike the monarchy, the various regimes that have since ruled Iraq have been composed at the highest levels of native Iraqis. Until the overthrow of Saddam Hussein,

116

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

Iraq’s rulers were all Sunnite Muslims from the country’s center, though not necessarily from the capital Baghdad. Saddam and many of his entourage were from the provincial city Tikrit, as was the despot Ahmad al-Hasan Bakr before him. However, having roots in Iraq offered no guarantee that any ruling regime would be able to control the disparate elements of Iraqi society. Regardless of who has governed Iraq, be it during the monarchy, the republic, or, for that matter, the caliphs who ruled more than 1,000 years ago, the central authorities and their representatives have always had to earn the allegiance of a recalcitrant and highly diverse populace. In that sense, whoever ruled Iraq faced a problem confronted by rulers of other modern Arab nation-states: How to create a sense of unity among mutually antagonistic groups. In modern terms, how to forge a sense of nationhood and mold a modern state out of a truly heterogeneous and quarrelsome citizenry?

Forging an Iraqi Identity and National Consensus: Legacies of an Invented Past Saddam’s attempt to mobilize the citizenry and shape an Iraqi nation and state, combined highly traditional approaches of reward and repression with intensive propaganda effectively conveyed through modern means of communication. As did the caliphs who ruled from Baghdad and Samarra, Saddam’s regime encouraged loyalty by dispensing patronage to clients and would-be clients in various ethnic, religious, socioeconomic, and professional associations, all closely monitored by the government. To acquire legitimacy, the government also initiated a massive and lavishly financed campaign to promote national consciousness. Given the fractious nature of Iraq’s society, neither the elaborate system of state patronage, nor the deafening drumroll of state propaganda, succeeded in uniting the Iraqi people. As a result, when pressed by circumstances it regarded as potentially, or actually threatening, the regime resorted to public displays of extreme and at times seemingly unprovoked brutality. Saddam’s regime may have been evil by any conventional rendering of the term evil, but the repressive agencies of the Iraqi state did not, as a rule, employ violence without purpose. The brutality, harsh as it was, was a message designed to discourage any semblance of political opposition. Punishment was based on a simple premise. The more swiftly applied, the more rapid the learning experience. Frightened observers were apt to conclude, there but for good fortune, I might have been chosen. At issue was not necessarily the guilt or innocence of the individual or group. The brutal executions displaced conventional notions of justice with public demonstrations of state authority, a prophylactic method of maintaining order often invoked by capricious rulers throughout the long course of Islamic history.22 In the end, repression, however cowering, was not enough to unify a society that had not experienced a real sense of nationhood or produced a national consensus. The repressive measures of the regime were supplemented with a message aimed at binding the disparate elements of Iraqi society into a more or less unified whole. With that in mind, Saddam initiated a campaign to appeal to an imagined Islamic and ancient Mesopotamian past.

Forging National Identities in the Modern Arab Nation State

117

Propaganda, to be successful, requires a nuanced means of persuasion, one, which, in the Iraqi context, often considered a broad set of contemporaneous experiences linking ruler and subject while drawing on historic memories that are intended to shape current political responses. Near Eastern polities of the past, including Islamic regimes of note, have always sought legitimacy in the present by appealing to vibrant images of an earlier time. Similarly, the Baathists who ruled Iraq labored to unify the populace behind the regime by drawing on precedents from the ancient Near East and early Islamic times. There was, then, a strong sense of déjà vu to both the message and the methods of Saddam’s tendentiously driven propaganda, a feature of Iraqi politics alluded to at the start of this essay. Indeed, no modern Arab regime invoked the past in so ubiquitous and dramatic a fashion as did the ruling clique in Iraq. Through a state-controlled press and radio; elaborately staged public theater; heavily funded museums in both the capital and provinces; and erected monumental architecture designed to recall the glories of history’s awe-inspiring rulers, both Islamic and pre-Islamic, Saddam sought to establish an unbroken link between the great kingdoms of ancient Mesopotamia and the modern Arab nation state.23 He proclaimed himself the modern version of Abu Jafar al-Mansur, the great caliph who founded the seat of an empire in Baghdad (al-Mansur Mansuran). Moving back in Islamic time, the Iraqi leader spoke of direct ties to the Prophet’s family; and then turning to a more ancient Near East, he likened himself to the fabled Nebuchadnezzar, who conquered Jerusalem and exiled the Israelites in the sixth-century BCE. Citing a past still more remote, Saddam posed as Hammurabi, the great lawgiver of the second millennium Babylon, and as an ancient Sumerian God figure who inhabited Mesopotamia some 2,000 years earlier. In effect, the regime claimed itself the heir to one of Islam’s greatest dynasties; an analog to the ummah, the Prophet’s founding community; and ultimately the modern equivalent of the great empires of ancient Mesopotamia.24 As regards the Islamic past, spokespersons for the Baathist regime often embraced images of the Abbasid caliphate, the Muslim dynasty that commanded a vast empire from its capital Baghdad. In an effort to promote his legitimacy, Saddam included plans for a monumental architecture based on structures from the imperial cities of the Abbasid regime.25 There is something eerily familiar about his invoking memories of the Abbasids. In an epoch more than 1,000 years from our own, but in circumstances not altogether different from those faced by the modern Iraqi regime, the House of Abbas invested heavily on visually inspiring symbols and invoked poignant memories of a near and distant history. Hard pressed to answer Shi‘ite critics who claimed better credentials to rule, and facing potential and actual rebellions from a wide variety of dissident groups, the partisans of the Abbasid house erected magnificent palaces and mosques illustrative of their power and prepared imaginative briefs with which to legitimize their patrons. Their objective: to promote a sense of unity and common purpose for a fractious populace that could then rally behind the ruling order. Looking to the past, court historians idealized the ruling family and its followers, and justified the instruments and methods of Abbasid rule. With considerable ingenuity, Abbasid advocates revisited history, always producing titillating narratives that reinforced the shifting needs of the regime. In such fashion they manipulated the

118

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

historic past, and when necessary, sought to weave historical tapestries out of wholly new cloth. I trust readers will not object if I take license once again to draw upon earlier discussions of Abbasid historiography, as that material is most pertinent to the present essay. It is ever so clear that with an eye cast to potential, if not actual rivals, Abbasid propagandists accentuated the links between the ruling dynasts and their cousin, the Prophet, and between the followers of the Abbasid house and the ummah, the praiseworthy and highly idealized community of the earliest Muslims. Like Saddam, the Abbasids also appealed to a more ancient history. Continuing to move backwards in time, Abbasid polemicists emphasized the Prophet’s role as the last and quintessential link in a chain of God’s messengers that included the Israelite prophets. By extension, the Prophet Muhammad’s followers and their successors, the Abbasid faithful, became the analogs of the God-fearing biblical Israelites, or, to be more precise, the ruling Abbasids and their kin were proclaimed the direct descendants of the Patriarch Abraham, whose offspring gave birth to both the Arab and Israelite peoples via Ishmael and Isaac respectively. Hand in hand with the need to unify the general populace behind the regime, was the pressing need to unify its multi-ethnic military forces. Even the Turks and Iranians who took up residence in Iraq and served in the Abbasid armies were retroactively endowed with descent from the venerable Abraham and made, so to speak, honorary members of Arab tribes and Iraqis in good standing. In a noteworthy tract, al-Jahiz, a ninth-century author, well connected at the Abbasid court, describes the imperial army as formed from highly diverse ethnic groups.26 With considerable literary skill and no small amount of historical imagination, the gifted courtier portrays the Abbasid regiments as a community bonded to the caliphs and each other by extended ties of blood and clientage. In forging such claims, the author creates a common and deep-rooted bond between the multi-ethnic army and the Abbasid ruling institution. In order to defend what might appear to skeptical readers a rather inventive, if not bizarre reconstruction of history, al-Jahiz, with characteristic sleight of hand, seeks to demonstrate that the distinctions between the Turks, the Arabs, and other elements of Abbasid society are more apparent than real. In al-Jahiz’s world, diversity and unity are not necessarily antithetical conditions. Although such a view will raise a few eyebrows when applied to the United States in this the socalled age of multiculturalism, it might well have startled medieval readers less inclined to do away with all binary distinctions. The reported product of mixed lineage, our author explains that different communities inhabiting the same regions may come to share common characteristics. He claims that among Iraqis it is impossible to differentiate Basrans from Kufans. He then states that the same holds true for native Khurasanis (the inhabitants of eastern Iran) and the Arab tribes that settled in Iran, beginning in the eighth-century CE. This rather casual assertion concerning the Arabs in Khurasan, tribesmen who formed the original backbone of the Abbasid military, belies a significant formulation. Medieval Arab authors not only divide the world into inhabited climes, they also describe the ethnic composition and the social behavior that characterize the populace of each geographical unit.27 Al-Jahiz’s remarks imply that the inherent cultural traits possessed by the inhabitants of any given region can be transferred to a settler

Forging National Identities in the Modern Arab Nation State

119

population. An Arab transplanted in Khurasan becomes a native of that province; similarly, a Khurasani official or army commander settled in the military cantonments of Baghdad, or a Turk bought in Central Asia and billeted at Samarra, the second Abbasid capital, can claim himself a true Iraqi. Having thus given the Turks a deserved place in Iraqi Arab society, al-Jahiz seeks to establish blood ties between them and the Arab Abbasids who, as Hashimites, were cousins to the Prophet, the most noble Arab of all. That is done by taking the reader back to a more ancient time, that of the biblical patriarchs. The Abbasid rulers are made the descendants of Ishmael, the son of Abraham and the progenitor of the Northern Arabs, the best Arabs of all; the tribe of Quraysh, the most prestigious of all the northern tribes; and the clan of Hashim, the leading sub-unit of Quraysh from which the Abbasids and their cousin, the Prophet, are descended. This same Ishmael was destined by God’s blessing to be the forefather of mighty kingdoms, the prediction of a glorious future derived from the book of Genesis, which, in this case, is applied by our Muslim author, however indirectly, to the Abbasid dynasty. Al-Jahiz, speaking as an interlocutor for the Abbasid regime, asks us to return once again to the biblical past and to note, that in addition to Ishmael and Isaac, the respective sons of Hagar, the Egyptian (Qubtiyah), and Sarah, the [North] Syrian (Suryaniyah), Abraham also had six sons with Qeturah, the Arab woman. He goes on to claim that four of these offspring settled in a distant East where, fortuitously, they became the progenitors of the Khurasanis and Turks. Therefore, should a proud Arab boast of his noble descent, the Turk can always offer as a rejoinder, “But Abraham is my [grand]father and Ishmael is my uncle.”28 Arab Iraq may claim the Turks (and indeed all Khurasanis) as its native sons. Abbasid attempts to create a unified body politic out of a fractious society, born of diverse ethnic, religious, and socioeconomic groups, are echoed in imaginative appeals to the past by successive Iraqi regimes in the twentieth century. In each case, be it the Hashimite monarchy or its successors, the republican governments of Abd al-Karim Qassem, the Arif brothers, or what evolved into the brutal regime of Saddam Hussein, propagandists for the Iraqi regime tried to create a sense of modern Iraqi nationality and national purpose where none had previously existed. If we simply read Kurd for Turk and link Abraham with the milieu of ancient Mesopotamia, as in Jewish and Muslim scripture, we recognize the extended history, or rather the tendentious shaping of an extended history that gives rise to some modern Iraqi claims to nationhood and national purpose. In seeking to form a national identity, Saddam Hussein and his Baathist predecessors continuously stressed linkages between modern Iraq and its ancient Near Eastern past. Invoking the world of the ancient Near East to create the notion of Iraqi nationhood has been a recent development. The Hashimite monarchs who initially ruled modern Iraq were not wont to picture themselves and their state in light of ancient polytheists and polities. Nor did they imagine that drawing on images the likes of Nebuchadnezzar and the Babylonian Empire would serve as a basis for establishing a modern Muslim nation. In that respect, propaganda, particularly under Saddam, reflected a marked departure from earlier efforts to establish a basis for national unity.29 To be sure, the study of ancient Mesopotamia, the discipline that has come to be known as Assyriology, attracted keen interest among Europeans. European text scholars

120

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

and archaeologists were active in the Ottoman ruled provinces from which modern Iraq was formed, and resumed their scholarly efforts following the advent of the monarchy after the War. Locally based foreign research institutes created an ongoing Western presence in Iraq and stimulated the training of native scholars, particularly in Mesopotamian archaeology. However, the early ruling authorities of modern Iraq, or, to be more correct, Feisal himself, sought a different history with which to unify the heterogeneous population of the newly shaped national domain. The king did not lack the sophistication to understand the broad outlines of the European Assyriology. Feisal might have been of Arabian stock, and, in accordance with family custom, spent his earliest childhood in a desert environment, but he became acquainted with the larger world. Highly literate and extremely cultivated, he had spent some twenty years in cosmopolitan Istanbul, a crossroads of many cultures, as well as a year in England.30 Nevertheless, however curious he might have been about Mesopotamian archaeology, his interest in things European took a different direction. In Istanbul, he became acquainted with European forms of governance that were introduced, however belatedly, by the Ottoman authorities. He was even elected to the newly formed Turkish parliament, as was his gifted brother Abdallah. Similarly, his father, confined to Istanbul by the Ottoman authorities, became a member of the Council of State.

Arab Nationalism and National Identity It was also in Istanbul that Feisal became attracted to the concept of nationalism. As a youngish man, he traveled in circles that formed the secret Arab political societies, whose aim it was to liberate the Arab provinces of the Ottoman Empire from the direct yoke of their Turkish masters. Individuals from a variety of Arab lands frequented these circles, most of them, like Feisal, were highly literate and well acquainted with developments in Europe. Angered by the Turkish treatment of Arab dissidents in Syria, a breeding ground for newly established Arab nationalist sentiments, Feisal joined the revolt against the Ottomans led by his father Hussein, who had since returned to Arabia as guardian of the holy precincts. The revolt directly supported by the British who had gone to war with the Ottomans, allowed Feisal to ingratiate himself with his British handlers. Hence, their willingness to install him as king of Iraq, a trusted Arab ruler, who with proper constraints would do their bidding. For Feisal, forging a relationship with the populace of the new Iraq, while at the same time he and the Hashimites tried to lessen British control, represented a formidable task. He was installed on his throne by the British in 1921, following a costly revolt by Arab tribesmen the previous year. To create some sense of stability on which to anchor its regime, the monarchy had to introduce an Iraqi identity that could unify the diverse population of the three former Ottoman districts that constituted the modern state. At the same time, any nation building scheme had to proceed without the foreign-born king appearing too closely linked to his European patrons. Feisal also had to be concerned about unduly alarming the British, who administered Iraq for the international community from 1921 to 1932 and then, following Iraqi independence, sought to influence affairs in the country by less direct means.

Forging National Identities in the Modern Arab Nation State

121

To accomplish these objectives, Feisal was obliged to play the cards of Arab nationalism, a game that the new monarch eagerly embraced. His political views on Arabism were forged in the crucible of nationalist circles that he had frequented and much admired. Nor was the appeal to Arab unity limited to Feisal and the Hashimite monarchs who followed him. All the subsequent players who ruled or wished to rule Iraq, trumpeted the notion of an Iraqi unity based on Arab affiliation and, beyond that, a central, if not dominant role for the Iraqi people and its state within the larger Arab nation. The concept of Arab unity (wahdah) has been central to its ideology from the very outset of the Baath party in the 1940s.31 The party’s Sorbonne-educated and highly cosmopolitan founders included, among others, a Greek Orthodox Christian and an ‘Alawite, that is a representative from a sectarian offshoot of Shi‘ite Islam. They were not inclined to link national unity to traditional Islam alone. That is not to say, the Baath had a truly secular orientation, as some scholars suggest. Rather, the Baathists have always believed religion is best left to the religious authorities; the state, whose populace comprises diverse religious communities, even among Muslims, should be the concern of the political leadership. As it cuts across significant ethnic and religious boundaries that divide the Iraqi nation, the concept of Arab unity has had an obvious appeal to rulers, both past and present. The call for Arab unity has also been linked to more broadly defined objectives. As envisioned by the early Paris bred ideologues of the Baath, Iraq’s central role unifying all the Arabs takes on the role of an educational mission, a presumption that ironically mimics the European imperial ideal of civilizing the natives: read the Kurds and other non-Arab ethnic minorities. Appeals to the Arab past were accentuated during the costly war with Shi‘ite Iran in the 1980s, a conflict that evolved from a dispute over water rights to one described as a cataclysmic struggle between Arabism and Iranism. Shi‘ite and Sunnite Arabs alike were implored by the Iraqi regime to form a united front against the Iranians. Iraqi propaganda described the current Iranians as analogous to the ancient Sasanids, whose khusraw or emperor the early Arab armies defeated, thus bringing Islam and Islamic civilization to Iraq and western Iran beginning in the seventh-century CE. If, despite their long-standing grievances, the Arab Shi‘ites of Iraq did not betray the Sunnite regime to their co-religionists across the frontier, the opportunity was certainly there. Southern Iraq was the major battlefield of the war and the fate of Basra, with its large Shi‘ite population, seemed very much in the balance. The loss of Basra might have imperiled the regime in Baghdad. At the least, it would have allowed the Iranians to cut the country in half. Both Iraqis and Iranians attached critical importance to the battles raging around the city, Iraq’s defensive anchor for the entire southern front. The Shi‘ites of the south did not waver in their support of the Iraqi nation. But in the aftermath of Saddam’s defeat in the Gulf War a few years later, the same Shi‘ites, who had been loyal to Arabism and the regime, revolted against Saddam Hussein, only to be suppressed by the Sunnite authorities. There has always been a certain ambivalence in the Sunnite appeal to their Shi‘ite subjects. On the one hand, the Shi‘ites were welcomed as fellow Arabs and hence fellow Iraqis. Indeed, the Iraqi Baath always had its Shi‘ite loyalists, however little real authority they allowed them in party circles. Spokesmen for regime drew distinctions between

122

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

the good Shi‘ites who avidly supported Saddam and those Shi‘ite “sectarians” who confronted him at the expense of the nation and Arabism. The latter were referred to as rawafid “Rafidites,” a highly pejorative term borrowed by Saddam’s propagandists from classical Arabic to signify “those who refuse [authority],” and, more specifically, recalcitrant Shi‘ites.32 Another medieval term used to describe Shi‘ite opponents of the regime is shu‘ubi. The reference is to the Shu‘ubiyah, which may be loosely described as a movement to restore Iranian culture and influence into Islamic courtly circles. That is, to cultural and political spaces dominated by the Abbasid Arab caliphs or their Arabic speaking representatives and boon companions.33 The label shu‘ubi at a time of unresolved Iran–Iraq tensions, carried highly negative, and, as regards Iraq’s Shi‘ites, thoroughly undeserved pro-Iranian resonances. More generally, it suggested a susceptibility to all sorts of foreign influences. Any such charge impugning the loyalty or Arabism of Iraq’s Shi‘ites is not supported by historic facts. Indeed, the Shi‘ites can and do point out that they alone among the Arabs of Iraq resisted the British imperialists during the great revolt of 1920, that is, even before the British hand-picked King Feisal established the modern Iraqi state. Theoretically, an appeal to Arab unity should have bound the Shi‘ites to their Sunnite Arab brothers. With proper ecumenical spirit, Saddam Hussein’s propagandists even likened him to Ali b. Abi Talib, the Prophet Muhammad’s son-in-law, whose progeny are considered by Shi‘ites the only legitimate leaders of the Islamic community. Reality is, however, a different matter. Religious disputation and occasional strife, together with long-standing ethnic, regional, and social conflicts, all of which are rooted in a history going back to almost the Arab conquest of Iraq, have blunted the unifying power of recent notions of Arab unity. Most Iraqis can readily identify with their nation when threatened by outsiders, but that sense of cohesion, forged in response to perceived external threats, tends to break down when Iraqis negotiate games of power among themselves, Saddam’s claimed linkage to Ali notwithstanding. There remains in Iraq an underlying tension between a developing national consensus and profound regional, ethnic, and religious differences.

The Kurdish Problem34 No appeal to a sense of nationhood based on Arab identity could comfortably accommodate Saddam’s Kurds, a distinct ethnic group speaking an Indo-European language, and with long-held desires for an autonomous region of their own. Given the aspirations of this very large and extremely vocal minority—the Kurds are also settled in the oil rich regions of the north—the central authorities of the modern Iraqi state have always been uncertain of how to deal with them. What course of action could have solved the Kurdish problem to the satisfaction of Kurds and Arabs alike? As noted, Baath ideologues long believed the Arabs have a mission to civilize the non-Arab world, a Near Eastern version, so to speak, of the French imperialist concept of civilisatrice française. The Baath thus proclaimed a desire to assimilate the Kurds into the Arab fold, in effect making the Kurds honorary or adopted Arabs. The argument is blessed by a simplicity of design. Given the exalted qualities of the Arabs and their

Forging National Identities in the Modern Arab Nation State

123

language, what people would not want to become part of them and their culture? Spokesmen for the Republic maintained, that whoever lives on Arab soil, or desires to live there, or speaks Arabic [regardless of ethnic origins], can be considered an Arab. The Muslim Kurds are therefore full citizens of an Arab [Iraqi] state, as are all Muslim Arabs. Unlike peoples [speaking Indo-Iranian languages] living in Iran or on the subcontinent of India, or speakers of Turkic dialects in neighboring lands, the Kurds are part of the Arab nation as they have lived in Arab lands for thousands of years. As had al-Jahiz’s Turks and Khurasanis, the Kurds become native Iraqis by virtue of having lived in Iraq and assimilating the characteristics of the local population. Were that not sufficient to create an Iraqi–Arab identity for the Kurds, there was an attempt to claim that they were originally Arabs who [allegedly] migrated to their present homelands with other Arab/Semites from the Arabian Peninsula. At the least, the regime promoted the image of the Kurds as partners with their Arab brothers in advancing the cause of Islam, a partnership best exemplified by the greatest Kurd of all, the legendary Saladin. At least that is how the regime’s propagandists portrayed Saladin; in truth, the medieval sources do not stress Saladin’s Kurdish ancestry. Given the well-known and celebrated history of Salah al-Din al-Ayyubi, the message was there for all modern Iraq to understand. The great defender of Islam against the invading Crusaders was himself a native Iraqi, having been born in Tikrit, the very birthplace of Saddam Hussein. A colloquium was held in Tikrit under the rubric “The Battle of Liberation: From Saladin to Saddam Hussein,” a not so vague reference to the defeat of the Christian Crusaders, but also to the impending liberation of Jerusalem from the Jewish Zionists. In that sense, the Kurds, like Saddam, the true Arab, are seen as resisting the most recent encroachment of the imperialist West, just as the great Saladin warred against European invaders some 800 years earlier. With credentials of that sort, the Kurds, despite their ethnic origins and Indo-European language, are deemed as having an honored place among their Arab brethren in a greater Iraqi nation led by Saddam. The Kurds were not assuaged by transparent efforts linking them to the Arabs in the past, particularly when such links did nothing to preserve the cultural heritage of Iraq’s Kurdish population. Faced with periodic Kurdish intransigence, the Baathist regime tried, at first, to bring the rebellious Kurds to heel. The central authorities utilized a combination of several strategies designed to take advantage of differences among the Kurds themselves. In addition to military pressure on those Kurds who rebelled, they made overtures to Kurds opposed to the rebel leadership. They enticed would be collaborators with concessions to preserve, indeed promote Kurdish national culture, including a Kurdish university and a Kurdish writers association, as well as a Kurdish Academy of Science. In 1970, the regime recognized the right of the Kurds to autonomous rule, but, in the end, the Arabs ruling in Baghdad failed to act upon it. Following the first Gulf War of 1991, the regime attempted to forcefully register the Kurds as Arabs. Those refusing to be Arabicized had their property and wealth confiscated. Many, banished from their homes, were forced to live under harsh conditions. In areas of Iraq where the Americans and British provided a protective umbrella, the Kurds have enjoyed de facto autonomy. Nevertheless, they remain wary of the future. In the confusion that has followed the overthrow of Saddam’s regime, the

124

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

Kurdish issue remains unsettled. Kurdish fighters were at the forefront of an alliance that sought to liberate Mosul from the control of ISIL. They have also been active against the Islamic State in northern Syria. Nevertheless, it is not clear what will happen when the militant Islamist enemy is fully defeated. The Kurds remain wary and with good cause.

Invoking the Ancient Near East in Search of an Iraqi National Identity The Baath’s commitment to Arabism took on a new dimension when the party, having come to power, solidified its authority in the 1970s. As before, the Iraqis declared themselves part of the larger Arab nation, but beginning in the 1970s they increasingly emphasized a regional Iraqi identity that was rooted in the ancient history of Mesopotamia. In doing so, the central authorities hoped to create a common bond among all Iraqi citizens, regardless of their ethnic, religious, or linguistic loyalties. Following conventional European wisdom, Iraq was declared the cradle of [all] civilizations. The new emphasis on the pre-Islamic past did not at all compromise Iraq’s commitment to Arabism and the larger Arab nation. Borrowing a page from an earlier and discredited European scholarship on a so-called Semitic race, Iraqi spokesmen declared the Sumerians and Babylonians who inhabited ancient Mesopotamia thousands of years ago, Arabs [who migrated from the Arabian Peninsula in a time before recorded history]. Privileging this now abandoned view of ancient Near Eastern migratory patterns, and of Arabia as the alleged wellspring of the imagined Semitic race, a Baath ideologue boasted that Iraq’s Arabo–Semitic history dates back [to a time] when Europeans lived in forests, marshes, and caves. We may understand this remark as a not so subtle hint that the West has much to learn from a more venerable Arab/ Muslim civilization.35 Not all Iraqi intellectuals embraced this new paradigm of national identity. Not all believed that to be an Iraqi was to be an Arab in a privileged Arabo–Semitic history that goes back to a remote past. One critic was willing to concede that all Arabs were Semites, but, going against conventional wisdom in the Arab world, he maintained that not all Semites were Arabs—he might have added that the Sumerians were in fact non-Semitophones. The truth or falsity of the newly claimed basis of Iraqi identity did not depend, however, on the opinions of learned scholars or reflective intellectuals. It was sufficient that Saddam himself embraced the concept and promoted it with extraordinary energy and vast financial outlays.36 As did his Baath predecessors, Saddam had a passion for archaeology. He firmly believed that recovering the material culture of the ancient world throws light on Iraq’s earlier history, and hence the origins of the Iraqi people. When the Baath took power, the number of archaeologists in government service grew, as did the budgets lavished on their fieldwork. The authorities sanctioned hundreds of new excavations and soundings. Archaeological sites and a supporting network of museums in which to display excavated artifacts were established in many districts and sub-districts of the country. Major elements of the city of Babylon were scheduled for reconstruction in an

Forging National Identities in the Modern Arab Nation State

125

attempt to recapture its grandeur during the age of Nebuchadnezzar (sixth-century BCE) and later Graeco–Roman times. Many of these sites have become places of pilgrimage for modern Iraqis, much as the archaeological landscape of the Holy Land dominates the attention of Israelis to their country’s past. No opportunity to promote the glories of Iraq, whether real or imagined, was lost. Festivals, theater, public art, and spectacles of all sorts, reflected the commitment of the regime to Iraq’s distant past. A campaign was even mounted to retrieve the national treasures that had been excavated before Iraq’s independence, artifacts that were taken out of the country for permanent display in the great museums of Berlin, London, and Paris. The central figure in this newly crafted iconography of modern Iraq and its historic past was Saddam himself. His presence, larger than life, loomed everywhere: in the media, on ubiquitous billboards, and on impressive statues that decorated public spaces. Representations of Saddam were often juxtaposed with the great figures of ancient Iraq: the lawgiver Hammurabi, the great king Nebuchadnezzar, even the god Tammuz reborn. The Iraqi leader was portrayed as leading the ancient armies of Babylon, his smiling visage seen overlooking a Sumerian phalanx assisting the armies of modern Iraq in battle. We are obliged to ask: Were these attempts to legitimate Saddam and forge a common history with which to unify all the varied peoples of modern Iraq successful? Say during the events immediately following the Iraqi annexation of Kuwait and the subsequent conflict that threatened the territorial integrity of the modern state. How much all this emphasis on ancient Mesopotamia has contributed to the formation of a common Iraqi identity is, to say the least, debatable, even when the nation was confronted by an alliance of foreign forces. During the first Gulf War, Saddam, more often than not, was forced to play the Islamic card against the Christian armies arrayed against him. When push came to shove, Iraq’s citizens were asked to understand the war as a conflict between a European brokered alliance and an Iraq portrayed as the most worthy champion of the Islamic world.37 This attempt at unity did not take hold. Following the disastrous outcome of the first Gulf conflict, Iraq was torn asunder along traditional lines of confrontation: the Shi‘ites of the South and the Kurds of the North against the Sunnite Arab center. Neither claims of linkage to Nebuchadnezzar and the Babylonian Empire, nor aggressive foreign intervention that arouses national sentiment, have led to a unified Iraq. The nation still doesn’t have a foundational narrative embraced by all its regional, ethnic, and religiously diverse elements. Iraq remains divided as in the past. Although Saddam’s propagandists ardently promoted an ancient Arabo–Semitic identity, the regime emphasized, as well, its claim to be the leader of the larger Arab nation. The Iraqi commitment to the Arab and, more specifically Palestinian cause never wavered. Although Iraq does not border Israel, on three occasions it dispatched armies to fight on behalf of its Arab brothers; only once, however, in 1948, did Iraqi forces actually reach the field of combat. As regards Israel, Iraq’s claims to leadership in the Arab world and Saddam’s preoccupation with ancient Mesopotamia are linked in interesting ways. By invoking the history of the ancient Near East, the Iraqi regime also attacked the legitimacy of modern Israel, and created a scenario of its future destruction. Iraqi propaganda described the Jewish state as a “so-called state,” a “robber state,” and a

126

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

“stray animal.” The “Zionist entity” was castigated as an imperialist bridgehead for a new crusade against the Arab world; an artificial state set up by the European powers who need an aggressive base from which to dominate the Near East economically and politically. In short, Iraq embraced the traditional Arab litany that seeks to portray modern Israel and its citizens as having no real legitimacy and no deep historic roots in the region.38 When the history of ancient Israel is mentioned by Iraqi propagandists, it is juxtaposed with the much grander history of ancient Mesopotamia. Iraqis and all Arabs are reminded that it was Nebuchadnezzar, King of Babylon, who conquered Jerusalem in 586 BCE and set into motion the exile of Zion’s inhabitants; the destruction of its holy Temple; and the end of the Israelite polity. Thus, anticipating a similar fate for the modern state of Israel.39 Iraqi propagandists also emphasized the well-known admiration that Jews have traditionally shown for Iran. The reference is to appreciative feelings that go back to the era of Cyrus the Great, the Persian monarch who conquered Babylon in 539 BCE, and allowed the Jewish exiles to return to Jerusalem and build a new Temple. The new Jewish settlement of ancient Palestine was, according to Iraqis, a reward for having assisted the invading Persians during their war on Babylon. That is, the Persians were only able to breach the city because of a Jewish fifth column within the Babylonian capital. In gratitude for this treachery, Cyrus allowed the Jews to settle in Palestine, whereupon they displaced the indigenous “Arab/ Palestinian” population.40 The extended thrust of these remarks is clear. These events, taking place in ancient times, also presage the treacherous activities of the Jewish tribe of Qurayzah. According to Muslim tradition, the Qurayzah collaborated with Muhammad’s enemies during the great siege of Medina, the hub of Muslim power, in 627 CE. Despite treaty obligations with the Prophet, the Jews betrayed him and all the Muslims at a critical moment when the very future of the Muslim community and that of Islam was at stake.41 Were that not enough to alert the world of what can be expected of Jews, the events taking place in the sixth-century BCE also foretold the alleged “Zionist-Khomeinist cooperation” of a more recent era—a rather bizarre melding of events, considering Iran’s vitriolic and uncompromising attitude towards the Jewish state. In any case, Iraqis have asked why anyone should have expected the Jews to behave otherwise when Nebuchadnezzar’s capital was besieged. They note that the Jews never hated any city more than Babylon and this hatred still burns in them some 2,500 years later. As it were, this appeal to a distant past also explains for Iraqis, and indeed many other Arabs, the deplorable fate of the Palestinians that followed the creation of the modern State of Israel. As they did with Cyrus’s blessing in sixth-century BCE, modern Jewish Zionists, settling in Palestine with Western approval, seized the lands of the indigenous Arab inhabitants of that country. Thus, histories of the ancient, medieval and modern Near East are inextricably linked to present images of gross injustice to the Arab and Muslim world. Although the overthrow of the monarchy in Iraq and the subsequent upheavals have been described as revolutionary, Saddam’s regime seeking legitimacy sought to identify directly with a history that reached back to much earlier times. Saddam’s propagandists recalled an age when Baghdad was the pivot of a great Islamic empire, and then, returning to a most ancient past, when Iraq was the center of a resplendent

Forging National Identities in the Modern Arab Nation State

127

civilization. The following essays draw attention to how other Arab nation states, like Iraq polities with artificial boundaries drawn to suit European colonial interests, found themselves in need of creating a sense of national identity and purpose. That, so they could unite their disparate populations and regions to fill the void left by the collapse of Muslim Ottoman rule after WWI. As did the Iraqis under Saddam, other Arab regimes liberated from colonial rule have sought to legitimize their standing by calling attention to both an Islamic and pre-Islamic past. In the pages that follow, particular attention is focused on the Palestinians, a people who still seek a state of their own. For them, there is the problem of creating a national identity that will not only allow their fractious society to cohere, but will at the same time deny the “historic” claims of Israelis rooted in the Hebrew Bible; a text that has fashioned support among reverent Christians for the Zionist cause.

128

6

The Holy Land, Canaan, and Arabia: The Quest for Arab Polity: Inventing an Ancient Past in Response to Zionism

Several years ago during a typical Chicago area winter, when the sun peeked out of the sky and the wind-chill factor soared to a balmy 15°F, I decided in an uncharacteristic burst of energy that it was time for a stroll. Shortly thereafter, I found myself thawing out in a shop that sells the kinds of odds-and-ends that nobody ever seems to need, let alone wants to purchase. Oddly enough, I came upon an item of interest, a packet of embroidered Bedouin material marketed by women in East Jerusalem and advertised as the handicraft of Palestinian Arabs going back 5,000 years. Being an incorrigible pedant, I attempted to explain to the elderly proprietor that she was involved, no doubt unwillingly, in a case of false advertising. The Arabs did not conquer Palestine until the seventh-century CE, leaving a gap of some 3,700 years between the early inhabitants, the ancient Canaanites, and today’s Palestinian Arabs. She countered in proper Foucauldian fashion that everyone has a version of history to which they are entitled: “You have yours and the Palestinian women have theirs.” The account, which I render whimsically, nevertheless speaks to a truth. Linking modern-day Palestinians Arabs to the inhabitants of an ancient Palestine some 5,000 years ago is not an isolated act devised by enterprising Arab women in East Jerusalem to peddle goods assembled in the Via Dolorosa to unsuspecting buyers in the frozen tundra of Evanston Illinois. There is a tendentiously driven literature tying current Palestinian Arabs with the indigenous peoples of Canaan. Namely, the peoples listed in the Hebrew Bible as Canaanites, Hittites, Amorites, Perizzites, Girgashites, Jebusites, and in some texts of Hebrew scripture also Hivites.1 There are also claims that the aforementioned ancient peoples originated in the Arabian Peninsula before migrating to the land known after them collectively as Canaan. I suppose it is a good thing that those broadly labeled ancient Canaanites are no longer around to speak for themselves. Otherwise, we might have seven more national liberation movements contending for space in the Holy Land, a condition that can only further diminish intellectual and moral clarity, even though it might prove useful to marketing seven more varieties of Bedouin handicraft.

129

130

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

Genealogy, Territory, and Self-Identification Before moving on to Palestinian uses of the ancient past, it might be useful to determine what if anything defined Palestinian identity from the moment of the Arab conquest until the rise of modern Arab nationalism. In other words, who were the Palestinians, if we can, indeed, speak of Palestinians before the twentieth century? The surest mark of tracking identity among pre-modern Arabs is the importance attached to extended names. Naming in the Arab world was a rather complicated process designed to honor ancestors and preserve a sense of solidarity among kin. Before Arabs adopted modern European naming conventions, stressing surnames and family names, the extended Arab name consisted of at least four, possibly five, six, or even seven elements. Even before the rise of Islam, a first-born Arab male would usually be called after his grandfather, let us say Muhammad. In addition to his proper name, the newly-born Muhammad would be given a patronymic at birth—that is, a prefixed nickname—in which the name of his future first-born son was designated—usually after the aforementioned newborn’s father, say ‘Abdallah. Thus, the most recent male addition to the extended household was called Abu [father of] ‘Abdallah, followed by his proper name Muhammad. A third element of the name preserved the genealogy of the family, so Abu ‘Abdallah Muhammad became Abu ‘Abdallah Muhammad ibn [son of] ‘Abdallah, often with several generations of paternal ancestors added. Family lines, whether real or imagined, were then traced to more remote times. For example, Muslims claim that the Prophet Muhammad’s genealogy began with Ishmael, the son of Abraham and progenitor of the Northern Arabs.2 Such Arab family trees compare with the genealogical lists in the book of Genesis, which signified to readers of biblical scripture links between the various peoples of the world and their distant ancestors. An Arab tribesman, or someone affiliated by blood ties or clientage with an Arab tribal group, would also be identified by ties of kinship, say al-Tamimi, “the Tamimite” after the tribe of Tamim, or, as in the case of the contemporary Jordanian monarchs, al-Hashimi, after the Banu Hashim, Muhammad’s clan. In addition to the patronymic preceding the proper name, other nicknames may record an unusual physical feature or trait, such as “the One Eyed,” “the Ambidextrous.” The Umayyad caliph Marwan II was called, al-Himar “the Ass,” not for lack of intelligence, but because the wild ass of the desert was a symbol of pride and fortitude. An individual or family’s occupational status might also serve as a marker of identification, for example, al-Khayyam “the Tent Maker,” or al-Khabbaz “The Baker.” Occupational designations did not always apply to the person so named. As in Western societies, not every baker produces breads and pastries. The occupational marker is often no more than a footnote to family history, if that. Most important for any discussion of Palestinian national consciousness is the appendage to the traditional Arabic name that signifies a link to a particular region, or a more narrowly defined location. Here too, one must be careful not to read too much into the pattern of naming. A geographical designation, say al-Jaza’iri, “a man of al-Jazirah” (the large province abutting medieval Iraq), did not necessarily mean that the bearer of this name was actually resident in that province, or that he was even born there, any more than the American family name “Berliner” or “London” indicates the

The Holy Land, Canaan, and Arabia: The Quest for Arab Polity

131

city of a person’s birth or one-time sojourn. As a rule, such geographical labels are of little or no interest or pride to Americans who bear them. The same may be true in other areas of the Western world. However, among Arabs, geographical labels tend to indicate a real or desired family connection and, beyond that, a sense of purposeful identification. Unlike Americans, who might not be aware that their family names derive from places their ancestors lived in foreign climes, it is all too evident that Arabs took keen notice of geographical markers and wore them proudly. One suspects that at times they even appropriated geographical names that afforded them great prestige, a custom that continues until this very day. There is a vast compendium of Arabic biographical literature, a body of material that represents a favored genre of Arabic literary production containing tens, if not indeed hundreds of thousands of names, often with extensive genealogies and other identifying markers. There are, however, only a handful of references to individuals specifically listed as “Palestinians.” Ya‘qub b. ‘Abdallah Yaqut al-Hamawi’s multi-volume geographical dictionary, the Mu‘jam al-buldan (penned ca. the thirteenth–fourteenth century CE) contains thousands of entries, often accompanied by a reference to the genealogical marker or label to which each place name gives rise. For Filastin or Falastin (Palestine), he notes the preferred marker is al-Filasti.3 Unlike other detailed geographical entries where he cites various notables with names linked to the place in question, he does not mention a single Filasti, or Filastini, or Falastini. But elsewhere in this massive work, there is a passing reference to a Hani’ b. Kulthum al-Kinani al-Falastini, who reportedly died (during the period of Umayyad rule) in al-Safiriyah, a village (qaryah) adjacent to Ramle. Yaqut also mentions a certain Nu‘aym b. Salamah who is listed in the index as both from Saba, a place in the Yemen, and Filastin. Further details concerning this Nu‘aym are found in Tabari’s great chronicle where he is listed as Keeper of the Privy Seal (for the Umayyad Caliph ‘Abd al-Malik), and as a client (mawla), of Yemenites (settled) in Filastin. The seeming absence of additional Palestinians in the Mu‘jam is noteworthy, as Yaqut was also the author of an extensive biographical dictionary, the Mu‘jam al-udaba’, and identified in these two magisterial works thousands of notables past and present throughout the Abode of Islam. If there were indeed numerous individuals of note who proudly wore the label “Palestinian,” Yaqut would surely have called attention to them, if ever so briefly.4 In the equally vast historical literature of pre-modern times, I have come across only a handful of individuals bearing a geographical affiliation to Palestine. In certain instances, the brief references to Filastinis or al-Falastini seemingly refer to persons linked to Jund Filastin, one of five Muslim military/administrative districts in al-Sham, the vast province comprising the lands of pre-Islamic and Islamic greater Syria. Following the Arab conquests of the seventh-century CE, the toponym Filastin replaced Roman “Second Palestine,” a strip of land in the center of ancient Syria–Palestina that included among other places, the cities of Gaza, Ashkelon, Neopolis (biblical Shechem), and Jerusalem. Seeking distance from the inhabitants of these pre-Islamic sites, the Arab conquerors established as capital of Filastin a Muslim settlement they named Ramle, giving rise thereby to the geographical label al-Ramli. All told, I am aware of only seven explicit references to Palestinians. In addition to Nu‘aym b. Salamah who bears two geographical labels, and Hani’ b. Kulthum who is

132

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

linked to Ramle, there is a figure listed as Abu-l-‘Abbas al-Falastini in Ibn A‘tham alKufi’s K. al-Futuh, an Arab chronicle of the tenth-century CE. Abu-l-‘Abbas is described as a conduit of information for the famous eighth-century historian al-Mada’ini. That being the case, the former was likely born in Umayyad times when Jund Filastin served as a discrete administrative center of the realm. Also reported as Filastinis or Falastinis are the scholars (rawi) Hamid b. ‘Uqbah al-Qurashi al-Filastini; Damrah b. Rabi‘ah al-Filastini al-Ramli; Bishr b. ‘Aqrabah al-Jihani al-Filastini; ‘Abdallah b. Ziyad and ‘Abd al-Majid b. Hamid, all seemingly Muslims of the first two Islamic centuries cited by later Muslim authorities.5 An exhaustive search of the relevant literature, both with regard to printed editions and manuscripts, may yet reveal additional Palestinians, but the virtual absence of a Filasti, Filastini, or Falastini calls for informed comment. In contrast to the missing Palestinians, Arabic texts mention numerous Iraqis (‘Iraqi); Egyptians (Masri); Syrians (Shami); North Africans (Maghribi); inhabitants of the Muslim Iberian Peninsula (Andalusi); and the like. Each of these geographical markers reflects a large selfcontained region of the Islamic world, a vast territorial expanse considered a truly major province. Perhaps Arab Filastin of Falastin was not sufficiently large to serve as a marker of identification, or small enough to command the pride and allegiance of the individual Arab clans and extended family units who settled there. When identifying with a particular place, most Arabs preferred to identify themselves with smaller areas of settlement. Genealogical markers derived from cities, towns, and villages, including those in Palestine itself, are far more numerous than names linked even to the major provinces of the Islamic realm. For example, the geographical label Baghdadi after greater Baghdad; Dimashqi after Damascus; Halabi after Aleppo; and within Palestine, Nabulsi after Nablus (ancient Neopolis); Maqdisi and Muqaddasi after Jerusalem; Tabarani after Tiberius; Khalili after Hebron, and ‘Askalani after biblical Ashkelon to name but a few. Perhaps that explains the dual geographical identities attached to some of the aforementioned Filastinis or Falastinis: al-Saba’i (from Saba in the Yemen); al-Ramli (from Ramleh), al-Jihani (from Jahinah in Iraq?), and al-Qurashi and al-Kinani (tribal markers indicating an affiliation with Mecca and its vicinity). Still more numerous than names derived from cities and towns are names derived from sections of cities. Even small self-contained neighborhoods frequently appear as genealogical markers. The Khatib al-Baghdadi’s monumental history (ta’rikh) of Baghdad, in reality a biographical dictionary of notables affiliated in some manner or other with the city, fills fourteen volumes in the printed edition, and frequently lists the individual subject’s full name. Among nearly 9,000 entries, there are many Iraqis and, to be sure, many more Baghdadis, but far more individuals are identified according to specific neighborhoods. Even the nooks and crannies of greater Baghdad, areas currently known only to a handful of scholars, are marked with geographical labels. That tendency to identify with more narrowly defined locations (as well as with discrete ethnic and family groups, many of whom represent virtually the entire settled population of specific areas), remains powerfully imbedded in the consciousness of today’s Arabs, including Palestinians. These local allegiances, so often based on preserving ethnic solidarity, have tended to compromise the formation of modern national identities, that is, the kind of self-definition that can lead to a binding national consensus. As before,

The Holy Land, Canaan, and Arabia: The Quest for Arab Polity

133

those who identify as Arabs, the Palestinians among them, adopt a range of multiple identities and are thus subject to conflicting loyalties. When Arab nationalism first took root in the nineteenth century, there was for official purposes no geographical entity known as Palestine. Nor was there a firmly established Palestinian identity. The reorganization of the Ottoman Empire carved up the Holy Land, hitherto ruled exclusively by the sultan’s governor in Damascus, and apportioned its different areas to newly formed administrative units. With that, Filastin, whatever it signified at the time, was removed from the geographical vocabulary of the Ottoman state. However, most of what contemporaneous Europeans referred to as Palestine, based on Graeco–Roman Syria–Palaestina, continued to be administered from Damascus, as in ancient and medieval times. Only Jerusalem and its environs formed a separate administrative unit, ruled as it were from Istanbul. Despite the Ottoman reconfiguration of Greater Syria, in many, if not most respects, Syria emerged as the crucible of a broadly defined modern Arab nationalism. Following the Ottoman defeat in WWI, and the loss of the empire’s Arab provinces, Syrian-based Arab nationalism splintered into sub-nationalisms that accorded with newly drawn post-WWI maps of the Fertile Crescent. Palestinians thus came to define their future state to accord with the boundaries of the British mandate, but only after dissension in the ranks and even internecine violence between Syrian and budding Palestinian nationalists. Despite the altered maps of the region, there were still Arabs who considered the territory of the mandate the southern extension of a Greater Syria. Hajj Amin al-Husseini, the chief religious juris consul (mufti) situated in Jerusalem, who would emerge as the implacable enemy of British rule and the Zionist project, was at first a declared Syrian nationalist, as were many of his compatriots. As late as the 1930s, some Arab nationalists in British-ruled Palestine identified themselves as Syrians and referred to Palestine as southern Syria.6 Seeds of Palestinian self-consciousness may have been planted by various intellectuals during late Ottoman times, especially among local representatives to the Ottoman parliament. However, as regards the broader Arab population, they only began to sprout and then bloom more fully during the middle years of the British mandate.7 Distinctive Palestinian identity, which evolved slowly at first, took on great force as Palestinian Arabs closed ranks after the disasters of 1947–8 and 1967. Arabs labeled the first disaster al-nakbah “the disgrace,” a label affixed to the shameful performance of unprepared Arab armies that had taken the field against the Jews of Palestine. The nakbah also designated the “catastrophe” that had befallen the Arabs of Palestine, a meaning of the term that has taken root and become conventional wisdom. There can be no minimizing the extent of the catastrophe. Hundreds of thousands of Palestinians were displaced or driven from their homes in 1948. Whatever territory of the British mandate remained in Arab hands was either annexed by Jordan or ruled by Egypt, leaving the Palestinians without a state of their own. The Six-Day War of 1967, which united all British Palestine under Israeli rule, has occasioned a lengthy occupation and increasing Zionist settlement in conquered Arab lands. Seen as a gross injustice, Jewish rule be it post 1948 or 1967 sticks in the craw of Palestinians united in calling for a truly independent state of their own. There is, however, no national consensus regarding the manner of achieving that polity, or what shape it should acquire.

134

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

Invoking Ancient History to Unite the Arabs of Modern Palestine We are now obliged to return to the enterprising women on the Via Dolorosa. There are obvious questions that come to mind, not of the authenticity of the fabrics, they are no doubt woven by modern Arab women. What is intriguing is the sales pitch in offering these wares, namely that the fabrics represent the work of Palestinian Arabs going back 5,000 years, a time when Palestine was called Canaan and its inhabitants Canaanites. In demanding a state of their own, why have the Palestinians sought to identify with the peoples of that ancient land? Is it not enough for them to seek justice by resting their case on demography? Muslims had long been a truly overwhelming majority in the lands that became modern Palestine. Together with the Christians who identified as Arabs, they dwarfed the small Jewish community before the emergence of political Zionism and the onset of intensive Jewish settlement. The latter began modestly enough in the nineteenth century with the arrival of Jewish idealists, East Europeans who forsook the life of the Diaspora to work the land of their forefathers. Despite subsequent waves of Jewish immigration, beginning in the first decade of the following century, the Arabs of Palestine still outnumbered the Jews 2:1 when in 1947 the United Nations passed a resolution to divide Palestine into respective Jewish and Arab states.8 Nor has extensive Jewish settlement in the occupied West Bank tilted the demographic balance there. Any argument based on demography at any time, including the present, would seem to favor the creation of an Arab Palestine in areas where the Arabs represent a clear and overwhelming majority. The argument for a two state solution, based on the principles of the United Nations 1947 partition plan, has appealed and continues to appeal to the moral sensibilities of fair-minded people. Even individuals and groups that are generally sympathetic to Jewish settlement on the West Bank are cognizant of demographic realities, as are a significant number of Israel’s citizens prepared to accept the partition of Palestine into Jewish and Arab polities with boundaries that accommodate demographic realities as well as security concerns.9 Worldly intellectuals anxious to address Palestinian grievances based on Wilsonian principles of self-determination might ask why it is that Arab Muslims and Christians, the upholders of sublime monotheist faiths, have declared as blood brothers the pagan inhabitants of ancient Canaan? What points did Palestinians hope to score when Feisal Husseini, who had been the mayor of Arab Jerusalem before the Israeli conquest and annexation, declared himself a Jebusite? And so, we have a Palestinian of proud descent from the Arab conquerors of the seventh century openly identifying with a Canaanite people that occupied Jerusalem before relinquishing it to King David and the Israelites some seventeen centuries earlier. To state the question differently, what objectives served the stateless Palestinians when they expanded the politics of the present to invoke a truly remote past? There are two political strategies linking contemporary Palestinians to the ancient peoples subsumed under the broad label Canaanites. The first is to forge a common heritage between Muslim and Christian Arabs, and between disparate ethnic groups concentrated in rural villages and refugee settlements. There is also the need to overcome the differences among urban elites and ordinary city and town dwellers. Although all

The Holy Land, Canaan, and Arabia: The Quest for Arab Polity

135

these elements of Arab society now define themselves as Palestinians, they remain riven by more narrowly defined allegiances. For many Palestinians, echoes of the ill-fated revolt against British rule in 1936–9 still reverberate. What started as a general strike in late 1935 soon morphed into an armed rebellion during which Arab society began to unravel. Poor rural villagers turned against the agents of absentee landlords. Elite urban families were at odds with one another, at times turning to violence. The lumpen proletariat, rendered jobless and disgruntled by the general strike, exacerbated deteriorating conditions. Extended family units (hamulah) nursing traditional grievances found cause to act on long-standing animosities. Muslims turned against their Druze neighbors; they even threatened Christian Arabs before the Muslim religious authorities quickly intervened. By the time the revolt was fully suppressed, Arabs had killed and injured many of their own. In sum, all the centrifugal forces that characterized Arab society were in full play and with devastating results. Many antagonisms that characterized a fractious Palestinian society in the 1930s were swept under the rugs of Jordanian rule and Israeli occupation, but the full weight of their residual effects remained and continues to remain.10 Need for a national consensus that goes beyond calls for an independent Palestinian state would then appear to be self-evident. Given that need, there is profit for Arab Palestinians to identify with the indigenous inhabitants of the land. For, accepting a common lineage with the ancient inhabitants of Canaan theoretically serves to provide all Palestinians with a common identity and sense of purpose. The extent to which the claim of a common ancestry has traction among the majority of Palestinian Arabs is another matter discussed later in this essay. A second, more clearly defined objective is to negate Jewish claims to that parcel of territory celebrated by countless generations of Jews as the land promised them by God. Such claims to Canaan originated with accounts of the Hebrew Bible, foremost among them Abraham’s covenant with the Almighty. Hebrew scripture and its postbiblical permutations represent the core narrative of Jewish history, a story that has strongly resonated among traditional Jews, as well as Zionists with secular leanings. Study of the Hebrew Bible plays a huge role, even in the curriculum of Israel’s state schools. David Ben-Gurion, the Prime Minister of the newly established Jewish state, was, despite a secular outlook, an avid reader of the biblical text. Seeking inspiration to guide the first independent Jewish polity in 2,000 years, he consciously linked the historical narratives of the Bible to the formation of modern Zionist ideals and policies. The Bible was, in effect, an inspiration for proud Jewish behavior and a guide for a reactivated national consciousness. Religious Zionists deeply steeped in the traditional interpretation of scripture expressed similar views. The biblical account begins with Creation, but for all intents and purposes, the story of the Jews as a people starts with Abraham who, according to traditional Jews, Christians, and Muslims, was the first among humans to believe in the One and Only God. The Hebrew Bible relates that as a reward, the patriarch’s progeny, who were to become the Jewish people, were gifted the land of Canaan where Abraham had come to settle at God’s command. The terms of this future acquisition were affirmed in a special covenant with the Almighty. The inviolable agreement maintained that Canaan was to become the patrimony of Abraham’s son Isaac, and following him, the latter’s son Jacob, also known as Israel.11 With the death of the patriarch’s grandson, the next

136

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

generation of Abraham’s progeny, the great grandchildren destined to form the tribes of ancient Israel, inherited the rights to the Promised Land. God’s obligation to the Israelites was partially fulfilled when their armies crossed the river Jordan and acquired much of Canaan by force of arms. Somewhat later, the Israelites solidified their hold on all of the land when Kings, David and Solomon, completed the process of reining in divisive tribal sentiments and firmly established their authority, not only over Canaan, but over a wide swathe of territory that made the Israelite kingdom a major player in a larger Near East. Alas, the history of the biblical Israelites and their successors, the Jews, became darker as one turned the biblical page. Eventually events led to the destruction of the Davidic dynasty and Israel’s central shrine. Solomon’s temple in Jerusalem was destroyed, the city laid waste, and the Israelites exiled to Babylonia. The long received Jewish narrative then speaks of the return of the exiles and re-establishing Jewish sovereignty over the land. Like the first Hebrew Commonwealth, the second was not destined to survive. Post-biblical sources relate how the Romans, responding to Jewish rebellions, destroyed a rebuilt Jewish temple, and remade Jerusalem, the focal point of Jewish religious observance and the symbol of Jewish sovereignty, into a thoroughly pagan space. In successive eras that followed, the land promised to Abraham’s seed became the Holy Land of Christians and then of Muslims. For 2,000 years, Jews have prayed daily in their liturgy and otherwise mourned the loss of the land promised them, while always yearning to return and reconstitute their lives as in days of yore. That yearning inscribed in the consciousness of all Jews took on new meaning with the birth of modern Zionism, particularly after the dissolution of the Ottoman Empire portended significant changes as regards the status of the Holy Land. The story of the Jews struck a sympathetic chord among modern Christian readers of the Old Testament. Some prominent Europeans contemplating the fate of the Near East during and after WWI might be described as Philo-Semites, or Christian Zionists. Other devout Christians saw restoring the Jewish people in their ancestral homeland as a prerequisite for the return of Jesus Christ and the onset of a long-awaited Messianic Age. Whatever the case, Arabs recognized the potential, if not indeed actual appeal of the Zionist message to Bible reading Western policy makers. Among them were diplomats deciding how to partition the Arabic speaking provinces of the Ottoman Empire and of Palestine in particular. Arabs attending the various peace conferences following WWI could not fail to be impressed with the relative ease with which Zionist delegations seemed to move among the assembled participants. As a result of Zionist persistence, the British government had issued the Balfour Declaration of 1917, a document declaring that His Majesty’s government favored establishing a national home for the Jews in Palestine, albeit in a vaguely worded statement that fell short of formally endorsing statehood for the Jews. Shortly thereafter, many members of the United States Congress endorsed the sentiments of the declaration.12 An exaggerated respect for Zionist influence among leading Christians was thus in evidence even before the European powers met to decide the fate of modern Palestine. The Arab perception of Jews working the international scene to their advantage may indeed shed light on an early Arab–Zionist diplomatic initiative and its aftermath: The celebrated meetings between the Emir Feisal, the would-have been king of an independent Arab Syria and Chaim Weizmann, the public face of the world Zionist

The Holy Land, Canaan, and Arabia: The Quest for Arab Polity

137

movement. The meetings took place in 1918 and 1919; the first at Feisal’s camp in Aqaba, a frontier settlement at the southern tip of what was then British occupied Palestine. Two subsequent meetings between Feisal and Weizmann took place in London the following year. While in London and Paris, Feisal made the acquaintance of other Zionist luminaries, and exchanged letters with Felix Frankfurter, who was later to become a justice of the United States Supreme Court. The precise details of all these encounters are difficult to establish, as the reports of the discussions are for the most part based on reported impressions and notes written after the fact. Nevertheless, a signed agreement between the two nationalist leaders, subsequent to a January 1919 meeting in London, and letters exchanged between Feisal and Frankfurter in March of the same year, are a matter of public record. To the extent that we can determine the sum and substance of matters discussed between Feisal and his Zionist interlocutors, the broad objectives on both sides appear clear. The Zionists expected Feisal and his Arab supporters to accept unrestricted Jewish immigration and the acquisition of lands to settle in Palestine. Weizmann even discussed the creation of a Jewish polity, although he thought it diplomatic to leave the precise nature of that polity and its borders undefined. Feisal, in turn appears to have agreed to these Zionist aims in return for diplomatic and financial aid to secure Arab nationalist objectives, including the establishment of an independent Arab state in Syria. He left no doubt that Jewish economic investment and technical expertise could make for a prosperous Palestine that would benefit the local Arab population, whom he clearly held in low regard, both as a political asset to the Arab nationalist cause, or a society able to create a modern country. Above all, Feisal stressed a common history that bound Jews and Arabs, the descendants of Abraham since time immemorial. The highly sophisticated Hashimite, who had navigated the political scene in Istanbul and had helped foment a military revolt against his Ottoman overlords, might have been a dreamer but he was, true to form, a realist. He was anything but Pollyanna about the Zionists being able to sway European support for an Arab polity in parts of what had been Greater Syria. Responding to a January 1919 agreement between himself and Weizmann, the substance of which was summarized in English by the famed British army officer, T.E. Lawrence, Feisal attached an Arabic codicil written in his own hand. In this statement, he made his support for the Zionist cause conditional on the European powers creating the independent Arab state he sought to rule, clearly an incentive for the Jews to carry out their effort to influence the great powers dividing the Near East after the Ottoman defeat. Later, in March of 1919, Feisal corresponded with Felix Frankfurter, a leading American Zionist. In his letter, the emir reiterated his support for Zionist aims and the need for Jews and Arabs to support each other’s national aspirations. No doubt, Feisal and other informed champions of Arab nationalism were aware that the United States had emerged as an international power able to influence events in the Near East. Moreover, the Americans had displayed no imperialist ambitions as regards the Arab world, a positive sign of future American involvement in the affairs of the region. The United States was committed, in public at least, to Wilsonian principles that supported the claims of indigenous peoples to national independence. In retrospect, Feisal might be seen as currying favor with an influential American Zionist for the sake of larger Arab goals. In any case, the emir, cagey as ever, was well aware that political

138

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

realities in the Near East could very well undermine any Arab support of a Jewish polity in Palestine, that is, if it meant statehood for the Jews and their dominion over the Arabs. He indicates these reservations in his remarks to the American jurist. Nevertheless, he suggests that Arab opposition to the Zionist enterprise can be tempered. It seems clear, however, that this muted optimistic view could hardly have reflected his view of Arab expectations, nor should they be taken at face value.13 Palestinian historians, seeking to preserve the purity of Arab nationalist visions, depicted Feisal’s seeming embrace of the Zionist cause as nothing more than a plea for religious harmony in a thoroughly Arab Palestine. As they saw it, an offer of aid orally communicated by Weizmann in 1919 was nothing more than a promise to help develop an independent Arab Palestine in which Jews would dwell, but not rule. For the most part, the preserved record of the conversations between Feisal and Weizmann reflect measured caution; the language is at times sufficiently vague as to what the Zionists were being offered in exchange for their assistance. Nevertheless, the language of the agreement signed in January 1919 clearly suggests that the Jewish National Home in Palestine should have the formal trappings of an independent polity, if not an actual state. Arab writers thus felt compelled to declare the published text of the meeting, based on the English notes of T.E. Lawrence, a loose and misleading translation of Feisal’s Arabic. Even if one assumes that Feisal was duped by the collusion of a Zionist leader and an agent of British imperialism, there remains the correspondence with Frankfurter. It thus was necessary for Arabic historiography to maintain that the letter to Frankfurter, also written by Lawrence, did not reflect Feisal’s real outlook, namely, the deeply held views he later expressed in response to pressure from Arab nationalists. One scholar went so far as to declare the Frankfurter letter an outright forgery.14 A concerted Arab response to Feisal’s flirtation with the Zionists began in 1923, that is, following the British mandate to rule Palestine the previous year and the onset of French rule over what was to become the modern nation-states of Syria and Lebanon. These events ended Feisal’s dream of ruling a large Arab polity in the Levant. As compensation, the British installed him as King of Iraq; his brother Abdallah was made ruler of Transjordan, some 35,000 square miles of territory removed by fiat from the historic Holy Land. The separation of Transjordan and Palestine (Cisjordan) from Greater Syria led directly to the growth of a distinctive Palestinian nationalism as well as renewed Zionist political efforts and settlement projects. The Jewish population, depleted by half during the war, doubled at the beginning of formal British rule and increased dramatically as the years passed. The Arabs of Palestine did not fail to absorb changing conditions since British functionaries replaced Muslim Turks as their overlords. Given Christian hegemony over a land revered as holy by Christians and Jews, and given the Balfour declaration’s commitment to establish therein a “national home” for the Jewish people, the Zionist threat to Arab nationalist aspirations in Palestine had become a matter of truly serious concern. The emergence of a growing Zionist presence in the Holy Land backed by external resources and sympathy served as a stimulus to advance counter-claims taken for granted by the Arab majority. Arab nationalists were clearly concerned about the power that Jews allegedly exercised in Western circles. They remain concerned about the affinity between the Zionists and fervent Bible-reading Christians until this very day. Moreover, Arab

The Holy Land, Canaan, and Arabia: The Quest for Arab Polity

139

historians remain convinced that Westerners privilege the Judeo–Christian heritage at the expense of Islam and the Muslims whose world Arabs claim remains beyond the former’s understanding. When Western scholars actually have some knowledge of Islamic civilization, their critics accuse them of distorting it for political purposes.15 Arab intellectuals, familiar in some fashion with Western scholarship, have engaged in a project to reset the West’s understanding of the Palestinian national heritage. They have done so by looking past and at times even denying altogether any historic Jewish connections to the Holy Land. As early as the 1920s, they understood the need to counter Zionism in the court of world opinion. Fearful of the emotional appeal of the Hebrew Bible not only to Jews, but potential Christian supporters as well, Palestinian spokesmen and their sympathizers have emphasized, especially in recent decades that the Palestinian Arabs are the direct descendants of the ancient Canaanites, native Arabs of the time, whom the Israelites of old attempted to displace from an Arab– Palestinian homeland. That being the case, the Arabs of Palestine can insist that they have a prior claim to a land revered by the three monotheist faiths.

The Arabs of Palestine as Descendants of the Ancient Canaanites What is the basis of the claim that current day Palestinian Arabs are in fact the descendants of the indigenous peoples of ancient Canaan? To be more specific, what evidence is there that all the peoples of Canaan and its contiguous areas were, as the Palestinians claim, Arabs whose ancestors migrated from the Arabian Peninsula? The question is of obvious importance, because accepting the historicity of this alleged migration enables today’s Arabs to declare Arabia the primal homeland of a migrating Arabo–Semitic race that first spilled into the Fertile Crescent thousands of years before recorded history. From this perspective, the Arab conquerors of Palestine in the seventh-century CE can be seen as having united the latest wave of Arab arrivals from the Arabian Peninsula with Arabs who had entered the land known as Canaan during a series of massive migrations going back to a remote time. We are obliged to ask if the stated linkage of Arabs and Arab/Canaanites is found in traditional Muslim sources, or is it an invention of modern times to suit modern concerns, namely the struggle for a contested Holy Land. If it is a recent imaginary based on Western scholarship of the past two centuries, how is Arabs equals Canaanites received among traditional Muslims for whom this is new and even suspicious knowledge? Islamic tradition, written and oral, is literally sprinkled with references direct and indirect to the Hebrew Bible and the post-biblical versions of biblical persons and events, including discussions of Abraham migrating (hijrah) to Canaan.16 What holds true for the Qur’an holds true as well for the exegesis and commentary that shaped and reshapes our knowledge of Muslim scripture. These sacred versions of biblical memorabilia made their way into various genres of Muslim literary production including the popular Qisas al-anbiya’ “Tales of the Prophets.”17 In this vast sea of texts, there are numerous references to the Holy Land, its central role in the history of the ancient Israelites (Banu Isra’il), and its future role in the Messianic Age to come. However, nowhere is there a statement that

140

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

links the Arabs, be they from Arabia or the descendants of the seventh-century Arab conquerors, with the idol-worshipping Canaanites of an era long past. The claim linking Palestinians to a primordial Arabo–Semitic race has its roots in a tradition foreign to Islam as well as the other ancient Abrahamic religions. That claim is in fact based on discredited concepts first advanced during the emergence of modern Oriental studies in the Western World. At the time, scholarly trends called for assembling all manner of things and classifying them according to tidy categories, be it the diffusion of humankind or the languages spoken by different peoples in different geographical regions. Guided by the genealogical list of the book of Genesis (10:21–9), European scholars understood the descendants of Noah to be the ancestors of humankind. The extended progeny of Noah’s son Shem were thus declared Semites, a race distinct from the descendants of Noah’s other two sons: one Japheth, who gave rise to the Indo-Europeans, and Ham, whose offspring represented all the other nations of the world. Eponymous ancestors listed on Noah’s extended family tree gave their names to specific geographical locations. For example, Canaan referred not only to an individual but also to ancient Palestine, the land currently claimed by modern Palestinians and Israelis. Oddly enough, the Bible lists the Canaanites as the descendants of Ham, thus linking them to Egyptians and blacks, but that does not seem to have bothered the orientalists of the time, nor has it forced the Palestinians to reappraise their relationship to the Canaanites. Inquisitive orientalists felt obliged to speculate about the original homeland of the Semites. Because they spoke of a remote past before the invention of writing, modern scholars seeking to reveal the origins of the ancient Semites could not rely on contemporaneous records. There is no foundational myth, whether oral or written, that ties the origins of a so-called Semitic race or ethnic group to a particular region. Nor, for that matter, are there the remains of a material culture labeled distinctively Semitic before recorded history. Nevertheless, some scholars remained undaunted in their search for Semitic origins, a quest that continued well into the twentieth century. Numerous theories have been advanced based on specious assumptions and faulty marshalling of evidence. The one theory that found favor, and for a lengthy period of time, was that the Semites originated in the Arabian Peninsula and then migrated in waves to Southwest Asia, whereupon the peoples of the ancient Near East and their descendants, including today’s Arabs, stem from a common Arabo–Semitic lineage. This theory, or hypothesis, if you prefer a more reserved term, was based on the notion of peoples constantly moving from the desert to the town.18 Arab intellectuals broadly familiar with contemporaneous European thought were aware of these theories. They were also familiar with the genealogical lists in the Hebrew Bible and how the early Muslims used similar lists to explain the diffusion of Arab tribes. Over time, Arab nationalists found it useful to claim that Arabia was the cradle of a distinctive Semitic race and civilization, and that some of the Semites traversing the frontiers to the north then settled in what is now modern Palestine. These settlers from Arabia then morphed into the indigenous peoples of Canaan listed in the Hebrew Bible. In contrast, the Israelites who later invaded the Promised Land under Moses’ disciple Joshua were foreigners attempting to conquer the land and displace the native Arabs/Canaanites.

The Holy Land, Canaan, and Arabia: The Quest for Arab Polity

141

One might then claim the events of the Israelite conquest of Canaan were repeated when the Zionists, many of whom entered Palestine from points beyond, displaced hundreds of thousands of Palestinian Arabs in 1948. With the tragedy of the Palestinian Nakbah, a history long in the making had come full turn.19 No responsible scholar writing of the ancient Near East today would embrace the view of Alois Sprenger, the nineteenth-century orientalist who declared: “All Semites [in all of the Near East]. . .are [the creation] of successive layers of [migrating] Arabs [from Arabia].”20 The very concept of distinct races has been thoroughly discredited. Nor has there ever been a distinctive ethnic group identified as Semites. The pattern of settlement in the ancient Near East represents a patchwork quilt of different groups originating from many locations and speaking and scripting a variety of languages including those that have no structural relationship to one another. To be sure, these peoples often absorbed the cultural and religious heritage of their neighbors and redefined it to suit their own purposes. That does not, however, grant us license to declare, as had scholars in the past, the existence of a Semitic ethnicity. Nevertheless, the notion of a Semitic race and of an Arabian homeland that served as a staging ground for their migrations to regions beyond, remains grist for the mills of Arab nationalists, including Palestinians. There are, to be sure, certain Near Eastern languages broadly sharing common characteristics; what has been termed the family of Semitic languages. The term was first coined in 1781 by August Schlötzer in the Repertorium für biblische und morganländische litteratur; his point of departure was the same genealogical list from Genesis that gave rise to an imagined Semitic race. As there were allegedly Semites, it stood to good reason that they all spoke and wrote cognate languages, conveniently labelled Semitic. Schlötzer and his contemporaries were familiar with Hebrew, Classical Arabic, Ethiopic, and various scripted Aramaic dialects. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, scholars discovered additional ancient Near Eastern languages, largely through extensive archaeological activity in the region. The decipherment of thousands of texts written in these newly discovered ancient languages, some non-Semitic, has resulted in an evergrowing recognition of the Near East’s linguistic diversity. Accordingly, the so-called Semitic languages of the Near East were reclassified by sub-region. The languages of each sub-region were said to share linguistic features that differentiated them from the languages of other sub-regions. The eastern branch represented various manifestations of Semitic that evolved in ancient Mesopotamia; the southern branch consisted of Ethiopic, and among the various languages of Arabia, Proto–Arabic, Early Arabic, and Classical Arabic, the last being the formative language of Islamic civilization. The Northwest Semitic languages included Hebrew; various dialects of Aramaic; Ugaritic; and languages other than Hebrew subsumed under the label Canaanite. There is no extensive literature in Canaanite, that is, none has been preserved. There are, however, traces of Canaanite dialects in ostraca and inscriptions, and Canaanite place and proper names are recorded in other languages. A number of scholars debated whether to include Eblaite, a more recently discovered cuneiform language that shares common characteristics with both Northwest and Eastern Semitic.21 Other scholars now refer to different sub-divisions, variations of what is termed Central Semitic, thus loosening the

142

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

sharp distinctions between the various categories of Semitic languages. Seeking an even broader umbrella for classifying the various languages of the Fertile Crescent and North and East Africa, linguists commonly refer to Afro–Asiatic. Any examination of the Semitic languages in tandem requires highly specialized knowledge, but those who embark on political missions are not always constrained by the rigors of philology. Nor is the audience that is sympathetic to their views. In an effort to link the modern Palestinians to the ancient Canaanites, an Arab scholar, Basem Ra’ad, stresses what he contends are the extremely close links between Northwest Semitic and Arabic. He maintains that Ugaritic (first appearance in the second millennium BCE), the different languages represented by an all-embracing ancient Canaanite (second millennium), and present-day Arabic all share such common characteristics as to make them part of the same linguistic grouping. For this, he relies on two linguists, M. Dietrich and O. Loretz to indicate that Arabic is the closest language to Ugaritic, at least from a phonological perspective.22 Arabic does share certain linguistic peculiarities with Ugaritic and other Northwest Semitic languages. However, no rigorous scholar of comparative Semitic linguistics would maintain that Northwest Semitic is so closely linked to “present [day] Arabic.”23 Nor can one make a meaningful case that the Canaanite languages and Ugaritic were preceded by some early manifestation of Arabic, or that the people of Ugarit might have migrated north to the Syrian coast from the Arabian Peninsula in the second millennium BCE.24 That classical Arabic retains many features of proto-Semitic, as do languages of the second millennium, does not mean that classical Arabic preceded Hebrew and the Aramaic and Canaanite dialects of the first millennium. Rather, the archaic features of Arabic are an indication of its linguistic isolation as opposed to the oral and written languages of a linguistically diffuse and multi-ethnic Fertile Crescent. The linguistic argument linking the Canaanites of old to ancient Arabia and modern Palestinian Arabs is equal to contending that English with its Romance elements is in fact a Romance language, and that William the Conqueror who defeated the Saxons at the Battle of Hastings in 1066 CE was by genealogy a ruddy Anglo-Saxon from Normandy. And in the same vein, by crossing the English Channel from Normandy, the real cradle of the Saxon race, a victorious William was able to unite the Gallic elements of the European continent (those referred to historically as Normans) with their kinsmen in the British Isles (labeled Saxons). It comes as no surprise then that such dramatic claims of a close Arabic–Canaanite link have not been verified in the respected journals of ancient Near Eastern languages. They have appeared, however, in the likes of PMLA, the flagship journal of the Modern Language Association, a publication that reaches some 25,000 members.25 In all likelihood, few readers of PMLA have the requisite skills to interrogate these claims or the published discussion to which they have given rise. Basem Ra’ad, who has expressed his views in the journal, made his initial foray into ancient Near Eastern studies while teaching at a Palestinian University on the West Bank; his scholarly métier being English and American literature as well as cultural studies broadly defined. The eclectic ten-page bibliography of his Hidden Histories, virtually all English titles, does not bear witness to a thorough familiarity with the vast technical literature demanded by his foray into the ancient Near East.

The Holy Land, Canaan, and Arabia: The Quest for Arab Polity

143

Linguistic arguments linking the Canaanites of old and the Palestinians of today have become part-and-parcel with modern political discourse as has the alleged migration of the Arabo–Semites from Arabia to ancient Canaan and points further north. One can add to the previous scholarly mix the work of Kamal Salibi, an Arab historian who argues for severing any meaningful connection between the canonical Hebrew Bible and the primal Israelites, whom he locates among the ancient Arabs of the Arabian Peninsula.26 A scholar best known for studies of the modern Near East, Salibi ventures into a remote past to claim that the Hebrew Bible, which has come down to us via Judaism and Christianity, is actually derived from an ancient Semitic tradition that originated in West Arabia, as did the first Israelites. That is to say, the Judeo–Christian narrative of Israelite origins, the biblical story largely situated in Mesopotamia, Canaan, and Egypt, was originally a tale of events taking place in and of persons settled in the Arabian Peninsula, the homeland of the Arabo–Semites. The various place names in the Hebrew Bible, including those found in extra biblical sources of the ancient Fertile Crescent, are in effect reflective of their Arabian origins. Thus, Hebrew Yehuda, that is, Judea, referred not to the Israelite kingdom situated in the highlands of ancient Palestine, but to a place in the general area of Arabia’s southern Hijaz. David, the biblical king, came from the original Bethlehem (Hebrew Beit Lehem), which was situated where the Arabian village Umm Lahm currently stands. His capital, Jerusalem (Hebrew Yerushalayim) was where the present West Arabian village al-Sharim is situated. Similarly, the kingdom of Israel, which split off from the united Israelite monarchy following the death of Solomon, was not located in Samaria, the northern highland of Palestine, but in lands east of an Arabian Judah. In addition, the so-called “promised land” of the Bible gifted to Abraham and his descendants, a territorial expanse described as extending “from the river (nahar) of Egypt (Mizrayim) to the great river, the Euphrates (P’rat)” (Genesis 15:18), should be properly read as “from the stream of Misramah (or Masram) to Firt or Farat,” both locations in present day Saudi Arabia. With this reading of Genesis 15:18, Salibi identifies the Promised Land of the Bible with an ancient Arabian land of Judah, the original homeland of the Davidic line.27 We might then say, following Salibi, that 2,000 years and more of biblical interpretation got it wrong. One could go on and on citing the manner in which Salibi plays loosely with Semitic philology in order to redraw the map of the ancient Near East, as well as the history of the region, but by now readers no doubt get the point. What Salibi has attempted is a complete revision of an ancient geography and history that had been grounded in numerous texts and in different languages and language systems from the Fertile Crescent. Salibi is well aware that his views would not find favor within the fraternity of scholars searching to recapture the history and civilizations of the ancient Near East, and they have not. He is also aware that his case for the Bible originating in Arabia has political implications for the modern Near East. As he puts it, “Sometimes disinterested scholarly research has results that extend far beyond the boundaries of one’s academic discipline, especially if they challenge time-honored scholarly assumptions beliefs [and one may add current political beliefs].”28 To suggest that the promised land of the Hebrew Bible is not where it is generally believed to be, but is where Salibi says it has to be, is unlikely to be taken seriously by those for whom the creation of the State of Israel

144

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

in 1948 was the fulfilment of a centuries-old dream. He is nevertheless hopeful that a new generation of biblical scholars will be able to throw off the shackles of a wellentrenched but false mode of scholarship, and recognize that the Hebrew Bible in our possession is formed from an earlier narrative that tells a rather different story of persons and events. That leaves Salibi to explain how and when the original Arabian Bible was transmuted into the familiar account read by Jews and Christians. Simply stated, he claims that the Arabian narrative was redacted and reinterpreted in later times by descendants of Arabians who came to be identified as Hebrews/Israelites, a people who had migrated to Canaan from their original homeland in West Arabia as part of successive migrations of Semites from the desert to more hospitable areas beyond. Salibi is not willing to hazard a guess as to the specific route and date of this first Arab/ Hebrew/old Israelite migration. He is, however, certain that it was well after the trek northward of the indigenous Canaanite speaking peoples whose ancestors he also situates in Arabia.29 Our author then grapples with how the original ancient Israelites, migrants from Arabia, identified themselves. He turns to the Hebrew Bible, the very text he regards as untrustworthy. Citing the redacted Hebrew version of what he imagines had been a more ancient Arabian narrative, Salibi observes that Abraham’s kin are referred to as Hebrews and Aramaeans. Because he believes West Arabia to have been the home of the Aramaeans as well as the Canaanites, Salibi concludes that the real origins of the earliest Hebrews (‘Ivrim) was not in Mesopotamia (Ur Chasdim), as stated in the Hebrew Bible, but Arabia. The identity of these Hebrews and their later descendants, the Israelites, is thus bound to that of primal neighbors who entered Canaan before them.30 How then does one explain the testimony of extra-biblical sources, ancient accounts that verify the broad outlines of various events in the Hebrew Bible? He concedes that these sources have a ring of historical authenticity, but surmises that the events described therein actually took place in West Arabia.31 Salibi’s argument is based on many conjectural, highly unlikely, and indeed inadmissible readings of available sources, which are then cemented tight in flights of imagination. At no point of his overarching claim is there a safe place to enter into his reconstruction of the past. What is clear is that Salibi transforms virtually all the inhabitants of ancient Canaan (read Palestine) into people of West Arabian and by extension Arab origins. By linking the original Israelites with the indigenous peoples who arrived before them, Salibi presents us with a hybrid social group of ancient settlers more closely linked to today’s Palestinian Arabs than the modern Zionists whom contemporary Arabs describe as recent arrivals without genuine roots in Palestine. Even if one were to accept that some current Israelis are descended from Salibi’s Arabian Hebrews/Israelites, the more legitimate claimants of the Holy Land would be today’s Arab Palestinians, whose ancestors, the Canaanites, were settled in the land before the first Hebrew/Israelite migration north. The report of Joshua’s conquest, the familiar tale of the Hebrew Bible, should then be regarded as a later invention, or at the least a corrupt version of an historic event that might have taken place in Arabia. In any case, we are given to conclude, following this line of thought, that the Arabs of modern Palestine by virtue of their Canaanite ancestry have a prior claim to the land they contest with the Jews.

The Holy Land, Canaan, and Arabia: The Quest for Arab Polity

145

Ironically, the Palestinians do not derive their name from any of the indigenous peoples said to have occupied ancient Canaan, but from the Philistines. Conventional wisdom maintains that the latter were a non-Semitiphone people who settled along the coast of Canaan after having first invaded Egypt and Anatolia from the Aegean Basin. No Semitist has argued that the Philistines were among the initial settlers. That said, the link between Palestinians and the ancient Philistines (Hebrew P’lishtim) is attested in the genealogies of humankind constructed by medieval Arab authors. They maintain that Filastin or Falastin is the Arabicized version of (allegedly Hebrew) Falashtan or Falashtim, who is regarded as the grandson of Noah’s third generation offspring Canaan. Seen from this perspective, the Muslim genealogists granted the invading sea peoples a local pedigree going back to their invented eponymous ancestor, the progenitor of the Canaanite peoples. Modern scholars, governed by the available evidence, date Philistine settlement along the coastal plain of Canaan to the twelfth-century BCE, that is, roughly the same time as the Israelite conquest reported in the Hebrew Bible.32 This places the sea peoples in Canaan thousands of years after the alleged migration of waves of Arabo–Semites from West Arabia. The Philistines, who were eventually absorbed within local Canaanite culture, leave no substantive written record of their past, only material remains that have come to light, mostly through the efforts of Israeli archaeologists and their colleagues. As for Philistine history, we derive our knowledge partly from contemporaneous sources, more particularly from legendary material in the book of Judges and the historical narratives of Hebrew scripture. The Aegean origins of the Philistines, a view that has been accepted by a majority of scholars researching the ancient world, poses no problem for Salibi. With what amounts to a scholarly wave of the hand, he suggests they too originated in Arabia.33 If I were inclined to play footloose and fancy free with the past, I might compare the Philistine settlers in Canaan to the Crusaders, foreigners who, in the Middle Ages crossed the sea to impose themselves on the Muslim inhabitants of the land. To be sure, this last musing, based as it is on word play with names of places and peoples, is likely to offend serious historians as well as those advancing the cause of Palestinian nationalism. It should therefore be taken for what it is, a playful observation and not a serious debating point. Navigating through the complicated politics and morality of the Arab–Israel conflict is difficult enough without abandoning all scholarly ballast. Currently, no serious scholar of the ancient Near East has endorsed Salibi’s dramatic thesis first advanced more than thirty years ago. That is not to say there are no links whatsoever between the Hebrew Bible and the world of Arabia beyond. Writing about Arabia and Hebrew scripture a half century before Salibi, James A. Montgomery, a noted specialist of comparative Semitic philology, linked the biblical Israelites to the world of contemporaneous Arabian borderlands. In pursuing this connection, Montgomery was influenced by the conventional wisdom that dominated an earlier generation of orientalists.34 He assumed that the Semites were a discrete ethnic group that originated in the Arabian Peninsula, and then settled in successive waves along the periphery and interior of adjacent lands in the Fertile Crescent. Montgomery thus argued that the Hebrew Bible testifies to the existence, not only of Arab tribes, but also of an Arabian milieu. In 1982, Israel Ephal reinforced this view in a detailed study of nomadic Arab tribes situated along the borders of ancient Palestine from the ninth to

146

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

the fifth centuries BCE.35 As did Montgomery, Ephal put significant stress on the various Arab tribes mentioned by name, but not specifically identified as Arab (that is nomadic) in Jewish scripture. Indeed, references to some variation of ‘Arab first appear in Assyrian sources of the ninth-century BCE.36 These references mark the people specifically identified as Arabs as rather latecomers in recorded history, although there is, most assuredly, a long record of settlement in the Arabian Peninsula going back to remote antiquity. That said, neither Montgomery nor Ephal maintain that the Israelites familiar to us originated in Arabia, let alone West Arabia; only that they were in contact with various tribes of Arab origins recorded in the Bible. There is no inkling that the learned orientalists believed the current Hebrew Bible was redacted from an earlier Arabian version, let alone anticipated Salibi’s wholesale reimagining of the biblical past. Exploring the evolution of the Abraham–Ishmael legends in Qur’anic exegesis, Reuven Firestone proposes possible links between the Muslim text, Jewish scripture, and what he terms “biblicist themes” derived from a presumed Arabian narrative, this being the result of cultural exchanges among Jews, Christians, and pagans.37 There is no reason to deny that contacts between these groups took place, and that this intermingling of peoples and cultures produced Arabic versions of biblical tales, perhaps mediated through contemporaneous Arab folklore. Scholars have long speculated about Jewish versions of biblical tales that might have circulated among the Jews of Arabia; Arab converts to some local manifestation of Judaism; Christians of the region; and early Muslims. One scholar has even proposed that an Arabic translation of the Hebrew Bible was available to those unable to read Hebrew script.38 No evidence has emerged as yet to confirm this supposition. No doubt, elements of Jewish scripture and postbiblical exegesis were transmitted orally and given new expression that reflected the traditional values of the receptors. However, none of this ongoing scholarship posits that the Hebrew Bible in our possession is the reworked version of an Arabian text that first originated in a truly remote past. Archaeological exploration has revealed a great deal of the hitherto unknown material culture of Arabia, but this has not led to recovering a treasure trove of literary texts similar to those found in the Fertile Crescent. Aside from some inscriptions, and poetry considered pre-Islamic, there are no extensive written sources from pre-Islamic Arabia. To be more precise, there are none offering us a detailed picture of cultural borrowing before the rise of Islam, let alone the proposed migrations spoken of by Salibi. What we know of West Arabia before the rise of Islam is derived largely from snippets of information found in sources written by non-Arabians and by later Muslim chroniclers who impose an historical framework of their own on a distant past. There is nothing in any of these sources that speaks of Salibi’s Arabian Bible, a text he dates before the Israelites final settlement in Canaan. The question remains, at what time and under what circumstances did large numbers of Israelites abandon their original homeland, the proposed Judah region of West Arabia? Related to that, we are obliged to ask when the Hebrew Bible we know was written. According to Salibi, the Israelite kingdoms of Judah and Israel, referred to in Hebrew scripture, remained in West Arabia until the sixth-century BCE. Accepting the chronology of most Bible scholars, Salibi posits the origins of these Israelite kingdoms in the eleventh and tenth centuries. However, according to him, the Israelite conquest of Canaanite lands did not begin

The Holy Land, Canaan, and Arabia: The Quest for Arab Polity

147

with any crossing of the Jordan River, as told in the Hebrew Bible. Nor did the Israelites fail to expunge the indigenous peoples in the conquered land, the story suggested by the book of Joshua. Rather, Salibi imagines the Israelites displacing the remaining Canaanites and Philistines from their ancient homeland in Western Arabia creating, thereby, still another movement of indigenous peoples across the frontier into southern Palestine. Salibi’s version of history has the migrating Canaanites and Philistines linking up with their brethren, settlers that made the trek north in earlier times during one of the many migratory waves of the Arabo–Semites. Having displaced their opponents, the inhabitants of the Israelite kingdoms of Arabia had no reason to enter Palestine en masse as did their defeated enemies. They remained in the Arabian region they had always considered home. Expelling the Canaanites, they were able to dominate the lucrative caravan trade that ran through West Arabia, a task made easier as political convulsions prevented the major political actors from intervening in affairs beyond their imperial domains throughout the Fertile Crescent.39 Again, following the chronology of the Hebrew Bible, but altering the venue of events, Salibi states that the Israelite kingdoms of West Arabia were later subjected to increasing pressure as the Assyrian and then Babylonian Empires, as well as a resuscitated Egypt, regained their political equilibrium. Weakened by internal divisions, the Israelites were unable to resist the increasing pressure from beyond their borders, and so they migrated and/or were exiled to Palestine and other areas north of the frontier. Aside from giving the Israelites a home in Arabia, Salibi has thus far followed, if somewhat loosely, the description of the early Hebrew monarchy portrayed in the current Bible. But then he claims that the events leading up to the destruction of the Israelite monarchy [in the time of Nebuchadnezzar] took place in Arabia, following which exiles from the Arabian Judah made their way to Canaan, and not from Palestine to Babylonia as recorded in the Bible. Completing his unusual reconstruction of events, Salibi contends that the Persians who, according to Jewish scripture, restored Israelite rule in Jerusalem and allowed their exiled people to return from Babylon, actually sent them from Canaan to Arabia. How then did Jews, now re-established in West Arabia, come to settle permanently in historic Palestine? Because conditions became so difficult, the returnees from Canaan migrated from their native habitations in Western Arabia and reconstituted their polity in a truncated area of Palestine known as Yehud (that is, the new Judah, replacing the familiar region of that name in Western Arabia). Losing contact with the language of their ancestors, a language classified by Salibi as a dialect of Arabic/Canaanite, the Israelite exiles formulated a new scripture to replace the Arabian Bible and provided themselves with a new historic identity.40 We should not be too hasty to dismiss Salibi’s work as an amateur’s fascination with the ancient Near East, the idiosyncratic work of an otherwise responsible professor of history. To be sure, he expends little effort to link his thesis to modern politics, but it takes little imagination to envision his displacement of the Canaanites and Philistines from ancient Judah in light of the Arab refugees who fled Palestine in 1948 and then again in 1967. Nor is it a far stretch to compare the creation of Yehud with the modern state of Israel. In effect, the Jewish state established during the Persian period ca. 538 BCE becomes for Salibi the analog of the modern Jewish polity established at the expense of the native Palestinians, the people whose presence in the land goes back to

148

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

the Canaanites and others who settled there in remote antiquity. Variations of these views have left a distinctive mark on political discussions, and not only among the Palestinians and their supporters in and beyond the Arab world. The privileging of the ancient Near East by a Lebanese Arab Christian serves to authenticate pan-Arabism, a modern movement that creates, out of new cloth, a distinct Arab nation the likes of a French “nation” or a German “Volk.” By stressing the common bonds of Arabian origins and not the narrowly defined ethnic and religious affiliations that have torn his country apart, Salibi and his fellow Lebanese Christians can become full partners in a larger Arab, mostly Muslim polity. In effect, his views can be linked to nineteenthcentury Christian Arab nationalists who sought a favored place in a Muslim world that considered them, for official purposes, a minority to be tolerated, not welcomed as equals. A subsequent and equally controversial work of Salibi published in 1988 seeks to explore the origins of an emergent Christianity in an Arabian context. He links Christianity, like the authentic Israelite religion, to an Arabian milieu. In effect, Salibi declares the Christians of the Near East joined at the hip with their Muslim brothers by common bonds of Arabism (‘urubah). Following Salibi, one could argue that the Christians indigenous to the region have no need or desire for political independence, not so the Jewish citizens of the state of Israel. Unlike the Zionists, Salibi and his co-religionists seek integration into a polity that embraces all Arabs equally regardless of religious persuasion. That outlook is in stark contrast to the Jews who call attention to the ancient Jewish conquest and occupation of Canaan in the Hebrew Bible. With text in hand, religious Zionists recall that conquest and occupation to justify the current conquest and occupation of Palestine. That being the case, Israel’s current policies can be directly linked to fulfilling God’s gift of a promised land, a biblical myth that has been imposed on a more ancient and authentic Arab tradition. Citing Salibi’s thesis allows one to link the usurping of what is clearly Arab/Canaanite land by conquering Israelite settlers of ancient times to the so-called Zionist settler state established in the twentieth century. Because his books fly the flag of controversial but strictly scholarly essays, and because they make few references to contemporary events in the Near East, it is easy to overlook the possible effects of his thinking among those who occupy political space. Invoking an ancient past to legitimize the position of the region’s Christians, or to support nationalist claims and nation building among Muslims (and Israeli Jews), has become a virtual industry that has attracted political spokespersons and academics alike.

7

The Uses and Misuses of Modern Biblical Scholarship: Academic Politics and National Identity: Egypt, Israel, and Palestine

Among those considered Arabs today, the Egyptians express the strongest enthusiasm for a remote pre-Islamic past. Made visible by striking ancient monuments and representational art, the glories of ancient Egypt are regarded with great pride by modern Egyptians, including the dominant Muslim majority. It comes as no surprise that Egyptians embrace the extended history of their great land. With vast deserts east and west of the Nile to serve as a buffer against military and cultural invasion, Egypt has managed to retain an identity of its own for 6,000 years. In that respect, the modern Egyptian state is somewhat different from its Arab neighbors, polities with artificial borders and a populace embracing multiple identities and highly divisive loyalties and allegiances. That notwithstanding, the story of the Egyptians in their land has become rather complicated. Reverence for the glorious past when “Egypt ruled the East” has not done much of late to protect the state’s eight million Copts. Christians with a religious language combining elements of ancient Egyptian and Greek, and a history that predates Islam by many centuries, the Copts claim to be the living link between an Egyptian past and the current Arab nation state. Despite their long-standing Egyptian roots, the Copts have come under increasing pressure. The recent pace of militant Islamic revival, although condemned and officially opposed by the existing authorities, has had a chilling effect on an increasingly embattled Christian minority. Since the Arab Spring, militant Muslims, acting more boldly than ever before, have destroyed churches and assaulted Copts, particularly in the more distant regions where the local government, however well-intentioned, has fewer resources and decidedly less competence and energy to confront the Islamic militants. Under severe pressure, the Copts, as always, point to their time-honored place in Arab/Muslim dominated society. Like Kamal Salibi’s construction of a remote past that can be read as providing a safe space for Lebanese Christians, Sarwis Anis al-Assiouty, a learned Copt, stresses the joint cultural links between the worlds of ancient Egypt, the biblical prophets, Greek thought (and its Coptic offshoot), and Arabia and the rise of Islam. As with Salibi and the Christians of Lebanon, al-Assiouty emphasizes a common Egyptian culture that can mitigate the effects of militant Islamic revival, and more generally of Muslim cultural and political hegemony. 149

150

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

Al-Assiouty has written extensively about pre-Islamic Egypt and the world of Islam. Two works in particular merit attention, both volumes appearing under the general title Recherches comparées sur le Christianisme primitive et l’Islam premier,“Comparative Studies on Early Christianity and Nascent Islam.”1 When examined together, the individual tomes Théorie des sources and Jesus le non-Juif, propose a provocative theory claiming direct links between the ancient Egyptian cult of Isis and the formation of Christianity. Briefly put, the author declares the latter a mixture of ancient Egyptian religion, biblical prophecy, and Hellenism. Seen in this light, Islam becomes the monotheist beneficiary of an ancient Egyptian–Coptic Christian connection. In neither of al-Assiouty’s books is there room for Jewish influence on Christianity and Islam. Going against all accepted wisdom within the Abrahamic faith communities, the second volume describes the Christian Savior as le non-Juif, “the non-Jew.” The author, negating the biblical tradition, seems to claim that there was no direct Jewish influence on Islam and not all that much on Christianity. How so? The cult of Isis, which preceded the Hebrew prophets, had all the necessary ingredients to sustain the religious and intellectual continuum that led from a remote ancient world to Christianity and eventually Islam. Indeed, ancient Israel’s sacred tradition and cultural achievements, so vividly described in the Hebrew Bible and expanded upon in the postbiblical tradition of both Jews and Christians, are dismissed as highly derivative of Egyptian wisdom literature and material culture. Even belief in a single God of Heaven, the acknowledged gift of the biblical Israelites to the other Abrahamic faith communities, is deemed of Egyptian origins. Al-Assiouty endorses the view that the Pharaoh Akhenaton (ca. fourteenth-century BCE) initiated some form of proto-monotheism. If that were indeed the case, Akhenaton’s monotheism did not take root in native soil. The ancient Egyptians still revered a pantheon of Gods. Nevertheless, Akhenaton’s aborted reform was said to have influenced Moses who, according to the Bible, was raised an Egyptian.2 The idea that the monotheism of the ancient Israelites originated in Egypt via Moses rather than Abraham in Mesopotamia, as in the Hebrew Bible, circulated widely at one time. It captivated no less than Sigmund Freud who was a well-read amateur enthusiast of the ancient world. Although rejected by cautious Egyptologists, the link between Akhenaton and Moses still enjoys an afterlife in serious scholarly discussion.3 As with the work of Salibi, we should not be too quick to dismiss the French educated al-Assiouty, an ancien professeur and holder of no less than three doctorates. His copious footnotes represent vast reading in a number of languages, primary and secondary, Near Eastern, and European. Despite all that learning, we should address the author’s views with considerable caution, given his propensity to establish cultural links on the most superficial grounds. There is, indeed, much in al-Assiouty’s method that might remind readers of Martin Bernal’s Black Athena, a celebrated and highly criticized work that declares among other things that Greek civilization is largely derived from an ancient Egypt ruled by Blacks.4 Our author, unlike Bernal, has not been reviewed in the Western journals where the culture wars are fought. Outside of some rarified academic circles, al-Assiouty remains largely unknown, although his message is writ large. For Western scholars, al-Assiouty’s views on ancient Egypt and his claim that Coptic Christianity serves as the sole bridge between it and the world of Islam remain no more than an object of intellectual curiosity. Given the hardening of

The Uses and Misuses of Modern Biblical Scholarship

151

religious arteries that marks present-day Muslim–Copt relations, a Christian view that seemingly compromises the uniqueness of Muhammad’s mission in its Arabian setting, could cause a negative reaction. As regards al-Assiouty, it was probably good for him that these two books were written in French and published in Paris.

The Jewish Narrative of the Promised Land Unlike recent politics that have given rise to Arab interest in a remote past, Jewish claims to the Holy Land are rooted in sacred texts that have been subject to redaction, exegesis, and commentary for more than 2,000 years. Long before fixing the biblical canon—at the latest in the first-/second-century CE—segments of the Hebrew Bible had already achieved sublime status among those who would call themselves Jews. These segments include the patriarchal narratives, the Exodus from Egypt, the desert trek of the Israelites, the conquest of Canaan, the rise and fall of the monarchy, and the return of the Babylonian exiles who re-established Jewish rule in a truncated area of their ancient homeland. All these “historic” events were part of recorded “Jewish” experience generations before there was a universally recognized Bible. Together with later rabbinical commentary, these early and imaginative renderings of biblical Israel remained firmly imprinted on the historical imagination of Jews. This was true of Jews who studied the textual tradition or acquired knowledge of it through the telling and retelling of familiar tales. In effect, the received story of the biblical Israelites became the foundation of an evolving Jewish master narrative for some 2,500 years. In modern times, the stories of the biblical Israelites exercising agency in their ancient kingdoms formed a model for Zionist planning and Jewish claims to sovereignty in the Holy Land.5 The emergence of modern biblical studies in the nineteenth century, particularly the branch of scholarship that became known as higher biblical criticism, challenged normative Jewish views. The extended biblical narrative whose didactic message shaped the very core of Jewish thinking and behavior, required an explanation that transcended the outlook of the past. For Jews fully embracing the modern world, the claim that the ancient editors recovered all of God’s revelation and produced a biblical text whose individual segments were seamless, strained credulity. In light of philological and stylistic analyses made possible by the recovery of long-lost Near Eastern languages and literatures, the much-revered five books of Moses (Chumash) came to be viewed as a pastiche of different traditions, each the literary creation of its own time and place. Jews familiar with modern European historiography also became aware that the biblical authors did not represent history as it was, but, more likely, as it should have been. Reflective Jews, including many who remained devout, concluded that the biblical text can be, indeed should be, interpreted outside its literal meaning and the religiously driven interpretations to which it gave rise. Those who considered themselves worldly and intellectually sophisticated were inclined to situate the Hebrew Bible within a broad Near Eastern setting and see it as a composite work of great literary inventiveness, linguistic complexity, and not the least, editorial ingenuity. Only the most reverent and tradition bound among the faithful denied altogether the hermeneutic value of modern biblical scholarship.

152

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

Nevertheless, the Hebrew Bible remained the supreme monument of Jewish civilization and the fulcrum of Jewish identity. In that respect, at least, little changed with the advent of higher biblical criticism. For proud Jews, modern scholarship has not compromised the emotive power of Israel’s foundational lore. Readers drawn by the power of the biblical story and its postbiblical permutations include Jews of secular outlook. Zionists, be they secular, or religious Jews deeply steeped in the traditional interpretations of scripture, found the biblical text an inspiration for Jewish behavior and a guide to reawakened national consciousness. When Israeli forces conquered the West Bank of Jordan in 1967, memories of the biblical past served to stimulate Jewish settlement in the area, renamed Judea and Samaria after the hill country of ancient Palestine. Similarly, new settlements were named after other well-known biblical toponyms.6 The settlers saw themselves as reclaiming a land that was Jewish before Roman conquerors drove Jews from their dwelling places and deprived them of Jerusalem, the seat of their most sacred shrine. Long celebrated in Jewish liturgy, and repeated in traditional synagogues daily, the idea that Jews will return and be sovereign over their ancient land gained practical resonance as the modern Zionist movement sought for Diaspora Jewry to join their co-religionists already in Palestine and reconstitute the Jewish people in the land of their ancestors. In the original words of the nineteenth-century poem that became Hatikvah, the national anthem of the Jewish people: “We have not yet lost our hope; our two thousand year hope of returning to the land of our forefathers, to the City [Jerusalem] in which [King] David dwelled.” These words, sung by Jews in the Diaspora, gave way to a new text for those Zionists who had already returned to reclaim the land: “to be a free people in our land, the land Zion and Jerusalem.” Succinctly put, the Hebrew Bible has had a long shelf life, too long for Jews to cast aside just because modern academics dissect its structure and doubt the historicity of its more imaginative accounts. Enlightened Jews, resonating to the familiar biblical text, have not found the methods of modern bible scholars a necessary threat to their Jewish identity. Nor has higher biblical criticism dampened modern Jewry’s enthusiasm for the very core of their literary tradition. They do not see the broader narrative of biblical history compromised by attempts to recover the various literary strata of the Hebrew text. If anything, modern scholarship has opened the most revered of Jewish texts to new modes of interpretation and with that, new intellectual delights. At first, most Jews were wary of modern biblical scholarship, as the scientific study of the Hebrew Bible was rooted in protestant faculties of theology. A familiar quip was to describe higher biblical criticism as a form of higher, that is, less vulgar anti-Semitism. However, over time, Jews exposed to the intellectual ferment of the European academy came to embrace every aspect of biblical studies: philological and linguistic analyses; comparative religion; and archaeology, the practice of recovering and interpreting material remains from the ancient Near East. Overcoming prejudices that in the past barred them from posts at leading universities, Jews became professors of biblical and ancient Near Eastern studies. Many achieved great prominence in their respective disciplines. From their hard-won academic pulpits, Jewish scholars staked out new ground with which to confront the conventional wisdom of earlier times, not only exegesis and bible commentary of long-standing religious traditions—as one would

The Uses and Misuses of Modern Biblical Scholarship

153

have expected. They also contested various claims for the documentary hypothesis proposed by the first wave of higher biblical critics and retained by camp followers well into the twentieth century. Traditional Jews clinging to old ways regarded this scholarly debate much ado about nothing. The dissection of the Pentateuch (the Hexateuch if the Book of Joshua is included), originally said to reflect four discrete literary–historical traditions, was treated with disdain by those who continued to read scripture as a perfectly revealed text. Their faith in God’s revelation remained unshaken, as always. What brought about their concern was not the work of the Gentiles. Indeed, what could the Gentiles possibly know of the Hebrew Bible and the vast sea of rabbinic interpretation? What bothered the rabbis of the old school was the possibility that heretical ideas such as biblical criticism might affect Jews who had imbibed the secular scholarship of the times. Such strange ideas might even lead to a lack of belief and worse yet, deviations from traditional religious practices, if not a complete abandonment of faith. More worldly Jews were not particularly disturbed by academic theories that their Torah was composed of disparate literary sources. What mattered most, particularly to Zionists, was not the higher critics’ assault on the unity of the biblical text, but any claims that might undermine the far-reaching power of the biblical narrative. Discerning readers of the Hebrew Bible, introduced to the study of folklore, were well aware that the mythic character of the patriarchal narratives, the story of the Exodus, and the account of the Israelites in the wilderness, might well have masked whatever kernels of historic truth might have been contained therein. They might even have suspected that the charismatic leaders portrayed in the book of Judges were stock figures drawn larger than reality. What they were less prepared to compromise were the declared links between their forefathers and the Promised Land. Even secular Zionists who rejected all theology and most formal religious observance, found in the Hebrew Bible, particularly the description of the monarchy under David and Solomon, a model for reconstituting an ancient nation in its ancient homeland. Secular Zionists linked the Hebrew Bible to their claims, not because of any essential truths it contained, but because the text spoke to them of an ongoing history created by an eternal bond between a people and their land.7 Any theories that might undermine or deny altogether the reported links between that land, the ancient Israelites, and later Jewish communities, might be seen as challenging the right of Jews to their own identity and place in history. It is clear then that for reflective Jews, both in Israel and the Diaspora, the modern debate over the Israelite past has become a matter of considerable importance. It has also taken on meaning for Palestinians as they seek to define their own national identity and assert their links to a contested land held sacred by Jews and Christians since ancient times.

The Promised Land and the Claims of Modern Scholarship The challenge of modern scholarship to received versions of Israel’s origins represents an ironic turn unforeseen by the early higher critics. If anything, these critics imagined that reading the Bible in a wider context would confirm the basic truths of the text they

154

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

revered. Nineteenth-century Biblicists who followed the discovery and decipherment of previously unknown Near Eastern languages, anticipated, quite rightly, that recovering the literary output of Israel’s ancient neighbors would help situate the biblical narrative in a broader setting. As a result, biblical scholars thought they would be able to reconstruct a richer and more detailed history of the Hebrew text and of Israelite society and culture. The evolution of biblical archaeology created comparable expectations for recovering the material world of the ancient Israelites and the peoples in whose midst they dwelled. The newly uncovered materials would flesh out and confirm many elements of the familiar biblical tradition. Deciphering and commenting on ancient Near Eastern texts and excavating ancient Near Eastern sites would thus provide tangible evidence of Israel’s origins and the formation of the Israelite polity in the Promised Land. Scouring these literary sources, early scholars of the ancient Near East looked for and found analogies to the Hebrew narrative whether-or-not newly uncovered ancient texts made for tight linkages with the world portrayed in the Bible. Over time, their successors lost interest in unsupported claims of cultural transference and in specious arguments defending would-be historical connections. Having begun with an outlook that was rooted in illuminating scripture, some learned philologists eventually decoupled the study of ancient Israel from that of surrounding Near Eastern cultures. With that, they laid the foundations for the current study of the ancient Near East, a complex and demanding discipline with many subfields, the study of the Hebrew Bible and biblical history being just one among them. Scholars examining newly published ancient sources and poring over material provided by burgeoning archaeological activity, found reason to suspect major segments of the biblical account, including seemingly straightforward historical narratives. The result was a powerful impulse to revise the history of ancient Israel as we know it. Virtually every generation of modern scholars has transformed our understanding of the biblical text and the history and material culture of the biblical world. As in the past, most of today’s revisionists remain well established in mainstream biblical scholarship. The issues that divide them from their colleagues are matters of honest debate in which text scholars and archaeologists agree to disagree in interpreting different types of evidence, much of it ambiguous. One of the central issues in the current debate is the strength of the early Israelite monarchy. Were the kingdoms of David and, more particularly, Solomon, the powerful and highly centralized state scholars believed when they read the Bible and examined the earlier archaeological record? To the contrary, are current revisionists correct in calling for a lower political profile for the early monarchy, based largely on their interpretation of the most recent archaeological data? Despite occasionally frayed tempers, the discourse of mainstream biblical scholars remains reasoned, their purpose: to recover elements of the shadowy Israelite past.8 One cannot say the same for a handful of scholars, the so-called Danish school who have broken from the mainstream and deny altogether the historical framework of the biblical chroniclers. Rather than accept the possibility of any discernible truth in the biblical account, they declare the well-known stories of Israel’s origins and the kingdoms that followed, literary artifices woven almost completely out of new cloth. As they probe the depiction of Israel’s origins, the conquest of Canaan, and the establishment of the

The Uses and Misuses of Modern Biblical Scholarship

155

monarchy and its early history, they have concluded that in virtually all instances, the biblical narrative consists of total fabrications composed hundreds of years after the alleged historic moment. If there is any residual truth in scripture, the Danish School believes we are in no position to recognize, let alone recover that truth. One can find a fuller discussion of this minimalist brief later in this essay. Suffice it to say, learned Biblicists fully capable of interrogating the textual and archaeological evidence are less dismissive of the biblical narrative. Although they also doubt the historicity of particular biblical accounts and call for a revised history of early Israel, they are not prepared to abandon the biblical narrative altogether. They do not advocate a complete erasure of historical memories that have shaped Jewish belief and behavior.9 Taken as a whole, the current state of biblical scholarship is extremely lively, some might say, too lively, particularly when one factors in the more shrill voices among the so-called minimalists. At times, the study of the received biblical past gives the impression of being an intellectual free-for-all with few if any holds barred, more like an old time dispute between hardened religious authorities than the reasoned discourse of the modern academy. Most of the spirited discussion reflects detailed and highly technical debates between mainstream text scholars, even more so between scholars who base their research largely on written sources and archaeologists drawing on evidence acquired in the field. Everyone wants to recover the broad outlines of the past, but all too often are at odds over how best to achieve that. More than ever, there is tension between those who dig into written sources and those who dig in the ground. Much like textual scholars, archaeologists strove at first to recapture the world of the Bible, but through the study of material remains. They focused on what could actually be seen or imaginatively reconstructed from snippets of evidence. At present, archaeologists employ highly sophisticated techniques that allow them to recover and assess ancient technologies; patterns of subsistence; diet; socio-economic structure, and the like. Having absorbed recent social science, archaeologists are also familiar with theoretical models of early state formation, a concern throughout several of these essays, but as regards modern nation states. All these present concerns are far-removed from the origins of the discipline. The archaeology of the Holy Land started modestly enough with explorers puttering around sacred sites in the 1840s. In time, these investigations of existing buildings and their environs gave way to widespread exploration. Then, in the last decade of the century, archaeologists began massive excavations of sites identified with locations in the Hebrew Bible. Having assumed that these mounds were in fact ancient biblical sites because of similar-sounding Arabic place names, the excavators went about the task of stripping away the earth. Although aware of the need for chronological markers with which to date individual layers and the artifacts found therein, the archaeologists of old did not produce a proper basis for establishing chronology. It was only when Flinders Petrie arrived in Palestine around the turn of the century, and, more particularly, when W.F. Albright began excavating after World War I that Palestinian archaeology became a more scientific discipline that led to a complex and more extended historical analysis. As director of the American School of Oriental Research in Jerusalem, Albright, together with his disciples, systematically excavated a broad Palestinian landscape. In that effort, the archaeologists sought to link the histories of diverse locations by

156

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

establishing reliable guides for dating individual sites. This method of dating reflected advances in the recording and classifying of ceramic ware found at each dig. With the Albrightian enterprise, archaeology moved from random exploration, treasure hunting, and excavations of individual mounds, to strategic digging that might reveal not only the history of particular sites, but also the social and economic profile of an entire region. Results obtained from many soundings and extensive digs initiated between the wars proved nothing less than a watershed in understanding the complex history of ancient Palestine and its environs. The quest to recover the historic past by digging up the Holy Land also served the interests of believers for whom the Bible represented essential truths. The circle of Biblicists that gathered around Albright in mandatory Palestine and at the Johns Hopkins University drew heavily from the ranks of Christian clergy, or, in any case, from graduates of theological schools, like Albright himself. Many, if not most of Albright’s students taught at Christian seminaries, or church-affiliated colleges and universities. That is not to say they could be rightly accused of being fundamentalists in their approach to textual problems, or driven by naive belief in their understanding of complex historical processes, far from that. However, given their religious sensibilities, the Hebrew Bible was always with them, in a manner of speaking. That held true whether they sat at their desks or excavated in the field. There was also the Palestine Oriental Society that drew scholars from a wide variety of countries and cultural and religious backgrounds, as well as a British school of archaeology that at one time shared quarters with its American counterpart. Over time, a number of groups representing different European countries and church denominations established institutes of their own. The presence of these biblical scholars in the Holy Land was ubiquitous. Christians of all denominations, some church linked some not, peppered the landscape of mandatory Palestine. To be sure, not all archaeologists active during the period of the British Mandate were churchmen, or former churchmen, or Christians cut more or less from that same mold. The Department of Antiquities, created by the British mandatory administration, employed Jewish and Arab archaeologists, however few the latter. For Jews interested in the historic landscape of the Holy Land, there were institutions of their own making. They founded the Palestine Exploration Society in 1914, before the onset of the British Mandate. Later in 1925, the Hebrew University in Jerusalem established, as part of its original faculties, an institute that trained an inter-war generation of Jewish archaeologists and sponsored fieldwork covering the length and breadth of the country. As regards field methods, the archaeologists of Palestine’s Jewish community (Yishuv) were influenced for a long time by the towering presence of Albright. A man of commanding physical stature and astounding intellectual breadth, Albright seemed to loom larger than life. There was also a personal rapport between the great man and his Jewish colleagues. Unlike most foreign archaeologists working in Palestine, Albright acquired a working knowledge of spoken Hebrew. He also showed enormous respect for the economic and cultural vitality of the Jewish pioneers who had come to build the country in anticipation of establishing a new and thoroughly modern Jewish homeland. The doyen of Palestinian archaeology came to see the Zionists much as they saw themselves, that is, as a force for revitalizing a land that had grown stagnant with

The Uses and Misuses of Modern Biblical Scholarship

157

centuries of presumed neglect. In sum, his vision corroborated the Zionist interpretation of the past and, no less importantly, validated their expectations of the future. Above all, he had high praise for the professional skill of his Jewish colleagues; they, in turn, revered and honored him.10 As did so many Christians exploring and excavating in Palestine, Jewish archaeologists began their endeavors with the all too familiar Hebrew Bible in hand. Their task, however, was neither to affirm nor reverberate to eternal religious truths, nor was it to revel in a distant past out of mere antiquarian interest. For the archaeologists of the Yishuv, the recovery of ancient Israel, highly valued in its own right, was also a useful tool with which to carve out a Zionist future. They turned to the ancient homeland for examples of a vibrant and flourishing past, the kind of past that might serve as inspiration for a new age and new Jewish commonwealth. Archaeology represented a true marriage of modern science to nation building, all made possible because of the continued and powerful resonance of the Jewish foundational narrative. The emergence of the Jewish state in 1948 and, more particularly, the Israeli conquest of the West Bank in 1967, brought much of the ancient Land of Israel under Jewish control. The restoration of Jewish sovereignty to almost all the land of their forefathers stimulated further archaeological exploration and strengthened the already existing links between Israel’s archaeological enterprise and the growth of the modern state. As new data mounted, there was a perceived need to reassess the master narrative of the Jewish people, particularly the accounts of Israel’s origins and, following that, the history of the early Israelite kingdoms. The evidence, textual and archaeological, tended to reveal that the biblical account of the Exodus and the Israelite conquest of Canaan could not be fully, if at all reconciled with the unfolding historical and archaeological record.11 In the 1980s, the recorded history of the early Israelite monarchy came under intense scrutiny. David and Solomon, portrayed by the biblical chroniclers as mighty kings ruling over highly centralized states that projected power within all Canaan and beyond, were downgraded by revisionist scholars, along with their kingdoms—in the case of David, to a local chieftain of a tribal, or, if you prefer, tribe-like configuration. Jerusalem, reportedly their capital, was not yet a major city but at best a dull and inconsequential backwater settlement. Unlike their predecessors and most of their current colleagues, some archaeologists could find no discernable trace of monumental architecture for the period of the united monarchy. The absence of impressive monuments suggested to them a biblical record that had been reshaped in later times to accord with changed circumstances. Apologists for later rulers magnified the importance of their royal ancestors, legitimizing thereby contemporary reigns and policies.12 At the same time, a small coterie of biblical minimalists working outside the mainstream of biblical scholarship pounced on the revisionist theories and denied altogether the historicity of the Hebrew Bible and the most ancient provenance of that highly revered text.13 These discussions have moved beyond institutions exploring the history of the ancient Near East. Archaeological activity, past and present, has given rise to unanticipated debates that link the politics of Jewish and Palestinian Arab nationalism. Israelis regard the archaeological record as confirming the broad outlines of their ancestor’s experiences in the land of Israel, thus justifying the Zionist project to reconstitute the Jewish people

158

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

on their ancestral homeland. That said, some Israelis have cautioned against making archaeological claims the basis for intrusive settlement activity in areas populated by Palestinian Arabs. For Palestinians, who identify with the indigenous inhabitants of Canaan, the same archaeological record denies the authenticity of the biblical narrative undercutting thereby Zionist claims to the Holy Land.

Archaeology, Biblical Revisionism, and the Unsettling of the United Monarchy The reigns of David and Solomon, the quintessential icons of a powerful Jewish state controlling its own destiny, are currently debated among both serious scholars and those who would manipulate scholarship for narrowly defined political purposes. Claims downplaying the United Monarchy have caused a stir among those who follow trends in biblical studies, nowhere more so than in the State of Israel. The revisionist impulse was particularly disturbing to Zionists who saw the kingdoms of David and Solomon as proper models for a Jewish people reclaiming their ancestral homeland and charting a course to independent nationhood in modern times. In and of itself, the debate stirred by these archaeologists has no political valence. Some of the leading critics of the biblical account are in fact Israeli scholars deeply committed to their country. The lay public may have become agitated by the attempts to debunk long revered tales, but the issues dividing most academics are not directly tied to national politics. What is at stake for the biblicist community is the elusive search for a more accurate description of the ancient past. Responsible text scholars readily admit how difficult it is to tease history from the biblical account. Literary–historical studies have given rise to sharp exchanges between individuals and schools of thought. When pressed, archaeologists also acknowledge the complexity and uncertainty of their craft. At times, one may wish to question whether a hillock bearing an Arabic place name is in fact the precise site of a similar sounding place, familiar to us from scripture. Moreover, archaeologists are limited to what they actually find and can date with confidence. Their enterprise is based largely on establishing chronological pointers, often through an analysis of ceramic ware, which is then compared with shards from corresponding sites said to be of the same period. It all begins with the ability to date an individual site, or, to be more precise, arriving at a consensus regarding chronology. As with textual scholarship, the archaeological wisdom of the moment can give way to new interpretations. From time to time, established chronologies are reviewed and rejected because of later evidence obtained in the field. Archaeologists donning the mantle of revisionism would be well served if they exercise a measure of politeness as well as caution in trumpeting their latest views, all the more so in demeaning the views of their predecessors. If the revisionists had packaged their findings in more circumspect language, they would no doubt have ruffled fewer feathers among their professional peers and the myriad of amateurs who follow trends in biblical studies. Nevertheless, the revisionists remain very much part of mainstream biblical scholarship. Their colleagues may disagree with them, often sharply, but all sides recognize, albeit sometimes grudgingly, the seriousness of purpose and technical skill of their opponents.

The Uses and Misuses of Modern Biblical Scholarship

159

The present controversy on the rise of the Israelite monarchy takes us back in time. It was only some fifty years ago that an earlier generation of archaeologists in Israel discussed the monumental architecture of the Solomonic era at Gezer, Hazor, and Megiddo, all sites of major cities, reportedly built [or fortified] by the Israelite monarch. Referring to Solomon’s forced labor projects, the biblical chronicler notes: “[They were initiated] to build the House of the Lord, his (Solomon’s) own palace, the citadel (millo) and wall of Jerusalem, and Hazor, Megiddo, and Gezer.” (1Kings 9:15). During the 1950s and 60s, archaeologists managed to uncover the monumental gates of the latter three cities and found them to be of the same design. The configuration of the gates thus suggested that the fortification walls are of a piece in accordance with the thrust of the biblical text. All three sites could then be seen as part of a concurrent undertaking that included, according to the biblical author, the extensive development of Solomon’s Jerusalem. No remains of Solomon’s Jerusalem were known to archaeologists at the time. Nor have any definitive traces of massive Solomonic construction come to light since, despite intensive digs in and around the Holy City. Current fieldwork may yet yield important clues as to the city’s grandeur under the United Monarchy.14 Readers, relying on the biblical text, understood that the detailed account of Solomon’s building activities accentuated the greatness of his realm and the power he was able to wield from his capital in the hills of Judea. It all seemed perfectly clear. It is not that clear today. Israeli archaeologists led by Israel Finkelstein and David Ussishkin have challenged the accepted view of Solomon’s power, the biblical text notwithstanding. They reviewed the archaeological data and concluded that the monumental architecture of Hazor, Megiddo, and Gezer, indicators of a highly centralized and powerful regime, must stem from the following century, that is, not from the tenth-century BCE but the ninth. Rewriting a long received history, they argue that the first great Israelite polity was not the united kingdom of David and Solomon with its center in Jerusalem and the surrounding Judean hillside, but the later House of Omri, the kingdom situated to the north in Samaria, the present Arab city of Nablus and its environs.15 This argument is by no means limited to giving alternative dates for the monumental architecture of the three fortified cities. Reviewing a wide range of archaeological sites discovered in recent years, the new breed of archaeologists concluded that the settlements of the Judean hills were relatively poor during the tenth century, too impoverished in fact to reflect the imperial state described in the Hebrew Bible. Perhaps that is why, for all its rich detail, the biblical text describing Solomon’s reign has no parallel in extra biblical sources. In contrast, contemporaneous Near Eastern accounts portray the northern kingdom of the ninth century as a powerful actor. Based on the Assyrian annals, the House of Omri, more particularly his son Ahab, reportedly led an alliance that presented a formidable challenge to the all-powerful Assyrian empire. Surprisingly, the biblical account of Ahab’s reign omits any mention of his participation in the campaign that blunted the forward thrust of the Assyrians into the Syro– Palestinian landscape. Had the biblical chronicler reported the full story of Ahab’s rule, or merely limited the story in 2 Kings to his acknowledged statecraft, the king might have been celebrated for his political acumen and the greatness of his reign. Instead, the theologically motivated author of the biblical tale condemns Ahab for breaking with the ways of his people and his Lord.16 So perfidious is the king’s behavior and so

160

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

compromising is it of Israel’s monotheism, post-biblical tradition denies a sullied Ahab any place in the world to come, his mourning his actions notwithstanding. In the end, Ahab is destined to share this punishment with a very select group of wayward individuals.17 Current admirers of Ahab need not feel for him. The biblical revisionists have attempted to resurrect his reputation and that of the House of Omri by bringing the northern kingdom of Israel into what they consider the full light of history. How then should we regard the biblical stories of David and Solomon, monarchs whose reigns are revered by secular Zionists and traditional Jews alike? What could have given rise to so detailed, so vivid, and, according to the revisionists, so exaggerated a portrait of these two monarchs and the southern realm, including the description of a major building campaign in which Solomon is said to have fortified three cities with similar protective gates? The matching gates, confirmed by archaeological investigation, are a seemingly odd coincidence given that the revisionists regard Solomon’s extensive building activities as an imagined literary construction of a non-existent past. It then becomes necessary for the revisionists to declare the biblical account a retrospective creation ascribing to Solomon the monumental construction of Ahab’s time. To convince text scholars of their larger view, the revisionists cannot simply discount the biblical narrative based on their reading of archaeological data. They are obliged to explain why in each and every instance the biblical chroniclers reported “events” as they did; but in doing that, they too cannot escape entering the gossamer realm of imagined history. The broader revisionist argument can be succinctly stated. As archaeologists have found no physical evidence of monumental architecture or the accumulation of great wealth in the south, they have concluded that the kingdom centered in the Judean hill country was relatively poor and of no great consequence. It was only after the Assyrians finally broke the back of the northern kingdom that the Judean monarchs were able to establish a powerful state, and with that, Jerusalem took on the features of a major city. Under King Josiah (640–609 BCE), the southern kingdom underwent a religious renewal, giving rise to the practice of a purer form of monotheism. In keeping with these changes, the Israelite theologians rewrote past history in order to give the south and its religious mission a more prominent place in the extended narrative of the people. They transformed David and Solomon, local chieftains, into mighty monarchs and retroactively described the limited territory they ruled as a vast state that extended well beyond the borders of Canaan. This revised version of the past was subsequently locked in the memory bank of the Jewish people. It now serves the vision of modern Israelis intent on restoring a powerful Jewish polity in the Promised Land. However, seen from the perspective of recent archaeological surveys, the biblical narrative, which is integral to the Zionist narrative, is nothing more than the literary effort of southerners advancing their claims by inventing a past that was not actually theirs.18 There is much in that reconstruction of events that the majority of biblical scholars accept. Josiah undertook reforms; the Judean state prospered in the eighth–seventh centuries BCE; and scholars believe that much of the biblical text we currently read was first redacted during those centuries. Scholars also agree that the biblical theologians described the early monarchy to promote the interests of the Davidic line.

The Uses and Misuses of Modern Biblical Scholarship

161

All that being the case, why has a largely technical debate among academicians given way to so much public controversy, both in Israel and elsewhere? Why should reflective Israelis be perturbed by an academic dispute if, in fact, the revisionists are right? There is nothing in the revisionist argument that compromises the links between Jews and the land they long considered part of their ancient heritage. Nor does it compromise Zionist reverence for a glorious biblical Israel. Perhaps Jerusalem was a relatively unimportant site during the early monarchy, but it surely grew in status thereafter. Perhaps Solomon did not build a magnificent temple as reported in 1 Kings, but a great edifice was built to the God of Israel later. Taking everything into consideration, the gist of the revisionist argument, based almost entirely on negative archaeological evidence, is that the emergence of a powerful Israelite polity took place a century or so after we are led to believe, and, that contrary to the biblical account, it did so first in Samaria to the north rather than Jerusalem to the south. Nevertheless, the southern kingdom managed to find its place in the sun two centuries later. What truly disturbs the sensibilities of Jews is not so much a tenth century devoid of a powerful and highly centralized Israelite kingdom, but the scholarly and political excesses of the so-called Danish School that took the skepticism of the revisionists to extreme. The reference is to a small group of biblical minimalists who have broken with the mainstream by denying the historicity of all Hebrew scripture and challenging the accepted dates for the various strands that comprise the text. With that, the Danes have confronted the entire mainstream of biblical scholarship. There are significant political overtones to their minimalist position. The Danes have channeled an academic controversy, all too often marked by sharply expressed views and less than courteous behavior, into denying the entire foundation of modern Israel’s national narrative. At the same time, some of them and their followers avidly promote the concept of a legitimate Palestinian identity rooted in the ancient Near East. An arcane debate about the history of ancient Israel and the formation of the biblical text has thus become part of a larger political controversy between the modern state of Israel and Palestinian Arabs struggling to forge a nation state of their own. Who then are the Danes and what is their impact on the controversial politics of the Arab–Israel dispute?

The Danish School: Biblical Minimalists and Arab–Israel Politics The Danish School, briefly mentioned earlier, represents a relatively small group of scholars, originally centered in Copenhagen, but now situated at various academic venues, particularly in Great Britain. Although referred to as a school, these scholars form a society of diverse interests and talents. What draws them together is an extreme minimalist approach to the Hebrew Bible. They go several steps beyond their revisionist colleagues and contend that the Israelites of Hebrew scripture, their monotheism, their material and literary culture, their reported ties to the land of Canaan, even the Hebrew language of received scripture, all came into being long after their purported origins. In sum, the biblical record as we now have it is an invented myth written in a language devised at the earliest by scribes in the Persian period (fifth-century BCE). They admit there may be rare echoes of a real history in the current biblical text, but they also

162

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

maintain that few if any traces of this past can be excavated from the mythological debris that has shaped the Bible’s meaning for many generations of readers.19 Skeptical from the outset, the minimalists of the Danish School began their assault on scripture by attacking the patriarchal narratives. Here, they were more or less on safe ground. Other scholars had also grown wary of reported links between the stories of Israel’s forefathers and the world of second-millennium Mesopotamia.20 Upon closer examination, the biblical account contained many anachronisms that could only have dated from centuries later. Those who might be labelled minimalists then questioned the narratives of Joshua’s conquest, Israel’s origins in the land of Canaan, and the scholarship of past generations on that subject. In doing so, they remained on relatively safe ground and were not far removed from the conventional wisdom of an evolving biblical scholarship.21 The minimalists then went several steps further boldly denying the later history of the biblical narrative in a manner that upset mainstream biblical scholars. It made little difference if these scholars favored squeezing history from texts or, like archaeologists, were more apt to trust the evidence of material culture. For followers of the minimalist Danes, it is not enough to contend that the united monarchy was not the highly centralized and powerful state described in the Hebrew Bible. In effect, their claim is that there was no united monarchy at all, no David, and no Solomon. Not even the subsequent Israelite kings of the south, rulers described in detail in the Bible, are considered truly historic figures. There were no Israelites, or, to be more precise, there were no Israelites as represented in scripture. The current Hebrew Bible is not merely a text that reshapes historical memory to conform to the ideological concerns of the present, a proposition with which all responsible Bible scholars have long agreed. They maintain that all the familiar biblical text was fashioned almost entirely ex nihilo no earlier than the Persian period (Davies), and even as late as Hellenistic times (Lemche). Thomas Thompson has even maintained that the Hebrew Bible, which has served as a basis for Jewish behavior and group identity for more than two millennia, reflects the world of the Greeks rather than a more ancient Near East. For example, the original King Ahab, a figure whose historicity is conceded by all scholars—he is, after all, mentioned in the Assyrian annals—is not the Ahab of the Hebrew Bible. The scriptural manifestation of this ancient ruler is modeled instead after Antiochus IV, the Seleucid monarch of the Book of Maccabees (175–64 BCE).22 We are obliged to consider the more general proposition put forth by the Danish School, namely, that the Hebrew Bible was an elaborate literary artifice portraying a history spun almost entirely from the imagination of inventive Hebrew scribes. This view raises an obvious question. Who would have created a mythic biblical history and civilization where none existed and to what purpose? In his book In Search of Ancient Israel, Philip Davies, one of the leading proponents of mythic Israel, lays out his position in a manner fully accessible to an audience of non-specialists.23 Davies, reflecting the views of his minimalist colleagues, argues that scripters of an alien settler population authored the Hebrew Bible. In effect, the biblical books of Ezra and Nehemiah, which purportedly describe the return of exiles from Babylon, mask a rather different story. The real tale is not one of returning Israelites forced from their homeland after the fall of Jerusalem in 586 BCE, but rather that of a non-indigenous people transplanted in

The Uses and Misuses of Modern Biblical Scholarship

163

Jerusalem and the surrounding hill country after the Persian conquest of Palestine in the fifth-century BCE. Lacking a history in their new environs, and therefore without any sense of legitimate ownership to the land they came to occupy, this group of recent settlers found themselves in need of a new identity that could link them to Canaan’s past. Residual snippets of the region’s folklore that might have referred, if ever so vaguely, to an historic figure or event, were thus woven by scribes into the fabric of a newly created national myth. Searching ways to authenticate their claims, the settlers forged a history going back to a remote age, an era in which a fictitious Abraham entered into a covenant with his God, Yahweh. In that compact, God reportedly promised Abraham’s progeny the land of Canaan. The myths of Israel’s origins in the land and of Israel’s subsequent history until the Babylonian exile, allowed the recent settlers, who would evolve into the Jewish people, to preempt the claims of the original inhabitants. Hence, for more than two millennia, the Hebrew Bible, revered by Jews and Christians alike, became the central text for understanding the history of a distant past inappropriately named the biblical period. Accordingly, an indigenous Palestinian population that had remained, more or less, the same since remote times, was denied a history and identity of its own. To their credit, the scholars of the Danish School tend to read widely. In building their arguments, some move back and forth across disciplines, referring to works ranging from general linguistics to social anthropology and cultural studies. The bibliography of Thomas L. Thompson’s massive and densely written Early History of the Israelite People from the Written and Archaeological Sources covers more than thirty pages, a sign of considerable learning. Niels Peter Lemche’s Early Israel contains more than 1,500 footnotes.24 It is one thing to read widely; it is another to possess and utilize the tools with which to interrogate the written word. On the whole, neither philology nor archaeology, the twin pillars of ancient Near Eastern scholarship, are the strong suits of some representatives of the Danish School, even less so of their camp followers in cultural studies. The result is two-fold. There is a tendency to misread both literary sources and the evidence of material culture. At times, the line of argumentation is exceedingly tortured, made necessary, as it were, because the concept of a mythic Israel dictates the evidence rather than the other way round. Seeking support with which to buttress their conceptual framework, scholars of the Danish School employ a hunt-and-peck method—that is, they read widely and employ anything that might conceivably bolster their argument. They then privilege all such data regardless of source or merit. It is ironic that when it serves their purpose, the most skeptical of Bible critics are willing to embrace without question scholarship that is highly speculative and/or simply in error. Nor are they inclined to correct, let alone abandon their views, when faced with overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Having embraced the concept of a mythic Israel invented in the Persian period and given final expression only during Hellenistic times if not even later, the minimalists referred to here have much to explain. How can they square their Israel of the Persian period with the Israel mentioned on the Egyptian Merneptah Stele, which dates from the thirteenth-century BCE? What might be a problem for many reflective biblicists does not trouble the scholars of the Danish School. They maintain that the Stele, inscribed 800 years before the alleged invention of mythic Israel, may refer to a

164

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

geographical place called Israel and not a people. Those properly trained in Egyptian understand that grammatically the text of the Stele admits to no meaning other than the people of Israel.25 Still, without other contemporaneous sources mentioning Israel by name, it is difficult to draw any hard conclusions as to the Israel listed on the Stele and its relationship to the Israel of the Hebrew Bible. The epigraphic evidence of the ninth-century BCE is at first glance more convincing. An Aramaic inscription from Tel Dan, and a new reading of the famed Mesha Stone written in Moabite, a language closely linked to biblical Hebrew, are both read as referring to the “House of [byt] David [dwd],” a seeming indication that the Davidic dynasty was well-known, roughly half a millennium before the Danish minimalists contend it was invented. It appears that this evidence is no reason for the Danes to be perturbed, let alone panic. They simply read the letters bytdwd to mean something other than “House of David [King of Israel].” Orthographically, that is possible but responsible scholars are not inclined to give credence to so unlikely a reading of the inscription. Still, there is a fallback argument. They appear to accuse the Israel Museum of forging a reconstruction of the inscription from Tel Dan. The contemporaneous reference to Israelites in the new reading of the Mesha Stone is similarly dismissed although with perhaps more reason to be skeptical.26 The proposed erasure of all early references to ancient Israel dovetails nicely with the broad political claims of certain minimalists. They lead us to believe that just as the ancient Hebrew scribes invented an Israelite past in order to usurp the lands of the historic inhabitants of ancient Palestine, modern Israelis forge evidence—or if you prefer the less accusatory fudge evidence— to deny the rights of today’s Palestinian Arabs. As the true descendants of the ancient peoples of Canaan, the Palestinians can lay claim to being the legitimate heirs to the land they dispute with the Zionists. There is still more to trouble the Danish School. Contrary to their deeply held beliefs, the traditional biblical narrative seemingly contains echoes of a real past. Granted, that for so much of the biblical account there is little, if any corroborating evidence from extra-biblical materials, but how can we be convinced that ancient Israel is almost entirely the invention of the post-monarchic Persian period when many of Israel’s monarchs listed in the books of Kings also appear in Assyrian and Babylonian sources? The same would seem true for Egypt’s Pharaoh Shishonk I meddling in the political affairs of the early Israelite monarchy.27 One could argue that Hebrew scribes of the Persian period had some folkloric material to inform their literary imagination, but there are enough instances where the account of the biblical chronicler seems to fit a history known from the earlier world of Mesopotamia. That being the case, why not promote the likely historicity of certain events reported in the Hebrew Bible? Perhaps the most notable example of such an historic echo is the story of the Assyrian king Sennacherib’s eighth-century campaign against King Hezekiah and the fortified towns of the southern Israelite monarchy, an account that has parallels in the Assyrian annals. To be sure, history is tendentiously shaped in both sources. Nevertheless, both agree that Sennacherib sent detachments to attack Jerusalem, that the Assyrian army surrounded the city, and that they withdrew rather than launched a decisive assault to secure the Israelite capital.28 The combined narrative of the events at Jerusalem seems anything but a literary artifice woven entirely from new cloth centuries later.

The Uses and Misuses of Modern Biblical Scholarship

165

In order to claim that the redacted Hebrew Bible is entirely the creation of a socalled post-exilic period, the minimalists of the Danish School must contend with the very language of scripture. Meticulous investigation of biblical Hebrew texts and inscriptions reveals a real distinction between so-called pre-exilic and post-exilic writings, that is, between sources before the reported Babylonian captivity of the sixthcentury BCE—an event denied by the minimalists—and the onset of the Persian period thereafter. Faced with this evidence, the minimalists found themselves in a quandary. Was the language of scriptural works thought by mainstream scholars to be pre-exilic and post-exilic indeed different? One would ordinarily conclude that various books of the Bible were composed at very different moments of time. As the earlier works would have been written before the collapse of the Babylonian Empire, that is, before any non-indigenous group of settlers could have been transplanted in the Judean countryside, there clearly must have been both an Israelite people and written versions of biblical works in the land before the Persian, let alone Hellenistic or Graeco–Roman period. Were that so, the entire edifice of the Danish School collapses, along with the moral and political lessons that some of its supporters wish to impart. For there is then no basis for maintaining that foreign settlers of the fifthcentury BCE, the alien progenitors of the Jews, usurped the history and rights of a population rooted in its land since time immemorial, the progenitors of today’s Palestinian Arabs. Needing an answer to the impressive linguistic evidence arrayed against them, the minimalists have found themselves hard pressed. The linguistic basis of their argument, such as it is, is a highly speculative article by E.A. Knauf.29 Knauf suggests that, unlike other Near Eastern languages that evolved over time, biblical Hebrew is artificial, the creation of an identifiable moment in human history. To be more specific, biblical Hebrew is a language created by scribes of the Persian period. However, if biblical Hebrew were in fact the artificial language claimed by representatives of the Danish School, why should the pre-exilic and post-exilic books of the biblical canon exhibit such marked differences in vocabulary, orthography, phrasing, and the like? Why should inscriptions of earlier and later times exhibit similar differences? Moreover, what is one to make of 100 or so cuneiform tablets from sixth-century Babylonia, texts bearing Israelite names thus testifying to the existence of an exiled community. Ever imaginative, but clearly groping for an answer, some minimalists conclude that the linguistic differences were consciously woven into the text in order to create a second Hebrew, a seemingly archaic language that would lend legitimacy to the recently invented myths of the settlers, as the latter sought to wrest the land away from its native inhabitants.30 Of all the arguments in defense of mythic Israel, the response of the Danish minimalists to the linguistic evidence is by far the least persuasive. To claim that foreign scribes could have created a literature in two languages simultaneously, one a current language to describe the recent condition of their people, the other an artificial archaic language to describe an invented past in a manner that would silence their doubters seems far-fetched, if not implausible. To think that construction of a language possible, we would have to believe that a modern dramatist such as Tom Stoppard, the ingenuous playwright who has utilized Shakespeare’s plots, characters, and themes to suit his own

166

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

creative dramaturgy, could actually write a play comparable to Hamlet and then successfully peddle the work as being that of the Bard himself. It comes as no great surprise that these minimalists have come under withering criticism from text scholars and archaeologists;31 criticism often expressed in harsh, almost vituperative language. Perhaps, the overtly pugnacious style of certain minimalists rubs nerves raw. Perhaps it is the disparity between the audacious claims of this minimalist camp and their cavalier use of technical data requiring skillful and measured analysis. The self-proclaimed guardians of academic standards can become unusually sensitive at times, especially philologists and their archaeologist confreres. We might also consider the tendency of some minimalists to embrace intellectual trends that their opponents regard as faddish and devoid of merit. Whatever the case, even the gentlest opponent of the Danish School comes down heavily against them. In a short but very thoughtful survey of their minimalist position, Marc Brettler, a scholar long interested and well published in biblical historiography, bends over backwards to do justice to various claims of the Danish School and then calmly and thoroughly demolishes each and every one of them, a rhetorical style other academics would do well to emulate.32 To date, the minimalists of the Danish School, who remain few in number, have made little, if any headway in changing the views of professional biblicists. Not that the former have been a persecuted academic minority. Admittedly, the tone of some critics has been nasty, perhaps excessively so, but one can hardly say that the Danes have been muted by a conspiracy of their peers. They have never had a problem in disseminating their views in public forums.33 Print media tend, as a rule, to pay attention to developments in biblical studies. Such accounts are often marked by a racy style, interesting graphics, and suggestive story leads, all designed to draw the attention of the average reader. Reporters, themselves without expertise to render qualitative judgments, have given equal weight to all positions regardless of merit, thus allowing readers to choose indiscriminately from among proclaimed truths. From time to time, the various issues dividing biblicists are also taken up in the Biblical Archaeology Review (BAR), a glossy popular journal widely read by both professional scholars and amateur enthusiasts. The major combatants in the Bible Wars have all had their say in the BAR . As a result, the debate over biblical revisionism, the Danish School included, has become broadly accessible to readers lacking the technical skills to follow dense scholarly arguments. Although they may have, at best, a partial grasp of the issues, some of these readers have actually become involved in the larger discussion. As we shall see, some literary critics and anthropologists have sought to influence the burgeoning debate over biblical origins and allegedly silenced histories. That is particularly true for those who use the noisy but relatively benign politics of the academy to stoke the fires of the attention grabbing Arab–Israel dispute. With that, various assumptions of the Danish School rejected by serious scholars have been recycled to serve the claims of Palestinian nationalists. A scholarly debate grounded in archaeology and textual readings has been transmuted into arguments about modern nationhood. Having been rejected by mainstream scholars of the ancient Near East, minimalists embracing the Palestinian cause declared their critics agents of a universal academic conspiracy in which professors of Western universities deny those who would speak on

The Uses and Misuses of Modern Biblical Scholarship

167

behalf of the colonized “other.” This view is openly proclaimed in Keith W. Whitelam’s widely quoted book, The Invention of Ancient Israel: The Silencing of Palestinian History. The pungent subtitle completely captures the drift of the author’s thesis and his debt to the literary critic Edward Said.34 Said, the son of a naturalized American citizen of Palestinian origin, spent his formative years in Egypt (1935–48), his father having migrated there from the United States to open a branch of the family stationery business. During the turmoil that followed the emergence of the State of Israel, the family returned to America where young Edward, then in his early teens, attended a prestigious boarding school and later pursued his university studies. At the time of his death in 2003, he was the Parr Professor of Comparative Literature at Columbia and an indefatigable and eloquent spokesperson for the Palestinian cause. A cosmopolitan exposed to the worlds of both East and West, Said argued that a politically and intellectually arrogant West denied the colonized “other” the means and opportunity to define its own history and interpret its own native culture. Following Said, Whitelam maintains throughout his work that the general practice of biblical studies represents a powerful interlocking network of ideas and assertions giving the false impression of objective scholarship while masking the realities of an exercise of power. Ancient Israel is no more than a scholarly construct, albeit one that has been given substance and utilized as an instrument of power, not only in academic circles but in the realm of modern politics. At the same time, the ancient history of the Palestinian people has yet to find its deserved place, or in some circles, any place at all, in our academic institutions. Attempts to challenge this powerful narrative of ancient Israel continue to be dismissed as politically or ideologically motivated and therefore unreasonable.35 Like many writers, Whitelam positions himself for his audience by offering tidbits of autobiographical information, a sort of apology for not having written the kind of book that readers might have expected of him and that he himself had originally contemplated. He indicates that he began his work as part of a “grandiose scheme...conceived [as] an antidote to the standard histories of ancient Israel which have dominated biblical studies since the nineteenth century.”36 Over time, Whitelam realized that he lacked the learning required for so prodigious an undertaking. That alone might have dissuaded him from his original goal. He also came to realize that to complete such a project he would have had to confront and overcome what he describes as the innate prejudice that informed the way biblical scholars formulated and organized their research and then went about practising their craft. He was convinced that the history of ancient Palestine [and its indigenous inhabitants] was hijacked by authorities interested only in “an ancient Israel conceived and presented as the [Judeo-Christian] taproot of Western civilization.”37 To counter that approach, Whitelam ultimately decided on a project that would undermine the orthodox wisdom dominating biblical studies. He put aside the larger work that would have required immense learning in favor of a polemic against, or, as Whitelam would no doubt claim, a corrective to the current state of scholarship on the Hebrew Bible. At first glance, there is nothing innovating about those who attempt to correct scholarship that links biblical studies directly and almost exclusively to a Judeo– Christian heritage. Assyriologists have long decoupled the study of the Hebrew Bible

168

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

from the other civilizations of the ancient Near East. Archaeologists tend not to refer to biblical archaeology these days, but speak instead of Syro–Palestinian archaeology, a descriptive label that expands their discipline beyond the borders of Canaan and the purported Israelite polity, however defined. We might add by way of explanation, that the shift in the way scholars now think about the archaeology of the region was led by William Dever, perhaps the most vociferous critic of the minimalist school. Finally, biblicists situated at the leading departments of Near Eastern studies, scholars, who in earlier generations would have been able to get by with a basic knowledge of Hebrew and Greek, find themselves obliged to command a host of ancient languages in order to engage in comparative studies, be they historical, linguistic, or literary. Although there are individuals who still favor the term biblical archaeology, one can hardly claim that biblical studies, as it is now practised in leading academic institutions, is so parochial as to exclude the longer history of Canaan and its peoples other than the Israelites. As the nineteenth century progressed, and exploration of the ancient Near East began in earnest, public interest in the recent discoveries was guided by the centrality of the Bible in Judeo–Christian civilization. That interest continues to resonate among those for whom the Bible is both a source of comfort and a guide to moral behavior. There is general agreement as to that even among the critics of the Danish School. That didactic approach to the Bible is hardly the case, however, in secular institutions of higher learning, or even some denominational schools with a scholarly tradition in biblical studies. We might well ask why then does the story of the ancient Israelites still dominate the histories of Canaan, for it surely does? The answer does not lie in any theological concerns, or in any alleged cultural biases of Western scholarship. It certainly does not stem from any desire to thwart the national aspirations of today’s Palestinian Arabs. The Hebrew Bible holds center stage because it contains the only sustained historical narrative we possess from ancient Canaan. None of the indigenous peoples mentioned in the Bible, the Canaanites, Hittites, Hivites, Jebusites, Amorites, Girgishites and Perizzites, or the peoples who lived in Cisjordan, such as the Moabites, Ammonites, and various Edomites, leave an extensive body of written sources, let alone descriptive histories, comparable to the chronicles of the Hebrew Bible. Similarly, the powerful Philistines who invaded Canaan and settled along its coast, are known to us largely from the remains of their material culture and what others say about them, especially the Israelites.38 Aside from the Hebrew Bible, the only extended descriptions of Canaan before the emergence of ancient Israel are found in a cache of Egyptian letters from the fourteenthcentury BCE. The texts, uncovered in Tel el-Amarna, the site of the royal city founded by the Pharaoh Amenhotep IV, are mostly written in Akkadian, an East Semitic language that was then the international lingua franca. Although there are textual glosses and linguistic features that suggest Canaanite speaking scribes and thus Canaanite influence, the subject matter does not reflect directly the broad cultural outlook of the local population. Unlike the biblical histories, well-crafted literary works that exhibit the outlook of the Hebrew chroniclers and the theological underpinnings of Israelite religion, the Amarna letters are archival documents. There is much value in that, to be sure. Assyriologists and well-trained biblical scholars have studied these documents to

The Uses and Misuses of Modern Biblical Scholarship

169

recover the political and societal structures of the time. But the Amarna material covers less than thirty years, hardly the stuff from which to write an extensive history of ancient Canaan—certainly not a history that would satisfy the politically minded minimalists of the Danish School and their supporters.39 The previous essay referred to an extensive literature written in Ugaritic, a Northwest Semitic language bearing similarities to Hebrew. Ugaritic texts have proved valuable to our understanding of certain biblical passages and more generally the evolution of biblical civilization. However, there are no extensive historical texts to speak of from the Kingdom of Ugarit, that is, Ugaritic historiography comparable to the Assyrian annals, or the historical works of the Hebrew Bible, whose sustained narratives describe events taking place over centuries. Moreover, the kingdom of Ugarit was situated in northern Syria and not in biblical Canaan, whose northern border lay far to the south in what is today’s Lebanese region surrounding Tyre and Sidon. Any claim that Ugarit and its civilization can stand for all the peoples of Canaan and their civilization, let alone be considered an antecedent to modern Palestine and Arabic-speaking Palestinians, is more than a bit of a stretch. Such a view, suggested by Basem Ra’ad, a specialist in English and American literature, and discussed briefly in the previous essay, is an indication of how politically motivated individuals have taken or are granted license to wade in unfamiliar waters. Having imbibed the intoxicating spirits of politically motivated minimalists like Whitelam, even specialists in disciplines far removed from biblical studies and comparative Semitic philology can register views on the ancient Near East and its relevance to the current state of affairs. What is most startling about Whitelam’s work is not his expressed desire to recover the history of non-Israelite Canaan. That is a project that all scholars of the ancient Near East can and have indeed embraced, including Israelis who have long sought to trace the history of their land and its adjacent regions from the Stone Age through to the Islamic period. Among Israelis, there is absolutely no opposition to focusing interest on the history of Canaan or the various peoples subsumed under the label Canaanite. It is rather Whitelam’s arbitrary labelling of the inhabitants of ancient Canaan/Palestine, and his attempt to link these Canaanites/Palestinians to today’s Arab inhabitants of the country that elicits critical comment. In the sixth essay, I noted the ambiguities surrounding “geographical” Palestine and the equally ambiguous notion of a Palestinian identity in pre-modern times. If we can speak of Palestine and Palestinians in the most ancient world, it is only in reference to the Philistines (the biblical P’lishtim), whose territorial domain (biblical P’leshet) gave rise to Palestine, the long-standing descriptive label that first took root in the Graeco–Roman period. Casual readers of the Bible may not be aware that the Philistines themselves were not native to Canaan. Like the Crusaders who penetrated the land some two and half millennia later, the original Philistines spoke a language completely unrelated to that of the other peoples. Their material culture and political organization were similarly distinctive. In particular, their iron weapons explain in part their initial success against the land’s native inhabitants. The sea people became fully integrated into the local culture only later, a process that still begs for full and detailed explanation.40 The very notion of an indigenous people in the land known as Canaan is itself highly problematic. A geographical expanse serving as a bridge between southwest

170

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

Asia and Africa, Canaan—or if you prefer historic Palestine—was penetrated by many peoples, and at diverse moments of history. Some, including tribesman from Arabia in the seventh-century CE, settled permanently in their newly acquired domains. Like all previous invaders, the seventh-century Arabians eventually intermingled with the local inhabitants. If one could actually trace the genealogies of today’s Palestinians, one would likely find, among the larger mix, descendants of the ancient Philistines, as well as numerous other peoples that inhabited the land at one time or another, including the Christian Crusaders. Israelis, both those of European stock and from Arab lands, also walk in the footsteps of time-honored ancestors who moved about the Holy Land. What rights if any derive from such “historic” associations? Even before biblical revisionism became popular, Palestinian nationalists and their Arab supporters trumpeted the ancient Canaanites as their forebears. The connection was twofold. By originating in the Arabian Peninsula as modern Arabs claim, the Canaanites ought to be Arabs. By eventually settling in the land now called Palestine, they should also be Palestinians. In contrast, the Zionist settlers from Europe are declared the descendants of the Khazars, a Turkic people that converted to Judaism in the Middle Ages.41 These transplanted Europeans are regarded as interlopers, a people without a history in the land they claim as that of their forefathers. Israelis from Arab lands may be native to the wider region, but they too lack proper claims to Palestine. They are descended from a non-indigenous people who usurped the land from its Palestinian owners, first during the Persian period, and then following the creation of the State of Israel in 1948.42 It is no surprise then that the politically minded minimalists of the Danish School have found favor among Arabs in the West. The same is true for more worldly audiences in the Arab world itself. Minimalist perspectives have become the accepted currency of increasing numbers of Arab intellectuals, Palestinians and non-Palestinians alike. Even Yasser Arafat denied the existence of an ancient Jewish temple in Jerusalem, although it is not at all likely that his expressed view was informed by a careful reading of modern biblical scholarship. At the seventh annual Jerusalem Day Symposium held in Amman in 1996, an event sponsored by Prince al-Hasan and devoted to “Western scholarship and the history of Palestine,” Thompson, Whitelam, and the theologian Michael Prior, an avid proponent of the Palestinian cause, all participated. Their contributions are “Hidden Histories and the Problem of Ethnicity in Palestine” (Thompson), “Western Scholarship and the Silencing of Palestinian History” (Whitelam), and “The Moral Problem of the Land Traditions of the Bible [the basis of Israelite/Jewish claims to the Holy Land]” (Prior). Other presentations by scholars and political figures from the region included a talk in Arabic on “Canaanite Arabs [italics mine], the Builders of Jerusalem and other Cities of Palestine” by Mahmud al-Zu’abi, professor of history at Damascus University.43 Also participating in the conference were a number of Arab luminaries. Their purpose: to explore the politics of the Israeli occupation. The approach of certain minimalists to the biblical past has been widely coopted to support Arab claims to regions and individual sites of the Holy Land. Although some are still active, the minimalists of the Danish School are, by and large, a spent force in biblical studies. Nevertheless, their views have given rise to a cottage industry among literary critics and anthropologists. In recent years, the program of the annual meeting of the Modern Language Association has featured panels devoted

The Uses and Misuses of Modern Biblical Scholarship

171

to Palestinian culture and more specifically to issues surrounding Palestinian national identity. A recurrent theme, presented in a number of guises, has been the deliberate erasure of Palestinian history. At the head of the accused parties is the Israel Antiquities Authority, and archaeologists and historians situated in that nation’s institutions of higher learning. Arguably, the most celebrated advocate for pleading the case against the Israeli academic establishment has been Nadia Abu El-Haj, an anthropologist from Barnard College and Columbia University.

Israeli Archaeology and the Erasure of Palestinian Memory In her book Facts on the Ground—subtitled Archaeological Practice and Territorial SelfFashioning in Israeli Society—Abu El-Haj seeks to explore how archaeological practice shapes the social and political imagination of Israeli society, thus serving the political aims of the state.44 Her argument of a marriage between the Israeli academy and the government reflects Edward Said’s view of oriental studies, particularly as it applies to West’s intellectual colonization of the Arab/Muslim world. Facts on the Ground also embraces the general notion that national identities are modern social constructions born of European experience; and favors the colonial–settler paradigm currently in vogue with many anthropologists of the Near East. The blurb on the back cover written by Talal al-Asad, another anthropologist, succinctly summarizes what the author hoped to accomplish. As he put it, “She represents the first critical account of Israeli archaeological practice, while tracing the dynamic relationships among science, colonization, nation-state building, and territorial expansion.” For Abu El-Haj, the descendant of a noted Jerusalem family, archaeology as practiced in Israel reflects an overwhelming need to legitimize the Israeli national ethos. Put somewhat differently, Israeli scholars defer to the needs of contemporary nation building when they invoke a remote history to legitimize the modern Jewish state, an academic enterprise that compromises authentic scholarship for political ends. Abu El-Haj would seem to have chosen the title of her book with great care. It no doubt derives from a comment made by Israel’s Former Defense Minister Moshe Dayan shortly after the Six-Day War of June 1967, the decisive conflict during which Israeli forces conquered the highlands of the West Bank from the Hashimite Kingdom of Jordan and the coastal Gaza region from the ruling Egyptian authority. When Dayan spoke of “facts on the ground,” he referred to establishing Jewish settlements in the conquered territories that could then serve as bargaining chips in negotiations leading to an envisioned final settlement of the Israel–Arab conflict. There are now many more facts on the ground but there is no final settlement, nor is there much expectation that such a settlement will take shape in the near future. That grim picture is, however, hardly the doing of Israeli archaeologists. That peoples of the Near East, or for that matter everywhere, have long waged battles to coopt history is well accepted. Indeed, it is the central theme pervading all the essays of this project, a book which illustrates how communal polities ranging from small tribal configurations to vast empires, and from closely knit ethnic groups to more inclusive modern nation states, have turned to the past to legitimize the present. Israel

172

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

is, to be sure, no exception, but what have Israeli scholars done to merit the highly charged language of Abu El-Haj’s brief? Are they guilty of colluding with the state to promote political interests that transcend legitimate scholarly concerns? By any yardstick, Israeli scholarship displays lively discussions illustrative of independent scientific inquiry. Neither text scholars nor archaeologists are beholden in any way to buttress official government policy. Nor are they pressured to embrace the views of any of the state’s many political factions. Quite the contrary, Israel’s archaeologists and biblicists often undermine conventional wisdom, be it the wisdom of academic peers past and present, or the reception of ancient foundational myths that inform the ethos of the state and its inhabitants. As it stands, Abu El-Haj’s pungent criticism of Israeli academic culture is sketchy if not deliberately misleading. Based on her bibliography, let alone the body of her text, there is no evidence that Abu El-Haj has assiduously gone through the many highly technical publications devoted to archaeological discoveries and their interpretation. Nor is there evidence of her having acquired the requisite philological skills to make informed judgments about ancient texts. Nor in her treatment of Israeli culture is there an indication that she has acquired a proper knowledge of Modern Hebrew, the essential key to understanding the Israeli academy and its relationship to the political arena. In any event, her bibliography is extremely light, indeed almost void of references to the extensive and still untranslated Hebrew writings dealing with the formation of Israeli culture and society. Responding to Facts on the Ground, specialists in the ancient Near East have been extremely critical of her work. The approving comments come from social scientists and literary scholars broadly interested in postcolonial theory and the formation of national identities, but seemingly without the technical knowledge to interrogate her bold contentions about Israeli archaeological practice.45 Abu El-Haj also disappoints readers as a cultural anthropologist. Her discussion conflates the statements of tour guides, the claims of museum displays, the design of archaeological parks, and the assertions of politicians—especially politicians with strong links to the settler movement—with the research and publications of highly demanding academic disciplines. To be sure, scholarly debate in Israel can be vulgarized for public consumption, but that is often the way scholarship is made accessible to inquisitive reading audiences. There is, however, a more disconcerting aspect to the author’s extensive complaint. She maintains, as had Whitlelam and others previously mentioned, that in seeking to legitimize the Jewish state, Israeli scholars have deliberately chosen to erase the material record of a pre-Israelite civilization because it is a crucial part of ancient Palestine’s historic landscape and an integral part of the Palestinian national narrative. The Israeli academy’s neglect of the Palestinian past mirrors the attempt of the Jewish state to erase the vestigial traces of Arab settlements abandoned in 1948 and then again after 1967. In effect, Israeli academic institutions stand accused of wiping out material evidence of ancient Palestinians, read Canaanites, as well as of Arabs who provided the land with its Islamic footprint. Were this indictment of Israeli archaeology not sufficiently damning, Abu El-Haj adds another charge, albeit rather cagily. In an article published in 2015, she resurrects the theory that Israeli agents conspired to assassinate Albert Glock, the director of the

The Uses and Misuses of Modern Biblical Scholarship

173

Archaeological Institute at Birzeit University, the leading Palestinian institution of higher learning. What could have prompted so drastic a move directed against a professional archaeologist with no known connections to Palestinian militants? Rumor had spread that Glock, while digging near Nablus, discovered evidence that completely delegitimized Zionist claims to the Holy Land. Had that evidence been made public, Jews would have been forced to concede before the world that the longstanding traditions linking them to their Promised Land were a grievous misrepresentation of history. Leaving aside that Glock was not then excavating in the vicinity of Nablus, the accusation that the Israeli authorities were so alarmed by his discovery that they felt compelled to murder Glock, is hard to believe, to say the least. As indicated, Abu El-Haj is cagey in presenting this claim. Once we turn to the footnote on which her account rests, we discover a poignant caveat: “I am compelled to make explicit that I am not telling this story because I think it is a true account of events. I treat it as a rumor that, irrespective of whether it is true or false, captures something fundamental about the terms through which the power of archaeology is often understood. . .” This quote speaks for itself. I leave readers to judge the nature of Abu El-Haj’s scholarly practice. A final note. Glock’s murder remains unsolved. Two other theories were advanced at the time: He was killed by militant Palestinians wishing to undermine peace negotiations which were then underway. If that was the objective, why choose Glock of all people? A highly experienced and competent field archaeologist, he did more than anyone to make archaeology an important discipline for Palestinians promoting a national identity of their own. There is also the theory that he was murdered over personal matters including a rumored love affair of an illicit nature with an Arab research assistant, a possibility that requires compelling evidence. The murder continues to elicit interest in certain academic circles.46 Nadia Abu El-Haj’s brief against the Israeli academy is perhaps the best known among similar criticisms lodged by Palestinian intellectuals. In large part, her notoriety would seem to stem from having been an academic cause célèbre when considered for a permanent appointment at her host institution. A campaign against her and Columbia University was organized by a Barnard alumna living in a West Bank settlement, an address bound to raise eyebrows. The disgruntled graduate of Barnard publicly called for Jewish alumni to withhold gifts to the university as it had abandoned its scholarly mission in considering Abu El-Haj for tenure. In the eyes of Abu El-Haj’s critics, the decision of the university to consider her for tenure (later granted) rendered Columbia the equivalent of Birzeit on the Hudson. The call for action against the university interfered shamelessly with what should have been a strict scholarly decision. The grounds of Abu El-Haj’s tenure case thus shifted from her scholarly qualifications to questions of academic freedom and the integrity of the University. She was seen by many faculties as the potential victim of external political pressures brought against Columbia; pressures to which no self-respecting institution of higher education, let alone one of the world’s premier universities should be subjected. To use a basketball term, given the ruckus created by the intervention of the Barnard alumna, Abu El-Haj became the celebrated point guard of a team of Palestinian intellectuals taking the court against the Israeli academy. Among the leading figures of this team addressing English-reading audiences, are the aforementioned Basem Ra’ad,

174

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

and Nur Masalha, the latter a public intellectual and academic whose announced field of expertise is cultural studies. The title and sub-title of Masalha’s major work The Zionist Bible: Biblical Precedent, Colonialism, and the Erasure of Memory (that is, the deliberate erasure of Palestinian memory) is a clear indication of what he intends for his readers.47 Of the three authors cited, Masalha is the most widely published on modern Palestinian history. He also appears the most informed as regards biblical scholarship. An Arab born and raised in Israel, Masalha attended the Hebrew University both at the undergraduate and graduate levels. Fluent in Hebrew, he is thoroughly familiar with Israeli culture. Not surprisingly, the bibliography of the Zionist Bible includes not only a wide range of writings by the Danish School and their followers, but also works of Israelis predominantly but not exclusively post-Zionist critics of the Jewish state. What may appear at first notice a detailed work of scholarship is sprinkled with references to an eclectic assemblage of sources, often massaged to bolster polemical arguments. For example: he invokes a well-rehearsed and oft-repeated Palestinian claim that the Zionists from Eastern Europe, settlers who advanced the idea of a Jewish state in Arab Palestine, are in fact the descendants of the Khazars, a “Turco-Finnic” people (his descriptive label). The latter settled in Eastern Europe and their king, one Bulan, reportedly converted to Judaism along with his people in the Middle Ages. In support of this view, Masalha invokes the anthropologist Rapahel Patai’s much criticized The Myth of the Jewish Race along with the novelist Arthur Koestler who penned the imaginative The Thirteenth Tribe (the Khazars). As regards the Khazars, he also cites the Israeli historian of modern France Shlomo Sand, the author of The Invention of the Jewish People, a work that denies any long-standing sense of Jewish peoplehood.48 In citing accounts of the Khazars and the origins of East European Jewry, Masalha explains the obvious by the obscure. In truth, Jews arrived in the lands to the east as part of a long migratory trend. The movement of individual Jews and communities began in Roman times when they crossed the Mediterranean and then moved from the Iberian Peninsula to France and the Rhineland (Hebrew Ashkenaz)49 before extending their trek to what is today Poland and Russia. All Jewish communities, whether in Europe or the Near East shared a common historical narrative that began with Abraham and his progeny, a received tale formed over 2,000 years. All Jews more or less shared common religious observances. Most of all, recent genetic testing reveals a shared DNA between the Jews south of the Mediterranean and those in the European regions to the north, a genetic profile that distinguishes Ashkenazi Jews from their Gentile neighbors but links world Jewry with all the peoples of the Fertile Crescent and North Africa. Today’s Jews and Arabs are of the same stock.50 There is simply no support for any claim based on either history or science that European Jewry originated in Khazaria and thus has no deep-rooted historic links to the land Jews declare that of their forefathers. What of Masalha and other Arab intellectuals who claim that Israel has deliberately sought to erase the memory of Palestinian roots in the Holy Land? Various roads, streets, and urban neighborhoods once occupied by Arabs, have been renamed, at times after important Zionist figures or specific events in forging the Jewish state. More to our immediate concerns, Israelis establishing or re-establishing settlements in both

The Uses and Misuses of Modern Biblical Scholarship

175

Israel proper and the occupied West Bank have replaced Arabic place names bearing the slightest similarity to biblical toponyms with similar sounding Hebrew names. Their objective: to reclaim specific places in the ancient land inhabited by their ancestors. In Jerusalem, the reconstruction of the old Jewish Quarter and the creation of a major plaza before the Western Wall of the Temple Mount, has re-established Judaism’s locus sacra in a grand, some might argue overly grandiose setting. These dramatic changes to Jerusalem’s landscape following the 1967 war necessitated the expropriation of Arab property, and the levelling of Arab dwellings, producing, thereby, a marked change in the city’s skyline. The capture of the West Bank and East Jerusalem also opened the occupied area to scholarly investigation denied to Israeli academics since the creation of the state in 1948. In the hill country of ancient Canaan, archaeologists conducted an extensive surface analysis and undertook a number of digs with which to establish a more accurate profile of settlement in the area. In search of Jerusalem’s Jewish past, Israeli archaeologists have uncovered remains going back to the biblical period, including the discovery of the city’s main roads and economic center in Graeco–Roman times. The archaeological world still awaits a fully detailed study that can verify the dates of remains thought to stem from the period of the United Monarchy. Israelis who feast on archaeological news hope that extensive digging around the Temple Mount may yet reveal indisputable evidence of Solomon’s temple and monumental architecture of David’s city. Such discoveries would be the final nail in the Danish School’s still open coffin. Intentionally or not, where Jews have established roots in the Holy Land, they have reversed the Arabization of historic Palestine that began with the Muslim conquest of the seventh-century CE. That Israeli undertaking is labeled by Abu El-Haj “territorial fashioning.” Jaffa, once a bustling Arab port city, is now a suburb of all-Jewish Tel-Aviv, with only a fraction of its former Arab inhabitants. The area between the city and Tel Aviv, once a vibrant Jaffa neighborhood, stands naked except for the reconstructed grand mosque that serviced its Muslim inhabitants. In many major towns and neighborhoods where Arabs predominated before 1948, spaces if not actual homes vacated by Christians and Muslims have been appropriated by Jews. Only old Nazareth and the Arab towns of Galilee remain solidly Arab as before. Arabs have also lost lands in the rural areas of modern Palestine. Refugees fleeing the war zones during the fighting in 1948 abandoned hundreds of Arab villages and encampments. In some instances, the Arabs moved to escape the fighting. Others were forced from their lands as the nascent Israeli army sought to link up all the areas under Jewish control. Most of these inhabitations were never re-occupied. Many leave little trace if any of their former existence. In some desolate places, distinctive ruins bear testimony to a place once filled with human activity. It is not surprising that the Arabs of Palestine seek to preserve memories of their past. Memorial books assembled from oral testimony record memories many decades old and places laid desolate but not forgotten. After 1967, numerous Arab sites laid desolate were subjected to archaeological analysis in an attempt to retrace patterns of settlement. A young Palestinian born after the Nakbah, Abu El-Haj is deeply concerned with retrieving and preserving Palestinian national identities, not only those at the time of the tragic events of 1948, but those harkening back to time immemorial. Her book stands as a riposte to those who would deny the

176

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

power of the historic relationship of her brethren to the land. Her views are in harmony with a conventional wisdom shared with Palestinian intellectuals and less learned elements of Palestinian society. The tendency to dismiss the Arab past, especially by militant West Bank settlers, is also criticized by various Israelis who do not feel their Zionism compromised by recognizing the attachment Palestinians have shown to the land of their Arab forebears.51 Were Abu El-Haj’s complaint and that of her compatriots not enough to condemn Israel for destroying evidence of a Palestinian past, Arab archaeologists have added an additional complaint, namely that the Israeli authorities who control Area C of the West Bank have allowed the Palestinians under their supervision to destroy elements of their own Palestinian heritage. They argue that some 60% of Palestinian archaeological sites are in the area, and that the Israelis have been indifferent to the unchecked activities of professional and amateur Arab looters. The result has been, so they claim, that hundreds of thousands of precious objects have found their way illegally to market, without specialists establishing their provenance.52 The number assigned to the looted items strains credulity, but the problem of such objects coming into market, whatever their number, is a source of concern to all scholars of the region. Among the concerned, are officials from the Israel Antiquities Authority and scholars employed in museum work and in Israeli universities. More important perhaps is the claim of unrestricted Palestinian development for commercial and private use on archaeological sites, thereby destroying evidence of a past Arab history. To assume the Palestinian authorities have absolutely no influence over these building activities seems far-fetched. Moreover, one might wish to inquire why all too many Palestinians have placed commercial development and the need to create private spaces above the need to preserve their own past. That clearly speaks to an attitude for which neither the government of Israel nor Israel’s archaeologists are responsible. We are left to ask whether Israeli academicians have been intentionally or unintentionally complicit in denying the Arabs of Palestine a window into their past. Be it the age of the ancient Canaanites Arabs claim as their own or the Islamic period, which save for the Crusader kingdoms, extended from the seventh-century CE until the onset of British rule following WWI. Archaeologists have long debated the manner in which some Israelis excavate sites. They point to a propensity to reduce entire levels to rubble while searching for evidence of an ancient Israelite civilization. That in contrast to the cautious digging technique perfected by Kathleen Kenyon, the British archaeologist of an earlier generation, and reflected in the meticulous trenching of her disciples. However, one can hardly claim in good conscience that the Israel Antiquities Authority has a mandate to neglect all evidence of other ancient civilizations, or that Israel’s museums focus exclusively on material evidence of Israelite/Jewish culture. Even a cursory trip to the Palestine exhibit at the Israel Museum reveals an extraordinary display that begins with pre-historic times and continues through the Islamic period. Amply represented among the nations of the ancient land are the indigenous peoples of Canaan, those whom the Arabs of Palestine claim as their ancestors. The displays contain many Canaanite and Philistine objects uncovered by Israeli archaeologists, world-leading authorities on the material culture of pre-Israelite Canaan. Nor is Islamic Palestine neglected. Following the extensive remains of the Graeco–Roman and

The Uses and Misuses of Modern Biblical Scholarship

177

Byzantine periods, a visitor to the museum comes upon a wide array of Islamic artifacts. If a visitor to Israel wishes to see more of Islamic memorabilia, they have for their perusal Jerusalem’s Museum of Islamic Art. One also notes that a team of epigraphers led by Moshe Sharon of the Hebrew University has deciphered and commented upon thousands of Arabic inscriptions from Palestine, many items previously unknown and written on all sorts of surfaces. And if that were not enough to consider when weighing the case against Israeli scholars, one could add the many books and articles Israeli Arabists have devoted to Islamic Palestine, as well as excavations of Islamic sites, the most notable to date being what some scholars claim to be the first administrative center of Islamic Jerusalem.53

The Resonance of Scholarly Politics and the Arabs of Palestine What bearing can an alleged Western conspiracy to sever the “historic” link between the indigenous peoples of Canaan and current Palestinians have on the politics of the region? How would the political calculus of the Near East change if the minimalist position trumpeted by Palestinian intellectuals and their sympathizers gained ascendance in Western intellectual and political circles? If the revered narrative of ancient Israel is, at best, an account of a world that should have been, or, following the outspoken minimalists, nothing more than a concoction of Persian or Hellenistic times, projected back onto a more distant Canaanite past, why should anyone privilege that Jewish version of history over Palestinian versions? Why should well-meaning people of the West be sympathetic to Jewish claims to the Holy Land, when such claims are based on unreliable and biased texts? Why not follow instead those minimalists and their supporters who completely discredit the biblical account, while supporting in full the cause of Palestinian nationalism? All these loaded queries and the answers they demand are grist for the Arab mill. Whether speaking of geopolitics or justice, Arabs have always held that Israel is based on a myth and conceived in sin. Even Arabs prepared to live at peace with a Jewish state question its legitimacy. From their perspective, historic Palestine was Arab land even in the most ancient times. The United Nations organization was wrongly motivated when it deliberated the future of the mandated territory in 1947. Both justice and history demanded that it should have remained Arab rather than be partitioned into two proposed states: one Jewish, reportedly as in days of yore, and one Arab, to reflect some 1,300 years of Muslim rule in Palestine. If only the world had known and were guided by the real history of the land and its rightful owners. Based on the knowledge they have acquired, Palestinian intellectuals broadly familiar with the Western world are genuinely offended by what they declare a conscious denial of their history, especially as for them, that denial is based on claims derived from an imagined biblical past that favors the Zionist project. Reaching out to sympathetic Western audiences, and with arguments loosely based on idiosyncratic Western scholarship, they maintain that modern Israel, a polity that should never have come into being, justifies its expanded borders, indeed its validity as a Jewish state, by a deliberate misuse of fundamentally biased scholarship.

178

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

Does the broad cross section of current Palestinian society embrace such views of the ancient past? However much Palestinian intellectuals are inclined to invoke the minimalist position in laying out their case, the legacy of traditional Islam serves as a significant brake. Believing Muslims, who represent the preponderant majority of Palestinian Arab society, are obliged to recognize that the ancient Israelite past is part of their own religious heritage. The Qur’an contains all sorts of references to biblical persons and events. Muslim scripture and commentary present Muhammad as the last and most noble of a long line of prophets well known from the biblical record. According to Muslim belief, his future coming and hence legitimacy was recognized in turn by all the prophets preceding him, beginning with Moses. The first prophet of Jewish tradition and the Messenger of God who seals prophecy for the Muslims are thus bound to each other irrevocably. Nor is Muhammad the only Arab defined by a biblical past. According to Muslim tradition, all the northern Arabs, including the Quraysh and the Banu Hashim, Muhammad’s tribe and clan, were the descendants of Ishmael, the eldest son of Abraham. Any claim that Moses and Abraham are mythic figures living in mythic times would be greeted as sheer heresy among the Muslim faithful, and among the more militant Islamists cause for meting out serious punishment. Palestinian intellectuals may well accept minimalists who link the Palestinians of today to the ancient peoples of Canaan. Some Arab scholars have gone a step further and argue that the Canaanites originated in the Arabian Peninsula thus making the ancestors of today’s Palestinians the descendants of migrating primal Arabs. Nevertheless, believing Muslims cannot jettison completely the versions of biblical persons and events, accounts that have captivated the faithful since the outset of Islam. For traditional Muslims, God’s revelation to the Israelites is undeniable. Properly understood, the Hebrew Bible reveals the future coming of Muhammad and the end of divinely revealed prophecy. Moreover, the tales of the Israelites refracted in the Qur’an serve as a window to God’s will in the past and a guide to contemporaneous Muslim behavior. Recognizing the importance of Israelite tales (Isra’iliyat) to their religious foundations, the early Muslims pursued an active interest in Jewish memorabilia.54 One can assume they were titillated by various accounts of the ancient Israelites and that they read the richly textured Arabic versions with much interest and considerable profit. Intellectual curiosity alone does not account, however, for the extensive and sustained Muslim concern with ancient Israel. In pursuing the Jewish past, Muslim religious authorities were not interested in new and more broadly defined insights about the general nature of religious experience. The tales of the Israelites were not considered arcane legends, the sort of material that draws attention from modern folklorists or scholars of comparative religion. In outlook, the Muslim authorities resembled more closely the medieval friars of the Christian West, learned men who saw themselves, first and foremost, as defenders of the true faith. Muslims delved into the Jewish past because they thought it directly linked to the course of their own history, and was important to their ideals, practices, and moral behavior. The Hebrew Bible, properly explicated, not only foretold the coming of the Prophet Muhammad, it and postbiblical Jewish tradition predicted events taking place during the time of his successors, the commanders of the faithful. The manner in which the Israelites comported themselves was also an indication of how people with a

The Uses and Misuses of Modern Biblical Scholarship

179

revealed text can fail to comply with the ways of Allah. Seen through Islamic lenses, the Jewish “other” became a yardstick by which the Muslims measured themselves and their religious community against an older and less worthy monotheist people. Unlike the early Muslim polity that represented a transcendent ideal for all generations of Muslims, the Banu Isra’il, or “People of Israel” were constantly rebelling against their God. They were truly a “stiff-necked” people, or as Muslims declared them, seemingly based on Jewish sources, a “thick-hearted” people.55 Proof of Israel’s unworthiness, self-critically expressed by the ancient biblical theologians, was a constant theme of Muslim polemicists. Such quotes continue to flavor Muslim polemics in their hostile engagement with Jews and the modern state of Israel. Politically motivated Arab scholars who focus on Jewish scripture are inclined to demonstrate how particular passages are linked to Zionist ideology and behavior. For them, Jewish scripture, properly understood, illuminates the modern state of Israel’s aggressive political policies. To deny the biblical account, understood by traditional Muslims, surrenders both the underpinnings of Muslim beliefs and the material from which they fashioned and continue to fashion negative images of Jews, Judaism, and, more recently, the Zionist enterprise. Such as it is, Arab interest in the ancient Near East is linked everywhere to the modern nation state. Virtually all countries in the region sponsor their own excavations and license digs by foreign archaeologists. These modern polities promote themselves as heirs to civilizations that graced their national domains before Islam. Even before a Palestinian state is established, the Palestinian authority that currently supervises institutions of higher learning has moved, however slowly, towards creating a fullfledged department of antiquities. Turning to the pre-Islamic world in search of nationhood and national symbols has an undeniable logic. How else would Iraqis, Jordanians, Lebanese, and now Palestinians among others, create a deep rooted and unifying sense of nationality where nations as we now know them never existed until recent times? Nevertheless, claiming ancient cultures that are foreign and distant as one’s own, or even seeking to understand those cultures on their own terms, is a formidable undertaking. In any event, Islam defines the basic identity of the overwhelming majority of Arabs. As a rule, Muslims raised with a traditional education do not resonate to pagan elements of the pre-Islamic past, let alone claim them as their authentic heritage. True enough, during the formative period of Islam, there was considerable curiosity about the world of the ancients, particularly that of the Greeks and Israelites. The former provided Muslim thinkers with the so-called Greek sciences: philosophy, medicine, geography, astronomy, and mathematics, but they did not provide widely embraced templates of moral or religious behavior. On the other hand, the ancient Israelites provided Muslims with the truth of the Prophet’s mission, predictions of future events in the world of Islam, and an earlier monotheist history that bore studying. All that was, however, preparation for the quintessential Islam to follow. Many Arabs now express a renewed interest in the ancient world. The Palestinians, for one, seek to embrace a more remote history of the land they claim, as well as nurture a community of professional archaeologists. Nevertheless, that interest has not led to widespread and sustained scholarly enquiry, such as exists in the universities and

180

Middle Eastern Politics and Historical Memory

research institutes of the West. Palestinian intellectuals stressing Arab links to Canaan’s ancient people may appreciate the significance of ruins and remote histories as political symbols. However, they have yet to turn that appreciation into a serious engagement with the languages that are the keys to understanding the literate cultures of the past.56 Palestinians who trumpet the importance of their Canaanite forebears have shown little interest in promoting scrupulous text-critical scholarship. The study of ancient Canaan in the Western academy—which includes Israel’s universities—ordinarily demands a knowledge of Hebrew; a command of several other Near Eastern languages; as well as training in comparative Semitic linguistics and grammar. A familiarity with the most recent methods of archaeological excavation and the analysis of artifacts fills out the toolbox of the true scholar. These subjects are not yet the strong suit of the fledgling Palestinian universities. Arab scholars who have made serious attempts to master these disciplines, especially archaeological fieldwork and analysis, received their training mostly at foreign institutions. Despite the introduction of Palestinography into the school curriculum, interest in the ancient Near East remains largely confined to establishing a connection between today’s folk and the indigenous peoples of ancient Canaan. Perhaps that should not surprise us, for however much Muslim Palestinians embrace the Canaanite past, the history that has defined their identity for the past 1,000 years and more is the rise of Islam and the Arab conquest of the seventh century. Even Christian Arabs revel in the conquest that ended Byzantine Christian rule, albeit for them the victory represents the triumph of Arabs over non-Arabs. As of now, the all-powerful link between Arabs and the Islamic past overshadows every other human experience. We can expect it to do so in the foreseeable future.

Notes Essay 1 1 2

3

4

5

6

Jack Hexter, Doing History (Bloomington IN and London). Examples of this narrative technique can be found in J. Lassner, Islamic Revolution and Historical Memory: An Inquiry into the Art of Abbasid Apologetics (American Oriental Society Monograph Series 66. New Haven, 1986). See 15–19 citing traditions concerning the death of the Prophet Muhammad recorded in Muhammad b. Ishaq’s biography (Sirah) of the Prophet. Scholarly European edition by F. Wüstenfeld, K. Sirat Rasul Allah. Three volumes. (Göttingen, 1855–60, reprinted Frankfurt a. M. 1961). Edition cited in these essays is that of T. ‘Abd al-Rauf. Four volumes. (Beirut, n. d.). Lassner, Islamic Revolution, 19–30 referring to dreams that establish political legitimacy. On Islamic dreams, see the relevant studies in The Dream and Human Societies. Edited by G. von Grunebaum (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1966), and M.J. Kister, “The Interpretation of Dreams.” Israel Oriental Studies (IOS ) 4 (1974): 67–103. Lassner, Islamic Revolution, 30–6, esp. 33 ff., dealing with variant accounts addressed to different kinds of audiences. The substance of these coded traditions was to deny Alid claims of legitimacy based on an analysis of reported events surrounding the death of the Prophet Muhammad. See the classic work of J. Wellhausen, Die Composition des Hexateuchs und der historischen Bücher des Alten Testaments (Berlin, 1889), building on the then evolving hypothesis of a multi-authored biblical text. Wellhausen was one of several scholars who worked on the long-range project referred to as the polychrome bible. The project, fifty-one years in the making, was never completed. Altogether, sixteen volumes appeared as The Sacred Books of the Old Testament. Edited by P. Haupt (Leipzig, 1853–1904). The germ of this endeavor goes back to I. Goldziher’s Muhammedanische Studien. Two volumes. (Halle 1895, 1890); translated into English and annotated with new material by C.R. Bernard and S.M. Stern as Muslim Studies. Two volumes. (Chicago, 1966 and London, 1971). Goldziher’s critical analysis of Islamic traditions includes references to tendentiously driven historical accounts of events after the death of the Prophet. A major breakthrough regarding Arabic historiography is Wellhausen’s analysis of texts dealing with the formation of the early caliphate and the history of the Umayyad regime. See his Das arabische Reich und sein Sturz (Berlin, 1902); translated by M.G. Weir as The Arab Kingdom and its Fall (Calcutta, 1927). The work is essentially a running commentary on the description of events portrayed by the major Arabic chronicles known at the time, with particular reference to Muhammad b. Jarir al-Tabari’s massive universal history Ta’rikh al-rusul wa-l-muluk, published in a scholarly European edition edited by M.J. De Goeje et.al., and titled the Annales (Leiden, 1879–1901). Tabari’s history generally preserves several variants of the same event, often with a complete chain of authorities.

181

182 7

8

9

10 11

12 13

Notes An excellent summary of the subsequent literature on early Islamic history embracing the same basic framework proposed by Wellhausen and examining the so-called schools of early Arabic historical writing is found in ‘A. ‘A. Duri’s Bahth fi nash’at ‘ilm al-ta’rikh ‘ind al-‘Arab. Translated by L. Conrad as The Rise of Historical Writing Among the Arabs (Princeton University Press, 1983). See also The Byzantine and Early Islamic Near East. Volume 1. Problems in the Literary Source Material (Princeton: Darwin Press, 1992). Edited by A. Cameron and L. Conrad; and Conrad’s History and Historiography in Early Islamic Times (Princeton: Darwin Press, 1994). Above allm A. Noth’s Qüllenkritische Studien zur Themen, Formen, und Tendenzen früislamischer Geschitüberlieferung (Bonn, 1971), which has been reworked by the author and L. Conrad and translated from German as Early Arabic Historical Tradition (Princeton: Darwin Press, 1994); and F. Donner’s weighty Narratives of Early Islamic Origins. (Studies in Late Antiquity and Early Islam, 14) (Princeton: Darwin Press, 1998); more generally, C. Robinson, Islamic Historiography (Cambridge UK, 2003). Note also T. Khalidi, Arabic Historical Thought in the Classical Period (Cambridge UK, 1994), and his Islamic Historiography (SUNY Press, 1975), 2–54 (reflections on historical method). In his study Poetics of Islamic Historiography (Leiden, 2004), B. Shoshan applies his methodological insights (labeled by him deconstructing history) to analyze specific episodes using Tabari’s universal chronicle as his primary text to be compared with other versions of events. Readers learned in the sources will determine for themselves the extent to which Shoshan succeeds. The opinion here is that he has raised pertinent issues that should be taken seriously. For additional works on the literary aspects of Arabic historical writing, see the Bibliography appended to my text. R. Sellheim, “Prophet, Chalif, und Geschichte: Die Muhammad Biogrophie des Ibn Ishaq.” Oriens 18–19 (1967): 33–91 argues compellingly that Ibn Ishaq’s eighth-century biography of the Prophet Muhammad was composed to legitimize the author’s patrons, the house of Abbas. Note, however, U. Rubin who points out that the traditions cited by Ibn Ishaq include statements seemingly favorable to the Abbasids’ rivals. See his “Prophet’s and Progenitors in Early Shi‘a Tradition.” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam (JSAI ) 1 (1979): 41–65. For an extensive collection of studies on Ibn Ishaq’s biography, see The Biography of Muhammad. Edited by H. Motzki (Leiden/ Boston/Koln, 2000). A concise but detailed summary of the diffusion of the Arabic language and its cultural influence is rendered in the Encyclopedia of Islam, second edition (EI 2) s.v. “ ‘Arabbiya.”. For a brief summary of Ibn al-Athir’s life, see EI 2 s.v. “Ibn al-Athir (‘Izz al-Din).” See S.D. Goitein, A Mediterranean Society. Six volumes. (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1967–93). Abridged in a single volume and reworked by J. Lassner (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1999). A brief summary of the importance of the Geniza is found in Volume 1:1–28. The sixth volume is a cumulative index including a list of technical terms prepared by P. Sanders. A complete concordance of the Geniza complete with detailed cross references to classical and middle Arabic equivalents remains a desired objective. For the Arabic language employed by Jews in Islamic lands, see J. Blau, The Emergence and Linguistic Background of Judaeo-Arabic (Oxford UK, 1965). See F. Donner, The Early Islamic Conquests (Princeton University Press, 1981). Donner treads lightly through the shifting sands of early Arabic historiography, and quite rightly, he often equivocates when faced with conflicting details. In all likelihood, the earliest transmitters of historical information were working with conflicting narratives, at the outset oral versions of events. The question of oral versus written

Notes

183

sources has been discussed by G. Schoeler in a series of detailed studies written in German and published in Der Islam. These articles have been translated into English by U. Vagelpohl, part of a collection of Schoeler’s writings published in the Routledge Studies in Middle Eastern Literatures and titled The Oral and theWritten in Early Islam (London and New York, 2006). Schoeler’s work deals largely with the transmission of scholarship (Wissenschaft), but that as well as the chapter on oral poetry and Arabic literature provide insight regarding the transmission of historical accounts (Arabic akhbar). See also his Écrire et transmettre dans les débuts de l’Islam (Paris, 2002). 14 This is particularly true of apocalyptical literature in which contemporary events are disguised as future prophecies usually predicted by sage characters of an earlier age. The apparent fulfillment of the back-projection is then understood to signify the legitimacy of a current action, individual, or group. Note for example, the numerous traditions that Christian monks recognized Muhammad’s prophetic vocation-based material found in their esoteric texts of old. Note also the Muslim claim that Jewish rabbis denied the legitimacy of Muhammad’s call despite the clear evidence to his future coming in sacred Jewish sources. See S. Griffith, “Muhammad and the Monk Bahira: Reflections on a Syriac and Arabic text from Early Abbasid times.” Oriens Christianus (OC ) 79 (1995): 146–74 (deals with Christian responses to Muslim polemics concerning the Monk Bahira’s recognition of Muhammad’s mission); and J. Lassner, The Middle East Remembered (University of Michigan Press, 2000), 357–63 (Muslim versions of the Bahira legend), 363–75 (Christian versions), 376–86 (Jewish responses); also H. Lazarus-Yafeh, Intertwined Worlds (Princeton University Press, 1992): 75–110.

Essay 2 1

2 3

4

For an extensive overview of martyrdom in Islam, see Martyrdom and Sacrifice in Islam (London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 2017). Edited by M. Hatina and M. Litvak; esp. 39–75 (classical Shi‘ite attitudes); 116–30 (recent Iranian concepts of martyrdom); 131–44 (Hizbollah); 145–56 (the Muslim Brotherhood in Syria); 157–72 (Hamas). More generally 76–98 (developing martyrology in early Islam); For the culture of martyrdom, see Part III, 207–92. On suicide and Islamic tradition, F. Rosenthal, “Suicide in Islam.” Journal of the American Oriental Society (JAOS ) 66 (1948): 239–59. For suicide in the ancient Near East, see J. Dietrich, “The Meaning of Suicide in the Ancient Near East.” Ancient Near East Today 6/6 (2018): www.asor.org/ anetoday/2018/06. For a summary of the relevant modern legal opinions on suicide bombing, see the publication of the Palestinian militant movement Islamic Jihad, Al-Islam wa Falastin, June 5, 1988: 1–15 (the supplement titled: Qira’ah fi fiqh al-shahadah) published some months shortly after the outbreak of the first Palestinian intifadah. On the doctrinal positions of Hamas, see Martyrdom and Sacrifice, 161–2. BT (Babylonian Talmud) Sanhedrin 74a. See for example Ibn Manzur, Lisan al-‘Arab and standard Arabic dictionaries of pre-modern times s.v. sh-h-d. For a list of early lexical works, see Encyclopedia of Islam, second edition (EI 2) s.v. “Kamus.” For ritual washing, see G.H. Bousquet, “Le purité rituelle en Islam.” Revue de l’histoire des religions 138 (1950): 51–72. On the classification of the shahid according to Islamic law, with particular reference to the body, the battlefield, and ritual washing of the dead, see R. Gleave, “The Status of the Battlefield Martyr in Classical Shi‘i Law.” In

184

5

6 7 8

9 10

11

12 13

14

15 16

Notes M. Hatina and M. Litvak eds. Martyrdom and Sacrifice in Islam (2017), 52–75. Note the difference between Shi‘ites and Sunnites on whether ritual washing was required of martyrs killed on the battlefield. The different categories of martyrdom are treated in the various canonical collections of Islamic tradition (hadith). See A.J. Wensinck, A Handbook of Early Muhammadan Tradition (Leiden, 1971), 146–8; and his Concordance et indices de la tradition Musulmane. Eight volumes. Edited by A.J. Wensinck et.al. See 3:190–2. See also D. Cook, Understanding Jihad (Second edition, Oakland CA, 2015), 28–31 (martyrdom and holy war “jihad”). See n. 3. On Najran, see EI 2 s.v. “Nadjran.” The most detailed treatment of the martyrs of Najran remains that of I. Shahid, The Martyrs of Najrân (Brussels, 1971). See the standard Muslim Qur’an commentaries on the relevant verses. The most complete review of the early commentaries is that of Tabari, Jami‘ al-bayan (many editions). The earliest published Qur’an commentary, the Tafsir of Sulayman b. Muqatil (Cairo, 1979) placed the “blessed cities” of Surah 34:18 in “al-ard almuqaddasah” [meaning] Jordan (al-Urdunn) and Palestine (Filastin). The geographical parameters of eighth-century Jordan do not correspond to present geographical conceptions. For Islamic Palestine, see B. Lewis, “Palestine: On the History and Geography of a Name,” in his collected studies Islam in History (Chicago: Open Court, 1993), 153–65. Also Essay 5 of this volume. EI 2 s.v. “al-Khalil b. Ahmad.” See also G. Schoeler, The Oral and the Written in Early Islam (London and New York, 2006), 142–63 (discusses the authorship of the work). I am indebted for this information to Moshe Sharon and Isaac Hasson of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem who checked the corpus of pre-Islamic poetry housed there for words derived from sh-h-d. For early Alid-Abbasid relations and the events that brought the Abbasids to power, see J. Lassner, The Shaping of ‘Abbasid Rule (Princeton University Press, 1980) and his Islamic Revolution. Also M. Sharon, Black Banners from the East (Leiden and Jerusalem, 1983) and his Revolt: The Social and Military Aspects of the ‘Abbasid Revolution (Jerusalem, 1990); similarly F. Omar, The ‘Abbasid Caliphate 132/750–170/186 (Baghdad, 1969). For additional comments on the Abbasid revolution, see Essays 3 and 4. Lassner, Islamic Revolution, xi–xv, 3–36. A re-examination of the historiography of the first civil war in Islam would be most welcome. In many respects, the most incisive treatment of the sources remains that of E. Petersen, ‘Ali and Mu‘awiya in Early Arabic Tradition (Copenhagen, 1964), and his “Studies on the Historiography of the ‘Ali-Mu‘awiya Conflict.” Acta Orientalia (AO ) 27 (1963): 83–118. As regards early primary sources, the most complete description of the events following ‘Ali’s death is in Tabari, Annales, 2/1: 3 ff. and Ahmad b. Yahya al-Baladhuri, Ansab al-ashraf , IVa. Edited by S.D. Goitein and reissued with additions and corrections by M.J. Kister (Jerusalem, 1971). The events leading up to the civil war are discussed in great detail by W. Madelung in his The Succession to Muhammad (Cambridge UK, 1991), 78–311, 373–8. A summary of his career can be found in the EI 2 s.v. “al-Hasan b. ‘Ali b. Abi Talib.” I am currently preparing a fully annotated study of al-Hasan’s career in contrast to that of his brother al-Husayn. See EI 2 s.v. “Hind Bint ‘Utba.” Even the vehemently pro-Alid Muhammad b. ‘Ali b. Tabataba, the direct descendant of a martyred Alid namesake, gives high marks to Mu‘awiyah for his political sagacity,

Notes

185

especially as regards disarming the Hashimites with favors. See Ibn Tabataba, Fakhri (Beirut, 1966), 104–5. For a thoughtful biography of Mu‘awiyah intended for a general audience, see R.S. Humphreys, Mu‘awiya ibn Abi Sufyan (Oxford: One World, 2006). 17 Ibid., 101, 103–4. 18 See the somewhat outdated entry in the EI 2 s.v. “al-Hudjr b. ‘Adi.” The most detailed accounts of Hujr’s “rebellion” and death are found in Tabari, Annales. 2/1: 111–56; and Baladhuri, Ansab IVa, 211–36. For a full review of the Arabic sources but drawing somewhat different conclusions about how to interpret the revolt, see K. Keshk, “The Historiography of an Execution: The Killing of Hujr b. ‘Adi.” Journal of Islamic Studies 19/1 (2008): 1–35. 19 There is a voluminous literature in both primary and secondary sources on the martyrdom of al-Husayn b. ‘Ali and the manner in which it has been commemorated by Shi‘ites over 1,300 years. For a detailed summary of the events leading to his death, see the extended entries in EI 2 by L. Vecca Vaglieri s.v. “al-Husayn b. ‘Ali” and P. Chelkowski s.v. “Ta’ziya.” Note also the similar martyrdom of his eighth-century namesake. See EI 2 s.v. “Fakhkh.”

Essay 3 1 2

3 4

5

6 7

For example, Ibn Tabataba, Fakhri (Beirut, 1966), 105. An overview of the Zubayrids can be found in EI 2 s.v. “ ‘Abdallah” and “Mus‘ab b. al-Zubayr.” See also ‘A. A.‘A. Dixon, The Umayyad Caliphate 65–86/684–705 (London: Luzac, 1971), 121–42; G.R. Hawting, The First Dynasty of Islam (London and Sydney: Croon Helm, 1986), 46–57. Dixon, Umayyad Caliphate, 15–24; Hawting, First Dynasty, 61–6 (reforms of ‘Abd al-Malik). D. Cook, “Muslim Apocalyptic and Jihad.” JSAI 20 (1966): 66–104; M. Cook, “Eschatology and the Dating of Traditions.” Princeton Papers in Near Eastern Studies 1 (1992): 23–47; J. Lassner, Medieval Jerusalem (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2016), 72–80 (Jewish apocalyptical traditions and the Umayyads). For a recent review of apocalyptic sources in Late Antiquity and Early Islam, see S.J. Shoemaker, The Apocalypse of Empire (University of Pennsylvania Press, 2018). His views linking nascent Islam to an apocalyptic milieu are likely to engender skepticism among any number of Islamicists. EI 2 s.v. “Zayd b. ‘Ali b. al-Husayn.” (many references to primary sources); also S. H. M. Jafri, The Origins and Early Development of Shi‘a Islam (London and New York, 1979), 265 ff.; J. Lassner, ‘Abbasid Rule, 141, 144. 147–8; his Islamic Revolution, 83, 94, 96–7, 132, dealing with Abbasid reactions to Zayd’s Revolt. The analysis of the revolt relies heavily on the “official” history of the rise of the Abbasids, the anonymous Akhbar al-dawlah al-‘Abbasiyah, also known as Akhbar al-‘Abbas. Edited by ‘A.‘A. Duri and ‘A. J. Muttalibi (Beirut, 1971) based on the published facsimile of an anonymous text labeled Ta’rikh al-khulafa’ by P.A. Gryaznevich (Moscow, 1967); also M. Sharon, Black Banners, 174–83 (citing a wide range of primary sources). On the messianic implications of the battle cry “ya Muhammad ya Mansur” see the extensive references cited in Sharon, Black Banners, 176 n.70. For the election of ‘Uthman, see the most detailed account of W. Madelung, The Succession to Muhammad, 78–140.

186 8 9 10 11 12

13

14 15 16

17 18 19 20 21

Notes EI 2 s.v. “Yahya b. Zayd b. ‘Ali.” (citing relevant primary sources); Sharon, Black Banners, 177–83; Lassner, Islamic Revolution, 83, 94, 96–7, 132. M. Sharon, Revolt: The Social and Military Aspects of the ‘Abbasid Revolution (Jerusalem, 1990), 127–38. For an extensive bibliography of the Abbasid rise to power, see J. Lassner, The Middle East Remembered, 61 n.1. M. Sharon, Black Banners, 159–62. J. Lassner, ‘Abbasid Rule, 58–79 (revolutionary agents Abu Salamah and Abu Muslim eliminated), 84–5 (collusion of Abu Salamah with the Alids), 109–12 (the later revolt of the Rawandiyah), and his Islamic Revolution, 100–33 (the origins of Abu Muslim), esp.107–117 (building a retroactive case against Abu Muslim); M. Sharon, Revolt, 246–56 (Abu Salamah). The Abbasids were also concerned about the premature exposure of their clandestine movement by extremist operatives. Sharon, Black Banners, 165–73 (eliminating Khidash); and, following the establishment of the regime, the need to suppress zealous supporters of the regime. See Lassner, ‘Abbasid Rule, 109–11 (the Rawandiyah). J. Lassner, Islamic Revolution, 78–79—citing Akhbar al-‘Abbas, 214–15, 217–19, 247–9, and Ibn Hisham, Sirah (Beirut), 1/1: 293 ff. For Muhammad’s policy regarding armed conflict, W.M. Watt, Muhammad at Mecca (Oxford UK, 1953), 144–5. Akhbar al-‘Abbas, 241. On the significance of black for the Abbasids, see F. Omar, ‘Abbasiyat: Studies in the History of the Early ‘Abbasids (Baghdad, 1976), 148–54. Akhbar al-‘Abbas, 246–7. For other accounts of ‘Abbasid “suffering,” see Lassner, Islamic Revolution, 41–3 (the thrashing of the Abbasid patriarch ‘Ali b. ‘Abdallah—citing Akhbar al-‘Abbas, 138–9; Baladhuri, Ansab, 3:85–6; Ibn Qutaybah, K. al-ma‘arif. Edited by F. Wüstenfeld (Göttingen, 1850), 207; Ibn Khallikan, Wafayat al-a‘yan wa anba’ abna’ al-zaman (Cairo, 1881)—here citing the translation and partially annotated text of M.G. DeSlaine, 3: 265; al-Mubarrad, Kamil, Edited by M.A. Ibrahim and S. Shahatah (Cairo, 1956), 2: 217–28, and 44–7. The physical abuse and public humiliation of ‘Ali—citing Akhbar al-‘Abbas, 139; Mubarrad, Kamil, 218; Ibn Khallikan (DeSlaine), 3:265–6 quoting Mubarrad. J. Lassner, ‘Abbasid Rule, 69–71. Tabari, Annales 3/1: 228; Isfahani, Maqatil, al-Talibiyin (Teheran, 1946), 2: 268. J. Lassner, ‘Abbasid Rule, 71–4. Ibid., 84–5. For war in Islam, see EI 2 s.v. “Djihad,” and M. Bonner, Jihad in Islamic History (Princeton University Press, 2006). Also D. Cook, Understanding Jihad, (Oakland CA: University. of California Press, Second edition). Cook’s work is largely devoted to modern interpretations of jihad and jihadist movements.

Essay 4 1

A coalition of forces has recently reclaimed Mosul from the Islamic State. The loss of the city, a bastion of military and symbolic importance, may well prove a watershed in the ability of the militants to project a triumphalist image. The same would hold true for the loss of Raqqa in Syria, ISIL’s capital and the remaining areas under their control. Along with other Jihadi groups, ISIL would nevertheless retain a capacity to unsettle the region and the world beyond.

Notes 2

187

See the new edition of B. Lewis’s collected studies, Islam in History, 3–24 (“The Study of Islam”), 49–60 (“On Writing the Modern History of the Middle East”). 3 A serious study linking revolutions in Europe and Asia with those of the Islamic Near East would make for a compelling and important read. R.N. Frye’s “The ‘Abbasid Conspiracy and Modern Revolutionary Theory.” Indo-Iranica 5.3 (1952–3): 9–14 does not even scratch the surface. See the broad-ranging studies Revolution in the Middle East. Studies on Modern Asia and Africa 9 (London: Allen and Unwin, 1972). Edited by P.J. Vatikiotis. The work consists of a number of separate studies (originally seminar papers), including accounts of revolutions in Eastern Europe, Latin America, and China. Unfortunately, the free-standing contributions are not in dialogue with one another. For a useful overview of early Islamic revolutions, see n. 4. 4 A concise and highly informative account of the various terms used by Arabs to signify revolution can be read in B. Lewis, “Islamic Concepts of Revolution,” in P.J. Vatikiotis editor, Revolution, 30–40. This study appears in somewhat altered form in several of Lewis’s collected studies titled Islam and History. On Lewis’s treatment of the vocabulary of Islamic revolution, see J. Lassner, The Middle East Remembered, 89–94. 5 B. Lewis, “Islamic Concepts of Revolution,” 39–40; and J. Lassner, Middle East Remembered, 92. 6 For example, Ibn Manzur, Lisan al-‘Arab s.v. q-l-b. On Arabic political terminology, see B. Lewis, Islam in History, 337–44 (“On Modern Arabic Political Terms.”). 7 W. Madelung, The Succession to Muhammad, 28–56 (Abu Bakr), 57–77 (‘Umar), 78–140 (‘Uthman), 141–310 (‘Ali). 8 EI 2 s.v. “Shura”, note A. Ayalon’s entry on the early modern Muslim conceptions of shura (originally tribal election) in his Language and Change in the Arab Middle East (Oxford UK, 1987). 9 As regards moral compromises, readers will wish to consider the attempt to create distance between the Prophet and the expulsion of two Jewish tribes from Medina (Nadir and Qaynuqa‘), and especially the extermination of a third (Qurayzah). See the early discussion of A.J. Wensinck, Mohammed en de Joden te Medina (Leiden, 1908), 142–72. Translated and edited from Dutch by W. Behn as Muhammad and the Jews of Medina (Freiburg, 1975), 104–27 (offers justification for Muhammad’s actions by traditional Muslim sources as well as Western views both accepting and critical of the Prophet). Also, the more recent treatment of W.M. Watt, Muhammad at Medina, 191–220, esp. 208–20 (the physical attack on the Jews), and more generally 324–34 (Muhammad’s moral failings). Note, Watt is generally sympathetic to the Prophet and his actions. The basis for critical judgement must take into account M. Lecker’s collected studies, Jews and Arabs in Pre-and Early Islamic Arabia (Ashgate: USA and UK, 1998), 133–47 (Jews and the markets of Medina), 66–72 (Arabs executed with the Banu Qurayzah). See also, J. Lassner and M. Bonner, Islam in the Middle Ages (Santa Barbara CA: Praeger, 2010), 47–64. 10 B. Lewis, “Islamic Concepts of Revolution,” 30–1. Lewis speculates Greek or Persian origins for the concept of dawlah. Note, however, P. Machinist. “The Transfer of Kingship: A Divine Turning Point.” In Fortunate the Eyes That See. Edited by A, Beck et.al. (Grand Rapids MI: Eerdmans, 1995), 105–20, which calls attention to theories of turned fortunes in the ancient Near East, suggesting residual influence from a much earlier period, which strikes me as a more plausible connection to the Islamic concept of dawlah. See also, M. Sharon, Black Banners, 19–27. 11 See J. Lassner, Islamic Revolution, 3–36; and Essays 1 and 2.

188

Notes

12 Akhbar al-dawlah, 241, 246–7 (‘Abbasid agents called nuqaba’); also Lassner, Islamic Revolution, 63–4, 66, 79–80. For the Prophet’s nuqaba’, see W.M. Watt, Muhammad at Mecca, 145, 147–8. 13 Ibn Tabataba, Fakhri (Beirut), 105. 14 Perhaps the best of many books surveying post-monarchy Iraq is A. Baram, Culture, History, and Ideology in the Formation of Ba‘thist Iraq, 1968–89 (St. Martins NY, 1991) and his Saddam Hussein and Islam, 1968–2003 (St. Martins NY, 1991). See also the moving account of the pseudonymous S. al-Khalil (aka K. Makiya), Republic of Fear (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1989). 15 See P. Seale, The Struggle for Syria (Oxford UK, 1965) and his Asad: The Struggle for the Middle East (London: I.B. Tauris, 1988). 16 J. Lassner and S. Troen. Jews and Muslims in the Arab World: Haunted by Pasts Real and Imagined (Lanham MD: Roman and Littlefield, 2007), 127–56 (traditional Islam and Palestinian Arab nationalism after 1987), 157–87 (the Islamists and the peace process). 17 D. Cook, Understanding Jihad, 32–48 (greater and lesser jihad). 18 On the sending of messengers, see Ibn Ishaq, Sirah (Beirut) 4: 187–8; Tabari, Annales, 1/3: 1559–75 (listing the Byzantine and Sasanian Emperors, the Negus of Abyssinia; the Patrikios of Alexandria; and the King of the Ghassanids). As regards the painting in the Umayyad palace, see O. Grabar, “Painting of the Six Kings at Qusayr ‘Amrah.” Ars Orientalis (ArOr) 1 (1954):185–7 (the six kings of the painting were no doubt suggested by the number of messengers dispatched by the Prophet); for a detailed art historical approach, see G. Fowden, Qusayr ‘Amra (Berkeley/Los Angeles/London: University of California Press, 2004), 197–226. The identity of the six kings in the badly damaged painting is a matter of conjecture but, whomever they may represent, the portrayal is meant to reflect the wide expansion of Islam in lands far from the Arab heartland, a sign of a triumphalist Muslim engagement with both the monotheist and non-monotheist worlds. 19 S.W. Anthony, Crucifixion and Death as Spectacle. American Oriental Society Monograph Series 96 (New Haven, 2014) deals with the residual traces of late antiquity crucifixion on Umayyad executions. The same attitude to public executions continued throughout the course of Islamic history. 20 Note for example the killing of the witch-like queen Jezebel (2 Kings 9: 32–7). Her body was smashed and trampled by horses; her body parts torn from her torso waiting for the dogs to devour her flesh, so no trace of her carcass remained, an event predicted by the Prophet Elijah (1 Kings 21:17–27). For a summary of non-Israelite parallels, see T. Abusch, “Mesopotamian Anti-Witchcraft Literature.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies (JNES) 33 (1974): 251–62. 21 S. Moscati, “Le massacre des Umayyades dans l’histoire et dans le fragments poétiques.” Archiv Orientální (ArO) 18 (1950): 88–115. 22 J. Lassner, The Middle East Remembered, 180–91, and his ‘Abbasid Rule, 116–36 (formation of the imperial army); M. Sharon, Revolt, 263–96 (military reforms of Abu Muslim “commissar” of the Abbasid revolutionary army). 23 J. Lassner, “The Caliph’s Personal Domain: The City Plan of Baghdad Re-examined.” In The Islamic City. Edited by A.H. Hourani and S.M. Stern (Oxford UK, 1970), 103–18. Lassner’s The Topography of Baghdad in the Early Middle Ages (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1970), 138–49 (political symbolism and monumental architecture); also, by Lassner, “Some Speculative Thoughts on the Search for an ‘Abbasid Capital.” Muslim World (MW) 55 (1965): 135–41, 203–10 (overemphasizes

Notes

24

25

26

27 28 29

30

189

Iranian influence in the caliph’s decision to build The Round City at Baghdad), a view corrected by his ‘Abbasid Rule, 163–83 (foundation lore and historical reality). For the provincial administration, see ‘Abbasid Rule, 58–90; on the government bureaucracy, 91–115. There are a number of scholarly articles on various aspects of the caliph’s reign but a detailed full-length study based on currently available primary sources is in order. For a capsule view of his reign, see EI 2 s.v. Harun al-Rashid. For al-Hadi’s reign, see S. Moscati, “Le Califat d’al-Hadi.” Studia Orientalia (SO) 13/4 (1946): 1–28. A general discussion of the events leading to his death Is found in N. Abbot, Two Queens of Baghdad (University of Chicago Press, 1946), 105–12; and more specifically J. Lassner, ‘Abbasid Rule, 46–7 (casting doubt on sources describing his death as murder). The classic work on the subject is F. Gabrielli. “La successione di Harun al-Rashid et la guerra fra al-Amin e al-Ma’mun.” Revista degli Studi Orientali (RSO) 11 (1926–8): 341–97; see also S. Samadi. “The Struggle between the Two Brothers al-Amin and al-Ma’mun.” Islamic Culture (IC) 36 (1962): 167–81, 237–44; and J. Lassner, The Middle East Remembered, 180–8 (claims the civil war lacked a pronounced ideological dimension and reflected instead the self-interests of the parties situated in Iraq and Khurasan); A. Elad. “Mawali in the Composition of the al-Ma’mun’s army: A non-Arab Takeover.” In Patronate and Patronage in Early and Classical Islam. Edited by M. Barends and J. Nawas (Leiden and Boston, 2005), 278–325 (argues for a conflict between tribesmen of Arab descent (abna’) billeted in Baghdad and fighting for al-Amin and non-Arab units in al-Ma’mun’s Khurasan based army). As regards the ‘Abbasid house, see J. Lassner, ‘Abbasid Rule, 19–79. J. Lassner, Islamic Revolution, 3–36, 39–71 (apologetics and historical writing), 75–97 (case studies of a revolutionary history that should have been). Also B. Lewis’s succinct but thought-provoking “On the Quietist and Activist Traditions in Islamic Political Writing.” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies (BSOAS) 49 (1986): 141–7. J. Lassner, Jews, Christians, and the Abode of Islam (University of Chicago Press, 2012), 86–128; see also Modern Muslim Intellectuals and the Qur’an (Oxford UK, 2004). Edited by S. Taji-Farouki.

Essay 5 1

2

3

C. Glass, Tribes with Flags (New York: Atlantic Monthly Press, 1990). On tribalism and nationalism, see the essays in Tribes and State Formation in the Middle East (Berkeley/ Los Angeles/Oxford: University of California Press, 1999). Edited by P. Khoury and J. Kostiner. More generally, N.N. Ayubi’s Over-Stating the Arab State (London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 1995). There is a truly vast literature of recent Islamist movements. A learned study that pieces together the links between current Salafism with the Islamic past is H. Lauzierre’s path breaking, The Making of Salafism (New York: Columbia University Press, 2015). Among the numerous publications devoted to ISIL, W. McCants, The ISIS Apocalypse (New York: St. Martins, 2015) is, despite its accessible journalistic style, an important, if not in fact the most revealing of the books linking the ideology and actions of ISIL to an Islamic past.

190 4 5

6 7

8 9

10

11 12 13 14

15

Notes On divisions within and among Arab polities, see the observations in B. Lewis, The Multiple Identities of the Middle East (New York: Schocken Books, 1998). A succinct summary of the Greater Syria Plan as well as its links to combatting Zionism and the State of Israel is found in the proceedings of a symposium published in The Jerusalem Cathedra 2 (Ben Zvi Institute, Jerusalem and Wayne State University Press, Detroit MI, 1962), 259–81; P. Seale, Syria, 5–15, esp.11–15, 16–23, 46–57 (the Greater Syria plans and the Arab world). More generally, A.H. Hourani, Syria and Lebanon (Oxford UK, 1946). For Nasserist ideology, see N. Rejwan, Nasserist Ideology, Its Exponents and Critics (New Brunswick NJ: Transaction, 1974). For an overview, see M.E. Yapp, The Making of the Modern Near East 1792–1923 (London and New York: Longman, 1987), 179–313. C. Dawn, From Ottomanism to Arabism (Urbana IL: University of Illinois Press, 1973) remains the classic one volume study. For Arab nationalist perspectives, see the American edition of G. Antonius, The Arab Awakening (Philadelphia PA: Lippincott, 1939), Z.N. Zeine, Arab Turkish Relations and the Emergence of Arab Nationalism (Beirut, 1958), The Origins of Arab Nationalism. Edited by R. Khalidi et.al. (New York: Columbia University Press, 1991). For an analysis of the diplomatic initiatives of the European powers in the Near East, see the meticulously researched writings E. Kedourie: England and the Middle East: The Destruction of the Ottoman Empire 1914–1921 (Boulder CO: Mansel, London and Westview, 1987); and the new edition of The Chatham House Papers (Hanover NH: Brandeis University Press, 1984); also The Anglo–Arab Labyrinth: The McMahonHusayn Correspondence and its Interpretations, 1914–1939 (Cambridge UK, 1976). See n.4. Two books are particularly revealing as regards the modern Arab nation state in relation to the Islamic past: P.J. Vatikiotis, Islam and the State (London and New York: Routledge, 1987), and L.C. Brown, Religion and State (New York: Columbia University Press, 2000). As for Arabic terminology, see A. Ayalon, Language and Change in the Middle East (Oxford US, 1987), 44, 52. Note, however, the expression ibn al-watan, which in the nineteenth century meant “son of the homeland,” that is “patriot.” A watani was a resident (of Egypt) as opposed to ajnabi, “alien.” The germ of muwatin as meaning “citizen” and, with that, a person entitled to “citizens’ rights,” seemingly dates to Christian authors of the nineteenth century. The full meaning of “citizen” as defined in Western terms, took shape only in the twentieth century. See Ayalon, 52–3. Ahmad b. Abi Tahir Tayfur, Ta’rikh Baghdad (Cairo, 1949), 132–3. J. Lassner. “Massignon and Baghdad: Municipal Entities and Mosques: An Additional Note on the Imperial City.” Journal of Economic and Social History of the Orient (JESHO ) 10 (1967): 53–63, esp. 54–5 (discusses the legal definition of what constituted the boundaries of medieval Baghdad). A. Ayalon, “Language,” 52–44. Isaiah, 1:1. EI 2 s.v. “ ‘Asabiyya.” The absence of corporate institutions did not prevent individual bonds of loyalty (wala’), especially within the bureaucracy and military. See J. Lassner, ‘Abbasid Rule, 91–102, esp. 98 ff. (clientage and the ruling family); R. Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership in an Early Islamic Society (Princeton University Press, 1980), which deals with the cement that held Buyid society (932–1062 CE) together. Ibn Tabataba, Fakhri (Beirut, 1966): 140 ff., Hilal b. Muhassin al-Sabi’, Rusum dar al-khilafah (Cairo, 1963), 31.

Notes

191

16 For a survey of modern Iraq, see M.E. Yapp, The Near East Since the First World War, 69–84 (before the fall of the monarchy), 232–50 (until the end of the Iran–Iraq war in 1988). Among the many books on modern Iraq, see H. Batatu, The Old Social Classes and the Revolutionary Movements of Iraq (Princeton University Press, 1978); and esp. the aforementioned A. Baram, Ba‘thist Iraq, and S. al-Khalil, Republic of Fear (cited in Essay 3 n. 14); also M. Eppel’s informative Iraq from Monarchy to Tyranny (University Press of Florida, 2004). Although originally released in 1937, P.W. Ireland’s Iraq (New York: Russel and Russel, 1970 reissue) is still valuable. 17 J. Lassner, The Middle East Remembered, 196–263. 18 There is no definitive study of the Kurds of Iraq, that is, a thoroughly annotated account based on primary literary sources and archival material that brings the story of this minority until the present day. For a general description of the Kurds of Iraq, see K. Yildiz, The Kurds in Iraq (London: Pluto Press, 2007); and M.A. Aziz, The Kurds of Iraq (London: I.B. Tauris, 2011). 19 See Y. Nakkash, The Shi‘is of Iraq (Princeton University Press, 1994); and A. Baram, Saddam Husayn and Islam, 1968–2003 (Baltimore MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2014), 81–138. 20 M.E. Yapp, The Near East Since the First World War, 139–46 (Transjordan), 291–99 (Hashimite Kingdom). 21 Cited in A. Baram, Ba‘thist Iraq, 129. 22 The organization and policies of Saddam’s terror state are graphically illustrated in S. al-Khalil’s aforementioned Republic of Fear. On execution and spectacle, see Essay 3 n. 17. 23 See A. Baram, Ba‘thist Iraq, 30–40, esp. 38 ff. (folklore and Mesopotamia), 53–60 (festivals invoking ancient Mesopotamia), 69–82 (modern art and ancient themes), 83–96 (theater and literature), 97–108 (Saddam’s historiography); S. al-Khalil, Monument (deals with Saddam’s monumental architecture and the appropriation of the Islamic and pre-Islamic past as visual symbols). 24 O. Bengio’s Saddam’s Iraq [Hebrew] (Tel-Aviv, 1996), 102–10 (Saddam invoking links to great Muslim figures of the past), also her more general Saddam’s Word (Oxford, 1998); A. Baram, Ba‘thist Iraq, 49–50, figs. 7b. and 20 (Nebuchadnezzar), fig. 22 (Tammuz), fig.16 (Hammurabi?). 25 S. al-Khalil, Monument, 60–1 (a projected plan for the great mosque of Baghdad places an imagined reconstruction of the great mosque at Samarra, the second capital of the Abbasids within an imagined Round City, the palace–mosque complex of Baghdad’s founder, the Caliph al-Mansur). 26 J. Lassner, ‘Abbasid Rule, 116–36 for a detailed explication of al-Jahiz’s text and references to studies on the subject. See also n.28. 27 For example, al-Khatib al-Baghdadi, Ta’rikh Baghdad (Cairo, 1931) 1:32–3. See also the translated texts describing the characteristics of “others” in B. Lewis, Islam (New York: Harper & Row, 974), v.2: 106–23. 28 ‘Amr b. Bakr al-Jahiz, Rislah ila Fath b. Khaqan fi Manaqib al-Turk, title of work in ‘ A. M. Harun’s edition of Jahiz’ epistles Rasa’il al-Jahiz (Cairo, 1964–5), 2:1–86. See 74–5 for linkage of Turks to Arabs via Abraham; English translation by C.T.H. Walker in JRAS (1915): 631–97. 29 A succinct statement of the Baathist passion for ancient Mesopotamian archaeology is found in A, Baram, Ba’thist Iraq, 41–52. 30 See the recent biography of the monarch by A. Allawi, Faisal I of Iraq (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2014), 3–30 (formative years), 361–560 (King of Iraq).

192

Notes

31 A Baram, Ba‘thist Iraq, 9–29. 32 EI 2 s.v “al-Rafida” (deals largely with the Imamis rather than the generic usage to signify recalcitrant Shi‘ites as signified by the Iraqi regime). 33 EI 2 s.v. “al-Shu‘ubiyya.” 34 See O. Bengio, The Kurds of Iraq: Building a State Within a State (Boulder CO: Westview, 2012); A. Danilovitch, Iraqi Federalism and the Kurds (Ashgate UK and US, 2014). 35 See ns. 23, 24. For the discredited theory of an Arab migration from Arabia in ancient times, see Essay 6. On the Baath and pan-Arabism and Islam, see the short comments of A. Baram, Ba‘thist Iraq, 112–16. In similar fashion, the modern Turks derived their legitimacy from the Hittites of Anatolia and the Shah of Iran from the ancient Pahlavi dynasty. 36 A. Baram, Ba‘thist Iraq, 42 ff. 37 A. Baram, Saddam Husayn and Islam, 209–94. 38 For descriptions of Israel, see O. Bengio, Saddam’s Iraq [Hebrew], 163–78. 39 Note, the destruction of Solomon’s Temple and of Jerusalem is a theme featured in Muslim polemics against the Jews, based originally on a reading of various verses in the Qur’an (2: 114, 17: 2–8). See J. Lassner Medieval Jerusalem, 29–33 (2:114), 46–8. See also, S. Bashear, “Q 2:114 and Jerusalem.” BSOAS 52 (1989):215–38; H. Busse. “The Destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem and its Reconstruction in Light of Sura 17:2–8.” JSAI 17 (1994): 1–17. 40 A. Baram, Ba‘thist Iraq, 109–11. 41 Briefly summarized in W.M. Watt, Muhammad at Medina, 214–16.

Essay 6 1

2

3 4

For succinct views of the Palestinian position seen from the perspective of its critics, see A. Joffe, “The Rhetoric of Nonsense: Fabricating Palestinian History.” Middle East Quarterly (MEQ ) 19 (2012): 15–22 and D. Bukay. “Forming national Myths.” MEQ 22 (2015): 23–30. How Palestinography is taught in the Palestinian schools is explored in A. Groiss and Y. Manor, Jews, Israel, and Peace in Palestinian School Textbooks. Center for the Impact of Monitoring Peace (Mivasseret Zion, 2001). The Arabs of modern Palestine advanced these ideas as early as the 1920s when Zionists were courting world support. See Y. Porath, The Emergence of the Palestinian-Arab National Movement 1918–1929 (London: Frank Cass, 1974), 40 ff. For an overall view of the Palestinian school curriculum esp. since the 1990s, see N. Brown, Palestinian Politics after the Oslo Accords (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2003), 191–243. Loosely following the biblical version of events (Gen. 21:9–21), Islamic tradition has Ishmael cast off in accordance with Sarah’s wish. He is then discovered and raised as an Arab by the tribe of Jurhum and becomes the progenitor of the Northern Arabs, and by extension the tribe of Quraysh, the clan of Hashim, and the Prophet Muhammad. See for example Jahiz, Rislah ila-l-Fath b. Khaqan fi manaqib al-Turk wa ‘ammat jund al-khilafah (referred to as Manaqib al-Turk). European edition by G, von Vloten in Tria Opuscula (Leiden, 1903), 74–5; also, the brief entry in EI 2 s.v. “Isma‘il”. Yaqut, Mu‘jam, 3: 913. Yaqut, Irshad al-‘arib ila ma‘rifat al-adib (Mu‘jam al-udaba’) Gibb Memorial Series (GMS ) 6 (London, 1907–31). For Nu‘aym b. Salamah, see n.5.

Notes 5

6

7

8

9

193

For Abu-l-‘Abbas, see Kufi, Futuh (Hyderabad, 1963–75), 8: 205. The other references to Filastinis or Falastinis were obtained via Moshe Sharon of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. Nu‘aym b. Salamah al-Sabi‘ al-Filastini is listed in the index to the Leipzig edition of the Mu‘jam but does not appear on the designated pages 1:203 or 2:414. I have observed several instances where the index listings do not correspond to what is in the text. The reference to Nu‘aym in Tabari is in his Annales, 2/2: 838. Hani’ b. Kulthum is mentioned in Yaqut, Mu‘jam, 3:11. See also ‘Ali b. al-Hasan Ibn Asakir (d. 1168), Ta’rikh Dimashq (Beirut, 19952001), 5: 206. Hamid b. ‘Uqbah, ‘Abd al-Majid b. Hamid; Damrah b. Rabi‘ah; and Bishr b. ‘Aqrabah are all listed in ‘Abd al-Karim b. Abi Bakr al-Sam‘ani’s (d.1166) biographical dictionary the K. al-Ansab (Beirut, 1408/1988), 4: 397–8. Damrah b. Rabi‘ah is also mentioned in 2: 266, as well as in Muhammad b. Abi Bakr al-Ansari al-Tilimsani al-Burri (d. ca. 1247–8), al-Jawharah fi nasab al-nabi wa-ashabihi-l-‘asharah (Riyad, 1403/1983), 1:111; and along with Hamid b. ‘Uqbah in ‘Izz al-Din b, al-Athir (d. 1233) al-Lubab fi tahdhib al-ansab (Beirut), 2: 438. For the historical and geographical parameters of the land known as Palestine or some variation thereof throughout history, see B. Lewis, “Palestine: On the History and Geography of a Name” in a collection of his writings Islam in History (Chicago: Open Court Press, 1993), 153–66. See also the densely annotated study of the name Palestine in pre-Islamic times by L. Feldman, Studies in Hellenistic Judaism (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1992), 553–76. The author observes that variations of the name Palestine in most ancient times refers to the area settled by the invading Philistines (ca. twelfth-century BCE) along the narrow coast of the Mediterranean. In Roman times, the hill country beyond and adjacent areas originally bore the name Judea (biblical Yehud of the Persian and Hellenistic and Persian periods) Following the unsuccessful Jewish revolt of 135 CE, Judea and the coastal area were subsequently considered a single territorial unit named Palestine by the Emperor Hadrian. His purpose: to obliterate all traces of Jewish sovereignty. Eventually, Palestine was generally known as Syria–Palaestina, that is, the province administered from Syria as part of a greater province of Syria. This practice continued into Islamic times when Roman and Byzantine Syria–Palaestina was renamed in Arabic, the province al-Sham. See also: W. Eck, Rom und Judaea (Tübingen, 2007). For a detailed description of Palestine as Southern Syria in modern Arab thinking, see Y. Porath, Emergence of the Palestinian–Arab National Movement, 70–122, and his Palestinian Arab National Movement 1929–1939: From Riots to Rebellion (London: Frank Cass, 1977), 127 ff; a brief summary can be found in R. Khalidi’s, Palestinian Identity (New York: Columbia University Press, 1997), 63–75. R. Khalidi, the celebrated historian and advocate of the Palestinian cause, argues that the seeds of Palestinian nationalism were planted in late Ottoman times. The leading figures in this effort were distinguished notables in what was to become the Britishruled Mandate. See his Palestinian Identity, 9–34. Y. Porath, The Emergence of the Palestinian–Arab National Movement, 40–2. For a fuller set of demographic data (1882–1945) leading up to the United Nations’ plan to partition Palestine into respective Jewish and Arab states in 1947, see D. Gurevich et.al. Statistical Handbook of Jewish Palestine 1947. Department of Statistics. The Jewish Agency for Palestine (Jerusalem, 1947), 33–64, esp. 46–7. Responses of Israelis are driven by immediate events and vary accordingly. Polling of the Israeli populace has generally reflected a majority in favor of a two-state solution, although the prospects of such are seen as problematic. Arab opinion ranges from the dissolution of the Jewish State under schemes including a bi-national polity in what is

194

10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

19

20

21

22

Notes Israel; an Arab Palestine with Jewish citizens; and an Islamic state in which Jews will be granted the traditional Islamic status as tolerated minority (ahl al-dhimmah) subject to traditional Islamic law. For Palestinian society in the 1930s, see Porath, Palestinian Movement 1929–1939, 140–273, esp. 162–99, 233–73. Gen. 15, 17: 2–15. See Y. Porath, The Emergence of the Palestinian-Arab Nationalist Movement, 137–58 (Arab reactions to perceived pro-Zionist sentiments in the West). A. A. Allawi, Faisal I of Iraq (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2014), 184–91, 250–1 (meeting Weizmann). Ibid., 184–91, 213–17 (Frankfurter letter). J. Lassner, Jews, Christians, and the Abode of Islam (University of Chicago Press, 2012), 86–128. Qur’an 21:72. EI 2 s.v. “Isra’iliyyat.” G.A. Barton, A Sketch of Semitic Origins: Social and Religious (New York and London: Macmillan, 1902), 1–29 (sketches the various theories on the cradle of the Semites). Barton’s earlier exposition is reviewed in his Semitic and Hamitic Origins (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1934). The Semites listed by Barton are Arabs (from the Arabian Peninsula); Akkadians, Babylonians, Assyrians, and Amorites (Mesopotamia); the various peoples of the Levant (Canaanites and their descendants: the Phoenicians, the Hebrews of the Bible—precursors to the Israelites and the Jews, Edomites, Moabites, Ammonites, and various tribes of Aramaeans); and the peoples of Abyssinia. The view of migrating Semites from Arabia to what are today lands of Southwest Asia was still accepted by S. Moscati, The Semites in Ancient History (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1959), 15–43 (review of literature), 104–34 (Arabia). Moscati is, however, aware of ethnic complexity that renders the broad categories of Semites listed by Barton subject to a more nuanced view. See, n.1. Note, however, the genuine interest of a few Arab intellectuals in late Ottoman times in linking modern Zionism with the Jews, Judaism, and the long course of Jewish history going back to the biblical period. See J. Gribetz, Defining Neighbors (Princeton University Press, 2014). That interest was, of course, before the full-fledged emergence of the territorial dispute between the Zionists and the Arabs of Palestine occasioned an Arab reimagining of the Jewish past in Palestine. A. Sprenger, Die alte Geographie Arabiens als Grundlage der Entwicklungsgeschichte des Semitismus (Bern, 1875), 293. On the ethnogenesis of the Arabs and term Arab, see the recent work of P. Webb, Imagining the Arabs. (Edinburgh University Press, 2016)— refers to epigraphy, literary sources, and evidence from genetic testing. A breakdown of the languages of the Near East can be found in The Anchor Bible Dictionary (ABD ) (New York: Doubleday, 1992), 4:155–229. For a detailed review of the development of Arabic leading to the formation of classical Arabic, the initial language of Islamic cultural production, see EI 2 s.v. “ ‘Arabibiyya.” For ancient Hebrew, Encyclopedia Judaica (EJ ) s.v. Hebrew Language. See his Hidden Histories: Palestine and the Eastern Mediterranean (London: Pluto Press, 2010), esp. 88–97. He cites the views of M. Dietrich and O. Loretz in Handbook of Ugaritic Studies (Leiden, 1999). Edited by W.G.E. Watson and N. Wyatt. See pp. 81–90. The question of whether to link Arabic more closely to Northwest Semitic and to reclassify it with the current lineup of NW languages in a subgroup of Semitic called Central West Semitic is embraced by John Huenhergard, “Features of Central

Notes

23

24 25 26

27

28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

37 38 39 40

Semitic,” in Biblical and Oriental Essays in Memory of William L. Moran. Edited by A. Gianto (Rome: Pontifico Instituto, 2005), 155–203 (reviews attempt to reclassify the Semitic languages). Ra’ad relies heavily on minimalist biblical criticism. For the minimalist school and Palestinian national identity linked to a Canaanite past, see the following essay. B. Ra’ad, Hidden Histories, 90 (claims “The earlier bias of thinking Ugaritic words as ‘cognates’ of Hebrew is merely the expression of misguided scholarly habits and ignorance about Arabic . . . Arabic remains the “closest language to Ugaritic”). See n. 22. Ibid., 93 citing W. Watson and N. Wyatt, Handbook, 5, 82, 89, 614. B. Ra’ad, “Primal Scenes of Globalization: Legacies of Canaan and Erutria.” Publication of the Modern Language Association (PMLA ) 116 (2001): 89–110. K. Salibi, The Bible Came from Arabia (London: Jonathan Cape, 1985). See the Introduction, 1–6, 27–37 (method), 8–26 (Jewish world in antiquity). The most scathing reaction to Salibi’s work (among many) is the review of A.F.L. Beeston in The Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Britain and Ireland 2 (1988): 389–93). Beeston, who is perplexed why the work was published, indicates that original reviewers declared it “rubbish” and goes on to cite numerous examples of why that judgement is entirely justified. On the decision to publish Salibi, see T. Parfitt in the Sunday Times. October 25, 1985. Ibid., 28–46 (Asir, the original homeland of the Israelites in Arabia), 48–96 (Geography of Arabia and the Hebrew Bible), 63–123 (Judea and Jerusalem in Arabia), 123–32 (Israel/Samaria in Arabia). Ibid., 166. Ibid., 8 ff. Ibid., 151–6. Ibid., 14–18, 133–42. On the Philistines, ABD , 5: 326–33. See also n. 38 of the following essay. For an Arab genealogy linking the Philistines to Canaan, see Sam‘ani, Ansab, 4: 397 K. Salibi, Arabia, 157–65. J. Montgomery, Arabia and the Bible (KTAV, NY, 1969. A reprint of the 1934 edition with a Prolegomenon by G. W. Van Beek). I. Ephal, The Ancient Arabs (Jerusalem: Magnes Press and Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1982). Various forms of ‘A-r-b (meaning nomads) appear in the Assyrian sources inscriptions beginning in the ninth-century BCE, the first composed after the battle of Qarqar (853 BCE) in which a contingent of nomad cavalry formed part of a coalition led by Ahab, the King of Israel, against the Assyrians. See I. Ephal, The Ancient Arabs, 5–8. What is clear is that some form of the familiar term Arab appears initially in the first millennium and refers specifically to nomads rather than the inhabitants of the Arabian Peninsula. R. Firestone, Journeys in Holy Lands (Albany: SUNY Press, 1990). Oral communication of Haggai Ben-Shammai of the Hebrew University. K. Salibi, Arabia, 84–96. Ibid., 7–26, esp. 14–18.

Essay 7 1 2

195

S. Al-Assiouty, Recherches. Two volumes. (Paris: Letouzy and Ané, 1987). ABD , 1:135–7 s.v. “Akhenaten.” (a general survey).

196 3

4

5

6

7 8

Notes S. Freud, Moses and Monotheism (London: Hogarth Press, 1955—translated from German). Note J. Assmann, a scholar of ancient Egypt who embraces the notion that Egyptian religion influenced the religion of Moses in his Moses the Egyptian. The Memory of Egypt in Western Monotheism (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1998). M. Bernal, Black Athena: The Afro–Asiatic Roots of Classical Civilization, three volumes. (New Brunswick NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1987, 1991, 2006). Bernal is by training a physicist and not a classicist or Egyptologist. For a critical reaction to his views by classicists, see Lefkowitz M. and G. Rogers, eds. Black Athena Revisited (Chapel Hill NC: University of North Carolina Press, 1996); also, Bernal’s rejoinder in his Black Athena Writes Back: Martin Bernal Responds to His Critics (Durham NC: Duke University Press, 2001). Encyclopedia Judaica (EJ ), 4: 815–36, esp. 831–4. Most Biblicists agree that as early as the seventh–eighth century BCE, the Pentateuch, Joshua, Judges, and the books of Samuel and elements of Kings formed a coherent text that was revered by the ancient Israelites. Palestinian writers point to the Hebraizing of traditional Arab settlements. Note the brief comments of B. Ra’ad who points to the Israeli appropriation of Palestinian sites including those identified with the Israelite Prophets even though these “tombs” of the prophets were never revered by Jews in the past. See his Hidden Histories, 80, 188–9; and with more detail, N. Masalha, The Zionist Bible (Durham UK: Acumen, 2013), 145–94. The invocation of Hebrew nomenclature to label new and old settlements began with the birth of political Zionism. The same applied to personal names. David Green became David Ben Gurion and the like. The practice of adopting Hebrew personal names accelerated after the creation of the Jewish state. All government bureaucrats were obliged to change their names, save the sole survivors of families wishing to preserve family names. On nomenclature and the Zionist project, see J. Lassner and I. Troen, Jews and Muslims in the Arab World (Lanham MD: Roman and Littlefield, 2007), 316 ff. Lassner and Troen, Jews and Muslims, 247–75, esp. 260–5. There is no shortage of works on what can be described as the battle of the Biblicists, mostly studies of a highly technical nature. A work accessible to a broad reading audience is The Quest for the Historical Israel (Atlanta GA: Society for Biblical Israel, 2007). The text represents a debate between the revisionist Israel Finkelstein and Amihai Mazar who takes a more traditional view. The debate is confined largely to the interpretation of archaeological rather than textual evidence. Brian Schmidt, a text scholar, summarized the two views and prepared the text for publication. A thumbnail sketch of the scholarly debate that deals with the textual evidence is found in Baruch Halpern, “Erasing History: The Minimalist Assault on Ancient Israel,” in Israel’s Past in Present Research. Edited by V. Philips Long (Winona Lake IN: Eisenbrauns, 1999), 415–26. Halpern does not draw a distinction between revisionists and minimalists who deny altogether the historicity of the Hebrew Bible. See also W.G. Dever, What Did the Biblical Writers Know and When Did They Know it? (Grand Rapids MI: Eerdmans, 2001), esp. 1–52, and his Who Were the Early Israelites and Where Did They Come From? (Grand Rapids MI: Eerdmans, 2003), esp. 223–241. Technical studies representing all sides of the battle between the Biblicists are compiled in the aforementioned Israel’s Past in Present Research; Critical Issues in Early Israelite History. Bulletin for Biblical Research Supplement 3. Edited by R.S. Hess et.al. (Winona Lake IN: Eisenbrauns, 2008); The Origin of Early Israel—Current Debate. Beer–Sheva

Notes

9 10

11

12

13 14

15

197

Studies by the Department of Bible and Ancient Near East 12. Edited by Sh. Ahituv and E. Oren (Ben–Gurion University Press of the Negev, Beer Sheva, 1998); and the relevant contributions to Symbiosis, Symbolism, and the Power of the Past. Edited by W.G. Dever and S. Gitin (Winona Lake IN: Eisenbrauns, 2003). See the reflective summary of biblical historiography by M. Brettler, The Creation of History in Ancient Israel (London and NY: Routledge, 1995). A learned appraisal of Albright’s influence can be found in P. Machinist, “William Foxwell Albright: The Man and his Work,” in Cooper, J. and G Schwartz, eds. The Study of the Ancient Near East in the Twenty-First Century (Winona Lake IN: Eisenbrauns, 1996), 385–404. Albright’s The Archaeology of Palestine (Pelican UK, 1949—and several later printings including a Penguin edition) though dryly written is sprinkled with many anecdotes and tidbits about the modern history of exploration in the Holy Land, including accounts of the many archaeologists that Albright encountered. See also S. Bunimowitz, “How Mute Stones Speak.” BAR 20/1 (1995): 59–67, 96 (a plea for the importance of linking archaeology and the biblical text; includes anecdotes about the early archaeologists of Palestine). Summed up in W.G. Dever, Who Were the Early Israelites and Where Did They Come From?, 7–21 (Exodus), 23–74 (conquest); and I. Finkelstein and N.A. Silberman, The Bible Unearthed (New York: The Free Press, 2001), 48–71 (Exodus), 72–96, 329–39 (conquest). As regards the conquest, see also the technical studies of R.S. Hess, “The Jericho and Ai of the Book of Joshua,” in the work edited by him et. al. Critical Issues, 33–46, and in the same work, B. Wood, “The Search for Joshua’s Ai,” 205–40; J. Van Seters, “Joshua’s Campaign of Canaan and Near Eastern Historiography,” in V. Philips Long editor, Israel’s Past, 170–80. For the Exodus, K.A. Kitchen, “Egyptians and Hebrews, from Ra’amses to Jericho,” in Sh. Ahituv and E. Oren eds., The Origin of Early Israel, 65–131, and E. Frerichs and L. Lesoko editors, Exodus: The Egyptian Evidence (Winona Lake IN: Eisenbrauns, 1997). I. Finkelstein and N.A. Silberman, The Bible Unearthed, 149–314. The minimalists who deny altogether the historicity of the Hebrew Bible are generally referred to as the Danish School. A full discussion of their work is found later in this essay. For example, B. Ra’ad, Hidden Histories; N. Masalha, The Zionist Bible, esp. 223–53. Yigal Yadin, who was intimately familiar with the excavations at Hazor and Megiddo, visited the dig at Gezer. William Dever, the lead archaeologist at Gezer, had been searching for the monumental gate. Yadin directed them to the actual location of the gate based on where he uncovered the gate at Hazor and where the gate of Megiddo was situated. Dever dated the monumental architecture (based on ceramic typology) to the late tenth-century BCE, that is, to the reign of Solomon. For the walls and palace of Gezer, see the brief description of W.G. Dever, Biblical Writers, 131–8. As regards evidence of Jerusalem’s occupation in the time of David and Solomon, note Eilat Mazar’s early conjecture (1997) that a structure outside the current wall of the Jerusalem’s Old City but part of the ancient city of David’s time might well be the Israelite’s palace. See her “Excavate King David’s Palace!” BAR 23/1 (1997): 50–7, 74. By 2006, she opined that she was more confident that the structure was indeed David’s palace: “Did I find King David’s Palace?” BAR 32/1 (2006): 16–27, 70. The technical details of the revisionist argument are summed up in I. Finkelstein and N.A. Silberman, The Bible Unearthed, 135–42. See also, Finkelstein’s, “Hazor and North in the Iron Age: A Low Chronology Perspective.” In Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research (BASOR ) 314 (1999): 55–70, and more generally his “The Archaeology of the United Monarchy.” Levant 28 (1996): 177–88. Contra Finkelstein,

198

16

17 18

19

20

21

Notes A. Ben Tor, “Hazor and the Chronology of Northern Israel: A Reply to Israel Finkelstein.” BASOR 317 (2000): 9–16; and together with D. Ben Ami, “Hazor and the Archaeology of the Tenth-Century B.C.E.” IEJ 48 (1998): 1–37; similarly, A. Mazar, “Iron Age Chronology: A Reply to I. Finkelstein.” Levant 29 (1997): 157–67. Carbon 14 dating is also cited by both parties to the debate. According to Y. Garfinkel, C-14 evidence is an indication of a Solomonic date. See his “The Birth and Death of Minimalism.” BAR 37/3 (2011): 50 (his designation “minimalist” includes the revisionists led by I. Finkelstein). Note, however, L. Singer-Avtiz’s article supporting this view regards C-14 dating in this case as problematic. See her, “Carbon 14—the Solution to Dating David and Solomon?” BAR 35/3 (2009): 28, 71. The omitted event was the battle of Qarqar (853 BCE). Ahab’s transgressions are listed in 1 Kings 16:29–17:1 (accused of idolatry), 16:33 (noted as the worst northern monarch), 18:21 (condemned by the prophet Elijah and the illegal acquisition of a subject’s vineyard). The biblical text goes on to indicate that Ahab realized the enormity of his actions. He rent his cloths and donned a sackcloth, the traditional response to calamity. There would not be, however, any relief for him and his dynasty, the house of Omri (1 Kings 21:27–9). BT Sanhedron 102 b. See n.12, and B. Schmidt, editor, Historical Israel, 107–16 (Finkelstein on the “myth” of King Solomon’s alleged golden age), 117–139 (Mazar’s view of the archaeological evidence concerning the pre-divided monarchy). See n.9, and W.G. Dever, Biblical Writers, 28–40 for a brief sketch of the high priests of Danish School minimalism: Philip R. Davies, Thomas L. Thompson, Keith Whitelam, and Niels Peter Lemche and their views. See also, N.P. Lemche, “The Old Testament—a Hellenistic Book?” Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament (SJOT ) 7 (1993): 163–93, and P.R. Davies, In Search of “Ancient Israel.” Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series (JSOTsup) 148 (Sheffield UK, 1992). The path to breaking the links between the patriarchal narratives and the second millennium BCE was paved by J. Van Seters, Abraham in History and Tradition (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1975); and his extensive study In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the Origins of Biblical History (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983). Van Seters is sometimes described as a minimalist but his skepticism of the biblical text is confined largely to pre-monarchic Israel. Appearing more or less at the same time was the minimalist T.L. Thompson’s The Historicity of the Patriarchal Narratives. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestestamenliche Wissenschaft 133 (Berlin, 1974); and later his Early History of the Israelite People: From the Written and Archaeological Sources. Studies in the History of the Ancient Near East 4 (Leiden, 1992). Another minimalist P.N. Lemche actually preceded both Van Seters and Thompson in an attack against the historicity of the biblical narrative pertaining to early Israel, but his early publication in Danish does not seem to have had much traction among Biblicists. His views later appeared in English as Early Israel. Vetus Testamentum Supplement (VTSup) 37 (Leiden, 1985). Note K.A. Kitchen’s defense of the historicity of the patriarchal narratives in his “The Patriarchal Age, Myth or History.” BAR 20/1 (1995): 48–57, 88–96. See n.11, and esp. W.G. Dever, Early Israelites, 41–53 briefly describing alternative theories to that of the “conquest model” proposed by W.F Albright. Citing extensive field archaeology undertaken in the inter-war years, Albright held that the evidence unearthed supported the main outlines of the biblical text. The archaeological data presented by Albright was subsequently disputed and his vision of the conquest of

Notes

22

23 24 25

26

199

Canaan was displaced by alternative models that do not square with the account in the book of Joshua. The story of the Exodus is even more problematic. Skeptics have long argued that there is no corroborating evidence of the event from extra-biblical sources. However, scholars have suggested that the Israelite trek through the wilderness is consistent with the geography of the Sinai Peninsula. On the Exodus, see the relevant articles in the work edited by E. Frerichs and L. Lesoko cited in n.11; and esp. C. Krahmalkov, “Exodus Itinerary Confirmed by Egyptian Evidence.” BAR 20/2 (1994): 55–62, 79; similarly, the traditional outlook of M. Malamat, “Let my People Go and Go and Go and Go: Egyptian Records Support a Century Long Exodus.” BAR 24/1 (1998): 62–6, 85. See n. 19; also N.P. Lemche, The Israelites in History and Tradition (Louisville KY: Westminster Press, 1998); T.L. Thompson, The Mythic Past: Biblical Archaeology and the Myth of Israel (New York: Basic Books, 1999), 208 (linking Ahab to Antiochus IV); also G. Ahlström, Who Were the Israelites? (Winona Lake IN: Eisenbrauns, 1986); R.B. Coote, Early Israel: A New Horizon (Minneapolis MN: Fortress Press, 1990); and K. Whitelam, “Recreating the History of Israel.” Journal for the Study of the Old Testament (JSOT ) 35 (1986): 45–70. See n. 19. See ns. 20, 22. For a brief statement summarizing the minimalist reading of the Merneptah (also Merenptah) stele, see P.R. Davies, Ancient Israel, 58–60; also G. Ahlström and D.V. Edelman, “Merenptah’s Israel.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies (JNES ) 44 (1985): 59–61. Note the criticism of Davies by the Egyptologist K.A. Kitchen, “Egyptians and Hebrews,” 114–15; also D. Redford, “The Ashkelon Relief at Karnak and the Israel Stele.” Israel Exploration Journal (IEJ ) 36 (1986): 188–200; and F. Yurco, “Merenptah’s Canaanite Campaign.” Journal of the American Research Center Egypt (JARCE ) 23 (1986): 189–215, and his “3,200 Years-Old Picture of Israelites Found in Egypt.” BAR 16/5 (1990): 20–38; and M. Hasel, “Merenptah’s Reference to Israel: Critical Issues for the Origin of Israel,” in R.S. Hess et.al. eds., Critical Issues, 47–59; A. Rainey, “Israel in Merenptah’s Inscription and Reliefs.” IEJ 51 (2001): 57–75. The discovery of the Tel Dan inscription drew vast and immediate interest. Responses from scholars included pieces in the BAR that reached a wide audience. For a technical discussion of the epigraphic evidence, see A. Biran (who discovered the Tel Dan inscription) and J. Naveh (the leading expert on the epigraphy of ancient Palestine), “An Aramaic Stele Fragment from Tel Dan.” IEJ 43 (1993): 81–98, and later “The Tel Dan Inscription: A New Fragment.” IEJ 45 (1995): 1–18. N. Na’aman, “Three Notes on the Aramaic Inscription from Tel Dan,” IEJ 50 (2000): 92–104 (links the find at Tel Dan to Assyrian inscriptions in cuneiform script). The Tel Dan discovery was initially described to archaeology buffs by H. Shanks in his “David Found at Dan.” BAR 20/2 (1994): 26–39. For skeptical opinions and/or outright denial that the Tel Dan refers to the biblical King David, see F. Cryer, “On the Recently Discovered ‘House of David’ Inscription.” SJOT 8 (1994):1–19. N.P. Lemche and T.L. Thompson, “Did Biran Kill David? The Bible in Light of Archaeology.” JSOT 64 (1994): 3–22 (argue that David is likely a place name associated with a divinity). The brief note by P.R. Davies, “BYTDWD and SWKT DWYD: A Comparison.” JSOT 64 (1994): 23–4 (place name rather than name of a people, includes reference to the Mesha Stone), and for archaeology buffs his “House of David Built on Sand.” BAR 20/3 (1994): 54–5. Similarly, E. Ben Zvi, “On the Reading ‘byt dwd’ in the Aramaic Stele from Tel Dan.” JSOT 64 (1994): 25–32 (urges caution as regards the Tel Dan inscription but thinks

200

27

28

29 30

31

32 33

Notes the reference to King David is the most plausible; on the other hand expresses doubt about the new reading of the Mesha Stone that links the inscription to King David). Regarding the new reading of the Mesha Stone, see A. Lemaire, “The House of David Restored in the Moabite Inscription.” BAR 20/3 (1994): 30–7. On the forgery allegedly concocted at the Israel Museum, see N.P. Lemche, The Israelites, 150 n.17, on the Mesha inscription, 45; and again T.L. Thompson in Mythic Israel, 203–5 (Tel Dan inscription). Other responses to the minimalists on this issue: A. Rainey, “The House of David and the House of the Deconstructionists.” BAR 19/6 (1994): 47 (on bytdwd being a place name); Freedman, D.N. and J. Geoghagen “The House of David is There.” BAR 20/1 (1995): 78–9 (citing Rainey as part of a general reaction to the minimalist view). For Shishonk’s (Shishak’s) Palestinian campaigns following the death of Solomon (late tenth-century BCE) there are both references in the Bible (1 Kings 14: 25–8, and with a theological overlay in 2 Chronicles 12:2–12) and on Egyptian monuments. See B. Mazar, “The Campaign of Pharaoh Shishak to Palestine.” VTSup 4 (1957), 37–66; also D. Redford, “Studies in Relations between Palestine and Egypt during the First Millennium B.C. II. The Twenty-Second Dynasty.” JAOS 93 (1973): 3–17; and more generally, A. Malamat, “A Political Look at the Kingdom of David and Solomon and its Relation with Egypt,” in T. Ishida editor, Studies in the Period of David and Solomon (Tokyo, 1982), 189–204. The evidence from Mesopotamian extra-biblical sources confirming the king lists of the Hebrew Bible as well as specific events reported by the chroniclers is summarized in M. Brettler, “The Copenhagen School: The Historiographical Issues.” Association for Jewish Studies Review (AJSR ) 27 (2003): 3–14. For the Assyrian siege of Jerusalem, see the recent work of Kalimi, I. and S. Richardson, eds. Sennacherib at the Gates of Jerusalem: Story, History and Historiography (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 204). For a general overview of Mesopotamian influence on the Hebrew Bible, see S. Dalley, “The Influence of Mesopotamia upon Israel and the Bible,” in her edited work, The Legacy of Mesopotamia (Oxford NY, 1998), 57–83. P. Davies, Ancient Israel, 102–5 citing E. Knauf, “War ‘Biblish-Hebraish’ eine Sprache?” Zeitschfrift für Althebraistic (ZAH ) 3 (1990): 11–23. For negative reactions to Knauf, see the publications cited by M. Brettler, “Copenhagen School,” 11 n. 54; and A. Hurvitz, “The Historical Quest for Ancient Israel and the Linguistic Evidence of the Hebrew Bible: Some Methodological Observations.” Vetus Testamentum (VT ) 47 (1997): 310–15. Note for example the language of W.G. Dever with regard to P.R. Davies: “The casual, off-hand, somewhat outrageous style of Davies’ book tempts one to dismiss it as either an example of British eccentricity, or intended perhaps only as a tongue-in-cheek piece for our amusement.” (Biblical Writers, 29), or his response to T.L. Thompson: “What is the fair-minded reader to make of all this fulmination? . . . [here are] all the classic remarks of the ‘ideologue’ . . . to overthrow the Establishment and repudiate its power to sanction.” Dever goes on to accuse Thompson and the minimalists of “dogmatic assertions with little documentation; caricatures of the views of opponents; claims to have discovered a New Truth . . .” (Op. cit. 34). M. Brettler, “Copenhagen School,” 1–21. Major surveys of the state of the art and the critical issues confronting biblical studies, Northwest Semitic philology, and Syro–Palestinian archaeology all contain contributions by the minimalists. See for example Critical Issues; Symbiosis; and Israel’s Past cited in n.8.

Notes

201

34 The Invention of Ancient Israel (London and New York: Routledge, 1996). For a grasp of Whitelam’s many publications on biblical minimalism and its political ramifications, see his bibliography, 275. 35 Whitelam’s view of academic politics and the creation of ancient Israel, so prominent in all his writings, is summed up in Ancient Israel, 23–32—citing various proponents of conventional scholarship and cultural critics from other disciplines whose views Whitelam embraces, especially Edward Said, the literary critic and author of Orientalism first published in 1978 (New York: Pantheon Books). Said attacked the scholarly objectivity of the academic discipline labeled Oriental Studies, an argument taken up by Whitelam in his segment titled “Imagining Ancient Israel and the Politics of the Past.” The rubric should actually read “Politics of the Past and Present.” For Said’s views on “Orientalism” and its critics, see Orientalism: A Reader, edited by A.L. Macfie (New York University Press, 2000). The work consists of many entries, some critical of Said’s work, the vast majority highly favorable. For an embrace of Said’s views by a historian of the modern Near East, see Z. Lockman, Contending Visions of the Middle East: The History and Politics of Orientalism (Cambridge University Press US, 2004). For a concise criticism of Said and his adverse influence on Near Eastern studies, see the brief comments of J. Lassner, Jews, Christians, and the Abode of Islam (University of Chicago Press, 2012), 92–105. For devastating critiques of Said, see the relevant references in R. Irwin’s learned For Lust of Knowing: The Orientalists and their Enemies (London UK: Allen Lane, 2006); and esp. D. Varisco, Reading Orientalism: Said and the Unsaid (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2004). 36 Ibid. 1 37 Ibid. Note also the veteran field archaeologist Albert Glock, who might be described as the father of Palestinian nationalist archaeology. Although not a minimalist in the classic sense, Glock was also vexed by what he considered the academic erasure of Palestinian (Canaanite) memory in favor of the ancient Israelite past. He also dedicated the final decades of his life to recovering patterns of settlement in the hundreds of Arab villages that had been laid to waste following the flight of the refugees post-1948. See his “Cultural Bias in the Archaeology of Palestine.” Journal of Palestine Studies (JPS ) 24/2 (1995): 48–59, and “Archaeology as Cultural Survival: The Future of the Palestinian Past.” JPS 23/3 (1994): 70–84; also, the work edited by him and W. Khalidi, All that Remains: The Palestinian Villages Occupied and Depopulated by Israel in 1948 (Washington DC: Institute for Palestine Studies, 1992). See also n. 45. 38 M. Dothan and T. Dothan, The Philistines and their Material Culture (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1982), and more generally T. Dothan, “What we Know about the Philistines.” BAR 8/4 (1982): 20–44, and “Where they Came From, How they Settled Down.” BAR 16/1 (1990):26–36; also S. Gitin, “The Philistines in the Prophetic Texts: An Archaeological Perspective,” in S. Gitin and J. Magness eds., HESED VE -EMET : Studies in Honor of Ernest S. Frerichs. Brown Judaica Series 320 (Atlanta GA: Scholars Press, 1998), 273–90. Note the revisionist view of E. Stern, “The Other Philistines” BAR 40/6 (2014): 30–40 (argues for Philistines emanating from SW Asia); also C.S. Ehrlich, “Philistia and the Philistines,” in Arnold, B.T. and B. Strawn, eds. The World around the Old Testament. The Peoples and Places of the Ancient Near East (Ada MI: Baker Academic Press, 2016), 353–77. For a recent study of the early campaigns of the Sea Peoples, see J. Hoffmeier, “A possible Location in Northwest Sinai for the Sea and Land Battles between the Sea Peoples and Ramesses III.” Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research (BASOR ) 380 (2018): 1–25. 39 ABD , 1:174–82 offers a brief sketch.

202

Notes

40 ABD , 5: 326–32 (thumbnail sketch). 41 See EJ s.v. “Khazars” and EI 2 s.v. “Khazar” (detailed survey of the material with full bibliography of publications of the time); also, ns. 46, 48. 42 N. Masalha, The Zionist Bible, 23–5. I have not seen his more recent Palestine: A Four Thousand Year History (Zed Books, London). G. W. Bowersock’s review in the New York Review of Books (April 2019), 55–6 speaks less of Masalha’s views and more to Bowersock’s shared antipathy to modern Zionism. 43 Western Scholarship and the History of Palestine. Edited by M. Pryor (London: Melisende Press, 1998). 44 N. Abu El-Haj, Facts on the Ground (Chicago, 2001). 45 Readers wishing to consult reviews of Facts on the Ground can refer to . Note the review of A. Joffe who is learned both as regards the theoretical underpinnings of Abu El-Haj’s thesis and the technical details of archaeological fieldwork. He is a trenchant critic but is never abusive in tone. See his review in JNES 64 (2005): 297–304. 46 See her “Translating Truths: Nationalism, the Practice of Archaeology, and the Remaking of the Past and Present in Contemporary Jerusalem.” In Jerusalem Interrupted. Edited L. Jayyusi (Northampton MA: Olive Branch Press, 2015), 269–85, 435–41. On the alleged assassination of Albert Glock, see 269, 435. The celebrated murder of Glock was “documented” for the public by E. Fox as Palestinian Twilight: The Murder of Dr. Albert Glock and the Archaeology of the Holy Land (London: Harper Collins, 2001). See also n.36. 47 See n.6. 48 See n.42. R. Patai, The Myth of the Jewish Race (New York: Scribner, 1975); A. Koestler, The Thirteenth Tribe (New York: Random House, 1976); S. Sand, The Invention of the Jewish People (London: Verso, 2009). To Masalha’s credit, he also cites the outdated works of historians who deal with the primary sources in a professional manner: A. Poliak’s work in Hebrew, Khazaria: History of a Jewish Kingdom [mamlakhah] in Europe (Tel Aviv, 1944); and D.M. Dunlop, The History of the Jewish Khazars (Princeton University Press, 1954). The Khazar conversion to Judaism has been subject to considerable scholarly controversy, including the reported conversion and whether the western limits of Khazaria included the territories of Eastern Europe that were to become the major centers of Jewish settlement in the Middle Ages. See the very detailed entry in EI 2 s.v. “Khazar,” which includes an extensive bibliography, and K.A. Brook, The Jews of Khazaria (Lanham ML: Roman & Littlefield, 2018). See also n. 50. 49 Ashkenaz is mentioned in Genesis 10:12 as a descendant of Noah’s son Japheth. In Jeremiah 51:27 it came to signify a non-Semitic polity identified by modern scholars of the ancient Near East with the Ishkuza who are said to have originated between the Caspian and the Black Sea, an area later assigned to the medieval kingdom of Khazaria. Eventually, Ahkenaz came to represent the area of Jewish settlement in Europe’s Rhineland, the territorial enclave embracing today parts of Northern France and Germany. The term Ashkenazi generally refers to Jews from Europe west and east and their descendants who settled beyond Europe. In that sense, they are distinct from the Mizrahi Jews “Easterners” that is, Jews of Islamic lands or “Sefardim” Jews of the Spanish–Jewish Diaspora. The Ashkenazi Jews and the others have distinct but similar ritual and legal practices. All form part of universal Jewish people with a shared historical narrative that has evolved since ancient times and a corpus of revered religious writings. 50 H. Ostrer, Legacy: A Genetic History of the Jewish People (Oxford US, 2012). An opposite view framed by a discussion of the epistemology of genetic inquiry is maintained by

Notes

51

52

53

54 55

56

203

N. Abu El-Haj, The Genealogical Science: The Search for Jewish Origins and the Politics of Epistemology (University of Chicago Press, 2012). Unlike Ostrer, Abu El-Haj is not a trained geneticist. And in brief, K.A. Brook, The Jews of Khazaria (genetic data, 199–208). In any case, peoplehood is not determined by genetics but by common adherence to a historical narrative and shared attitudes and behavior as regards self and other. For the claims of Palestinian memory after the catastrophe of 1948, see the collection of studies in Nakba. Edited by A.H. Sa’di and L. Abu Lughod (New York: Columbia University Press, 2007), esp. R. Davis, “Mapping the Past, Recreating the Homeland: Memories of Village Places in pre-1948 Palestine,” 53–75; and L. Abu Lughod, “Return to Half-Ruins: Memory, Postmemory, and Living in Palestine,” 77–104. Note also the later monograph of Davis, Palestinian Village Histories. Geographies of the Displaced (Palo Alto CA: Stanford University Press, 2011). The bibliography of Nakba lists references to works in Arabic, as does Jerusalem Interrupted: Modernity and Colonial Transformation 1917–Present. Edited by L. Jayyusi (Southampton MA: Olive Branch Press, 2015). On the topographic changes to Islamic neighborhoods in Jerusalem, see E. Weizmann, Hollow Land (London and Brooklyn NY: Verso, 2007). Israelis who remain Zionists can and do object to ruins of the past becoming political tools of the Israeli–Palestinian conflict. Note the NGO Emek Shaveh. S. Hussein, A. al-Houdalieh, and S. Ali Tawafsha, “The Destruction of Archaeological Resources in the Palestinian Territories, Area C: Kafr Shiyan as a Case Study.” Near Eastern Archaeology (NEA ) 80/1 (2017): 40–50 (citing S. H. al-Houdalie, “The Destruction of Palestinian Archaeological Heritage: Safa Village as a Model.” NEA 69 (2006): 102–12; and his “Archaeological Heritage and Spiritual Protection: Looting and the Jinn in Palestine.” Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology 25 (2012): 99–120; S.H. al-Houdalie and R.R, Sauders, “Building Deconstruction: The Consequences of Rising Urbanization on Cultural Heritage in the Ramallah Province.” International Journal of Cultural Property 16 (2009): 1–23; A.H. Yahya, “Looting and Salvaging. How the Wall, Illegal Digging, and the Antiquities Trade are Ravaging Palestinian Cultural Heritage.” JQ 33 (2008): 39–55. J. Lassner has serious doubts about the Islamic origins of the buildings along the southern wall of the Temple Mount. See his Medieval Jerusalem (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2016), esp. 96–120. M.J. Kister, “Haddithu ‘an Bani Isra’ila wa-la-Haraja.” Israel Oriental Studies (IOS ) 2 (1972): 215–39. A. Lopatin, “The Uncircumcised Jewish Heart in Sayyid Qutb’s Tafsir: Qur’anic Parallels to Jewish conceptions.” Studies in Muslim Jewish Relations (Harwood, Oxford UK), 1 (1993): 75–84 (notes parallels between Qur’an 2:88 and various commentary on the verse, and Deuteronomy 10:16, “Cut away [circumcise], therefore, the thickening [foreskin] about your hearts and stiffen your necks no more.” The view that Palestinian Arabs are the descendants of the ancient Canaanites and, beyond that, that all the Arabs of Southwest Asia stem from a migrating Arabo– Semitic race, has found its place in the school curriculum created by the Palestinian Authority’s educational officers. Clearly, the use of these modules in the classroom serves Palestinian nationalist aims, although they inevitably clash with traditional Muslim views of biblical persons and events. See N. J. Brown’s Palestinian Politics after the Oslo Accords (Berkeley/Los Angeles/London, 2003), 222–4, based on a reading of the educational materials. Note also his defense of the Palestinian curriculum against charges that the material, by its very nature, leads to incitement, 235–43. As regards the latter, one should perhaps look closely at the instruction as well as the textbooks.

204

Bibliography The selected bibliography is alphabetically arranged discounting the Arabic definite article (al-), which is often prefixed to a given name. Thus al-Azdi appears as though his name were written “Azdi.” Works are listed under the name of the author, with the exception of compilations and the editions of anonymous works, which are listed under title. Where more than one edition of a work was consulted, all are noted. As these essays are informed by a lifetime of reading, I have limited the number of entries.

Primary Sources Akhbar al-dawlah al-‘Abbasiyah. Edited by ‘A. ‘A. Duri and ‘A. J. al-Muttalibi. Beirut, 1971. Anonymous. See Tar’ikh al-khulafa’. ‘Arib b. Sa‘d al-Qurtubi. Silat ta’rikh al-Tabari. Edited by M. J. De Goeje. Leiden, 1897. al-‘Ashari, ‘Ali b. Isma‘il. Maqalat al-Islamiyin. Edited by H. Ritter. Istanbul, 1929. al-Azdi, Yazid b. Muhammad. Ta’rikh al-Mawsil. Cairo, 1387/1967. al-Baghdadi, ‘Abd al-Qahir b. Tahir. Al-Farq bayn al-Firaq. Edited by M. Badr. Cairo, 1910. Translated and annotated as Moslem Schisms and Sects. Two volumes. Volume 1. Translated by K. Seelye. New York, 1920. Volume 2. Translated by A. Halkin. Tel Aviv, 1935. al-Baladhuri, Ahmad b. Yahya. K. Ansab al-ashraf. Volume. 3. Edited by ‘A. ‘A. Duri. Beirut, 1398/1978. Volume 4A. Edited by M. Schloessinger. Revised and annotated by M. J. Kister. Jerusalem, 1971. ——. K. Futuh al-Buldan. Edited by M. J. De Goeje. Leiden, 1866. al-Balkhi, Ahmad b. Sahl. K. al.-bad’ wa-l-ta’rikh. Edited by C. Huart. Six volumes. Paris, 1899. al-Baydawi, ‘Abdallah b. Umar. Anwar al-tanzil wa asrar al-ta’wil. Edited by H. O. Fleischer. Two volumes in 1. Leipzig, 1846–8. al-Dhahabi, Muhammad b. Ahmad. K. Tadhkirat al-huffaz. Five volumes. Hyderabad, 1915–6. al-Dinawari, Ahmad b. Dawud. K. al-Akhbar al-Tilwal. Edited by V. Guirgass. Leiden, 1888. Indexed by I. Kratchkovsky. 1912. al-Diyarbakri, Husayn b. Muhammad. K. al-Khamis. Two volumes. Cairo, 1302/1884. Fragmenta Historicorum Arabicorum. Edited by M. J. De Goeje. Two volumes. Leiden, 1869. al-Hamadhani, Muhammad b. ‘Abd al-Malik. Takmilat ta’rikh al-Tabari. Edited by A. J. Kannan in al- Mashriq (1955): 21–42, 149–73; (1957): 185–216. Ibn ‘Abbas, ‘Abdallah. Tanwir al-Miqbas min Tafsir Ibn ‘Abbas. Beirut, n.d. Ibn Abd Rabbihi, Ahmad b. Muhammad. al-‘Iqd al-Farid. Edited by A. Amin, A. al-Zayn, and I. al-Abyari. Six volumes. Cairo, 1965. Ibn al-Anbari. al-Bayan fi gharib i’rab al-Qur’an. Cairo, 1390/1970. Ibn al-Athir, ‘Ali b. Muhammad. al-Kamil fi-l-Tta’rikh. Thirteen volumes. Beirut, 1385-87/ 1965–7. Edited by C. J. Tornberg. Twelve volumes. Leiden, 1851–76. ——. al-Lubab fi tahdhib al-ansab. Three volumes. Cairo, 1357/1938.

205

206

Bibliography

——. Usd al-Ghabah fi Ma‘rifat al-Sahabah. Four Volumes. Cairo, 1285–7/1869–71. Ibn al-Faqih, Ahmad b. Muhammad. K. al-Buldan. Edited by M. J. De Goeje. BGA 5. Leiden, 1885. Ibn al-Fuwati, Kamal al-Din. al-Hawadith al-jami‘ah wa-l-tajarib al-nafi‘ah. Edited by M. Jawad. Baghdad, 1351/1932. Ibn Hajar, Shihab al-Din. al-Isabah fi Tamyiz al-Sahabah. Edited by T. M. al-Zayni. Seven volumes. Cairo, 1323–5/1905–7. Reprinted in Thirteen volumes. Cairo, 1390/1968. ——. Tahdhib al-tahdhib. Twelve volumes. Hyderabad, 1325–7/1907–9. Ibn Hawqal, Abu al-Qasim al-Nasibi. K. al-Masalik wa-l-Mamalik. Edited by M. J. De Goeje. BGA 2. Leiden, 1897. Ibn Hazm, ‘Ali b. Ahmad. K. al-fasl fi-l-milal. Cairo, 1317/1903. Translated and annotated by L Friedlander as “The Heterodoxies of the Shiites.” JAOS 28 (1907): 1–80; 29 (1908): 1–83. Ibn Hisham, ‘Abd al-Malik. K. sirah Rasul Allah. Edited by T. Abd al-Rauf. Four volumes. Beirut, n.d. Edited by F. Wüstenfeld. Three volumes. Göttingen, 1858–60. Reprinted Frankfurt a.M., 1961. Translated by A. Guillaume as The Life of Muhammad. London, 1955. Ibn Ishaq. See Ibn Hisham. Ibn al-Jawzi, ‘Abd al Rahman b. ‘Ali. Manaqib Baghdad. Edited by M. M. al-Athari. Baghdad, 1923. Partially translated and annotated by G. Makdisi in Arabica 6 (1959): 185–95. ——. al-Muntazam fi ta’rikh al-muluk wa-l-umam. Edited by F. Krenkow. Volumes 5/2–10. Hyderabad, 1938–9. Ibn Kammunah, Sa‘d b. Mansur. Tanqih al-abhath li-l-milal al-thalath. Edited and translated by M. Perlmann. Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1967 and 1971. Ibn Kathir, Isma‘il b. ‘Umar. al-Bidayah wa-l-nihayah. Fourteen volumes. Cairo, 1351–9/ 1932–40. ——. Tafsir al-Qur’an al-‘azim. Four volumes. Beirut, 1405/1984. Ibn Khallikan, Ahmad b. Muhammad. K. wafayat al-a‘yan wa anba’ abna’ al-zaman. Cairo, 1881. Translated and partially annotated by M. G. DeSlane as Ibn Khallikan’s Biographical Dictionary. Four volumes. Paris and London, 1843–71. Ibn Khayyat, Khalifah al-‘Usfuri. Ta’rikh. Edited by A. al-‘Umari. Two volumes. Najaf, 1967. Ibn Khurradadhbih, ‘Ubaydallah b. ‘Abdallah. K. al-masalik wa al-mamalik. Edited by M. J. de Goeje. BGA 6. Leiden, 1889. Ibn Manzur, Muhammad b. Mukarram. Lisan al-Arab. Three volumes. Beirut, n.d. Ibn Miskawayh, Ahmad b. Muhammad. K. tajarib al-umam. Edited and translated by H.F. Amedroz and D.S. Margoliouth. Seven volumes. London, 1920–21. (Includes the chronicles of Abu Shuja‘ and Hilal b. al-Muhassin.) Ibn al-Muqaffa‘. Risalah fi-l-sahabah. Edited by ‘Umar Abu al-Nasr in Athar b. alMuqaffa‘. Beirut, 1966. Ibn al-Nadim, Muhammad b. Ishaq. K. al-fihrist. Edited by G. Flügel. Two volumes. Leipzig, 1871–2. Ibn Qutaybah, ‘Abdallah b. Muslim. K. al-Ma‘arif. Edited by F. Wüstenfeld. Göttingen, 1850. ——. Tafsir ghara’ib al-Quran. Cairo, 1378/1958. ——. Ta’wil mushkil al-Qur’an. Cairo, 1393/1973. ——. ‘Uyun al-akhbar. Four volumes. Cairo, 1373/1953. Ibn Rustah, Ahmad b. ‘Umar. K. al-a‘laq al-nafisah. Edited by M. J. De Goeje. BGA 7. Leiden 1892. lbn Sa’d, Muhammad b. Sa‘d. K. al-tabaqat al-kabir. Edited by E. Sachau et al. Nine volumes. Leiden, 1905–40. Ibn Sulayman, Muqatil. Tafsir. Five volumes. Cairo, 1988.

Bibliography

207

Ibn Tabataba, Muhammad b. ‘Ali. al-Kitab al-fakhri fi-l-adab al-sultaniyah wa-lduwal al-islamiyah. Beirut, 1386/1966. Edited by H. Derenbourg, Paris, 1895. Translated and annotated by E. Amar as Histoire des dynasties musulmanes depuis la mort de Mahomet jusqu’a la chute du Khalifat Abbaside de Baghdaz. Paris, 1910. lbn Tahir al-Baghdadi. See al-Baghdadi, ‘Abd al-Qahir. Ibn al-Tiqtaqa. See Ibn Tabataba. Ibn Taymiyah, Taqi al-Din. al-Tafsir al-kubra. Seven volumes. Beirut, 1401/1981. al-Iji, Muhammad b. Ibrahim. Tuhfah al faqir ila sahib al-sarir. Translated by F. Rosenthal in A History of Muslim Historiography. Second edition, Leiden, 1968, 205–44. al-Isfahani, ‘Ali b. Husayn. Maqatil al-Talibiyyin. Teheran, 1365/1946. al-Isfahani, Hamzah b. al-Hasan. Tawarikh sini muluk al-ard wa-l-anbiya’. Edited by J. M. E. Gottwald. Two volumes. Leipzig, 1844–8. al-Istakhri, Ibrahim b. Muhammad. K. al-Masalik wa al-Mamalik. Edited by M. J. De Goeje. BGA 1. Leiden, 1870. al-Jahiz, ‘Amr b. Bahr. Risalah ila-l-Fath b. Khaqan fi manaqib al-Turk wa ‘ammat jund alkhilafah. Edited by ‘A. M. Harun in Rasa’il al-Jahiz, 1:1–86. Cairo, 1964–5. Edited by G. van Vloten in Tria Opuscula, 1–56. Leiden, 1903. al-Jahshiyari, Muhammad b. ‘Abdus. K. al-Wuzara’. Edited by M. al-Safa, et al. Cairo, 1357/1938. al-Kafiyaji. Mukhtasar fi ‘ilm al-ta’rikh. Edited by F. Rosenthal in A History of Muslim Historiography. Second edition. Leiden, 1968, 245–62. K. al-‘uyun. See Fragmenta Historicorum Arabicorum. al-Khatib al-Baghdadi, Ahmad b. ‘Ali. Ta’rikh Baghdad. Fourteen volumes. Cairo, 1931. Topographical introduction edited, translated, and annotated by G. Salmon as L’introduction topographique à l’histoire de Baghdadh. Paris, 1904. Translated and annotated by J. Lassner as The Topography of Baghdad in the Early Middle Ages: Text and Studies. Detroit, 1970. al-Khu’i, Abu al-Qasim al-Musawi. al-Bayan fi tafsir al-Qur’an. Beirut, 1395/1975. al-Khuwarizmi, Muhammad b. Ahmad K. Mafatih al-‘Ulum. Edited by G. van Vloten. Leiden, 1895. al-Kindi, Muhammad b. Yusuf. K. al-Wulat wa kitab al-qudat. Edited by R. Kast. Beirut, 1908. al-Kisa’i, Muhammad b. ‘Abdallah. Qisas al-Anbiya’. Edited by I. Eisenberg. Leiden, 1922–3. al-Maqrizi, Ahmad b. ‘Ali. K. al-niza’ w-l-takhasum fi ma bayna Bani Umayyah wa Bani Hashim. Edited by M. Arnus. Cairo, 1937[?]. al-Mas‘udi, ‘Ali b. al-Husayn. K. al-Tanbih wa-l-ishraf. Edited by M. J. De Goeje. BGA 8. Leiden, 1894. ——. Muruj al-dhahab wa ma‘adin al-jawahir. Edited by Y. A. Daghir. Four volumes. Beirut, 1385/1965. Edited and translated by C. Barbier de Meynard and P. de Courteille as Les prairies d’or. Nine volumes. Paris, 1861–77. al-Muqaddasi, Muhammad b. Ahmad. K. Ahsan al-Taqasim fi Ma‘rifat al-Aqalim. Edited by M. J. De Goeje. BGA 3. Leiden, 1877. al-Nasafi, ‘Abdallah b. Ahmad. Tafsir al-Qur’an al-jalil. Four volumes. Cairo, 1343/1925. al-Nasa’i, Ahmad b. Shu‘ayb. Tafsir. Two volumes. Cairo, 1410/1990. al-Nawbakhti, al-Hasan b. Musa. Firaq al-Shi‘ah. Edited by H. Ritter. BI 4. Istanbul, 1931. al-Naysaburi, Muhammad b. ‘Abdallah. al-Madhkal ila ma‘rifat al-iklil. Edited with an annotated translation by J. Robson as: Introduction to the Science of Tradition. Luzac, London, 1953. Pseudo-Ibn Qutaybah. al-Imamah wa-l-Siyasah. Edited by T. M. al-Zarini. Two volumes. in Volume 1. [Cairo?], n.d.

208

Bibliography

al-Razi, Muhammad b. ‘Umar Fakhr al-Din. al-Tafsir al-Kabir (Mafatih al-Ghayb). Six volumes. Bulaq, 1287/1870-71. Sixteen volumes. Beirut 1485/1985. al-Sabi‘, Hilal b. al-Muhassin. K. al-Wuzara’. Edited by A. Farraj. Beirut, 1378/1958. ——. Rusum dar al-khilafah. Edited by M. ‘Awad. Cairo, 1383/1963. al-Sakhawi, Muhammad b. Ahmad. al-I‘lan bi-l-tawbikh liman dhamma ahl al-tawarikh. Translated by F. Rosenthal in A History of Muslim Historiography. Leiden, Second edition 1968, 269–529. al-Sam‘ani, ‘Abd al-Karim b. Muhammad. K. al-Ansab. Edited by D.S. Margoliouth. GMS 20. London, 1912. al-Shahrastani, Muhammad b. ‘Abd al-Karim. K. al-Milal wa-l-Nihal. Cairo, 1317–21/ 1899–1903. al-Suli, Muhammad b. Yahya. Akhbar al-Radi wa al-Muttaqi. Edited by J. H. Dunne. London, 1935. Translated and annotated by M. Canard. Two volumes. PIEO 10 and 12. Algiers, 1946–50. ——. Ash‘ar awlad al-Khulafa’ wa akhbaruhum. Edited by J. H. Dunne. London, 1936. al-Suyuti, Jalal al-Din. al-Hawi li-l-Fatawa. Volume 1. Cairo, 1402/1982. ——. al-Shamarikh fi ‘ilm al-ta’rikh. Edited by C. Seybold. Leiden, 1894. ——. Tafsir al-Jalalayn. Damascus, 1385/1965. ——. al-Wasa’il ila ma‘rifat al-awa’il. Cairo, 1980. al-Tabari, Muhammad b. Jarir. Jami‘ al-Bayan an ta’wil ay al-Qur’an. Thirty volumes. Cairo, 1954–65. ——. K. akhbar al-rusul wa-l-muluk [Annales]. Edited by M. J. De Goeje et al. Thirteen volumes. Leiden, 1879–1901. al-Tabarsi, al-Fadl b. al-Hasan. Majma‘. al-Bayan fi ‘ulum al-Qur’an. Thirty volumes. Beirut, 1954–7. Ta’rikh al-Khulafa’. P.A. Gryaznevich, Moscow, 1967. Facsimile reproduction. See Anonymous. al-Tha‘labi, Ahmad b. Muhammad. ‘Ara’is al-Majalis. Beirut, n.d. al-Ya‘qubi, Ahmad b. Abi Ya‘qub. K. al-Buldan. Edited by M. J. Goeje. BGA 7. Leiden, 1892. Translated and annotated by G. Wiet as Les Pays. PIFAO 1. Cairo, 1937. ——. Mushakalat al-nas lizamanihim wa ma ‘alayhim fi kull ‘asr. Beirut, 1962. Translated and annotated by W. Millward as “The Adaptation of Men into Their Time: An Historical Essay by al-Ya‘qubi.” JAOS 84 (1964): 329-44. ——. Ta’rikh [Historiae]. Edited by M. Th. Houtsma. Two volumes. Leiden, 1883. Yaqut, Ya‘qub b. ‘Abdallah. Irshad al-‘arib ila ma‘rifat al-adib (Mu‘jam al-udaba’). Edited by D.S. Margoliouth. GMS 6. London, 1907–31. ——. Mu‘jam al-Buldan. Edited by F. Wüstenfeld. Six volumes. Leipzig, 1866–73. ——. Mushtarik. Edited by F. Wüstenfeld. Göttingen, 1846. al-Zamakhshari, Mahmud b. ‘Umar. al-Kashshaf fi haqa’iq al-tanzil wa ‘uyun al-aqawil fi wujuh al-ta’wil. al-Zubayri, Mus‘ab b. ‘Abdallah. K. nasab Quraysh. Edited A. Lévi Provençal. Cairo, 1953.

Secondary Sources Abbott, N. “Pre-Islamic Arab Queens.” AJSL 58 (1941): 1–22. ——. Quranic Commentary and Tradition. Volume 2 of Studies in Arabic Literary Papyri. OIP 76. Chicago, 1967 ——. Two Queens of Baghdad. University of Chicago Press, 1946.

Bibliography

209

——. “Women and the State in Early Islam.” JNES 1 (1942): 106–26, 341–68. Abel, A. “L’Apocalypse de Bahira et la nation islamique de Mahdi.” Annuaire de l’Institut de Philologie et d’Histoire Orientales 3 (1935): 146–9. Abu-Amr, Z. Islamic Fundamentalism in the West Bank and Gaza. Bloomington IN , 1994. Abu El-Haj, N. Facts on the Ground. University of Chicago Press, 2001. ——. “Producing (Arti)facts: Archaeology and Power during the British Mandate of Palestine.” Israel Studies 7/2 (2002): 33–61. ——. The Genealogical Science: The Search for Jewish Origins and the Politics of Epistemology. University of Chicago Press, 2012. ——. “Translating Truths: Nationalism, the Practice of Archaeology, and the Remaking of the Past and Present in Contemporary Jerusalem.” In Jerusalem Interrupted. Edited by L. Jayyusi. Olive Branch Press, Southampton MA , 2015, 269–85, 435–41. Abu-Ghazaleh, A. Palestinian Arab Cultural Nationalism. Amana, Brattleboro VT, 1981. Abu Lughod, L. “Return to Half-Ruins: Memory, Postmemory, and Living in Palestine.” In Nakba. Edited by A.H. Sadi and L. Abu Lughod. Columbia University Press, 2007, 77–104. Abusch, T. “Mesopotamian Anti-Witchcraft Literature.” JNES 33 (1974): 251–62. Adams, R. M. Land Behind Baghdad. University of Chicago Press, 1965. Adang, C. Muslim Writers on Judaism and the Hebrew Bible. Leiden, 1996. Ahituv, Sh. and E. Oren, eds. The Origins of Ancient Israel – Current Debate. Beer-Sheva Studies by the Department of Bible and Ancient Near East 12. Ben Gurion University Press of the Negev, 1998. Ahlström, G. Who Were the Israelites? Eisenbrauns, Winona Lake IN , 1986. Ahlström, G. and D.V. Edelman. “Merenptah’s Israel.” JNES 44 (1985): 59–61. Ajami, F. The Arab Predicament: Arab Political Thought and Practice Since 1967. New York, 1972. al-‘Ali, S. A. “The Foundation of Baghdad.” In The Islamic City, edited by A.H. Hourani and S. M. Stern. Oxford, 1970, 87–101. Alter, R. The Art of Biblical Literature. New York: Basic Books, 1991. ——. The Art of Biblical Narrative. New York: Basic Books, 1981. ——. The Art of Biblical Poetry. New York, 1985. Amar, P. and V. Prashad, eds. Dispatches from the Arab Spring. University of Minnesota Press, 2013. Anderson, F. “The Socio-Juridical Background of the Naboth Incident.” JBL 85 (1966): 46–57. Anjum, O. Politics, Law, and Community in Islamic Thought. Cambridge UK , 2012. Anthony, S.M. Crucifixion and Death as Spectacle. American Oriental Society Monograph Series 96. New Haven CN , 2014. Antonius, G. The Arab Awakening. Philadelphia/NY/Toronto: J.B. Lippincott, 1937 Arnoldez, R. “Controverse d’Ibn Hazm contre Ibn Nagrila le Juif.” RMM 13/14 (1973): 41–8. Ashtor, E. “L’administration urbaine en syrie médiévale.” RSO 31 (1956): 73–128. Avineri, S. The Making of Modern Zionism. New York, 1981. Ayalon, A. Language and Change in the Arab Middle East. Oxford UK , 1987. Ayalon, D. Islam and the Abode of War. Ashgate US , 1994. ——. “The Military Reforms of al-Mu’tasim: Their Background and Consequences.” In Islam and the Abode of War, 1–39. ——. “Preliminary Remarks on the Mamluk Military Institution in Islam.” In War, Technology, and the Society in the Middle East. Edited by V. J. Perry and M. E. Yapp. Oxford UK , 1975, 44–58.

210

Bibliography

Ayoub, M. The Qur’an and Its Interpreters. Volume 1. Albany NY: SUNY Press, 1984. Ayubi, N. Over-stating the Arab State. London: I.B. Taurus, 1995. Azami, M. M. Studies in Early Hadith Literature. Indianapolis: Islamic Teaching Center, 1978. ——. Studies in Hadith Methodology and Literature. Indianapolis: Islamic Teaching Center, 1977. Aziz, M.A. The Kurds of Iraq. London: I.B. Taurus, 2011. al-Bakhit, M. A., editor. Proceedings of the Second Symposium on the History of Bilad al-Sham during the Early Islamic Period. Two volumes. Amman, 1987. Baneth, D. H. “What Did Muhammad Mean When He Called His Religion Islam? The Original Meaning of Aslama and Its Derivatives.” IOS 1 (1971): 183–90. Baram, A. Culture, History, and Ideology in the Formation of Ba‘thist Iraq, 1968–89. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1991. ——. Saddam Hussein and Islam. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2014. Barnett, M. and Sh. Telhami. Identity and Foreign Policy in the Middle East. Cornell University Press, 2002. Bashear, S. “Q 2:114 and Jerusalem.” BSAOS 52 (1989): 215–38. Batatu, H. The Old Social Classes and Revolutionary Movements. Princeton University Press, 1978. Beckwith, C. “The Plan of the City of Peace: Central Iranian Factors in Early Abbasid Design.” AO 38 (1984): 143–64. Begrich, J. “Atalja, die Tochter Omris.” ZAW 53 (1935): 78–9. Bell, R. Introduction to the Qur’an. See W. M. Watt. Bengio, O. The Kurds of Iraq. Westview, Boulder, CO. ——. Saddam’s Iraq [Iraq shel Saddam: Hebrew] Tel-Aviv, 1996. ——. Saddam’s World. Oxford NY and UK , 1998. Ben Shammai, H. “The Jews of Medieval Islam: Community, Society, Identity.” Paper presented at a conference on Jews and Muslims in London, 1992. Ben Tor, A. “Hazor and the Chronology of Northern Israel: A Reply to Israel Finkelstein.” BASOR 317 (2000): 9–16. Ben Tor, A. and D. Ben Ami. “Hazor and the Archaeology of the Tenth Century B.C.E.” IEJ 48 (1998): 1–37. Bernal M. Black Athena: The Afroasiatic Roots of Classical Civilization. Three volumes. New Brunswick NJ : Rutgers University Press, 1987, 1991, and 2006. Biddle, D. “The Development of the Bureaucracy of the Islamic Empire during the Late Umayyad and Early Abbasid Period.” Ph.D. dissertation, University of Texas at Austin, 1972. Bijlefeld, W. The Ideological Revolution in the Middle East. London and Sydney: Oxford New York, 1964. ——. “A Prophet and More than a Prophet? Some Observations on the Qur’anic Use of the Terms ‘Prophet’ and ‘Apostle.”’ MW 59 (1969): 1–28. Binder, L. The Ideological Revolution in the Middle East. New York/London/Sydney : John Wiley, 1964. ——. Islamic Liberalism. University of Chicago Press, 1988. Biran, A. and J. Naveh. “An Aramaic Stele Fragment from Tel Dan.” IEJ 43 (1993): 81–98. ——. “The Tel Dan Inscription: A New Fragment.” IEJ 45 (1995): 1–18. Blake, G. H., and R. N. Schoefield, eds. Boundaries and State Territory in the Middle East and North Africa. Cambridgeshire UK : Middle Eastern Studies Press, 1987.

Bibliography

211

Bligh-Abramski, I. “Evolution versus Revolution: Umayyad Elements in the Abbasid Regime 133/750–320/932.” Der Islam 65 (1988): 226–43. Bonine, M., A. Amanat, and E. Gaspar, eds. Is There a Middle East? The Evolution of a Geopolitical; Concept. Palo Alto CA : Stanford University Press, 2012. Bonner, M. Aristocratic Violence and Holy War. American Oriental Society Monograph Series 81 (1996). ——. Jihad in Islamic History. Princeton University Press, 2006. Bowering, G. “The Concept of Time in Islam.” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 141 (1997): 55–66. Bowman, J. “Banu Isra’il in the Qur’an.” IS 2 (1963): 447–55. Brett, M.G., editor. Ethnicity and the Bible. Brill Academic Publishers, Boston and Leiden, 2002. Brettler, M. “The Copenhagen School: The Historiographical Issues.” AJSR 27 (2003): 1–21. ——. The Creation of History in Ancient Israel. London and New York: Routledge, 1995. Brooke, K.A. The Jews of Khazaria. Lanham Ml: Roman & Littlefield, 2018. Brown, L. Carl, editor. From Medina to Metropolis: Heritage and Change in the Near Eastern City. Princeton University Press, 1973. Brown, N. Palestinian Politics after the Oslo Accords. Berkeley/Los Angeles/London: University of California Press, 2003. Bulliet, R. Conversion to Islam in the Medieval Period. Cambridge MA : Harvard University Press, 1979. Bunimowitz, S. “How Mute Stones Speak.” BAR 20/1 (1995): 59–67, 96. Burton, J. The Collection of the Qur’an. Cambridge UK , 1977. Busse, H. “The Destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem in Light of Surah 17:2–8.” JSAI 17 (1994): 1–17. Cahen, C. “Coran IX-29: Hatta yu‘tu 1-jizyata ‘an yadin wa-hum saghiruna.” Arabica 9 (1962): 76–9. —— “Mouvements et organisations populaires clans la vie de les villes l’Asie musulmane au moyen âge: Milices et associations de foutouwwa.” La Ville: Recueil de la Société Jean Bodin 12 (1955): 273–88. ——. “Mouvements populaires et autonomisme urbaine clans l’Asie musulmane du moyen age.” Arabica 5 (1958): 225–50; 6 (1959): 25–6, 233–65. ——. “Points de vue sur la révolution ‘abbaside. ” Revue Historique 230 (1963): 295–338. ——. “Y a-t-il eu des corporations professionnelles clans le monde musulman classique.” In The Islamic City, edited by A.H. Hourani and S. M. Stern, 50–63. Oxford, 1970. ——. “Zur Geschichte der städtischen Gesellschaft im islamischen Orient des Mittelalters.” Saeculum 9 (1958): 59–76. Cameron, A., and L. Conrad, eds., The Byzantine and Early Islamic Near East. Volume 1, Problems in the Literary Source Material. Princeton NJ : Darwin Press, 1992. Canard, M. “Le cérémonial fatimide et le cérémonial byzantin.” Byzantion 21 (1951): 355–420. ——. “L’imperialism des fatimides et leur propagande.” AIEO 6 (1942–7): 156–93. Caplan, N. Early Arab-Zionist Negotiation Attempts 1913–31. London and New York: Routledge, 2013. Chabbi, J. “Histoire et tradition sacrée: La biographie impossible de Mahomet.” Arabica 43 (1996): 189–205. Choueri, Y. Islamic Fundamentalism. Pinter, London, 1992. Cohen, M. “Islam and the Jews: Myth, Counter-Myth, History.” Jerusalem Quarterly 38 (1986): 125–37.

212

Bibliography

——. Under Crescent and Cross. Princeton University Press, 1993. Collins, J.J. The Bible after Babel: Historical Criticism in a Postmodern Age. Grand Rapids MI : Eerdmans, 2005. Conrad, L. “Abraha and Muhammad: Some Observations Apropos of Chronology and Literary Topoi in the Early Arabic Historical Tradition.” BSOAS 50 (1987): 225–40. ——. “The Dervish’s Disciple: On the Personality and Intellectual Milieu of the Young Ignaz Goldziher.” JRAS (1990): 225–66. ——. History and Historiography in Early Islamic Times. Princeton: Darwin Press, 1994. ——. “The Near East Study Tour Diary of Ignaz Goldziher.” JRAS (1990): 105–26. Conroy, C. “Hebrew Epic: Historical Notes and Critical Reflections.” Biblia 61 (1980): 1–30. Cook, D. Understanding Jihad. Second edition. University of Oakland CA : California Press, 2015. ——. “Muslim Apocalyptic and Jihad.” JSAI 20 (1996): 66–104. Cook, M. “Eschatology and the Dating of Traditions.” Princeton Papers in Near Eastern Studies 1 (1992): 23–47. Cook, M., and P. Crone. Hagarism. Cambridge UK , 1977. Coote, R.B. Early Israel: A New Horizon. Minneapolis MN : Fortress Press, 1990. Creswell, K. A. C. Early Muslim Architecture. Two volumes. Oxford UK , 1940. Crone, P. Meccan Trade and the Rise of Islam. Oxford UK , 1987. ——. Slaves on Horses. Cambridge UK , 1980. Crone, P., and M. Hinds. God’s Caliph. Cambridge UK , 1986. Cross, F. M. Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic: Essays in the History of the Religion of Israel. Cambridge MA : Harvard University, 1973. Daftary, F. The Isma’ilis: Their History and Doctrines. Cambridge UK , 1990. Daniel, E. “The Anonymous ‘History of the Abbasid Family’ and Its Place in Islamic Historiography.” IJMES 14 (1982): 419–34. ——. The Political and Social History of Khurasan under Abbasid Rule. Minneapolis and Chicago: Bibliotheca Islamica, 1979. Danilovitch, A. Iraqi Federalism and the Kurds. Ashgate UK and US , 2014. Davies, P.R., In Search of “Ancient Israel.” JSOTsup 148. Sheffield UK , 1992. Davis, R. “Mapping the Past, Re-creating the Homeland: Memories of Village Places in pre-1948 Palestine.” In Nakba. Edited by A.H. Sa’di and L. Jayyusi. Columbia University Press, 2007, 53–75. Davis, R. Palestinian Village Histories. Palo Alto CA : Stanford University Press, 2011. Dawisha, A., and I. Zartman, eds. Beyond Coercion: The Durability of the Arab State. London and New York: Croom Helm, 1988. Dawn, C. D. From Ottomanism to Arabism. Urbana IL : University of Illinois Press, 1973. de Lagarde, P. Übersicht über die im aramäischen, arabischen und hebräischen übliche Bildung der Nomina. Two volumes. Gottingen, 1889–91. Dennet, D. “Marwan b. Muhammad: The Passing of the Umayyad Caliphate.” Ph.D. dissertation. Harvard University, 1939. Dentan, R., ed. The Idea of History in the Ancient Near East. New Haven CN and London: Yale University Press, 1955. de Planhol, X. “The Geographical Setting.” In The Cambridge History of Islam, ed. A. Lambton et al. Cambridge UK , 1970, 2:450–9. ——. The World of Islam. Ithaca NY: Cornell University Press, 1959. Dever, W.G. What Did the Biblical Writers Know and When Did They Know It? Grand Rapids MI : Eerdmans, 2001.

Bibliography

213

——. Who Were the Early Israelites and Where Did They Come From? Grand Rapids MI : Eerdmans, 2003. Dever, W.G. and S. Gitin, eds. Symbiosis, Symbolism, and the Power of the Past. Winona Lake, MI : Eisenbrauns, 2003. Dietrich, A. “Das politische Testament des zweiten Abbasiden Kalifen al-Mansur.“ Der Islam 30 (1952): 33–65. Dietrich, M. and O. Loretz. Handbook of Ugaritic Studies. Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1999. Dixon, A. A. The Umayyad Caliphate, 65–86/684–705. London: Luzac, 1971. Donner, F. The Early Islamic Conquests. Princeton University Press, 1981. ——. Narratives of Early Islamic Origins: The Beginnings of Early Islamic Historical Writing. Studies on Late Antiquity and Early Islam 14. Princeton: Darwin Press, 1998. Donner, H. “The Interdependency of Internal Affairs and Foreign Policy during the Davidic-Solomon Period.” In SPDA , ed. T. Ishda. Tokyo, 1982. Duri, ‘A. ‘A. Bahth fi nash’at ‘ilm al-ta’rikh ‘ind al-‘Arab. Beirut, 1980. Translated with expanded bibliography and footnotes by L. Conrad as The Rise of Historical Writing among the Arabs. Princeton University Press, 1983. ——. “The Iraq School of History to the Ninth Century-a Sketch.” In Historians of the Middle East. Edited by B. Lewis and P. Holt, Oxford UK , 1962. ——. The Historical Formation of the Arab Nation: A Study in Identity and Consciousness. Translated by L. Conrad. London: Croom Helm, 1987. Originally published in Arabic as al-Takwin al-ta’rikhi li-1-ummah al-‘arabiyah. Beirut, 1984. Eck, W. Rom und Judaea. Tübingen, 2007. Elad, A. “Aspects of the Transition from the Umayyad to the ‘Abbasid Caliphate.” JSAI 19 (1995): 89–132. ——. “Characteristics of the Development of the ‘Abbasid Army with Emphasis on the Reign of al-Amin and al-Ma’mun (Kavim le-hitpathut ha-tsava ha-‘Abbasi, Hebrew).” Ph.D. dissertation, Hebrew University, Jerusalem, 1986. ——. “Mawali in the Composition of al-Ma’mun’s Army.” In Patronate and Patronage in Early and Classical Islam. Edited by M. Barends and J. Nawas, 278–325. Leiden and Boston, 2005. ——. The Rebellion of Muhammad al-Nafs al-Zakiyya in 145/762: Talibis and Early Abbasids in Conflict. E.J. Brill, Leiden, 2016. El-Hibri, T. Reinterpreting Islamic Historiography. Cambridge UK , 1999. Elitzur, Y. Ancient Place Names in the Holy Land. Winona Lake MI : Hebrew University Press and Eisenbrauns, 2004. Enayat, H. Modern Islamic Political Thought. Austin TX : University of Texas Press, 1982. Ephal, I. The Ancient Arabs. Magnes Press, Jerusalem and E.J. Brill Leiden, 1982. Eppel, M. Iraq from Monarchy to Tyranny. Gainsville FL : University Press of Florida, 2004. Evron, B. Jewish State or Israeli Nation? Bloomington IN , University of Indianan Press, 1995. Fahd, T. “The Dream in Medieval Islamic Society.” In The Dream and Human Societies, ed. by G. von Grunebaum. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1966. Faruqi, N. Early Muslim Historiography. Delhi, 1979. Fattal, A. Le statut légal des non-musulmans en pays d’Islam. Beirut, 1958. Finkelstein I. “Hazor and the North in the Iron Age: A Low Chronology Perspective.” BASOR 314 (1999): 55–70. ——. “The Archaeology of the United Monarchy.” Levant 28 (1996): 177–8. Finkelstein, I. and N. A. Silberman. The Bible Unearthed. New York: Free Press, 2001. Finkelstein, J. J. “Mesopotamian Historiography.” PAPS 107 (1963): 461–72.

214

Bibliography

Firestone, R. Journeys in Holy Lands. Albany: SUNY Press, 1990. Fishbane, M. Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel. Oxford UK , 1985. ——. “Revelation and Tradition: Aspects of Inner-Biblical Exegesis.” JBL 99 (1980): 343–61. Flick, J. Muhammad ibn Ishaq. Frankfort a. M., 1925. Forand, P. “The Development of Military Slavery under the Abbasids caliphs of the Ninth-Century A.D. (Third Century A.H.) with Special Reference to the Reigns of al Mu‘tasim and al-Mu‘tadid.” Ph.D. dissertation. Princeton University, 1961. ——. “The Relation of the Slave and Client to the Master or Patron in Medieval Islam.” IJMES 2 (1971): 59–66. Fowden, G. Qusayr ‘Amra. Berkeley/Los Angeles/London: University of California Press, 2004. Fraenkel, S. Die aramäischen Fremdwörter im Arabischen. Leiden, 1886. Frankel, J., ed. Reshaping the Past: Jewish History and the Historians. Oxford NY and UK , 1994. Freedman, D. N. “The Age of David and Solomon.” In WHJP 4.1 (1961): 101–25. Freedman, D.N., and J. Geoghegan. “The House of David is There.” BAR 20/1 (1995): 78–9. Frerichs, E, and Lesko, L. eds. Exodus: The Egyptian Evidence. Winina Lake IN : Eisenbrauns, 1997. Freud, S. Moses and Monotheism. London 1955 (translation from German). Friedlander, I. “Jewish-Arabic Studies.” JQR, n.s., 1 (1910–1): 183–215; 2 (1911–12): 481–516; 3 (1912–13): 235–300. Frye, R. N. “The ‘Abbasid Conspiracy and Modern Revolutionary Theory.” Indo-Iranica 5, no. 3 (1952–3): 9–14. ——. “The Role of Abu Muslim in the ‘Abbasid Revolt.” MW 37 (1947): 28–38. Gabrieli, F. “La ‘Risala’ di al-Gahiz sui Turchi.” In Scritti in onore di Giuseppe Furlani. RSO 32 (1957): 477–83. Published as a separate volume of RSO . ——. “La successione di Harun al-Rashid e la guerra fra al-Amin e al-Ma’mun.” RSO 11 (1926–8): 341–97. Garcin, J.C. “Milieux urbaines et mouvements populaires.” Arabica 43 (1996): 146–51. Gershoni, I. The Emergence of Pan-Arabism in Egypt. Tel-Aviv, 1981. Gershoni, I., and J. Jankowski. Egypt, Islam, and the Arabs: The Search for Egyptian Nationhood, 1900–1930. Oxford UK , 1986. Gibb, H. A. R. The Arab Conquests in Central Asia. Royal Asiatic Society, London, 1923. ——. Mohammedanism, Oxford, UK , 1940. ——. Studies on the Civilization of Islam, S.J. Shaw and W. Polk eds. Beacon Press MA , 1940. Glass, C. Tribes with Flags. New York: Atlantic Monthly Press, 1990. Gleave, R. “The Status of the Battlefield Martyr in Classical Shi‘i Law.” In Martyrdom and Sacrifice in Islam. Edited by M. Hatina and M. Litvak, 52–75, 298–9. Glock, A. “Archaeology as Cultural Survival: The Future of the Palestinian Past.” JPS 23/3 (1994): 70–84. ——. “Cultural Bias in the Archaeology of Palestine.” JPS 24/2 (1995): 48–59. Glock, L. and W. Khalidi. All That Remains: The Palestinian Villages Occupied and Depopulated by Israel in 1948. Wash. DC : Institute for Palestine Studies, 1992. Goedicke, H., and J. J. Roberts, eds. Unity and Diversity: Essays in the History, Literature, and Religion of the Ancient Near East. Baltimore, 1975. Goitein, S. D. “The Historical Background of the Erection of the Dome of the Rock.” JAOS 70 (1950): 104–8. Expanded as “The Sanctity of Jerusalem and Palestine” in Studies, 135–48.

Bibliography

215

——. “Isra’iliyat.” Tarbiz 6 (1936): 89–101. ——. A Mediterranean Society. Six volumes. Berkeley : University of California Press, 1967–93. (The cumulative indices in Volume 6 were arranged by P. Sanders following Goitein’s death). ——. “A Plan for the Periodization of lslamic History.” JAOS 88 (1968): 224–8. ——. “Sanctity of Jerusalem and Palestine.” In his Studies, 135–48. ——. Studies in Islamic History and Institutions. E.J. Brill, Leiden, 1966. ——. “A Turning Point in the History of the Muslim State (Apropos of Ibn al-Muqaffa’s Kitab as-Sahaba).” IC 23 (1945): 120–35. Goldziher, I. Muhammedanische Studien. Two volumes. Halle, 1895–90. Translated into English and annotated by C. R. Barber and S. M. Stern as Muslim Studies. Two volumes. Aldine Press, Chicago [1], 1966; Allen and Unwin, London [2], 1971. ——. Oriental Diary. Edited and translated by R. Patai in Ignaz Goldziher and His Oriental Diary. Detroit: Dwayne State University Press, 1987. ——. Tagebuch. Edited by S. Scheiber. E.J. Brill, Leiden, 1978. ——. “Uber muhammedanische Polemik gegen Ahl al-Kitab.” ZDMG 32 (1878): 341–87. ——. Vorlesungen über den Islam. Translated into English with additional annotation by A. Hamori and R. Hamori as Introduction to Islamic Theology and Law. Princeton University Press, 1981. Grabar, O. “The Paintings of the Six Kings at Qusayr ‘Amra.” ArOr 1 (1954): 185–7. ——. “The Umayyad Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem.” Ars Orientalis 3 (1959): 33–62. Grayson, A. K. “History and Historians of the Ancient Near East: Assyria and Babylonia.” Orientalia, n.s., 49 (1980): 140–94. Griffith, S. The Bible in Arabic. Princeton University Press, 2013. ——. “Muhammad and the Monk Bahira: Reflections on a Syriac and Arabic Text from Ancient times.” OC 79 (1995): 146–74. ——. The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque. Princeton University Press, 2008. Guillaume, W., “A Note on the Sira of Ibn Ishaq.” BSOAS 18 (1956): 1–4. ——. The Life of Muhammad. Oxford UK , 1955. Translation of Ibn Ishaq’s Sirah. Haim, S. Arab Nationalism. Berkeley/Los Angeles/London: University of California Press, 1976. ——. “Islam and the Theory of Arab Nationalism.” In The Middle East in Transition, edited by W. Laquer. London, 1956. Halpern, B[aruch]. “Eracing History: The Minimalist Assault on Ancient Israel.” In Israel’s Past in Present Research. Edited by P. Long. Winona Lake IN : Eisenbrauns, 1999. ——. The First Historians: The Hebrew Bible and History. New York: Harper and Row, 1988. Halpern, B[en]. The Idea of the Jewish State. Second edition. Cambridge MA : Harvard University Press, 1969. Hamdani, A. “Evolution of the Organizational Structure of the Fatimi Da’wah.” Arabian Studies 3 (1976): 85–114. Harkabi, Y. Arab Attitudes to Israel. Jerusalem, 1971. Hasel, M. “Merenptah’s Reference to Israel: Critical Issues for the Origin of Israel.” In R.S. Hess et.al. eds. Israel’s Past and Present in Recent Research; Critical Issues in Early Israelite History, 47–59. Hatina, M. and Litvak M., eds. Martyrdom and Sacrifice in Islam. London and New York: I.B. Taurus, 2017. Haupt, P., ed. The Sacred Books of the Old Testament. Sixteen volumes. Leipzig, 1853–1904. 35 Hawting, G. R. The First Dynasty of Islam. London and Sydney: Croom Helm, 1986.

216

Bibliography

Heaton, E. W. Solomon’s New Men: The Emergence of Ancient Israel as a National State. London, 1974. Hess, R.S. et.al. eds. Israel’s Past in Present Research; Critical Issues in Early Israelite History. Winona Lake MI : Eisenbrauns, 2008. ——. “The Jericho and Ai of the Book of Joshua.” In Hess et. al. Critical Issues, 33–46. Hexter, J. Doing History. Bloomington IN and London, 1971. Hodgson, M. “How Did the Early Shi‘a Become Sectarian?” JAOS 75 (1955): l–13. Hoffner, H. A., Jr. “History and Historians of the Ancient Near East: The Hittites.” Orientalia, n.s., 49 (1980): 238–332. Horovitz, J. “The Earliest Biographies of the Prophet and Their Authors.” IC 2 (1928): 22–50: 164–82, 492–526. al-Houdalie, S.H. “Archaeological Heritage and Spiritual Protection: Looting and the Jinn in Palestine.” Journal on Mediterranean Archaeology 25 (2012): 99–120. ——. “The Destruction of the Palestinian Archaeological Heritage: Saffa Village as a Model.” NEA 69 (2006): 102–112. Al-Houdalie, S.H. and R.R. Sauders, “Building Deconstruction: The Consequences of Rising Urbanization on the Cultural Heritage in the Ramallah Province.” International Journal of Cultural Property 16 (2009): 1–23. Hourani, A.H. Syria and Lebanon. Oxford UK , 1946. Hourani, A.H., and S. M. Stern, eds. The Islamic City. Oxford UK , 1970. Hroub, K. Hamas: Political Thought and Practice. Washington DC : Institute for Palestine Studies, 2000. Huehnergard, J. “Features of Central Semitic.” In Biblical and Oriental Essays in Memory of William L. Moran. Edited by A. Gianto, 155–203. Rome: Pontifico Instituto, 2005. R.S. Humphreys. “Qur’anic Myth and Narrative Structure in Early Islamic Historiography.” In Tradition and Innovation in Late Antiquity, edited by F. Clover and R. S. Humphreys. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1988. Hussein S., A. Houdlieh, and S. Tawafsha. “The Destruction of Archaeological Resources in the Palestinian Territories, Area C: Kafr Shiyan as a Case Study.” NEA 80/1 (2017): 40–50. Inbari, M. Jewish Fundamentalism and the Temple Mount. Albany: SUNY, 2009. Ireland, P.W. Iraq. New York: Russel and Russel, 1970 (reissue of 1937 edition). Issawi, C. Cross-Cultural Encounters and Conflicts. New York: Oxford, 1998. Ivanow, W. “The Organization of the Fatimid Propaganda.” Journal of the Bombay Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society, n.s., 15 (1939): 1–35. Jafri, S. H. M. The Origins and Early Development of Shi’a Islam. London and New York, 1979. Jansen, J. J. G. The Dual Nature of Islamic Fundamentalism. London, 1997. L. Jayyusi, editor, Jerusalem Interrupted: Modernity and Cultural Transformation 1917– Present. Southampton MA : Olive Branch Press, 2007. Juynboll, G. Authenticity of Tradition Literature. Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1969. ——, editor. Studies on the First Century of Islamic Society. Carbondale and Edwardsville: Southern Illinois University Press, 1982. Karsh, E. Fabricating Israeli History: The New Historians. London, 1997. Kedourie, E. The Chatham House Papers. Hanover NH : Brandeis University Press, 1984. ——. Democracy and Arab Political Culture. Second edition. London, 1994. ——. England and the Middle East. Mansel, Boulder CO : London and Westview, 1987. ——. In the Anglo–Arab Labyrinth: The McMahon-Husayn Correspondence and Its Interpretations. Cambridge UK , 1976.

Bibliography

217

——. Islam in the Modern World. New York: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1980. ——. “I would Use the Term Despotism.” Middle East Lectures 1 (1995): 75–84. ——. Politics in the Middle East. Oxford UK , 1992. Kennedy, H. The Early Abbasid Caliphate. London: Longman, 1981. ——. The Prophet and the Age of the Caliphates. London and New York: Longman, 1986. Kepel, G. Jihad: The Trail of Political Islam. Cambridge MA : Harvard University Press, 2002. Keshk, K. “The Historiography of an Execution: The Killing of Hujr b. ‘Adi.” Journal of Islamic Studies 19/1 (2008): 1–35. Khalidi, R. Palestinian Identity: The Construction of Modern National Consciousness. New York: Columbia University Press, 1997. Khalidi, R., L. Anderson, R. Simon, and M. Muslih, eds. The Origins of Arab Nationalism. Columbia University Press NY, 1991. Khalidi, T. Arabic Historical Thought in the Classical Period. Cambridge UK , 1994. ——. “Palestinian Historiography: 1900–1948.” JPS 10 (1981): 58–70. Khalidi, W. All That Remains: The Palestinian Villages Occupied and Destroyed by Israel in 1948. Washington DC : Institute for Palestine Studies, 1992. al-Khalil, S. [pseud. for K. Makiya]. The Monument. London: Andre Deutsch, 1991. ——. Republic of Fear: The Politics of Modern Iraq. Berkeley : University of California Press, 1989. Khoury, P., and J. Kostiner. Tribes and State Formation in the Middle East. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1990. Kimmerling, B. and J. Migdal. Palestinians. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1994. Kister, M.J. “ ‘An yadin (Qur’an IX/29): An Attempt at Interpretation.” Arabica 2 (1964): 272–8. ——. “A Comment on the Antiquity of Traditions Praising Jerusalem.” Jerusalem Cathedra 1 (1981): 185–6. ——. Concepts and Ideas at the Dawn of Islam. Ashgate UK , 1997. ——. “The Interpretation of Dreams.” IOS 4 (1974): 67–103. ——. “Sanctity Joint and Divided: On Holy Places in the Islamic Tradition.” JSAI 20 (1996): 18–65. ——. Society and Religion from Jahiliyya to Islam. Ashgate UK , 1990. ——. Studies in Jahiliyya and Early Islam. Ashgate UK , 1980. ——. “ ‘You Shall Set Only Set Out for Three Mosques.’ A Study of an Early Tradition.” Le Muséon 82 (1969): 173–96. Kitchen, A.K. “Egyptians and Hebrews from Ra’amses to Jericho.” In Sh, Ahituv and E. Oren eds. The Origins of Early Israel—Current Debate, 65–131. Kohlberg, E. “The Development of the lmami Shi’i Doctrine of Jihad.” ZDMG 126 (1976): 64–86. ——. “Some Imami Shi‘i Interpretations of Umayyad History.” In Studies in the First Century of Islamic Society, edited by G. Juynboll. ——. editor. Shi‘ism. The Formation of the Classical Islamic World 33. Ashgate UK and US , 2003. ——. “The Term Muhaddath in Twelver Shi‘ism.” In Studia Orientalia Memoriae D. H. Baneth Dedictata, edited by J. Blau et al., Jerusalem, 1979. Korany, B. “International Boundaries and Arab State Formation.” In Boundaries and State Territory in the Middle East and North Africa, edited by G. H. Blake and R. N. Schoefield. Middle East Studies. Cambridgeshire UK , 1987.

218

Bibliography

Krahmalkov, C. “Exodus Itinerary Confirmed by Egyptian Evidence.” BAR 20/2 (1994): 55–62, 79. Kramer, M. Arab Awakening and Islamic Revival. New Brunswick NJ : Transaction, 1996. Lambton, A. K. S. State and Government in Medieval Islam. Oxford UK , 1981. Landau-Tesseron, E. “Sayf b. ‘Umar in Medieval and Modern Scholarship.” Der Islam 67 (1950): 1–26. Lapidus, I. M. “The Separation of State and Religion in the Development of Early Islamic Society.” IJMES 6 (1975): 363–85. Lassner, J. “The ‘Abbasid Dawlah: An Essay on the Concept of Revolution in Early Islam.” In Tradition and Innovation in Late Antiquity, edited by F. Clover and R. S. Humphreys. Madison WI : University of Wisconsin Press, 1989. ——. “The Caliph’s Personal Domain: The City Plan of Baghdad Reexamined.” In The Islamic City, edited by A. Hourani and S. M. Stern, Oxford UK , 1970. ——. “The Covenant of the Prophets: Muslim Texts, Jewish Subtext.” AJSR 15 (1990): 207–38. ——. “Did the Caliph Abu Ja’‘far al-Mansur Murder His Uncle ‘Abdallah b. ‘Ali and Other Problems within the Ruling House of the ‘Abbasids.” In Studies in Memory of Gaston Wiet, edited by M. Rosen-Ayalon. Jerusalem, 1979. ——. “ ‘Doing’ Early Islamic History: Brooklyn Baseball, Arabic Historiography, and Historical Memory.” JAOS 112 (1992): 1–12. ——. Jews, Christians, and the Abode of Islam. University of Chicago Press, 2012. ——. Islamic Revolution and Historical Memory. American Oriental Society Monograph Series 66. New Haven CN , 1986. ——. Medieval Jerusalem. Ann Arbor MI : University of Michigan Press, 2016. ——. “The Origins of Muslim Attitudes Towards Jews and Judaism.” Judaism 39 (1990): 498–507. ——. The Shaping of ‘Abbasid Rule. Princeton University Press, 1980. ——. The Topography of Baghdad in the Early Middle Ages: Text and Studies. Detroit: Wane State University Press, 1970. Lassner, J. and M. Bonner. Islam in the Middle Ages. Santa Barbara CA : Praeger, 2010. Lassner J. and I. Troen. Jews and Muslims in the Arab World. Lanham ML : Roman and Littlefield, 2007. Lauzierre, H. The Making of Salafism. New York: Columbia University Press, 2015. Lazarus-Yafeh, H. Intertwined Worlds: Medieval Islam and Biblical Criticism. Princeton University Press, 1992. ——. Some Religious Aspects of Islam. Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1981. Lecker, M. Jews and Arabs in Pre- and Early Islamic Arabia. Ashgate UK , 1998. Leder, S. “The Literary Use of the Khabar: A Basic Form of Historical Writing.” In The Byzantine and Early Islamic Near East, edited by A. Cameron and L. Conrad, Volume l. Princeton NJ : Darwin Press, 1992. Lemche, N.P. Early Israel. VTGsup 37. Leiden, 1985. ——. The Israelites in History and Tradition. Louisville KY: Westminster Press, 1998. ——. “The Old Testament—a Hellenistic Book?” SJOT 7 (1993): 163–93. Le Srange G. The Lands of the Eastern Caliphate. Cambridge UK , 1905. ——. Palestine under the Moslems. Khayats, Beirut (Reprint of London edition, 1890 with Introduction by W. Khalidy). Lev, Y. State and Society in Fatimid Egypt. Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1991. Lewis, B. The Arabs in History. New York: Harper, 1993 (one of many editions). ——. History – Remembered, Recovered, Invented. Princeton University Press, 1975.

Bibliography

219

——. Islam in History. London: Alcove Press, 1973. New Edition, Revised and Expanded, Chicago: Open Court, 1993. ——. The Jews of Islam. Princeton University Press, 1984. ——. “On Revolutions in Early Islam.” SI 32 (1970): 215–31 (republished several times with some change). ——. “The Pro-Islamic Jews.” In his Islam in History (1973), 23–37, 315–17. ——. “The Regnal Titles of the First ‘Abbasid Caliphs.” In Dr. Zakir Husain Presentation Volume, New Delhi, 1968. ——. “Rethinking the Middle East.” Foreign Affairs 71, no 4 (1992): 99–119. ——. Semites and Anti-Semites. New York: Shocken Books, 1986. Lewis, B., and P. Holt, eds. Historians of the Middle East. Oxford UK , 1962. Litvak, M. “The Islamization of Palestinian Identity: The Case of Hamas.” In Data and Analysis. Tel-Aviv, 1996. ——. “A Palestinian Past: National Construction and Reconstruction.” Memory and History 6 (1994): 24–56. Lopatin, A. “The Uncircumcised Jewish Heart in Sayyid Qutb’s Tafsir: Qur’anic Parallels for Jewish Conceptions.” Studies in Muslim Jewish Relations 1 (1993): 75–84. Lybarger, L. Identity and Religion in Palestine. Princeton University Press, 2007. Machinist, P. “The Transfer of Kingship: A Divine Turning Point.” In Fortune the Eyes That See, edited by A. Beck et al., Grand Rapids, 1995. Madelung, W. Succession to Muhammad. Cambridge UK , 1997. Malamat, A.A “Aspects of the Foreign Policies of David and Solomon.” JNES 22 (1963): 1–17. ——. “The Kingdom of David and Solomon in its Contact with Egypt and Aram Naharaim.” BA 21 (1958): 96–102. ——. “Let my People Go and Go and Go and Go: Egyptian Records Support a CenturiesLong Exodus.” BAR 24/1 (1998): 62–6, 85. ——. “A Political Look at the Kingdom of David and Solomon and Its Relations with Egypt.” In SPDS, 189–204. Mandel, N. The Arabs and Zionism before World War I. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1980. Margoliouth, D.S. Lectures on Arabic Historians. Oxford UK , 1930. ——. “The Book of Religion and Empire by Ali b. Rabban al-Tabari.” Proceedings of the British Academy 16 (1930): 165–82. Marquet, Y. Le ši‘isme an IX e siècle à travers l’histoire de Ya‘qubi.” Arabica 19 (1972): 1–44, 101–48. Masalha, M. The Zionist Bible. Durham UK : Acumen, 2013. Masse, H. “Reconstruction d’une aristocratie iranienne.” Journal of World History 1 (1954): 815–26. Massignon, L. Opera Minora. Edited by Y. Moubarac. Three volumes. Beirut, 1963. Mazar, A. “Iron Age Chronology: A Reply to I. Finkelstein.” Levant 29 (1997): 157–67. Mazar, B. “The Era of David and Solomon.” In WHJP, 4.1:76–99. Melikoff-Sayar, I. Abu Muslim, le porte-hache du Khorassan dans la tradition épique turco-iranienne. Paris, 1962. Metzer, J. The Divided Economy of Mandatory Palestine. Cambridge UK , 1998. Miller, J. “The Fall of the House of Ahab.” VT 17 (1967): 307–24. Millward, W. “The Adaptation of Men into Their Time: An Historical Essay by alYa’qubi.” JAOS 84 (1964): 329–44. Mishal, S. and A. Sela. The Palestinian Hamas. New York: Columbia University Press, 2000.

220

Bibliography

Momen, M. An Introduction to Shi‘i Islam. New Haven CN and London: Yale University Press, 1985. Montgomery, J. A. Arabia and the Bible. KTAV, NY, 1969 (reprint of 1934 edition). Morris, B. The Birth of the Palestinian Refugee Problem, 1947–1949. Cambridge UK , 1987. ——. 1948. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2008. Moscati, S. “Le Califat d’al-Hadi.” SO 13 no. 4 (1946): 1–28. ——. “Le massacre des Umayyades dans l’histoire et clans les fragments poétiques.” ARO 18 (1950): 88–115. ——. “Nuovi studi storici sul califatto di al-Mahdi.” Orientalia, n.s., 15 (1946): 155–79. ——. “Studi storici sul califatto di al-Mahdi.” Orientalia, n.s., 14 (1945): 300–54. ——. “Studi su Abu Muslim.” Rendiconti Lincei, 8th ser., 4 (1949–50): 323–35, 474–95; 5 (1950–51): 89–105. ——. “Il testamento di Abu Hashim.” RSO 27 (1952): 28–46. Mottahedeh, R. Loyalty and Leadership in an Early Islamic Society. Princeton University Press, 1980. Moubarac, Y. Abraham dans le Coran. Paris, 1958. Nagel, T. Ein früher Bericht über den Aufstand des Muhammad b. ‘Abdallah im Jahre 145h. Der Islam 46 (1970): 227–62. ——. Die Qisas al-anbiya’. University of Bonn, 1967. ——. Untersuchungen zur Entstehung des abbasidischen Kalifates. University of Bonn, 1972. Nakkash, Y. The Shi‘is of Iraq. Princeton University Press. 1994. Newby, G. “Abraha and Sennacherib: A Talmudic Parallel to the Tafsir on Surat al-Fil.” JAOS 94 (1974): 431–7. ——. A History of the Jews of Arabia. Columbia SC : University of South Carolina Press, 1988. ——. The Making of the Last Prophet. Columbia SC : University of South Carolina Press, 1989. ——. “Tafsir Isra’iliyat.” In Studies in Qur’an and Tafsir. JAAR Thematic Issue 47 (1979): 685–97. Nöldeke, T. Neue Beitrage zur semitischen Sprachwissenschaft. Strasbourg, 1910. ——. Orientalische Skizzen. Berlin, 1892. Translated by J. S. Black as Sketches from Eastern History. London, 1892. Nöldeke, T., et al. Geschichte des Qorans. 2nd rev. ed. Three volumes. Volumes 1 and 2 revised by F. Schwally. Volume 3 revised by G. Bergstrasser and O. Pretzl. Leipzig, 1909–26. Norton, A. R., ed. Civil Society in the Middle East. Two volumes. E.J. Brill, Leiden, 1995, 1996. Noth, A. Der Character der ersten grossen Sammlungen von Nachrichten zur frühen Kalifenzeit. Der Islam 47 (1971): 168–99. ——. Quellenkritische Studien zur Themen, Formen und Tendenzen frühislamischer Geschichtsüberlieferung. University of Bonn, 1973. Edited by L. Conrad and translated by M. Bonner as The Early Arabic Historical Tradition. Princeton NJ: Darwin Press, 1994. Nuseibeh, H. Z. Ideas of Arab Nationalism. London and New York, 1982. Nusse, A. “The Ideology of Hamas: Palestinian Islamic Fundamentalist Thought on the Jews, Israel, and Islam.” Studies in Jewish-Muslim Relations 1 (1993): 97–125. Obermann, J. “Islamic Origins. A Study in Background and Foundation.” In The Arab Heritage, edited by N. A. Faris, 58–120. Princeton University Press, 1944.

Bibliography

221

Omar, F. The ‘Abbasid Caliphate, 132/750–170/786. Baghdad, 1969. (A slightly shortened version of his al-’Abbasiyun.) ——. ‘Abbasiyat: Studies in the History of the Early Abbasids. Baghdad, 1976. ——. al-‘Abbasiyun al-awa‘il: 132–70/750–86. Two volumes. Beirut, 1380/1970–3. ——. “al-Alwan wa dalalatuha al-siyasiyah fi-l-‘asr al-‘Abbasi al-awwal.” Bulletin, Faculty of the Arts (Baghdad University) 14 (1971): 827–36. ——. “Aspects of ’Abbasid Husaynid Relations.’ ” Arabica 22 (1976): 170–9. ——. “The Nature of the Iranian Revolts in the Early Islamic Period.” IC 48(1974): 1–9. ——. “Note on the Laqab (i.e., Epithet) of the Early ‘Abbasid Caliphs.” In ‘Abbasiyat, 141–7. ——. “Politics and the Problem of Succession in the Early ‘Abbasid Caliphate.” IC 48 (1974): 31–43. ——. “The Significance of Colors and Banners in the Early ‘Abbasid Period.” In ‘Abbasiyat, 148–54 (English version of article “al-Alwan”). Ostrer, H. The Legacy: A Genetic History of the Jewish People. Oxford US , 2012. Paret, R. “Der Koran als Geschichtsquelle.” Islamica 27 (1961): 26–42. Parry, V., and M. Yapp. War, Technology and Society in the Middle East. Oxford UK , 1975. Patai, R. Ignaz Goldziher and His Oriental Diary. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1987. Pauliny, J. “Islamische Legend über Bukht-Nassar (Nebukadnezar).” GO 4 (1972): 161–83. ——. “Zur Rolle der Qussas bei der Entstehung und Überlieferung der popularen Prophetenlegenden.” Asian and African Studies (Bratislava) 10 (1974): 125–41. Pellat, C. “Ğahiz à Bagdad et à Samarra.” AO 27 (1952): 48–67. Perlmann, M. “The Medieval Polemics between Islam and Judaism.” In Religion in a Religious Age, edited by S. D. Goitein. Cambridge MA : Harvard University Press, 1974. Petersen, E. ‘Ali and Mu’awiyah in Early Arabic Tradition. Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1964. Pipes, D. Slave Soldiers and Islam. New Haven CN : Yale University Press, 1981. Piscatori, J. Islam in a World of Nation-States. Cambridge UK , 1986. Porath, Y. The Emergence of the Palestine-Arab National Movement, 1918–1929. Cass, London, 1973. ——. Palestine-Arab National Movement, 1929–1939: From Riots to Rebellion. Cass, London, 1977. ——. In Search of Arab Unity, 1930–1945. Cass, London, 1986. Ra’ad, B. Hidden Histories: Palestine and the Eastern Mediterranean. London: Pluto Press, 2010. ——. “Primal Scenes of Globalization: Legacies of Canaan and Erutria.” PMLA 116 (2001): 89–110. Rabin, C. Ancient West-Arabian. London, 1951. ——. “The Beginnings of Classical Arabic.” SI 4 (1955): 19–37. Rahman, F. Islam. Chicago, 1965. ——. Major Themes in the Quran. Minneapolis and Chicago: Bibilotheca Islamica, 1980. ——. “Pre-Foundations of the Muslim Community in Mecca.” SI 43 (1974): 44–66. ——. “The Religious Situation of Mecca from the Eve of Islam up to the Hijra.” IS 16 (1977): 289–301. Rainey, A. “Israel in Merenptah’s Inscription and Reliefs.” IEJ 51 (2001): 57–75. Ravitzky, A. Messianism, Zionism, and Jewish Religious Radicalism. Chicago, 1996. Redford, D. “The Ashkelon Relief at Karnak and the Israel Stele.” IEJ 36 (1986): 188–200. Reinink, G. “Ps.-Methodius: A Concept of History in Response to the Rise of Islam.” In The Byzantine and Early Islamic Near East, edited by A. Cameron and L. Conrad, Volume 1. Princeton NJ : Darwin Press, 1992.

222

Bibliography

Rejwan, N. Nasserist Ideology: Its Exponents and Critics. New Brunswick NJ : Transaction, 1974. Rekhess, E. “Islamic Activism in Israel: Municipal versus Parliamentary Politics.” Paper presented at the international seminar on “The Arab Minority in Israel,” Tel-Aviv, May 1992. Richter, G. Das Geschichtsbild der arabischen Historiker des Mittelalters. Tubingen, 1933. ——. Studien zur Geschichte der älteren arabischen Fürstenspiegel. Berlin, 1932. Ringgren, H. Islam, Aslama and Muslim. Lund, 1949. Roberts, J. J. “Myth versus History: Relaying the Comparative Foundations.” CBQ 38 (1976): 1–13. Robson, J. “Ibn Ishaq’s Use of the Isnad.” Bulletin of the John Rowlands Library 38 (1955–6): 449–65. Rogen, E., and A. Shlaim, eds. The Palestinians and 1948: The Underlying Causes of Failure. Cambridge UK , 2007. Rosenthal, F. The History of al-Tabari: General Introduction and from the Creation to the Flood. Albany: SUNY Press, 1989. ——. A History of Muslim Historiography. Second edition. Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1968. ——. “The Influence of the Biblical Tradition on Muslim Historiography.” In Historians of the Middle East. Edited by B. Lewis and P. Holt, Oxford UK , 1962. ——. The Muslim Concept of Freedom. Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1960. ——. “The ‘Time’ of Muslim Historians and Muslim Mystics.” JSAI 19 (1995): 1–35. Rubin, U. “Prophets and Progenitors in the Early Shi‘a Tradition.” JSAI 1 (1979): 41–65. Sabari, S. Mouvements populaires a Baghdad a l’ époque ‘abbaside IXe-XIe siècles. Maisonneuve, Paris, 1981. Sadan, J. “A Legal Opinion of a Muslim Jurist Regarding the Sanctity of Jerusalem.” IOS 13 (1993): 231–45. Sa’di, A.H. and L. Abu Lughod eds. Nakbah. New York: Columbia University Press, 2007. Sadighi, G. Les Mouvements religieux iraniens au IIe et IIIe siècles de l’hégire. Paris, 1938. Said, E. Orientalism. New York: Pantheon, 1978. Salmon, G. L’introduction topographique a l’histoire de Baghdadh. Paris, 1904. Salzberger, G. Die Salomo-Sage in der semitischen Literatur. Berlin and Heidelberg, 1907. Samadi, S. “The Struggle between the Two Brothers al-Amin and al-Ma’mun.” IC 36 (1962): 167–81, 237–44. Sanders, P. Ritual, Politics, and the City in Fatimid Cairo. Albany : SUNY Press, 1994. Schacht, J. An Introduction to Islamic Law. Oxford UK , 1964. ——. Origins of Muhammadan Jurisprudence. Oxford UK , 1950. ——. “A Revaluation of Islamic Traditions.” JRAS (1949): 143–54. Schmidt, B.B. The Quest for the Historical Israel. Athens GA : Society for Biblical Literature, Archeological and Biblical Studies 17, 2007. Schniedwind, W.M., How the Bible Became a Book. Cambridge NY, 2004. Schoeler, G. Écrire et transmettre dans le début de l’Islam. Paris, 2002. ——. “Die Frage der schriftlichen oder mundlichen Überlieferung der Wissenschaften im frühen Islam.” Der Islam 62 (1985): 201–30. ——. The Oral and the Written in Early Islam. London and New York: Routledge, 2006. ——. “Mündliche Thora und Hadit: Überlieferung, Shreibverbot, Redaktion.” Der Islam 66 (1989): 213–51. ——. “Schreiben und Veroffentlichen zur Verwendung und Function der Schrift in den ersten islamischen Jahrhunderten.” Der Islam 69 (1992): 1–43.

Bibliography

223

——. “Weiteres zur Frage der schriftlichen oder mundlichen Überlieferung der Wissenschaften im Islam.” Der Islam 66 (1989): 38–67. Schreiner, M. Sama‘ual b. Jahya al-Magribi und seine Schrift Ifham al-Jahud. MGWJ 42 (1898): 123–38, 170–80, 214–23, 253–61, 407–18, 457–65; 43 (1899): 521–7. ——. “Zur Geschichte der Polemik zwischen Juden und Muhammedanern.” ZDMG (1888): 591–675. Seale, P. The Struggle for Syria. Oxford UK , 1965. Sellheim, R. “Prophet, Chalif, und Geschichte: Die Muhammad-Biographie des Ibn Ishaq.” Oriens 18–19 (1967): 33–91. Sezgin, U. Abu Mihnaf ein Beitrag zur Historiographie der umaiyadischen Zeit. Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1971. Shaban, M. The ‘Abbasid Revolution. Cambridge MA : Harvard University Press, 1970. ——. Islamic History: A New Interpretation. Two volumes. Cambridge MA : Harvard University Press, 1971–6. ——. “The Social and Political Background of the ‘Abbasid Revolution in Khurasan.” Ph.D. dissertation, Harvard University, 1960. Shahid, I. The Martyrs of Najran. Brussels, 1971. Shanks, H. “David Found at Dan.” BAR 20/2 (1994): 26–39. Sharabi, H. Arab Intellectuals and the West: The Formative Years, 1875–1914. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1970. Sharon, M. “The ‘Abbasid Da’wa Re-examined on the Basis of the Discovery of a New Source.” Arabic and Islamic Studies 1 (1973): 21–41. ——. “The Rise of the ‘Abbasids to Power (‘Aliyat ha-‘Abbasim la-shilton, Hebrew).” Ph.D. dissertation, Jerusalem: The Hebrew University, 1970. ——. Black Banners from the East. Jerusalem: Magnes Press and Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1983. ——. “Notes on the Question of the Legitimacy of Government in Islam.” IOS 10 (1980): 116–23. ——. Social and Military Aspects of the ‘Abbasid Revolution. Jerusalem: The Hebrew University, 1990. Shoufani, E. Al-Riddah and the Muslim Conquest of Arabia. Toronto, 1973. Siddiqi, M. Z. Hadith Literature. Cambridge UK : Islamic Text Society, 1993. Silver, A.H. A History of Messianic Speculation in Israel. New York, 1927. Simon, R. Ignac Goldziher. Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1986. Sivan, E. Interpretations of Islam. Princeton University Press, 1985. ——. Arab Political Myths (Mitosim Politiyim ‘araviyim, Hebrew), Tel-Aviv, 1988. Smith, J. An Historical and Semantic Study of the Term “Islam” as Seen in a Sequence of Quran Commentaries. Missoula MO, 1975. ——. “The Meaning of Islam in Hadith Literature.” IC 48 (1974): 139–48. Soggin, J. A. “The Davidic-Solomonic Kingdom.” In IJH, 332–80. London, 1977. Soler, R. “De la Palestine à la terre d’Israël: le rôle d’archéologie biblique dans le regard de l’Occident Protestant (XIXe – XXe siècle). Arabica 63/6 (2016): 627–55. Sommer B. A Prophet Reads Scripture. Palo Alto CA : Stanford University Press, 1998. Sourdel, D. “La biographie d’Ibn al-Muqaffa’ d’apres les sources anciennes.” Arabica 1 (1954}: 307–23. ——. “Questions de ceremonial ‘Abbaside.” REI 14 (1960): 121–48. ——. Le Vizirat ‘Abbaside de 749 a 936. Two volumes. Damascus, 1959–60. Speiser, E. A. “The Biblical Idea of History in Its Common Near Eastern Setting.” IEJ 7 (1957): 201–16. Speyer, H. Die biblischen Erzählungen im Qoran. Hildesheim, 1961.

224

Bibliography

Sprinzak, E. The Ascendance of Israel’s Radical Right. Oxford NY, 1991. Steinberg, M. The Poetics of Biblical Narrative. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1987. Steinschneider, M. Polemische und apologetische Literatur in arabischer Sprache. Hildesheim, 1966. Stern, E. “The Other Philistines.” BAR 40/6 (2014): 30–40. Stern, S. M. “The Constitution of the Islamic City.” In The Islamic City, edited by A.H. Hourani and S. M. Stern, Oxford UK , 1970. ——. Studies in Early Isma‘ilism. Jerusalem, 1983. Taeschner, F. “Die alttestamentlichen Bibelzitate vor allem aus dem Pentateuch in At-Tabaris Kitab ad-din wad-daula und ihre Bedeutung für die Frage nach der Echtheit dieser Schrift.” OC , Third series, 9 (1934): 23–39. Taji-Farouki, S. ed., Modern Muslim Intellectuals and the Qur’an. Oxford UK , 2004. Telhami, S., and M. Barnett, eds. Identity and Foreign Policy in the Middle East. Ithaca NY: Cornell University Press, 2002. Thompson, T.L. Early History of the Israelite People from the Written and Archaeological Sources. Studies in the History of the Ancient Near East 4. Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1992. ——. The Mythic Past: Biblical Archaeology and the Myth of Israel. Basic Books NY, 1999. ——. The Historicity of the Patriarchal Narratives. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestestemantliche Wissenschaft 133. Berlin, 1974. Tibi, B. The Crisis of Modern Islam. Salt Lake City UT: University of Utah Press, 1988. Translated from the original German (Munich, 1981) by J. von Sivers with a Foreword by P. von Sivers. Tritton, A. S. Caliphs and Their Non-Muslim Subjects. London: Cass, 1970. ——. “Islam and the Protected Religions.” JRAS (1931): 311–38. Tuqan, F. “ ‘Abdallah b. ‘Ali, a Rebellious Uncle of al-Mansur.” Studies in Islam 6 (1967): 1–26. Vajda, G. “Juifs et Musulmans selon le hadit.” JA 229 (1939): 57–127. Van Seters, J. Abraham in History and Tradition. New Haven CN : Yale University Press, 1975. ——. In Search of History. New Haven CN : Yale University Press, 1983. ——. “Joshua’s Campaign in Canaan and Near Eastern Historiography.” In V. Philips Long. Israel’s Past in Present Research, 170–80. Van Vloten, G. De Opkomst der Abbasiden in Khurasan. Leiden, 1890. ——. Recherches sur la domination arabe, le chiitisme et les croyances messianiques sous le khalifat des Omayyades. Amsterdam, 1894. ——. “Zur Abbasidengeschichte.” ZDMG 52 (1898): 213–26. Vatikiotis, P. J. Islam and the State. London and New York: Routledge, 1987. ——, editor. Revolution in the Middle East: And Other Case Studies. London: Unwin and Allen, 1972. Vollors, K. Volkssprache und Schriftsprache im alten Arabien. Strasbourg, 1906. von Grunebaum, G. “The Cultural Function of the Dream as Illustrated in Classical Islam.” In The Dream and Human Societies. ——. The Dream and Human Societies. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1966. Waldman, M. “Semiotics and Historical Narrative.” Papers in Comparative Studies 1 (1981): 167–85. ——. Toward a Theory of Historical Narrative: A Close Study in Perso-Islamicate Historiography. Columbus OH : Ohio State University Press, 1980.

Bibliography

225

Wansbrough, J. Quranic Studies. LOS 31. Oxford UK , 1977. ——. The Sectarian Milieu. LOS 34. Oxford UK , 1978. Wasserstrom, S. Between Muslim and Jew. Princeton University Press, 1995. Watt, W. M. Bell’s Introduction to the Qur’an. University of Edinburgh Press, 1970. ——. “The Dating of the Qur’an: A Review of Richard Bell’s Theories.” JRAS (1957): 46–56 ——. “The Early Development of Muslim Attitudes towards the Bible.” In his Early Islam, 77–85, 195–7. ——. Early Islam. University of Edinburgh Press, 1990. ——. The Formative Period of Islamic Thought. University of Edinburgh Press, 1973. ——. “The Materials Used by Ibn Ishaq.” In Historian of the Middle East. Edited by B. Lewis and P. Holt, Oxford UK , 1962. ——. Muhammad at Mecca. Oxford UK , 1953. ——. Muhammad at Medina. Oxford UK , 1956. Webb, P. Imagining the Arabs: Arab Identity and the Rise of Islam. University of Edinburgh Press, 2016. Weizman, E. Hollow Land. London and Brooklyn NY: Verso, 2007. Wellhausen, J. Das arabische Reich und sein Sturz. Berlin, 1902. Translated by M. G. Weir as The Arab Kingdom and Its Fall. Calcutta, 1927. ——. Die Comt1osition des Hexateuchs und der historischen Bucher des A/ten Testaments. Berlin, 1889. ——. “Prolegomena zur altesten Geschichte des Islams.” In Skizzen und Vorarbeiten, 6: Berllin, 1899. ——. Prolegomena zur Geschichte Israels. Berlin, 1882. Translated by D. K. Knight as Prolegomena to the History of Israel. Atlanta GA, 1994. ——. Die religiös-politischen Oppositionparteien im alten Islam. Berlin 1901. Translated by R. C. Ostle and S. M. Walzer as The Religio-Political Factions in Early Islam. Amsterdam, 1975. Wendell, C. The Evolution of the Egyptian National Image. Berkeley : University of California Press, 1972. Wensinck, A. J. Concordance et indices de la tradition Musulmane. Eight volumes. Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1992. ——. A Handbook of Early Muhammadan Tradition. Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1971. ——. Mohammad en de Joden te Medina. Leiden, 1908. Translated and edited by W. Behn as Muhammad and the Jews of Medina. Klaus Schwarz Verlag, Breiburg im Breisgau, 1975. Whitelam, K. “Recreating the History of Israel.” JSOT 35 (1986): 45–70. Wizana, N. All the Boundaries of the Land. Winona Lake IN : Eisenbrauns, 2013. Wood, B. “The Search for Joshua’s Ai.” In R.S. Hess et.al. eds. Israel’s Past in Present Research; Critical Issues in Early Israelite History, 205–40. Yahya, A.H. “Looting and Salvaging: How the Wall, Illegal Digging, and the Antiquities Trade are Ravaging Palestinian Cultural Heritage.” JQ 33 (2008): 39–55. Yapp, M. Review of Toward a Theory of Historical Narrative, by M. Waldman. TLS, September 1980, 1040. Yerushalmi, Y. Zakhor. University of Washington Press, Seattle, 1982. Yildiz, K. The Kurds in Iraq. London: Pluto Press, 2007. Yurco, F. “Merenptah’s Canaanite campaign.” JARCE 23 (1986): 189–215. ——. “3,200 Years-Old Picture of Israelites Found in Egypt.” BAR 16/5 (1990): 20–38. Zambauer, E. Manuel de généalogie et de chronologie pour l’histoire de l’Islam. Hanover, 1927.

226

Bibliography

Zeine, Z. Arab Turkish Relations and the Emergence of Arab Nationalism. Beirut, 1958. Retitled in its Third edition as The Emergence of Arab Nationalism, with a Background Study of Arab-Turkish Relations in the Near East. New York, 1973. Zwettler, M. The Oral Tradition of Classical Arabic Poetry. Columbus OH : Ohio State University Press, 1978.

Index al-‘Abbas, 44–5, 60 Abbasids, the, 4, 44–5, 87, 112–3 administrative units, 93 agenda, 96 appeal to history, 117–9 counter-revolution against, 94–5 decline, 93 innovations, 91–2 legitimacy, 66–9 military reforms, 91–2 model of revolutionary activity, 7–8 post-revolutionary Alid martyrdom, 69–72 prelude to revolution, 61–4 religious authorities, 92–3 revolution, 9, 64–6, 67–8, 82, 85–6 right to govern, 66 Saddam’s mobilization of, 117–9 suffering under the Umayyad regime, 69 use of black, 67 violence, 91 ‘Abd al-Malik b. Marwan, 60 ‘Abdallah al-Mahd, 71–2 Abdallah b. al-Zubayr, 60 ‘Abdallah b. Mu‘awiyah, 64 Abdallah II, King of Jordan, 103, 115 Abraham, 1, 119, 135, 178 Abraham–Ishmael legends, 146 Abu El-Haj, Nadia, 171, 171–4, 175–6 Abu Ja’far al-Mansur, 62, 117 Abu Salamah al-Khallal, 71–2 academic legitimacy, 18 academic standards, 166 academics, limitations, 77 Afghanistan, 73, 74 Ahab, 159–60, 162, 198 n16 ‘A’ishah, 60 Akhbar al-‘Abbas, 68–9 Akhenaton, 150 Albright, W.F., 155–6, 198–9 n21

Algeria, 10 ‘Ali b. ‘Abdallah, 68 ‘Ali b. Abi Talib, 4, 46, 48, 49, 68, 70, 85 Alids, 44–5, 49–51, 58 failure of, 94–5 imams, 4, 7 post-revolutionary martyrdom, 69–72 ‘alimiyah, 86–9 allusions, 32 al-nakbah “the disgrace”, 133 al-Qaeda, 37, 74, 79, 89 al-Sham, 106 ambiguities, shaping, 19 Amenhotep IV, 168 American School of Oriental Research in Jerusalem, 6, 8, 155 Annales School, 18 annotation, 14 anti-Semitism, 152 apocalyptical literature, 183 n14 apologists, 17, 21 Arab nationalism, 11, 120–2, 133 Arab Spring, the, 4, 77, 78, 86, 86–7, 88, 99, 100, 149–51 Arab unity, 82, 121 Arabia, as primal homeland, 139 Arabic, 31, 60, 142, 194–5 n22 Arabic historiography, and the modern historian, 34–5 Arabism, commitment to, 124–7 Arab–Israel conflict, 11–2 Arab–Israel war, 1948–9, 115 Arafat, Yasser, 170 archaeological landscape, 124–5 archaeologists, 32–3 archaeology, 155–8, 158, 159, 160, 168, 171–7, 197 n14, 201 n37 ‘asabiyah, 109 al-Asad, Talal, 171 Ashkenaz, 174, 202 n49 Ashkenazi, 202 n49

227

228 al-Assad, Hafiz, 87, 95 al-Assiouty, Sarwis Anis, 149–51 Association for Jewish Studies, 12 Assyrian empire, 159–60, 164 Assyriology, 119–20, 167–8, 168–9 authorial intention, 23–4 authoritarianism, 81 authority, chains of, 28 autocracy, 87–8 Babylon, 124–5, 126 Babylonian captivity, 165 back-projections, 32–3 Baghdad, 93, 108, 112–3, 113–4, 115–6, 117, 123 al-Baghdadi, Khatib, 132–3 Barton, G.A., 194 n18 Ba’th parties, 82 bearing witness, 7, 39 Bedouin tribesman, resistance to centralized authority, 5 Ben-Gurion, David, 135, 196 n6 Bernal, Martin, 150 bias, 28 Bible Wars, 166, 196–7 n8 Biblical Archaeology Review, 166 biblical revisionism, 158, 160–1 biblical scholarship, uses and misuses of, 149–80 archaeology, 155–8, 158, 159, 160 al-Assiouty, 149–51 current state of, 155 Danish school, 154–5, 161, 161–6, 168, 170–1, 174 erasure of Palestinian memory, 171–7, 201 n37 Jewish narratives, 151–61 minimalist, 161–71, 198 n20, 200 n31 promised land narrative, 151–8 rise of the Israelite monarchy, 158–61 scholarly politics, 177–80 biographical works, 28, 131 blood ties, 62, 130 borders, artificial, 104 bravery, 44–5, 45, 46 Brettler, Marc, 166 brutality, 58, 89, 90–1 Buffett Institute for Global Affairs at Northwestern University, 13

Index Cairo Geniza, the, 31–2 caliphal power, 110 Canaan Jewish claims to, 135–7, 143–4, 151, 168–70 Palestinian ancestry, 12–3, 129, 134, 139–48, 170, 176, 178, 180, 202 n49 settlement profile, 175 centralized authority, resistance to, 5 Chinese Revolution, 81 Christian Zionists, 136–7 Christianity, and martyrdom, 38, 41–2 Christians, indigenous, 148 chronological layering, and linguistic usage, 30–3 chronological markers, 32, 33 citizenship, 107, 108 civil conflict, 10 collective memory, reshaping, 45 collective responsibility, 74 colonial rule, 3 comparative history, 81–2 Constantinople, 78 Coptic Christians, 149–51 corruption, 83 counter-revolution, 93, 94–5 critical vision, 6 Crusades, the, 78, 170 cultural transference, 154 culture, role of, 4 Cyrus the Great, 126 DAESH, see also ISIL, ISIS, 79 Damascus, 53, 56, 59, 63 Danish school, 154–5, 161, 161–6, 168, 170–1, 174 David, King, 136, 143, 153, 154, 157, 158–61, 162, 164 Davies, Philip, 162, 162–3, 200 n31 dawlah, 85, 107–8 Dayan, Moshe, 171 democracy, 8, 84 dependency, 3 Dever, William, 197 n14, 198–9 n21, 200 n31 Dietrich, M., 142 din, 83, 87 diplomatic negotiation, 43–4, 48 doctrinal thrust, 33

Index Donner, F., 182–3 n13 dunya, 83, 87 dunyawiyah, 86–9 dynastic succession, 55–6 Early Islam, historiographical approaches, 23–7 Egypt, 66, 79, 81, 87, 88, 99, 106, 149–51, 168–9 Ephal, Israel, 145–6 European Enlightenment, value of, 97–8 events, imaginative descriptions of, 20–1 evidence and literary accounts, 17–8 stratigraphy, 27–30 weighing, 27 Exodus, book of, 153 family feuds, 9 fard kifayah, 74 fasad, 83 Fatimah, 49, 70, 85 Fatimids, 106 fatwa, 37 Feisal I, King of Iraq, 113, 115, 120, 120–1, 136–8 feuds, 9 Finkelstein, Israel, 159 Firestone, Reuven, 146 Frankfurter, Felix, 137, 138 French Revolution, 81, 82 Gabriel, the angel, 67 genealogical lists, 130, 140–1 Genesis, book of, 140 Geniza, the, 31–2 geographical labels, 2 geopolitics, 177 Gezer, 159, 197 n14 ghusl, 40–1 Gibb, H.A.R., 99–100 Glock, Albert, 201 n37 murder, 172–3, 202 n48 God, 96 and martyrdom, 39–40 Goldziher, I., 181 n6 Greater Syria, 133, 138 Gresham’s law, 28 Gulf War, first, 95, 123, 125

229

hadith, the, 41 Hamas, 72–3, 74, 95 Hammurabi, 117, 125 Hannah (Jewish martyr), 38 Al-Hasan b. ‘Ali, 46, 47–52 al-Hasan Bakr, Ahmad, 116 Hazor, 159 Hebraizing, 196 n6 Hebrew Bible, 5, 11–2, 12–3, 135–6, 139, 140–1, 143–4, 145, 145–6, 151–2, 153, 159, 161–3, 164–5, 167–8, 178–9 Hebrew University in Jerusalem, 156 heretics, 89, 90 Hezbollah, 103 Hidden Imam, the, 111 higher biblical criticism, 151, 152 Hijaz, the, 28 Hind, 48–9 Hisham b. ‘Abd al-Malik, 61 historic precedents, 2 historical consciousness, 2 historical exposition, 18 historical license, 4 historical markers, 25 historical memory erasure of, 171–7 and revolutionary activity, 8 uses of, 2–3 historical memory, approaches to, 17–35 academic legitimacy, 18 ambiguities, 19 antiseptic analytical frameworks, 20 apologists, 17, 21 back-projections, 33 bias, 28 caution, 18, 20 close textual readings, 18 coherence, 21–2 context, 23–4 doctrinal thrust, 33 Early Islam, 23–7 educated conjecture, 23 and evidence, 17–8 focus of investigation, 20 imaginative descriptions, 20–1 importance, 34–5 incidental information, 18 intentionality, 22

230

Index

linguistic, 30–3 malleable, 17 the modern historian, 34–5 philological, 30–3 problems, 17–23 scale of task, 17 starting point, 21 stratigraphy, 27–30 theory, 19–20 historical narratives, need for, 5 historical paradigms, 18 historical reality, 2 historical texts editorial changes, 26 interpretation, 25–6 stratigraphy, 27–30 historiography, 6 bias, 28 reassessments of the past, 29 traditions, 27–8 history as a discipline, 18–9 idealized view of, 21 rewriting, 4, 116–20 the right side of, 80 Holy Land, the, 12–3, 60, 125, 133, 139, 155–8 honor, 7, 43–4, 44, 46, 48, 57–8, 70 Hujr b. ‘Adi al-Kindi, 46–7, 47, 52–5, 68–9 Humaymah, 65 Husayn,, 7 al-Husayn b. ‘Ali, 47, 49, 52, 55–8, 59, 63, 66 Husseini, Feisal, 134 Ibn al-Athir, 30–1 Ibn Hisham, 30 Ibn Ishaq, 29, 182 n8 Ibn Tabataba, Muhammad b. ‘Ali, 51 idealized past, overwhelming reverence for, 85 identity commitment to Arabism, 124–7 creation, 112–6, 179 forging, 116–20 Iraqi, 112–27 Islam and, 179 Kurds, 122–4 local, 11 national, 105, 112–27, 175–6

Palestinian, 130–3 self-definition, 132–3 tracking, 130–1 imaginative descriptions, 20–1 imams, line of, 4 impetuosity, 68 incidental information, 18 independence, 104 inqilab, 82–3 instability, 103–4 intellectual capital, 3 intellectual independence, 24 international order, 105 intifadah, 83 Iran, 10, 114, 115 Iran–Iraq tensions, 122 Iraq, 1, 10, 28, 74, 81, 82, 88, 94, 99, 112 and Arab nationalism, 120–2 Baath party, 114 borders, 113 British control, 120 civil conflict, 103 commitment to Arabism, 124–7 creation, 112–3 forging national identity, 116–20 iconography, 125 Kurds, 113, 122–4, 191 n18 Mosul region, 113 national identity, 112–27 propaganda, 116–20, 125–7 Shi‘ite Muslims, 113–4, 121–2 state repression, 116 Sunnite rule, 114–6 Iraq–Iran war, 74 Ishmael, son of Abraham, 119, 146, 192 n2 ISIL, 74–5, 79, 89–90, 91, 92, 93, 105, 111, 186 n1 ISIS, 37, 79 Islam and identity, 179 resurgence of, 5–6 revolution and revolutionary activity in, 4, 80–2 triumph of, 89–90 Islamic Caliphate, 75 Islamic culture, treatment of, 2 Islamic history, 1 Islamic law, 86, 88–9, 98, 111 Islamic politics, 1

Index Islamic State, 74–5, 89–90, 186 n1 Islamists, 11, 106, 112 Israel, 73, 157 academic culture, 172 archaeological practice, 171–7 claims to Canaan, 135–7, 143–4, 168–70 creation of Jewish homeland, 104 epigraphic evidence, 163–4 erasure of Palestinian memory, 171–7, 201 n37 Feisal and Weizmann negotiations, 136–8 legitimacy, 125–6 national ethos, 171 origins of, 153–8, 163 and scholarly politics, 172, 177–80 Israel Antiquities Authority, 176 Israeli archaeology, 12–3, 157, 159, 171–7, 197 n14, 201 n37 Israelite monarchy, rise of, 158–61 Israelites, ancient, 139, 144, 145–7, 153, 178–9, 198–9 n21 istishhad, 40, 44, 44–5 Ja‘far b. Abi Talib, 64 Ja‘farid rebellion, 64 al-Jahiz, 118–9 Jerusalem, 133, 134, 136, 160, 170, 175 Jews Ashkenazi, 202 n49 Babylonian captivity, 165 biblical scholars, 152–3 biblical scholarship, uses and misuses of, 151–61 claims to Canaan, 135–7, 143–4, 151, 168–70 historical narrative, 174 Muslim interest in history, 178–9 national consciousness, 1 origins of, 174 the promised land, 143–4, 151–8 settlers, 134, 138, 141, 152, 175, 196 n6 shared DNA, 174 Jezebel, 188 n20 jihad, 40, 74, 89 Jihadi movements, rise of, 37 Jihadist behavior, 89 Jihadists, preparations for self-sacrifice, 7

231

Jordan, 10, 88, 99, 103, 115 Joshua, 140–1 Josiah, King, 160 Judaism, and martyrdom, 38 Judeo–Christian heritage, privileging, 139 justice, 177 Kenyon, Kathleen, 176 Khalidi, R., 193 n7 al-Khalil b. Ahmad, 42–3 Khazars, 174 Khurasan, 65, 67–8, 118–9 Kitab al-‘ayn (al-Khalil b. Ahmad), 42–3 Knauf, E.A., 165 Koestler, Arthur, 174 Kufa, 53, 56, 61., 62 Kurds, 113, 122–4, 191 n18 languages, 165–6, 180 Arabic, 31, 60, 142, 194–5 n22 ignorance of, 19 Semitic, 141–2 Lawrence, T.E., 137, 138 learning, traditions of, 24–5 Lebanese Christians, 148 Lebanon, 10, 99 legitimacy, 44–5, 66–9, 117 national consciousness, 111 Lemche, Niels Peter, 162, 163, 198 n20 Lewis, Bernard, 80–1, 82, 82–3 lexicography, 31 liberalism, 98 Libya, 94 linguistic criteria, 30–3 literary accounts, and evidence, 17–8 literary devices, 25 Loretz, O., 142 al-Ma’mun, 93 manliness, 7, 43–4, 45 martyrdom, 4, 6–7, 37–58 and bravery, 44–5 Christian, 38, 41–2 contemporary, 72–5 current understandings, 37–8 example, 65–6 families and, 72–3 grey zone, 38

232 Al-Hasan b. ‘Ali, 46, 47, 47–52 Hujr b. ‘Adi, 46–7, 52–5, 68–9 al-Husayn b. ‘Ali, 55–8 Jihadist preparations, 7 Judaism and, 38 and manhood, 43–4 media commentary, 37 motivation, 7, 45, 73–4 Muhammad, the Prophet and, 68 origins of, 7, 45–7 philology, 43–4 post-revolutionary Alids, 69–72 and pre-Islamic poetry, 44 preparations, 72 and the Qur’an, 7, 39–40, 41, 42 and regime change, 59 terminology, 38–44 Yahya, 63–4 Zayd b. ‘Ali, 61–4 Masalha, Nur, 174, 196 n6 material gain, 83 Medina, 67, 70–1 Megiddo, 159 Merneptah Stele, 163–4 Mesha Stone, 164 Mesopotamia, 117, 119–20, 124, 125, 126, 141–2, 164 Messianic expectations, 60–1 Middle East, 2 Mikhnaf, Abu, 55 militant Islam, appeal of the, 79–80 minimalist approach, 161–71, 198 n20, 200 n31 model, 6 modernity challenges of, 98 responses to, 5–6 modernization, 3 Mongol invasion, 78 monotheism, 150 Montgomery, James A., 145–6 Morocco, 10 Moses, 178 Mosul, 186 n1 Mu‘awiyah, 47, 48, 49, 50–1, 51, 55–6, 185–6 n16 Mu‘awiyah b. Abi Sufyan, 46 Muhammad, the Prophet, 4, 62, 109–10, 183 n14

Index as a compromiser, 84 daughters, 85 dream, 97 emigration to Medina, 67 general amnesty, 48–9 legitimacy, 39–40, 178 and martyrdom, 68 model of revolutionary activity, 7–8 passivity, 67 siege of Medina, 70–1 succession, 49–50, 84 Muhammad b. ‘Abdallah al-Mahd, 70–1 Muhammad b. ‘Ali b. Tabataba, 185–6 n16 Mu‘jam al-buldan, 131 muru‘ah, 65–6 Mus‘ab b. al-Zubayr, 60 Muslim b. ‘Aqil, 56, 57 Muslim Brotherhood, 8, 79, 87, 88, 95, 105, 111 Muslim Diaspora, 98 muwatin, 108 Nablus, 159 Najran, 42 names and naming conventions, 13, 130–1, 132–3 Napoleon, 79 nation states, 97, 111 defense of, 111–2 emergence of, 1, 5, 11, 107 fragility, 103–5 legitimacy, 111 precedents, 107–8 national consciousness, 1, 103–27 allegiances, 108 Arab nationalism, 120–2 commitment to Arabism, 124–7 legitimacy, 111 national identity, 105, 108, 112–27 and political realities, 110–2 Universal Islamic community, 106–10 national identity, 105, 108, 112–27, 175–6 commitment to Arabism, 124–7 creation, 112–6, 179 forging, 116–20 Iraqi, 112–27 Kurds, 122–4 nationalism, 193 n7

Index Near East, 2 settlement pattern, 141 Nebuchadnezzar, 117, 125, 126, 147 non-believers, orientation towards, 98 Omri, House of, 159, 159–60 Oriental Other, the, 2 Oriental studies, 140–1 Ottoman Empire, 10, 11, 78–9, 107 dissolution of the, 5, 104 reorganization, 133 Ottoman Levant, 107 Palestine, 133, 193 n5 Arab conquest, 139 Arab past, 175–6 British mandate, 138 geographical, 169 Hebraizing, 196 n6 Jewish settlement, 138, 152, 175, 196 n6 partition, 134, 138, 177 universities, 180 Palestine Exploration Society, 156 Palestine Oriental Society, 156 Palestinian history, silencing, 12, 171–7, 201 n37 Palestinian identity, 130–3 Palestinian memory, erasure of, 12, 171–7, 201 n37 Palestinians, 10, 94, 99 and ancient Palestine, 129 and archaeology, 158 Canaanite ancestry, 12–3, 129, 134, 139–48, 170, 176, 178, 180, 203 n56 Feisal and Weizmann negotiations, 136–8 grievances, 134 historic claims, 134–48 identity, 130–3, 180 interest in the ancient world, 179–80 internal rivalry, 103–4 intifadah, 83, 88 literature references, 131–2 national consciousness, 1, 112 national consensus, 135 national identity, 175–6 nationalism, 193 n5 objectives, 134–5 origin of name, 145

refugees, 133 religious heritage, 178 revolt against British rule, 135 and scholarly politics, 177–80 suicide bombers, 72–4 Palestinography, 180 pan-Arabism, 148 paradise, 7, 41 passivity, 69–70 rationalizing, 66–9 past, the approach to, 6 imagined, 20–1, 116 privileging, 105 reassessments of, 29 reshaping, 49–51 Patai, Rapahel, 174 patience, 65, 66–9, 96 patronage, 29 Pentateuch, the, 153 personal obligations, 74 Petrie, Flinders, 155 Philistines, 145, 147–8 philological criteria, 30–3 philology, 3 martyrdom, 43–4 place names, 13 pledge of women, 67 PMLA, 142 poetry, pre-Islamic, 43–4 political agendas, legitimization, 2 political allegiance, 109 political culture, 1, 4–6, 10 political Islam, 111 politics, and religion, 86–9 polychrome Bible, the, 27 Prior, Michael, 170 propaganda, 21, 116–20, 125–7 proper names, 13 Qaddafi, Muammar, 94 qarh, 39 Qassem, ‘Abd al-Karim, 90–1, 119 Qisas al-anbiya’, 139–40 Qur’an, the, 2, 84, 139, 178 commentary, 25 and martyrdom, 7, 39–40, 41, 42 Quraysh, 62 Qurayzah, the, 126

233

234 Ra’ad, Basem, 142, 173–4, 196 n6 rabbinic interpretation, 153 ra‘iyah, 108 al-Rashid, Harun, 92, 93, 99 regime change, 8–9, 59–69, 91 Abbasid Revolution, 61–6 legitimacy, 66–9 and martyrdom, 59 religion bonds of, 80 and politics, 86–9 and revolution and revolutionary activity, 86–9 religious inclusiveness, 98 religious spirituality, 83 research paradigms, 13 revolution and revolutionary activity, 77–100 Abbasid, 9, 64–6, 67–8, 82, 85–6 aims, 79, 96–7 cause of success or failure, 95–100 comparative history, 81–2 counter-revolution, 93, 94–5 definition, 81 and the encroachment of the West, 78–80 future of, 95–100 and historical memory, 8 in Islam, 4, 80–2 model of, 7–8 motivation, 84 outcomes, 77, 86–9 progressive, 82 reformist, 81 and religion, 86–9 as return to the past, 83–6 terminology, 82–3 and violence, 89–93 Russian Revolution, 81 Saddam Hussein, 87, 91, 92, 95, 114, 115–6, 116–20, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126–7 al-Saffah, 82 Said, Edward, 167, 201 n35 Saladin, 123 Salafism, 79, 105 Salibi, Kamal, 143–5, 146–7, 149 Sand, Shlomo, 174

Index Saudi Arabia, 10 Schlötzer, August, 141 Schoeler, G., 183 n13 scholarly politics, 177–80 secularism, 86–7 self-definition, 132–3 self-sacrifice. see martyrdom Semites, 124, 140–1, 194 n18 Semitic languages, 141–2 Sennacherib, 164 shahid, 7, 37, 38, 38–9, 40–1, 42, 42–3, 44–5, 74 shaja‘ah, 65–6 shame, 44 Sharon, Moshe, 177 Shi‘ites, 4, 71, 72, 95, 111 Iraqi, 113–4, 121–2 revivalists, 85 shuhada’, 39–40 shu‘ubi, 122 Six-Day War, 1967, 133, 152, 171, 175 skepticism, 24 social organization, politics of, 19–20 socialism, 82 Solomon, King, 136, 153, 154, 157, 158–61, 162 source criticism, 27 sources, 3, 6, 17 and doubt, 19 Sprenger, Alois, 141 stabilization, politics of, 9 state, the, 107–8 state formation, 10–1 suicide, forbidden to Muslims, 37 suicide bombers, 6–7, 72–4, 74–5 Sumerians, 124 Sunnite Islam, 4, 95, 111 revivalists, 84 Syria, 10, 59, 66, 74, 81, 82, 87, 88, 94, 95, 99, 103, 106, 112 Syro–Palestinian archaeology, 168 Tabari, 28–9, 30–1 Tahrir Square, 86, 88, 94, 95 Taliban, the, 74 Tel Dan inscription, 164, 168–9, 199–200 n26 telecommunications, 87–8 Téléphone Arabe, 26

Index territorial claims, 1 terrorism, 74–5 textual traditions, ignorance of, 19 thawrah, 82, 83 Third Reich, rise of, 81 Thompson, Thomas, 162, 163, 170, 198 n20, 200 n31 Timeless Orient, the, 2 tolerance, 89 Torah, the, 153 Transjordan, 115, 138 transliteration systems, 13 transnationalism, 3 tribal system, breakup of, 109–10 triumphalist ideology, 90 Tunisia, 10 Turkish Republic, 87 Ugaritic, 142, 169 Uhud, battle of, 39–40, 67 Umar al-Ashraf, 71 Umayyad caliphate, 44–5, 55–8, 59–64, 64–6, 69, 82, 86, 90, 91 ummah, the, 5–6, 11, 44, 44–5, 83, 97, 105, 106–10, 110–2 United Nations, 134, 177 Universal Islamic community, 106–10 Ussishkin, David, 159 ‘Uthman b. ‘Affan, 51, 62 Van Seters, J., 198 n20 Vienna, 78–9 violence, revolutionary, 89–93 vocabulary, 30–3 wahdah, 121 watan, 108 Weizmann, Chaim, 136–7, 137

235

Wellhausen, Julius, 27, 28, 34–5, 181 n5, 181 n6 West, the decadence, 79–80 democracy, 84 encroachment of, 78–80 failure of, 104 liberal atmosphere, 87 privileging, 2 revolution and revolutionary activity in, 80–1 West Bank, Jewish settlement, 134, 175 Whitelam, Keith W., 167, 169, 170, 172, 201 n35 World War I, 115, 133, 136 Yadin, Yigal, 197 n14 Yahya, 63–4 Yazid, 55, 56 Zayd b. ‘Ali, 61, 61–4 Zionism, 11–2, 105, 174, 177, 179 claims to Canaan, 135–7, 143–4 emergence of, 134 Feisal and Weizmann negotiations, 136–8 influence among Christians, 136–9 and the Israelite monarchy, 158, 160, 161 objective, 5 promised land narrative, 151–8 response to, 129–48 rise of, 5 threat to Arab nationalist aspirations, 138 al-Zu’abi, Mahmud, 170 al-Zubayr b. al-‘Awwam, 60 Zubayrid brothers rebellion, 60

236

237

238

239

240