Political Islam and Democracy in the Muslim World [1 ed.] 9781626375390, 9781626372528

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POLITICAL ISLAM & DEMOCRACY IN THE MUSLIM WORLD

POLITICAL ISLAM & DEMOCRACY IN THE MUSLIM WORLD PAUL KUBICEK

b o u l d e r l o n d o n

Published in the United States of America in 2015 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 1800 30th Street, Boulder, Colorado 80301 www.rienner.com and in the United Kingdom by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 3 Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, London WC2E 8LU © 2015 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A Cataloging-in-Publication record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN 978-1-62637-252-8 British Cataloguing in Publication Data A Cataloguing in Publication record for this book is available from the British Library.

Printed and bound in the United States of America The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials Z39.48-1992. 5

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Contents

vii ix

List of Tables and Figures Preface

1

Islam and Democracy: Exploring the Relationship

2

Turkey: Democracy and the Dynamics of Secularism

35

3

Malaysia: Islam and Nationalism in a Semidemocratic State

83

1

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Pakistan: Democracy After Islamization?

117

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Bangladesh: Politicized Islam in a Debilitated Democracy

151

6

Mali: A Least-Likely Case of Democratization

179

7

Indonesia: Democratization amid Competing Visions of Islam

205

Senegal: Sufi Brotherhoods, Secularism, and Gradual Democratization

245

The Arab Spring and Muslim Democracy: Looking Back, Looking Forward

275

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299 301 327 349

List of Acronyms References Index About the Book

v

Tables and Figures

Tables 1.1 1.2 1.3 1.4 1.5 1.6 2.1 3.1 4.1 5.1 6.1 6.2 7.1

The Democratic Deficit in the Muslim World, 2012 Muslim-Majority Democracies Comparison of Muslim-Majority Democracies on Quantitative Indexes Profiles of Muslim-Majority Democracies Comparative Support by Muslims for Sharia and Powers for Religious Judges Year of First Sustained Democratic Experience Evidence of “Liberal” Islam in Contemporary Turkey, Indonesia, and Senegal Election Results in Malaysia Little Support for “Liberal” Islam in Pakistan Election Results in Bangladesh, 1991–Present Attitudes on Religion, Tolerance, and Politics in West Africa Factors Affecting Support for Sharia in Mali Results for Islamic-Oriented Parties in Indonesian Elections

5 6 7 16 23 29 39 90 144 163 194 195 227

Figures 2.1 3.1

Democratic Development in Turkey Democratic Development in Malaysia vii

36 84

viii

Tables and Figures

4.1 5.1 6.1 7.1 8.1 9.1

Democratic Development in Pakistan Democratic Development in Bangladesh Democratic Development in Mali Democratic Development in Indonesia Democratic Development in Senegal Democratic Development in Post–Arab Spring Tunisia and Egypt

118 152 180 206 246 283

Preface

The genesis of this book goes back nearly twenty years, when I accepted my first academic position at Koç University in Istanbul. At that time I knew little about Turkey or the broader Muslim world. My research in graduate school focused on postcommunist countries, and much of my work drew on the emerging literature on democratization. Muslim countries were by and large absent in most of the early writing on this topic. To the extent they were mentioned, it was usually in a disparaging manner, with “Islam” hypothesized to be a factor somehow inimical to democracy. Of course, Turkey had a long-standing, if flawed, democratic record, and this was enough for some to invoke it as a “model” for other Muslim countries. I dutifully added Turkey to my repertoire of cases for comparative analysis, but continued to view it, in many ways, as sui generis among Muslim countries. Fast-forward a decade. Not only had Turkey made many liberalizing reforms, but by then other Muslim-majority countries, such as Indonesia, Mali, and Senegal, had developed credible democratic systems. True, all of these countries were outside the Islamic heartland of the Arab world and Middle East and remained understudied in the democratization literature, but surely their success constituted something significant, a demonstration that Muslim countries could be democratic. However, during the Arab Spring, when I asked students in my course on democratization to reflect on prospects for democracy in the Middle East, most were pessimistic. When pressed to explain why, they replied with a rhetorical question: they’re Muslim, aren’t they? One can, perhaps, excuse this almost knee-jerk reaction from undergraduates; but the same attitude also colored much of the coverage of the Arab Spring, in which a prominent question, at least in the popular media, was whether Muslim countries could democratize. This, of course, overlooked the fact, noted above, that many Muslim countries were already (or had been) democratic. True, some analysts and scholars pointed this out, often defensively suggesting how elements of Islam could be supportive of ix

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Preface

democracy. In trying to present this to students, however, I discovered that there was a real gap in comparative analysis of how these countries democratized and, more specifically, what role (if any) Islam actually played in this process. This volume is my effort to fill that gap. *** Numerous individuals and institutions deserve thanks for helping this project come to fruition. A faculty research fellowship from Oakland University helped to get it off the ground, and I completed it while on sabbatical at Antalya International University (AIU). I thank H. Tarık Oğuzlu, Cerem Cenker, Bilgehan Öztürk, and the faculty and students at AIU for providing a stimulating and collegial environment. I also must thank the Scientific and Technological Research Council of Turkey (TÜBITAK) for a generous sabbatical fellowship that supported my work. While in Turkey, I presented early parts of my research at seminars at Koç University and Bilgi University. I thank Ziya Öniş and Ilter Turan for arranging these presentations and students and faculty at both institutions for providing feedback and asking challenging questions. I also benefited immensely from participating in the conference “Islamism Versus Post-Islamism?” at the Goethe Universität in Frankfurt am Main. Ahmet Kuru read an early draft of parts of the manuscript and provided valuable feedback. At Oakland University, I thank Jane Dixon for providing research assistance and Dana Parke for sharing her insights about Senegal. I am most appreciative of Lynne Rienner’s embrace of this project and her advice about how to improve it with readers in mind. I also must thank the anonymous reviewers for pointing out weaknesses and suggesting how the conceptual and comparative analysis could be improved. I have tried my best to incorporate recommendations from numerous sources. Any remaining shortcomings are mine. It has been many years and miles since that first journey to Istanbul. Alyce Howarth has been along for the entire ride, and for her patience, support, and sense of adventure I remain most grateful. Our intrepid young sojourners, Jonah and Asher, joined us for our most recent experience in Turkey, and they too developed an appreciation for the rich history and beauty of the country and the hospitality of its people. I dedicate this book to them in the expectation that their own curiosity will lead them on still greater journeys. —Paul Kubicek

1 Islam and Democracy: Exploring the Relationship

In November 2013, Turkish prime minister Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, leader of the Islamic-oriented1 Justice and Development Party (Adalet ve Kalkınma Partisi, AKP), caused a stir by suggesting that as leader of a “conservative and democratic government” he was obligated to act against privately owned coed student housing and that the government has “certain duties” to distinguish between “legitimate living and illegitimate living.”2 This brought back memories of an earlier claim when he was mayor of Istanbul that he was the city’s “imam” and that “preventing sin” was among his duties. His position was supported by self-described “fatwas” by progovernment religious scholars who argued that the government had no obligation to protect practices with which the majority disapproves and that minorities must “voluntarily” refrain from exercising some freedoms.3 This came after the government’s harsh crackdown on protesters in Istanbul’s Gezi Park the previous spring and it was followed in March 2014 by bans on Twitter and YouTube as the government was engulfed in a major corruption scandal. Previous talk of Turkey as a democratic “model” for other Muslim countries, which was in vogue after the Arab Spring, ended.4 This action, in addition to a host of developments in the Muslim world in 2012–2014—including a military coup in Mali, sectarian violence and continued use of blasphemy laws against minorities in Pakistan, calls by Islamists in Bangladesh for bans on men and women mixing in public, the ouster of an elected government and (re)creation of a police state in Egypt, instability pushing post–Arab Spring Libya to the brink of civil war, and, not least, the long-running civil war in Syria—rekindled skepticism about prospects for democracy in the Muslim world. Debates about the alleged incompatibility between Islam and democracy, of course, are long-standing. The fact that few Muslim countries are 1

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Political Islam and Democracy in the Muslim World

democratic leads some to the conclusion that Islam is to blame. Derrida claims Islam is “the other of democracy” (Derrida 2005); Lewis (2005: 36) argues the basic modern notion of democracy is “alien” in most Islamic societies; Huntington (1993: 40), in his “Clash of Civilizations,” posited that fundamental Western ideas of individualism, liberalism, democracy, and rule of law have “little resonance” in Islamic cultures; Lakoff (2004: 136) paints his critique of Islam with a broad brush, maintaining that “Muslim thinking, Arab and non-Arab, is in principle against the individualism, pluralism, and secularism characteristic of modern democracies.” These positions, which play upon fears of politicized Islam and often are derided as “Orientalist,”5 are bolstered by more rigorous, quantitative studies that find that even when other variables are taken into account, a statistically significant negative relationship between Islam and democracy still holds (Barro 1999; Fish 2002; Rowley and Smith 2009; Potrafke 2012). While the data do not allow one to identify a causal relationship, Rowley and Smith (2009: 298) nonetheless feel confident enough to state that democratic deficits in the Muslim world “appear to have something to do with the nature of Islam itself.” Many would dispute this claim, and the question of whether there is “something” about Islam—or, perhaps, Arab or Persian culture, as democracy is more conspicuously absent in the Middle East than in the wider Muslim world (Stepan and Robertson 2003; Diamond 2010; Chaney 2012)—is a scholarly minefield. Some (Brumberg 2002; Masoud 2008) view these debates as sterile and useless. More importantly, perhaps, arguments over the “compatibility” of Islam and democracy, as Bayat (2007: 4) suggests, are fundamentally off-target. They essentialize Islam into a single variable (often labeled “Islamism”), thereby failing to recognize that Islam can manifest itself politically in a number of different ways, or even not manifest itself at all. Islam and Islamic-oriented actors will vary over time and space; the antidemocratic interpretation of Islam by the ruling clerics in Iran is not the same “Islam” as that found in countries such as Turkey, Indonesia, and Senegal or even among “post-Islamist” thinkers in Iran itself.6 Large-N quantitative studies cannot easily capture this, and they also fail to recognize that the causal arrow may run in the opposite direction, namely, that authoritarian governments contribute to authoritarian manifestations of Islam. This volume has a different focus with a different research question. Rather than blaming Islam for the lack of democracy in the Muslim world, it examines the role of Islam and Islamic-oriented actors in several cases— identified below—of relatively successful democratization. It purposefully avoids essentializing Islam as inherently antidemocratic or democratic. Indeed, it will explore what Ayoob (2007) described as the “many faces of

Islam and Democracy: Exploring the Relationship

3

political Islam.” The primary research question, however, is directed to uncovering relationships between political manifestations of Islam and competitive, democratic politics and explaining how interpretations more amenable to democracy arise and take root. It aspires, with due modesty, to take up the call posed by Stepan and Robertson (2003: 40) for an “enormously significant research project” to determine how actors in Muslimmajority states may draw upon democratic concepts within Islam. There are, to be sure, numerous studies of political Islam in the countries that will be examined here, and this study will draw upon them. This volume, however, aims to be broadly, even ambitiously, comparative in nature, examining countries in Africa, South and Southeast Asia, and the Middle East. Such comparative studies that focus on Muslim-majority democracies,7 as opposed to Islam and democracy in general or on the role of Islam in nondemocratic states, are uncommon.8 While the individual chapters that compose much of this book may lack the depth of monographic studies, the advantage of comparative analysis is that it provides a means to control for alternative explanations and develop generalizations that reveal what features of Islam, historical experiences, and institutional arrangements create conditions more amenable for democratic development. Finally, as seen in the final chapter, the study will apply its findings to countries in the post–Arab Spring Middle East, where, in Tunisia at any rate, prospects for democracy remain strong. Of course, Islam, however it is conceptualized, is not the only factor that may contribute to or work against democratization. There is a vast literature that points to other variables—economic development, relative power of different political groups, class structure, political culture beyond a connection to Islam, international factors—that might also have importance. However, this study rests on the assumption that Islam often politically matters. This may not be problematic when discussing a country such as Malaysia or Pakistan, where Islam is the official religion and is used in various ways by political actors, but Islam may not occupy center stage or, at times, even be listed on the program in some countries. In these cases, Islam may be repressed or simply be politically benign; it does not actively work for democracy but by the same token does not work against it. This “dog that does not bark,” however, may nonetheless turn out to be an important part of the story. This opening chapter is composed of four parts. First, it will briefly identify and classify the cases for comparison, namely, Muslim-majority countries with an extended and relatively successful democratic record. Second, it will lay out the main arguments of the book, elaborating on the above-mentioned interpretative approach and elucidating the main factors that appear to contribute to democratically inclined manifestations of polit-

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ical Islam. Third, taking into account some of the literature that discusses inconsistencies or conflicts between some interpretations of Islam and modern democratic practices, it will suggest various “sticking points” or “fault lines” with respect to Islam and democracy, issues that may emerge to compromise or weaken a country’s adherence to at least some elements of democracy. Finally, it will describe the plan of the book and preview the country-level case studies. In Search of Democracy in the Muslim World Although examples of Muslim-majority democracies exist, they are, admittedly, relatively few. Table 1.1 displays data from the Polity IV data set, Freedom House (FH), and the World Bank’s Voice and Accountability (VA) Index, all of which are widely employed in comparative analyses of democracy or levels of political freedom. Although the data sets measure different concepts—Polity, for example, takes a more minimalist definition of democracy, focusing on openness and competitiveness of competition for political office,9 whereas FH embraces a more “liberal” or “good governance” approach as its measures take into account items such as freedom of speech, minority and women’s rights, and corruption and rule of law—the scores do highly correlate with each other.10 As one can see from the table, Muslim-majority states score much lower with respect to level of democracy (note a higher score on FH’s scale is associated with less freedom) than other countries. Few qualify as “democratic” or “free” under the standards of the given data set.11 As noted above, some have taken this “democratic deficit” as evidence that Islam is a cause for nondemocratic outcomes; in statistical studies, even when other factors such as level of economic development, ethnic heterogeneity, oil and gas rents, and levels of globalization are taken into account, Islam still emerges as statistically significant and negatively related to democracy.12 While aspects of the “democratic deficit” in the Muslim world can certainly be debated, focus on the lack of democracy among these countries draws attention away from the fact that several do qualify as democracies. These are the primary focus of this study. Where (and when) are they? A complete list of Muslim-majority countries since 1945 that qualified as “democratic” by Polity’s definition (none qualified as “democratic” prior to this) and since 1972 (when FH first began publishing its report) as “free” with an average 3.5 or better FH score—a substantially more generous definition of “free” than FH itself employs13—and the years of such standing, through 2012, are presented in Table 1.2.14 As one can see, numerous states have experience with “democracy” or at least a more liberalized political system. Some of these experiences are brief, and there are differences

Islam and Democracy: Exploring the Relationship

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Table 1.1 The Democratic Deficit in the Muslim World, 2012

Source

Average Score of MuslimMajority Statesa

Polity IV ±10 Freedom House (FH) (1–7, 1 = “most free”) World Bank Voice and Accountability Index (VA) ±2.5

Average Score of All Other States

Muslim Other “Democracies”b/ “Democracies”/ All Muslim States All Other States

–.36 5.11

5.55 2.77

12/39 3/46

82/114 85/149

–.89

.18

3/46

91/146

Sources: Polity IV data set (www.systemicpeace.org/polity/polity4.htm), FH Freedom in World Reports (www.freedomhouse.org); World Bank Governance Indicators (http://info.world bank.org/governance/wgi/index.aspx#home), and Pew Research Center, www.pewforum.org /2011/01/27/table-muslim-population-by-country/, accessed 27 February 2015. Notes: a. These include Afghanistan, Albania, Algeria, Azerbaijan, Bahrain, Bangladesh, Brunei, Burkina Faso, Chad, Comoros, Djibouti, Egypt, Gambia, Guinea, Indonesia, Iran, Iraq, Jordan, Kazakhstan, Kosovo, Kuwait, Kyrgyzstan, Lebanon, Libya, Malaysia, Maldives, Mali, Mauritania, Morocco, Niger, Oman, Pakistan, Qatar, Saudi Arabia, Senegal, Sierra Leone, Somalia, Sudan, Syria, Tajikistan, Tunisia, Turkey, Turkmenistan, United Arab Emirates, Uzbekistan, and Yemen. This comes from estimates reported by Pew Forum. b. “Democracy” defined as 6 or higher on Polity, 2.5 or lower on FH, or 0 or above for VA. The data sets do not cover exactly the same set of countries, and in the Polity data set, states undergoing transitions or experiencing instability are often not rated. The twelve “democracies” as judged by Polity are Turkey, Albania, Sierra Leone, Senegal, Indonesia, Comoros, Kyrgyzstan, Niger, Kosovo, Malaysia, Pakistan, and Lebanon. For FH, they are Indonesia, Mali, and Sierra Leone. For VA, they are Senegal, Albania, and Indonesia.

across the data sets. However, there is also significant overlap, especially if one singles out the countries that have a record of being “democratic” or “free” for at least ten consecutive years. These countries and years appear in italics in Table 1.2. Nine countries meet this criterion in Polity; eight do in FH. The outlier is Pakistan, which experiences several ups and downs but manages to be “democratic” by Polity’s criterion for ten years, during which time it also scores 4.5 or lower on FH criteria, “partly free” by FH’s standard. Malaysia is also a bit of an exception as there is no overlap between the two data sets in the years it can be considered “democratic” or “free.” Based upon the available data, these nine countries can be considered, at least for a certain period of time and perhaps in a loose sense, democracies,15 although none garner a 10 signifying “full democracy” under Polity’s rubric or a 1 that is the best possible score from FH. Of course, the inconsistent record of several countries—Pakistan stands out in this regard—is reflective of the fact that not all of these cases can be considered secure or fully consolidated.

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Political Islam and Democracy in the Muslim World

Table 1.2 Muslim-Majority Democracies Muslim-Majority Democracies as Measured by Polity (1945–2012) Albania (2002–2012) Bangladesh (1972–1973) (1992–2006) Comoros (2004–2012) Gambia (1965–1993) Indonesia (1999–2012) Kosovo (2008–2012) Kyrgyzstan (2010) (2012) Lebanon (2005–2012) Malaysia (1957–1968) (2008–2012) Mali (1992–2011) Niger (1992–1995) (2004–2008) (2011–2012) Pakistan (1956–1957) (1973–1976) (1988–1998) (2010–2012) Senegal (2000–2012) Sierra Leone (1961–1966) (2007–2012) Somalia (1960–1968) Sudan (1956–1957) (1965–1968) (1986–1988) Syria (1954–1957) Turkey (1946–1953) (1961–1970) (1973–1979) (1983–2012)

“Free” Muslim-Majority States as Measured by FH (1972–2012)

Albania (1992–1995) (2001–2012) Bangladesh (1972) (1979–1980) (1991–2001) (2010–2012) Burkina Faso (1972–1973) (1978–1979) Comoros (1975) (1991–1992) (2006) (2008–2012) Djibouti (1977) Gambia (1972–1993) Indonesia (2000–2012) Jordan (1992) Kuwait (1973–1975) Kyrgyzstan (1992) (1994) Lebanon (1972–1974) Malaysia (1972–1983) Maldives (1972–1974) (2009–2011) Mali (1992–2011) Niger (1993) (2004–2008) (2011–2012) Pakistan (1988–1989) Senegal (1984–1992) (2000–2012) Sierra Leone (2003–2012) Tunisia (2011–2012) Turkey (1972–1979) (1986–1992) (2002–2012)

Sources: See Table 1.1 sources. Notes: Democracies are defined here as countries that rate 6 or better on Polity IV or average 3.5 or better on FH’s measures of political rights and civil liberties. Countries that have a record of being “democratic” or “free” for at least ten consecutive years appear in italics.

Of these nine cases, seven—Turkey, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Malaysia, Indonesia, Senegal, and Mali—are most useful for comparative analysis. Albania and Gambia will not receive chapters of their own.16 Of these seven, one can further differentiate them, based upon closer consideration of their Polity and FH scores and their more recent experience with democracy, into countries with “more success” and those with “limited success.” Table 1.3 displays data (recall that a lower FH score is more “free”) that justify placing into the first category Turkey, the country with the most extensive experience with democracy, as well as Senegal, Indonesia, and Mali, all of which had well-established democracies in the first decade of the millennium (the coup in Mali in 2012 interrupted twenty years of democracy). This distinction allows for some variance in the dependent variable, fostering comparative analysis.

Table 1.3 Comparison of Muslim-Majority Democracies on Quantitative Indexes

Country

Years Rated “Democratic” (>6) by Polity, 1980–2013

Top Polity Score Since 1980 (Years)

Top FH Score Since 1980 (Years)

Average Polity Score, 2000–2013

Average FH Score, 2000–2013

Average VA Score ±2.5, 2000–2013

31 20 15 14

9 (1989–1992; 2011–2013) 7 (2002–2011) 8 (2004–2013) 8 (2000–2006)

3.0 (2004–2011) 2.0 (2003–2006) 2.5 (2005–2012) 2.5 (2002–2007)

7.33 6.29 7.40 7.53

3.36 2.75 2.89 2.75

–.17 0.09 –.15 –.04

15 14 6

6 (1992–2006) 8 (1988–1996) 6 (2008–2013)

2.5 (1991–1992) 3.0 (1988–1989) 3.5 (1980–1983)

3.85 –.52 4.18

3.81 5.09 4.25

–.47 –1.00 –.41

More Success Turkey Mali Indonesia Senegal Limited Success Bangladesh Pakistan Malaysia

Sources: See Table 1.1 sources.

7

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Political Islam and Democracy in the Muslim World

The Argument of the Book The focus of this study is on these countries, and rather than mostly asking if and how Islam undermines democracy (e.g., what is “wrong” with Islam?), its objective is to uncover how democracy has taken root in Muslim-majority countries and, in particular, what role (if any) Islam played in this process. It does not understand Islam as a structural variable, one whose nature is “fixed” and whose meaning or role is self-evident and can therefore be willy-nilly plugged into a statistical equation. Rather, this study adopts a more nuanced, constructivist or agency-oriented perspective on democratization, seeking to uncover how one possibly significant variable, Islam, is (or is not) inserted into the political process and how it affects democratization. It assumes that Islam, like all religions, is “multivocal,” with concepts that could be both harmful and beneficial to democracy (Stepan and Robertson 2003: 40). Put differently, it is “living and flexible,” “(re-)interpreted by each generation” (Akbarzadeh and MacQueen 2008: 11). This approach, which rejects a monolithic or deterministic conception of Islam, makes particular sense if one keeps in mind both the political diversity in the Muslim world and the fact that “Islam” does not specify a particular form of government. As Esposito and Voll (1996: 7) attest, “Like all the major worldviews and religious traditions, Islam has a full spectrum of potential symbols and concepts for the support of absolutism and hierarchy, as well as foundations for liberty and equality.” The obvious question, one this volume explores, is under what circumstances do the latter prevail over the former? There is, to be sure, a vast literature examining theoretically and/or theologically what Islam does or does not prescribe. However, in the spirit of Akbarzadeh and MacQueen’s observation that “the conceptual realignment to reconcile Islam and human rights tends to lag behind empirical cases” (2008: 7), this study literally seeks to bring these debates back down to earth with stronger grounding in actual developments and practices. It finds less utility in talking about Islam and democracy in general—although this topic remains unavoidable—and more value in discussing “Muslims living and theorizing under specific historical circumstances” (Krämer 1993: 3). One should note that not all would embrace this type of perspective. Often Islamist groups embrace a literalist or immutable view of the Quran and other holy texts. In this perspective, Islam is complete unto itself and thus need not and indeed should not be reinterpreted in different historical or cultural contexts by fallible human beings. This fundamentalist interpretation often constitutes a counterdiscourse to more reformist or liberal views of Islam, which are at times portrayed by more fundamentalist actors

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as heretical. Kamrava (2011a: 1–6) points out that bid’a, the Arabic word often translated as “innovation,” often takes on a pejorative meaning, with Muslims enjoined in one hadith to “avoid novelties, for every novelty is an innovation, and every innovation is an error.” Furthermore, not everything is subject to change or interpretation. Islam will not be reinterpreted to become polytheistic or move the hajj to Jakarta or Istanbul. Many tenets and obligations of Islam, including prayer, fasting, and zakat have been observed since its founding and are recognized by most Muslims as important markers of faith. The Quran, sunna, and hadiths remain seminal sources for pious Muslims. However, as Ramadan notes, the task is not “modification of the sources, but a transformation of the mind and eyes that read them, which are indeed naturally influenced by the new social, political and scientific environment in which they live” (2006: 4). Thus, while on an ontological or metaphysical level there may be a one true Islam, history shows that human beings have in fact argued over what it requires or commands. Some scholars point to contradictory or vague verses in the Quran, belying claims of certainty by literalists (Saeed 2006: 153). Others redirect the focus away from specific injunctions in canonical texts and toward basic values or higher objectives (maqasid)—justice, mercy, compassion, and human dignity (El Fadl 2004; Hunter 2009; Ramadan 2009). Some call for widespread application of the ideas of tajdid (renewal), islah (reform), and ijtihad (human reasoning) (An-Na’im 2008; Ramadan 2006, 2011). One should note that the (re)construction of Islam can be subtractive—ridding Islam of the “barnacles it has accumulated throughout history” (Kamrava 2011b: 60)—or additive through bid’a, whose reception will be conditioned by the local context. One, however, should also be aware that tajdid or ijtihad need not be exclusively oriented in a “liberal” direction; Lakoff (2004: 136) notes that various Islamist groups have employed ijtihad in their calls for jihad and violence. This discussion has obvious political import, particularly given that there is no prescribed “Islamic” form of government. How various strands of Islamic thinking are woven together and mixed with other perspectives or ideologies will inevitably vary. Feldman (2003: 34) expresses this notion very well. When mobile ideas [such as “Islam” and “democracy”] meet, they can conflict, but that is hardly the only possibility. People can take on different paths of disparate ideas for themselves, mixing and matching to come up with arrangements that work for them, even if they are not perfectly coherent.

“Islam” and “democracy,” depending on a particular context, thus may overlap in various ways, although, to be sure this need not mean “Islamic

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democracy”—Feldman’s preferred term—would be a carbon copy of modern, Western, liberal democracy. This is an issue we’ll encounter throughout the case studies and explore more in the final chapter. One should also not assume, however, that (re)construction of a concept is sufficient for it to assume a politically meaningful form. In other words, any constructionist interpretation needs to acknowledge that the likelihood of a given idea or concept to really take hold—to assume importance in “real life”—will be conditioned on factors beyond its purely intellectual appeal. Indeed, as several volumes that document the emergence of “liberal” or “reformist” Muslim actors can attest, their appearance, alone, do not necessarily lead to democracy (Esposito and Voll 1996, 2001; Kurzman 1998a; Hunter 2009). Nasr (2005: 14) makes the provocative and useful point that the emergence and fate of “Muslim democracy” (his term) are conditioned less on “the promise of intellectual reform and ideological change” and more on political calculations and dynamics. The analytical focus of this volume is thus built less around the cataloging of various positions, and more on assessing why some notions become more important or accepted than others. This book argues that five historical and institutional variables help shape Islam and push Islamic-oriented actors in a more “democratic” or “liberal” direction, which can—it does not have to—foster democratization. Some of these, it is true, are hard to measure precisely, although qualitative historical analysis can help establish their relative strength or weakness and how they change over time. Moreover, by comparing the “more successful” to the “less successful” cases (see Table 1.3), one can get more purchase on how these variables matter. The first factor concerns the predominant nature of Islam as it emerges and develops within a given polity. In short, there is no one single “Islam” across the Muslim world; instead, in Yavuz’s terms (2004), there are various “zones” that reflect history and local conditions. In particular, one can make a distinction between cases in which Islam arrives largely through force and eliminates much of what preceded it, and thereby assumes a more monolithic form, and cases in which Islam, usually over the course of time, blends in with preexisting traditions and becomes more syncretic and pluralist. Chaney’s (2012) study of the lack of democracy in what Rowley and Smith (2009) call the “Islamic heartland” invokes this type of argument, noting how early Arab military conquest imposed on many lands a rather uniform military-religious order. In these cases, pre-Islamic traditions are either forgotten or delegitimized.17 To be sure, “folk” versions of Islam may continue to exist at the margins and various movements may arise to challenge or alter “official” Islam, but over time (particularly given processes of modernization and development of state bureaucracies), in many cases, particularly in the Arab world, the “high” and more formal Islam of the

Islam and Democracy: Exploring the Relationship

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elites is imposed on the masses, displacing more mystical or syncretic versions (Gellner 1983). On this score, the vernacular language may also matter, as familiarity with Arabic facilitates the spread of what is defined as orthodox Islam. Note that this argument is not intended to essentialize Islam or suggest that would-be Islamic-oriented democrats, particularly in the Middle East, cannot find anything in the Quran or traditional sources to advance more liberal or more pluralistic traditions. However, because they are relying on the same textual sources as those who might deny such traditions, they are at a relative disadvantage in having their ideas take root compared to those who can draw upon a broader range of sources and traditions, including pre-Islamic ones. The latter are more likely to be found on the periphery of today’s Islamic world, where Islam arrived later and not through outright military conquest. Here Islam blended in more with preexisting traditions. Islam, at least what would later be called the “traditional” Islam in countries such as Bangladesh, Senegal, and Indonesia, thus became more syncretic and tolerant of diverse interpretations. This is not to say that there were not later efforts to change or “purify” this Islam. Often these efforts came via intellectual developments in the Middle East. In response, local figures on the Islamic periphery could draw upon their own traditions to construct an alternative, local or national-oriented Islam that they could argue better reflected their own needs and culture. Yavuz (2004: 218) notes that disagreement is not over Islamic doctrines per se but “Islamicate,” which he defines as being about how to put the “universal principles of Islam to work in terms of building institutions, ideas, practices, arts, and a vernacularized morality.” In other words, Muslim “democrats” could argue—and as we’ll see many did so—that “their Islam” was different from Arab or Persian Islam that had, over the centuries, been associated with authoritarian governance and could be portrayed as not compatible with the local context. This is particularly true insofar as Islamic revival becomes linked to nationalism, which is true in several of our cases. In any event, the argument is that more syncretic traditions facilitate pluralism and tolerance, which could then become building blocks for democratic practices as would-be democrats would be less constrained by a rigid, dogmatic Islam and thus have more material to make Islam “compatible” with democracy. The second factor concerns the degree of centralization of religious authorities. Although related to the belief system itself, as discussed above, this factor is less ideational and more focused on the institutional form Islam takes. Although at present there is no overarching, pan-Islamic hierarchy (as there is for the Catholic Church), there have been and are more hierarchical local structures in which there is a vertical “chain of command” or a “state ulama” that may impose one interpretation of Islam as well as attach itself to state power. A prime example of this is Iran, where

12

Political Islam and Democracy in the Muslim World

the Shia ulama, although independent of the state, claimed the right to exercise ijtihad and thus define what Islam allows. This right was based on their learning, and the doctrine of marja-e taqlid (source of emulation), which privileged the most learned and respected ayatollah at the top of the religious hierarchy, was adapted by Ayatollah Ruholla Khomeini in the 1970s into the velayat-e faqih (rule of the supreme jurist), which became the basis for the postrevolutionary Iranian Islamic Republic.18 On the other hand, there may be more decentralized systems that are amenable to both dispersal of power and the emergence of new interpretations of Islam “from below.” These may arise organically in a given society or be imposed or constructed by rulers or colonial powers. Chaney (2012) is again relevant here, making a historical-institutional argument about how particular structures in much of the Muslim world ended up working against democratic development. His contention is that the concentration of military-religious power not only eliminated potential rivals that might contribute to democratization (e.g., a landed aristocracy or merchant guilds) but also created hierarchies that imposed Islamic law (sharia), which was used to maintain a “classical political equilibrium” in favor of the rulers (Chaney 2012: 383; see also Kuran 2011). This was not, however, the model throughout the entirety of the Muslim world, and, as we’ll see in several cases in this volume, where there has been space or opportunity for independent, nonhierarchical forms of Islam to emerge, they have often argued for a more “modern,” “flexible,” or “liberal” form of Islam that is more compatible with democracy. Not all, of course, are convinced by such deeply rooted historical arguments. Sadowski (1993: 19), reviewing works in this genre, finds them too deterministic, assuming Islam is “a kind of family curse that lives on, crippling the lives of innocent generations after the original sin that created it” and excluding a wide range of intervening variables (e.g., imperialism, manner of economic development) that may do better to explain contemporary dynamics. In this respect, one can and should move beyond “deep history” and explore how under the colonial experience and establishment of independent statehood—relevant to most of the countries examined in this volume—religious institutions were set up and whom they empowered. The overarching point, however, remains the same: hierarchical religious institutions create, ceretis paribus, greater potential for centralization of political power and/or the ability to use religion to augment state authority. The third factor concerns the strength of secularism, particularly as it applies to the legal and political system. In most of the cases in this volume, secularism (or some secular practices) was introduced by colonial powers; Turkey, which adopted secularism on its own, is the exception. Secularism, however, did not “stick” in all cases; in Pakistan, Malaysia, and Bangladesh, Islam became the sole state religion, and in Indonesia belief in

Islam and Democracy: Exploring the Relationship

13

God is part of Pancasila, the official ideology, with Islam as one of several recognized faiths. Some scholars (as well as many pious Muslims) have suggested a fundamental incompatibility between Islam and secularism, that the former is “unsecularisable” (Gellner 1994: 15), and the latter an “impiety” (Lewis 1988: 3). Lack of secularism, however, especially with respect to adoption of sharia or in how adherents of nonrecognized faiths are treated, can be, as developed more below, a real problem for democracy (An-Na’im 2008; Tibi 2012; Cesari 2014), although, as Stepan (2000) notes, countries (including established Western democracies) can be nonsecular in different ways, and this need not, by itself, preclude democracy. However, one should bear in mind that many Muslim-majority countries are secular.19 Reviewing the constitutional role of religion across fiftyfour predominantly Muslim states, Stahnke and Blitt (2005) find that eleven (e.g., Indonesia, Albania, Lebanon) make no constitutional declaration with respect to Islam, and the same number (e.g., Turkey, Senegal, Mali) are declared secular states. These last three, all among our “more successful” democracies, adopted or inherited French-style laicité, a more “assertive” form of secularism (Kuru 2009) that significantly limits the political space for Islamic-oriented actors (e.g., explicitly religiously defined parties are prohibited). This does not mean all expression of religion is repressed, although in some cases, most clearly Turkey, authoritarian secularism—not Islamism—has historically been the chief obstacle to democracy. However, it does mean that certain things (e.g., adoption of sharia) are constitutionally off the table. While some groups may advocate this, they have not found much political traction. Consequently, in the more secular countries in this volume the impact of political Islam on policy is much more limited (e.g., there is no Islamization by the state, as in Pakistan and Malaysia [Nasr 2001]) and, as one will see, this tends to be associated with more democratic outcomes. The fourth factor is one of timing, namely, that successful democratization is more likely if democratization precedes significant Islamic-oriented popular mobilization. This argument rests on a couple of grounds. First, democratization in many successful democracies, including most Western countries, was not immediate and total. Basic rights, including that of franchise, expanded over time, and in many cases democracy emerges more as a compact between elites than as a result of popular pressure. Indeed, the “transitology” perspective in the democratization literature plays down the importance of political mobilization, suggesting that too much of it can undermine elite bargaining and the formation of democratic “pacts.”20 In the Muslim world, popular mobilization of Islam—meaning primarily mass-based parties or social movements—may alarm existing elites and those who oppose or are fearful of Islamization. Moreover, if these movements emerge in a nondemocratic environment or one with a weak or

14

Political Islam and Democracy in the Muslim World

young democracy, they may not have developed steadfast democratic principles. In such an environment, they may be forcibly put down by existing authorities as too threatening or their power may destabilize democracy; in Huntington’s (1968) terms, mobilization exceeds institutionalization. Or, if they gain power, as in the Iranian case, they may seek to define “democracy” in such a way that Islam predominates, subordinating key democratic rights (e.g., right to dissent) to their interpretations of the demands of the faith. In contrast, in most of the cases in this volume, one sees that gradual democratization or political liberalization absent Islamic-oriented popular mobilization is connected to (eventually) more secure democracy than in cases that attempt to construct democracy “from scratch” amid significant Islamic-oriented mobilization. The final factor concerns how extensively Islamic-oriented actors, once they do appear, are incorporated into the political system; this is the oftstudied inclusion-moderation hypothesis.21 Its core argument is that giving Islamic-oriented actors a chance to participate in politics tends to moderate them (meaning they abandon violence as a means to produce change and/or agree to respect some basic democratic principles) by giving them a stake in the system, an ability to pursue their goals through peaceful means, an opportunity to work with other political actors and broaden their constituencies, and/or (in a more open or democratic system) a chance to grow accustomed to democratic norms and practices. Following Driessen (2012), however, one should emphasize that inclusion need not be exclusively through democratic or electoral politics; Islamic-oriented actors can be incorporated by various means into the state machinery (e.g., establishment of religious affairs departments) and have a say in policymaking or be given oversight in areas that are, for them, a high priority (e.g., religious education, family law). This hypothesis, however, remains debated in the broader literature. One problem is determining if Islamic-oriented actors have truly moderated or only feign doing so. Cesari (2014: 239–240) adds that another problem is that while they may “moderate” with respect to electoral politics (which, of course, they might believe they could use to gain power), they may be less likely to “moderate” on issues such as minority or women’s rights and thus still embrace what she calls “unsecular politics” that can compromise democracy. A further complication is that in some cases “moderation” appears to occur via other means (e.g., repression), meaning that Islamicoriented actors may then strategically embrace democracy as a means for them to (re)emerge in the political arena (Hamid 2014). Of course, the question then becomes whether observed “moderation” is based on principled change or instrumental calculations. In this study, interestingly, this theory is only partially supported; while “moderate” Islamic-oriented actors

Islam and Democracy: Exploring the Relationship

15

are an important part of the story, how they moderate and how extensively they moderate differ. Three caveats are in order. First, no claim is made that any of these factors in isolation is necessary or sufficient for democratization. They are thus best understood as probabilistic features rather than “causes,” although in some cases they are all present and form a rather cohesive narrative. This leads to the second caveat, insofar as one could argue that these factors are not completely independent. Indeed, one could suggest they feed upon and build on each other, perhaps even in a chronological manner in that a “positive score” on one variable leads to a “positive score” on the next one in sequence, generating a “model” for democratization in an Islamic country. If so, of course, this gives coherence to the historical argument and narrative, as in a more modular case like Senegal. However, it does not have to work this way; the factors that help shape “democratic” manifestations of political Islam do not necessarily evolve in a linear or historically deterministic manner. For example, as we’ll see in Chapter 4, Pakistan possessed pluralist and syncretic traditions of Islam and had, at independence, no powerful hierarchical authority to “speak” for Islam but became nonsecular, and subsequent efforts to incorporate Islamic-oriented actors into the political system had mixed results. In the case of Malaysia, discussed in Chapter 2, British policy helped bolster the hierarchical religious role of sultans in a region that possessed syncretic Islamic traditions. Furthermore, there may be tensions between the factors as well. For example, it does not “naturally” follow that Islamic-oriented actors are incorporated into a secular state, but this has, in fact, been a common practice in the Muslim world, although one that has generated some difficulties for governance as well as for certain attributes of democracy (e.g., respect for minority rights) (Cesari 2014). Lastly, as we’ll see in several of the case studies, practices and policies may vary over time (e.g., Bangladesh initially adopts secularism and then abandons it), meaning that there may not be a consistent, linear narrative. Third, this exposition neglects to mention a host of other possible variables that could affect the development of both Islam and democracy. Of course, many other factors might matter, although, as data in Table 1.4 suggest, some of the variables commonly associated with democratization do not, prima facie, appear convincing. For example, economic development is often taken to be an important factor in contributing to democracy. However, as seen in Table 1.4, there is no such positive relationship in our cases. Indeed, statistical analysis of all Muslim-majority countries using World Bank and Polity data from 2012 find there is actually a negative relationship between gross domestic product (GDP) per capita and level of democracy as measured by Polity.22 Oil wealth no doubt plays a role here. This is

16

Table 1.4 Profiles of Muslim-Majority Democracies Turkey Democracy in 2013? (Polity Yes and/or FH)a GDP per capita in 2012 18,190 (current US$, PPP) Percentage Muslim/ 98.6/70 percentage largest ethnic group Colonial power None Violent struggle at Yes foundation Form of government Semipresidentialb Military coups since 1960 Several

Mali

Indonesia

Senegal

Bangladesh

Pakistan

Malaysia

Yes

Yes

Yes

Mixed

Mixed

Mixed

1,140

4,730

1,880

2,030

2,880

16,270

92.4/50

88.1/41

95.9/43

90.4/98

96.4/45

61.4/50

French No

Dutch Yes

French No

UK Yes

UK Yes

UK No

Semipresidentialc Several

Presidential One

Semipresidentialc Parliamentary None Several

Sources: World Bank; Pew Research Center (from Table 1.1); Central Intelligence Agency World Factbook. Notes: GDP is gross domestic product; PPP is purchasing power parity. a. Threshold is 6 or above for Polity, 3.5 or below for FH, as in Table 1.2. b. President is not popularly elected but retains important powers. c. President has traditionally played dominant role. d. Role of president has varied over time.

Parliamentaryd Parliamentary Several None

Islam and Democracy: Exploring the Relationship

17

not, of course, to reject economic development as wholly unimportant. Indeed, the creation of middle classes, increasing literacy, and greater exposure to the wider world are an important part of the story in explaining the emergence of various political actors, including Islamic-oriented ones, and their economic or class-based interests (Nasr 2005). These variables are discussed in all cases in this volume. However, the evidence simply does not allow us to posit, among our cases, a relationship between relative level of economic development and democratic success. A similar conclusion can be reached with respect to other variables. While factors such as the role of the military, how the country extricated itself from colonialism, or the form of government might be an interesting or important part of the story in a particular case, there is no strong general pattern. Indeed, to the extent that one might argue there is a pattern from these (limited) data, such as less successful democratic experience, relatively speaking, among countries with British colonial experience or those adopting a parliamentary system, this cuts against the grain of many studies of democratization that find a positive connection between British colonial rule and democratic survival or argue that democratic parliamentary systems are more stable and secure than presidential ones (Weiner 1987; Linz 1990a, 1990b; Bernhard, Reenock, and Nordstrom 2004). While potentially interesting, this study, drawing upon limited cases, does not pursue this as a generalizable argument. International variables are absent from this table. These might include sources and scope of foreign assistance as well as various aspects of globalization and interdependence, giving outside actors “leverage” or “linkage” (Levitsky and Way 2010). One might also mention diffusion effects, including the spread of democratic ideas and more “progressive” interpretations of Islam. This study takes note of them in the case studies, but they do not stand out as essential elements. Part of the issue is that these countries have been subjected to multiple influences, both from the West and from the broader Muslim world. For example, one finds, especially since the 1980s, significant Iranian and Saudi interest in cultivating their forms of Islam in other Muslim countries. By the same token, as noted above, some local actors resisted this by noting that their countries must adhere to their own form of Islam. Breaking through this thicket to disentangle the various international influences that might matter is not a major concern of this study. Finally, no explicit mention is made of political culture as an explanatory variable. Again, this is not to say this is unimportant or should be wholly ignored. Indeed, survey evidence will be used in several places in this study to compare and contrast countries. The problem, however, is isolating political culture as a cause as opposed to an effect of state policy or demonstrating that it does in fact matter. As Rowley and Smith (2009) note,

18

Political Islam and Democracy in the Muslim World

Muslims claim they value and want democracy, yet they have little. As with international factors, untangling the practical data and conceptual methodological concerns with respect to this variable is not the focus of this study. Possible Fault Lines Between Islam and Democracy To this point, we have been purposefully agnostic with respect to any general relationship between “Islam” and “democracy,” both broadly defined. In particular, while noting the relative lack of democracy in the Muslim world, we have downplayed suggestions that Islam might, somehow, be the cause of this phenomenon. There is, however, a literature on this topic, which can be useful insofar as it suggests what the fault lines between Islam and democracy might be, helping one see if and how interpretations of Islam in a given context may work against or weaken democracy. At this point it may be useful to define terms, particularly democracy. Democracy, in a most basic sense, can be understood as a system of government in which holders of political authority are chosen through free and competitive election based on universal suffrage. This definition assumes that citizens enjoy basic political and civil freedoms (e.g., freedom of speech and assembly, freedom to organize alternative political parties) so that elections are truly free and competitive. It also assumes that there are no significant unelected political actors such as the military or religious hierarchies that exercise political power. However, there are many conceptualizations of democracy. One might for example, distinguish among “majoritarian democracy,” in which there are few constraints on the powers of elected authorities; “consensus democracy,” in which institutions are designed to disperse power away from majorities and make political actors exercise power cooperatively; and “liberal democracy,” which emphasizes limited powers for the state and individual rights, both in the political or public sphere and in private life. All of these are, of course, ideal types; there is no “perfect” variety of any of these. Islam, it bears emphasizing, arose before many of the principles of modern representative democracy, not to mention more liberal components of democracy such as gender equality, were firmly ensconced in Western countries. One therefore is not going to find a direct statement with respect to democracy, as currently understood, and the foundations of what might be considered Islam’s relationship with the political realm—the Quran, sunna, hadiths, core tenets of sharia, and Islam’s historical role in medieval empires. El Fadl (2004: 18) makes the point that although Islamic traditions may suggest ideas of representation, consultation, and a legal process, the content of these ideas is contested and thus they provide “no direct link between Islam and democracy.” The Quran makes no explicit endorsement

Islam and Democracy: Exploring the Relationship

19

of a form of government. Some elements of Islam may thus be “compatible” with democracy, or at least some types of democracy; other elements, or, perhaps better stated, other interpretations of Islam, will have problems with some elements of democracy, if not the entire concept. Survey evidence suggests that Muslims across the world value and want democracy, although, to be sure, the evidence is often unclear about what they understand democracy to mean (Jamal and Tessler 2008; Rowley and Smith 2009; Ciftci 2010; Fish 2011). No doubt some, perhaps many, would object to some elements of democracy found in the West—or, more broadly, aspects of Western culture—and they might therefore want to put an “Islamic” face to their democratic institutions. In this regard, the prominent Egyptian scholar Yusuf al-Qaradawi’s (1926–) admonition is an important one. While he maintains that “the essence of democracy” accords with the “essence of Islam,” when seeking to borrow from the experience of others he suggests that Muslims should “adopt the procedures of democracy, its mechanisms and its guarantees as they suit us, retaining the right to make alterations and modifications.” In other words, Islam and democracy will have to be (re)constructed and interpreted by Muslims themselves with, as he puts it, the details depending on “independent reasoning (ijtihad) and evolving circumstances of their lives in terms of time and place” (al-Qaradawi 2009: 232, 237, 236). Religious-oriented actors can and do play a role in modern democracies. Stepan (2000) rightly reminds us that democracy does not rest upon dogmatic secularism but instead “twin tolerations”: the tolerance of the religious to respect elected authorities and the tolerance of the latter to give religious communities both the freedom to worship and the right to organize for political ends. The key, he suggests, is that neither fundamentally violates basic political and civil rights. Hashemi (2009), building upon Stepan, makes an argument for the compatibility of Islam with more liberal forms of democracy, noting that liberal democracy arose in deeply religious societies in the West. The key, he suggests, is that Muslims need to create an “indigenous secularism” that is compatible with democratic and personal freedoms. Tibi (2012: 119), while adamant that Islamism—an ideology that seeks to establish a certain vision of Islam as the basis of the state—is not fundamentally compatible with liberal democracy, nonetheless concedes that a “reformed Islam” may be. Whether any countries have successfully implemented this vision is debatable. No Muslim-majority state, for example, has a “perfect” score on FH’s index, which is oriented toward a “liberal” conception of democracy.23 Some of their shortcomings, perhaps, derive from applying a particular interpretation of Islam that, while not wholly denying democracy, nonetheless is restrictive or discriminatory with respect to individual rights. These issues will be explored in the country-level case studies.

20

Political Islam and Democracy in the Muslim World

Keeping this in mind—we’ll return to it in the final chapter in a discussion contrasting “liberal” and what might be called (provocatively, to be sure) “Muslim” democracy—where might the suggested fault lines between “Islam” and “democracy” (especially its more liberal variants) lie? Put somewhat differently, what does a “liberal” or “democratic” Islam have to, potentially, overcome? Let us examine four areas, each of which arises not only as a conflict “in theory” between Islam and democracy but also in practice, not only in clearly nondemocratic countries such as Iran or Saudi Arabia but also, albeit usually to a lesser degree, in many of the countrylevel case studies in this volume. Extent of Popular Sovereignty

The first tenet of Islam is a profession of monotheism (tahwid)—there is no God but God. In addition, in Islamic teaching God’s will is imperative, revealed to humanity, and a guide for people’s lives. He is also sovereign, with dominion over the universe and humanity. Lewis (2010: 66) draws out one possible implication with respect to democracy, as “for believing Muslims, legitimate authority comes from God alone, and the ruler derives his power not from the people, not from his ancestors, but from God and the holy law.” Hallaq (2013: 50) affirms, “God is the sovereign because He literally owns everything. . . . It is God who is the sole Legislator, and it is with Him and Him alone that sovereignty and the sovereign will lies” (emphasis in original). This does not, however, mean that God can rule over humans directly, thereby obviating the need for government. To be sure, the purpose of the modern state and the ultimate goal of many Islamists are different (Hallaq 2013), and most of the latter, including, for example, the late Ayatollah Khomeini in Iran, do not want to do away with the state, only Islamize it to serve the will of God. A truly just political order, from this perspective, needs to uphold this. Democracy, however, is based on a different logic, the will of the people, who are sovereign and accountable to themselves. Notwithstanding the rhetoric of some, nothing in a democracy is truly “God-given,” or, if it is, the people can still take it away. This is anathema to many Muslims. Abu’l A’la-Mawdudi (1903–1979), the founder of Jamaat-e-Islami (JI) in Pakistan, contended that a truly Islamic state must recognize God’s ultimate sovereignty and that no one should have the power to contravene anything laid down by God. In this respect, he notes, “Islam, speaking from the view-point of political philosophy, is the very antithesis of secular Western democracy” (Mawdudi 2007: 264). Abid Ullah Jan (1965–), a more contemporary Pakistani Islamist, suggests that while Islam has “no quarrel with democracy . . . the idea of sovereign people flouting Quranic injunctions and the Sunnah is a matter of concern” to most

Islam and Democracy: Exploring the Relationship

21

Muslims (Jan 2007: 326). Cutting to the chase, the Egyptian Islamist Sayyid Qutb (1906–1966) asked, “Who knows better, you or God?” (Qutb 1981: 86). For many people—not just Muslims—the obvious answer would be the latter. That being the case, certain things that are Known or are True should be, perhaps, taken off the table. This is a big and important issue, and how much is “off the table” may determine just how democratic a particular interpretation of Islam is. For some Muslims, citing Quranic verses such as “there is no compulsion in religion,” religion is not a matter for the state; individuals are largely free to make choices, sin if they wish, and (perhaps) suffer Divine punishment. For others, however, the ability to be a good Muslim depends upon creation of a particular social order, which presupposes state power and imposition of at least some Islamic norms and principles. This can be codified as sharia and enforced by rulers who, as Erdoğan asserted at one time, have a responsibility to ensure their constituents do not sin. What sharia constitutes or should constitute, as we’ll see later, is contested. The point here, however, is that its very existence can be problematic with respect to democracy, which is oriented toward giving people the power to decide. It may be hypothetically true, as Feldman (2003) maintains in arguments for an “Islamic democracy,” that sharia or individual elements of sharia can be voted upon by the people; in other words, they could agree to limit their liberties. However, Hasan al-Turabi, a Sudanese scholar and one-time prominent Islamist political figure, contends that the net result would be less government “by the people” than “government of the Shari’a” (quoted in Esposito 1983: 244). Furthermore, as An-Na’im (2008) argues, mandating sharia as the source of law empowers and privileges, most likely based upon religious knowledge, those who know, as Qutb asked, “what God wants.” This too takes power out of the hands of the people, and, unlike judges who interpret secular laws, it would be difficult for the people to change laws that have been judged to conform to the will of God. Muhammad Khalid Masud (1939–), an Islamic scholar who served as head of Pakistan’s Council of Islamic Ideology (CII), reviewed various arguments with respect to Islam and democracy. He notes that a major problem is that Islamic figures often give little credence to the common individual and therefore assume that something (e.g., sharia) or someone (those entitled to define or interpret sharia) must be present to ensure that the popular will does not undermine or harm Islam (Masud 2004). One should note that the idea that Islam contradicts popular sovereignty is contested, although El Fadl, an advocate of a “democratic Islam,” concedes it is a “formidable challenge” (2004: 4). He counters, however, that God does not seek to regulate all of human affairs; one can differentiate between ‘ibadat (a person’s relationship to God) and mu’amalat (temporal concerns covering economic, family, and political life), the latter of

22

Political Islam and Democracy in the Muslim World

which are more subjective and, in the words of Tariq Ramadan, “relative, at a given moment in human history” (Ramadan 2004: 35). Secondly, in order to assess what Islam might support or require in a given context, El Fadl invokes the necessity of applying the Islamic ideas of ijtihad and maqasid, independent reasoning and focus on the higher objectives. Not only literal scriptural demands, these can be utilized by all people and thus be congruent with democracy. Third, he notes the compatibility between democracy and Islamic ideas such as shura (consultation), accountability, and rule of law. In other words, some basic precepts of democracy have Islamic analogues and Islam in no way sanctions unchecked, tyrannical authority. Islam, in this view, can become—and, as we’ll see, has been used—as a discourse of opposition to authoritarian rule. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, he maintains that at present democracy offers the best chance to fulfill the goals of justice and maintenance of human dignity as mandated by Islam (El Fadl 2004: 6). Kamrava (2011b: 63) reaches a similar conclusion: Islam mandates no form of government, only that the government allow people to pursue their material and spiritual needs; the ideal form of government will vary based on circumstances; in today’s world, democracy represents the best option; and Islam contains “several built-in features and mechanisms that are consistent with and supportive of democracy.” Sharia and Restrictions on Political and Personal Freedoms

Everything, however, need not be subject to interpretation or democratic debate. Islam has a well-developed system of law—more accurately, various schools of jurisprudence (fiqh)—that derive from the Quran and other holy texts as well as the judgments of Islamic scholars. Many Muslims, as seen in Table 1.5, believe that sharia (literally, “the way”) is not only divinely revealed but that it should be adopted as the official law. Much of sharia deals with family law (e.g., divorce, inheritance), and many Muslims—including those living in Muslim-majority democracies—want these spheres to be administered by religious judges. In some cases, such as Pakistan, Indonesia, and Malaysia, they are. Beyond the already mentioned concerns about limitations on popular sovereignty, there are issues with what sharia requires and whether it would be compatible with most understandings of democracy. Hallaq (2013) makes a compelling case that sharia is a moral project that serves the social good, not the state. It is focused on social justice and binds authorities to the law, thereby preventing tyranny. However, in contemporary times sharia has been defined and abused by state authorities and has become so distorted that its original conception has been lost. Ramadan (2006: 3) concedes that sharia “conjures up the darkest images of Islam” and the subsequent connection between religion and state—the “shariazation of the state”

Islam and Democracy: Exploring the Relationship

23

Table 1.5 Comparative Support by Muslims for Sharia and Powers for Religious Judges (in percentages) Country

Turkey Malaysia Pakistan Bangladesh Mali Indonesia Senegal Tunisia Egypt

Support Making Sharia Official Law

12 86 84 82 63 72 55 56 74

Think Religious Judges Believe Sharia Should Decide Family Law Is Divinely Revealed and Property Disputes

49 41 81 65 n/a 54 n/a 66 75

14 84 84 71 n/a 66 n/a 42 94

Source: Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life 2013. Note: n/a is not available.

in Tibi’s terms (2012: 122)—is often cited as the reason why Islam is incompatible with democracy However, as is the case with “Islam” writ large, not all versions of sharia (or, to be sure, secularism) are the same. There are, clearly, some interpretations or issues that do compromise democracy. One issue is the legitimacy of political dissent. Some cite Quranic verses (21:92–93 and 49:9–10) that uphold the unity of the umma (community) and are critical of factionalism. For these thinkers, the ideals of unity (wahda) and consensus (ijma) derive from the concept of tahwid. In this vein, Hasan al-Banna (1906–1949), the founder of the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt, condemned party politics, demanded obedience, and enforced limited use of shura within the Brotherhood. He envisioned an ideal Islamic society as one without parties, classes, or other divisions and with very circumscribed political opposition (Lia 2006: 10–11). Many, however, would contend that Islam does not deny pluralism or diversity. One can, for example, point to the Quran’s acknowledgment of human diversity to defend pluralism, as well as Muhammad’s “Constitution of Medina” that recognized a diverse population as well as numerous jurisprudential and ideological schools that mostly peacefully coexist within Islam. Moreover, no human is infallible, thus necessitating tolerance of different viewpoints. Al-Qaradawi (2009) cites this to argue that Islam and democracy can be perfectly compatible. Sharia, in his view, should be the source of law, but since no one person can know the whole truth, collective human judgment and voting (which suggests possibility of dissent) are necessary to implement its principles. Muhammed Salim al-Awa (1943–),

24

Political Islam and Democracy in the Muslim World

an Egyptian lawyer, concludes that Islamic jurisprudence and the logic of history attest to the fact that “as far as Islam is concerned political pluralism is a necessity” (quoted in Donohue and Esposito 2007: 287). However, this is not to suggest that everything would be allowed. Islam distinguishes between ikhtilaf (permissible disagreement) and fitnah (chaos, discord). Anything that promotes the latter and could be construed as an attack on the faith or the faithful could therefore be prohibited. Examples of fitnah that have caught the attention of authorities in some states include forms of speech (e.g., attacks on political or religious leaders, proselytizing other faiths, anything construed as blasphemous) as well as lifestyle choices and behaviors (e.g., dress, consumption of alcohol, premarital sex, homosexuality). For example, the Universal Islamic Declaration of Human Rights (Article XII) makes a distinction between allowed and disallowed speech, noting that one is not entitled to disseminate falsehoods, outrage public decency, or hold in contempt or ridicule the religious beliefs of others.24 Hence one has seen, including in some of the democratic countries in this volume, bans on certain books and newspapers (e.g., The Satanic Verses, papers with cartoons mocking Islam). Moreover, the Quranic verse to “enjoin what is right and forbid what is wrong” (3:104) can be used to give the state wide powers to enforce what it views as the good. In some interpretations, the state has the right to mete out harsh punishments (e.g., stoning for adultery) and should defend Islam to the point of sentencing those who renounce their Islamic faith (apostates) to death, a position supported in several Muslim countries.25 The implications for democracy should be clear. One could easily imagine concern for fitnah might lead to repressions on political rights and civil liberties (e.g., rights to protest or demonstrate) or bans on political parties. Krämer (1993: 5) maintains that a review of Muslim authors on this subject reveals a “bottom line” that “there can be no toleration of, and no freedom for, the enemies of Islam.” Gellner goes even further, suggesting that Islam, by providing a complete moral blueprint for society, delegitimizes the particularism necessary for a vibrant civil society. In his words, Islam “exemplifies a social order which seems to lack much to provide political countervailing institutions or associations, which is atomized without much individualism, and which operates effectively without intellectual pluralism” (1994: 29). Islam, in this schema, is a totalizing social force, one that inhibits independent social organization and mobilization to resist despotism and thereby ultimately works against democratization. Cesari (2014) presents a similar position, noting that in modern times Islam has been combined with state power to become a “hegemonic religion,” and even if Islam is not officially recognized or sharia is not enshrined as a basis for law, the result, at best, is “unsecular democracy” that often compromises the rights of non-Muslims and women. Whether this holds across all coun-

Islam and Democracy: Exploring the Relationship

25

tries and, more interestingly perhaps, how some Islamic-oriented actors might proffer different interpretations to overcome these alleged difficulties are examined in this study. Rights of Religious Minorities

There is no basis in Islam for racial, ethnic, or class-based discrimination. Islam is a universal idea, open to all who accept its core tenets. All members of the umma are equal, and God will distinguish among them only on the basis of piety (taqwa). However, what of non-Muslims? How should they be treated under Islam, particularly in a state that adopts sharia? There are some ways of interpreting Islam that are clearly problematic, especially in relation to the stress in liberal democracy of protecting minority rights. Some passages in the Quran (2:190–196, 4:89, 8:39, 8:65, 9:5), for example, enjoin Muslims to fight against unbelievers until they submit to their rule. Once peace is established, many interpretations of Islam have commanded a separate, lower status for non-Muslims. Christians, Jews, and Zoroastrians (“People of the Book”) may live in an Islamic state but they must pay jizyah (a tax on non-Muslims, suggested in the Quran verse 9:29) and accept second-class status, including restrictions on proselytizing their faith or criticizing Islam (Kadivar 2006: 125). Mawdudi recommends that non-Muslims (dhimma) in an Islamic state be denied the ability to play any political role (Mawdudi 2007: 267). Finally, as noted above, many Muslimmajority states declare Islam the state religion and proscribe sharia as a source of law. These arrangements would seem to favor one group over another—including one type of Muslims over others—and at minimum lead to favoritism, including in areas such as education and state support for religious institutions. Is this, however, an inherent problem? Many argue that treatment of religious minorities is a nonissue, as the Quran (2:256) is explicit that there should be no compulsion in religion (la ikrah fi al-din) and therefore all people (not just Muslims) are free to practice a faith of their choosing. Faith is a gift from God, one that may be accepted or rejected (Talbi 2006: 109). God may ultimately render a judgment against the nonfaithful, but it is not for humans to make this call. The Quranic verse “The Unbelievers” (109:1–5) perhaps makes the strongest point, as it recognizes religious differences but concludes, “to you your religion, and to me my religion.” Shah-Kazemi (2012: 97–98) goes even further, suggesting that all faiths can be seen as “Islamic” in that they may be divinely inspired and can be appreciated as being a form of or based on “submission to God.” The Universal Islamic Declaration of Human Rights cites the above-mentioned Quranic verse prohibiting compulsion in religion (Article X) and extends freedom of worship and conscience to all (Article XIII), although no provision is

26

Political Islam and Democracy in the Muslim World

made for atheism or agnosticism.26 Others argue that injunctions such as collection of jizyah—both mentioned in the Quran and practiced in Islamic societies—may be best understood as a time-specific policy. Indeed, it has even been abandoned in contemporary Iran (Kadivar 2006: 141). As for more explicit political questions, one might suggest that a democratic compromise of sorts would be adoption of something akin to Muhammad’s Constitution for Medina or the Ottoman millet system that gives non-Muslims self-government on issues such as family law (Bulaç 1998). Another issue that comes up in various countries is whether the head of state in an Islamic country could be a non-Muslim. If prohibited (as in Pakistan), this and other restrictions (e.g., limits on building new houses of worship, prohibitions of certain types of personal behavior), while perhaps not enough to make a state “undemocratic” on Polity or even FH indexes, would nonetheless compromise at least some elements of liberal democracy predicated on equal rights for all and freedom of self (Cesari 2014). Gender Equality—The “True Clash of Civilizations”?

Aside from debates over the connection between Islam and terrorism, no other issue has sparked as much divisiveness and controversy as the treatment of women under Islam. Inglehart and Norris (2003: 68) suggest that this issue constitutes the “true clash of civilizations,” and in their larger study of survey data they conclude that Muslims are by far the most traditional group in their attitudes toward gender roles. “Traditional religious values and religious laws,” they write, “have played an important role in reinforcing social norms of a separate and subordinate role for women as homemakers and mothers, and a role for men as patriarchs within the family and primary breadwinners in the paid workforce” (see also Fish 2011: 181–194). Beyond public attitudes, one can also find a “gender gap” with respect to political and economic outcomes. The World Economic Forum has created a “Global Gender Gap” index, which measures the “gap” between men and women in numerous countries on issues such as participation in the workforce, pay and advancement in work, literacy and educational achievement, presence in parliament and cabinet-level positions, and health. Variables measure the “gap” between the sexes, not absolute achievement, and some poorer countries such as the Philippines, Nicaragua, and Lesotho rank highly among countries surveyed.27 The top-ranked Muslim-majority country in 2013 was the very secular-oriented Kazakhstan (32nd); the best among countries in this volume was Senegal (67th); and the highest ranking Arab state was the United Arab Emirates (109th). A regression analysis finds a strong statistical relationship (p < .001) between the gender gap and percentage of Muslim population, even controlling for wealth (which is

Islam and Democracy: Exploring the Relationship

27

also statistically significant) and percentage of GDP accounted for by oil rents (which is not significant).28 While this, as in the earlier arguments about Islam and democracy, does not “prove” Islam as the cause, it is often assumed to be the culprit. One can cite texts and traditions to this effect. One hadith recalls Mohammed remarking that women have a “deficiency of intelligence” (Fish 2011: 203), and verses in the Quran discriminate against women on issues of inheritance (4:11) or claim that men “have authority over” or are “in charge of women” and that righteous women are obedient to their husbands (4:34). If they are not, this verse continues, men are allowed to beat them, which, as Fish (2011: 205) notes, is a particularly “challenging (and chilling) passage.” The Pakistani Islamist Mawdudi, whom we have already encountered, upheld ideas such as female seclusion and purdah, man’s guardianship over women (Mawdudi 2007: 265). Lamia Shehadeh, in a review of a number of “Islamist” political thinkers, including Mawdudi, alBanna, and Qutb, as well as more “liberal” figures such as Tunisia’s Rachid al-Ghannoushi, claims that they all use the concept of fitnah to justify gender segregation—lest a man’s lust for women lead him to sin. “Their ideal order of freedom, lawfulness, social equality, economic justice, affluence, unity, and victory,” she suggests, “is constructed on the basis of patriarchy where women are veiled and excluded from the public sphere” (Shehadeh 2003: 218–219). Gender equality, one might add, is a relatively “new” concept in Western democracies; various forms of discrimination (which, of course, still exist) were commonplace and tolerated just a few decades ago. This shows that “democracy,” not just “Islam,” is subject to evolution, (re)interpretation, and different manifestations. Muslim countries—Saudi Arabia being the chief exception—have given women the right to vote; some (Turkey, Bangladesh, Indonesia, and Pakistan) have elected female leaders; and some (Pakistan and Bangladesh) have gender quotas to assure a female parliamentary presence. Many have constitutions that establish legal gender equality. Many of the problems faced by Muslim women (e.g., domestic violence, a husband’s refusal to allow his wife to work—problems not unique to Islam by any means) are not the consequence of government policy. However, one can argue that a cultural milieu exists in many Muslim states that subordinates women and that this has negative political and economic outcomes—a point made most famously in the inaugural 2002 Arab Human Development Report issued by the UN Development Programme.29 Whether Islam inherently has something to do with this is a highly charged question. Certainly, Islam has been invoked in some countries to put significant restrictions on personal autonomy (e.g., forced veiling or seclusion) or adopt legislation that gives women fewer rights than men (e.g., ability to divorce or inherit property). Mayer (2008: 19) notes that

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Political Islam and Democracy in the Muslim World

“when Islamists have gained control of governments, one of their central goals has been curbing women’s freedoms, often in the name of enforcing Islamic rules and morality.” Some Islamic-oriented actors justify this by claiming that human equality—which Islam affirms—does not mean men and women have to be treated identically; Islam, in this interpretation, does a better job of “protecting” women from sexual and economic exploitation (Mutahhari 1998). Other scholars, however, argue the Quran and other Islamic sources have been systematically misinterpreted and patriarchal elements need to be “reread” or even “unread” (Ahmed 1992; Mernissi 1991; Wadud 1999; Barlas 2002). From this perspective, one needs to pay attention to context and Islam’s overarching ethical vision and realize that, for its time, Islam was progressive on gender issues, recognizing females as fully moral beings and giving them rights (e.g., to property) that previously were not consistently recognized. Some uphold Aisha, Mohammed’s second wife who played a major spiritual and military role in the early Islamic community, as a model and precursor to the numerous “Islamic feminists” in the Muslim world (Wadud 2006). As with the discussions of sharia and minorities, this review is not intended to be definitive or resolve vigorously debated issues. As one might imagine, the position of women in the Muslim world varies, and interpretations of what Islam means for women differ. In many cases, women’s rights are a relatively new issue, not given primary consideration in initial debates over political liberalization. However, as we shall see, they are an important issue in much of the Muslim world. Plan of the Book The bulk of this book is composed of the country case studies of the previously identified Muslim-majority democracies. These could be organized in various ways: geographically, hierarchically in terms of how “democratic” each is, even simply alphabetically. I have chosen to organize them chronologically, based upon the year in which the country began to have its first substantial and sustained democratic experience, measured either by Polity (the only index prior to 1972) or FH. This is presented in Table 1.6. I do this in part because the experiences of some of the “early democratizers” are cited in later cases.30 One can find, for example, invocations of the socalled Turkish model in numerous settings, in large part because Turkey was the first Muslim-majority state to have a substantial and successful democratic experience. While democracy “starts” in different years in the various cases, the country-level studies will have a significant historical component that predates their democratization. This is suggested by the discussion of the vari-

Islam and Democracy: Exploring the Relationship

29

Table 1.6 Year of First Sustained Democratic Experience Country

Year

Turkey Malaysia Pakistan Bangladesh Mali Indonesia Senegal

1946 1957 1988 1991 1992 1999 2000

ables deemed to be important to explain the emergence of more democratic or liberal interpretations of Islam. In other words, the back story is often important, and history matters not just objectively speaking but also in how it is invoked and (re)imagined by more contemporary actors. However, the chapters do not aspire to be complete political histories. Focus will be on identifying the factors discussed above as well as “critical junctures” in which political Islam emerged and/or democracy was established or failed. They shall examine a wide range of Islamic-oriented actors, including, depending on the time and country, government officials, leaders of opposition parties and movements, religious figures and activists, and prominent intellectuals who made important contributions to the country’s Islamic and political discourse. Like the existing literature with which it is most similar (Esposito and Voll 1996; Ayoob 2007) it has a significant synthetic component, utilizing numerous secondary sources by Western and local authors. Primary sources—speeches or writings of important political figures, party and organizational platforms, news reports for the key periods under investigation, and, when available, public opinion data sets—are also important to the narrative and analysis. The chronological ordering of the cases, as noted, puts Turkey first, as it established at least the rudiments of modern democracy in the 1940s. Given Turkey’s more extensive experience with democracy, this chapter is also the longest in the book. The first steps toward democracy in Turkey occurred when the state was more assertively secular, creating a “paradigm” of democratization that afforded a marginal role to political Islam. However, this is hardly the most interesting part of the Turkish case, let alone the end of the story. Most of the chapter will therefore examine how Islam reenters the picture, tentatively at first but gradually more openly, and how the secular paradigm in Turkey has subsequently been challenged and modified. This has occurred most recently under the AKP, whose leaders assert that they have given up their Islamist past and adhere to “conser-

30

Political Islam and Democracy in the Muslim World

vative democratic” principles. However, as suggested at the opening of this chapter, many would question the AKP’s commitment to democracy, which has reanimated, at least for some observers, questions about the compatibility of Islam and democracy. The next chapter is on Malaysia, which inherited democracy from the British in 1957 when it became independent. Polity rated this country as democratic throughout the 1960s, and FH gave it relatively high marks for the 1970s, even though the ruling party never lost national power. Malaysia is a multiethnic and multiconfessional state, and Islam is wrapped up with Malay identity. Although political Islam did not play a pronounced role in the country’s first years of independence, since the mid-1970s Malaysia has witnessed state-sponsored Islamization while becoming, in many accounts, a “semidemocratic” state. The relationship between Islam and democracy, as well as prospects for change as opposition parties have more assertively challenged the long-ruling party, will be the focus of Chapter 3. Chapter 4 is on Pakistan, which was arguably the first country to selfconsciously attempt to “invent a model” of “Muslim democracy” (Khan 2006b: 156). While it became independent a decade before Malaysia, it did not have national-level elections until 1970 and its most sustained experience with democracy began only in 1988, after it had experienced a decade of nondemocratic, state-sponsored Islamization. Political Islam has played a more assertive role in Pakistan than in any other country in this volume, and Pakistan has also had a more inconsistent democratic record than any of the other cases. By the 2010s, there were again signs of democratic progress, but whether democracy can be consolidated remains very debatable. Bangladesh, the subject of Chapter 5, shares much of its political history with Pakistan, from which it separated a year after Pakistan’s first elections. For its first two decades of independence, it experienced, like Pakistan, several military coups and state-sponsored Islamization. In 1991, power was returned to civilians, and Bangladesh had a relatively strong democratic record until the early 2000s, when it began to experience political violence, instability, and, eventually, another military coup. Bangladesh, like Pakistan, has several Islamic-oriented parties, and what role Islam plays in the ups and downs of its democratic record will be subject to analysis. Chapter 6 examines Mali, which became a democracy in 1992, a year after a military coup. It had no prior experience with democracy, is ethnically and linguistically diverse, and is one of the poorest countries in the world. Yet, it sustained a democratic government for twenty years, until another military coup in 2012, which was launched after terrorist and separatist groups defeated government forces and seized control of large amounts of territory in the northern part of the country. Mali had new elections in 2013 and seems poised to redemocratize. It is, in many respects, a

Islam and Democracy: Exploring the Relationship

31

remarkable case, for, if democracy is somewhat exceptional in the Muslim world, Mali is the exceptional exception, a country “that virtually all of political science theory predicated had no chance of democratization” (Villalón 2009: 43). What role Islam plays in this story will be the focus of the chapter. Indonesia, the world’s largest Muslim country, is examined in Chapter 7. Even though Islam has long been politically important, the state did not make it the sole official religion. After independence, the country was ruled for over forty years by two authoritarian leaders, the latter one forced from office in 1998 due to widespread support for political change, including from Islamic-oriented actors. Despite problems such as corruption and tensions among sectarian groups, it has ranked among the “most democratic” of any Muslim-majority country since the 2000s. The last country study is Senegal, which ended its period of semidemocracy in 2000 when the party that had ruled the country for four decades finally lost power. Most Senegalese Muslims belong to a Sufi order, which has long been involved in the country’s political, economic, and social life, even though Senegal is officially a secular state. Most Islamic-oriented groups have supported democratic change. The country oversaw yet another change in leadership in 2012, and by the 2010s one could conclude that Senegalese democracy was well-established. No Arab state is included among our cases, although the Arab Spring in 2011 offered some hope for democratization in the Middle East. One goal of this study is to speak to issues that arose in the wake of the Arab Spring, since political Islam, broadly defined, seems destined to play a role throughout the Arab world. Thus, the concluding chapter, in addition to synthesizing the main findings from the case studies, will also suggest if the factors found in other Muslim countries that may have created a connection between political Islam and democracy are present in the post–Arab Spring cases of Tunisia and Egypt. In this regard, this study hopes to not only speak to historical or purely academic concerns but also address more contemporary and policy-relevant issues facing decisionmakers and publics both in and outside the Muslim world. Finally, it examines whether one can identify a unique species, “Muslim democracy,” that fundamentally differs from the contemporary Western liberal understanding of democracy. Notes 1. Some might dispute this appellation. More details on the AKP are in Chapter 2. 2. “Erdoğan Sets National Agenda with Remarks on Students’ Houses,” Today’s Zaman, 6 November 2013. 3. See report, “1994’ten 2012’ye Erdoğan,” Taraf, 2 June 2012; and Hayrettin Karaman, “Çoğunluğu kale almamak,” Yeni Şafak, 8 November 2013.

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Political Islam and Democracy in the Muslim World

4. See Torelli 2012 and Kubicek 2013, as well as Kilinç 2014 and Kuru 2014b. 5. Schwedler (2011a), for example, notes how studies of political Islam de rigueur have to cite authors such as Lewis and Huntington, even though most writers on Islamic-oriented topics quickly dismiss their positions. 6. The distinction between Islamist and post-Islamist is most associated with Bayat. See, in particular, Bayat 2007: 8–11. Islamism, as he defines it, is an ideology committed to establishing an Islamic state and/or Islamic laws. Post-Islamism does not conceive of Islam as an ideology and seeks to “fuse religiosity and rights, faith and freedom, Islam and liberty” (11). This distinction is not without critics, but it is useful for it reminds us that not every “Islamic-oriented actor” (my own preferred term, as well as that of Nasr [2005]) is an “Islamist.” 7. I employ this admittedly cumbersome phrase as opposed to “Muslim democracy” (see Nasr 2005; Cesari 2014), which prejudges the situation by implying that the government possesses some sort of Islamic or Muslim content. 8. Notable exceptions are Esposito and Voll 1996; Hefner 2004; Ayoob 2007; Hwang 2009; Bayat 2013a; and Cesari 2014, although many of these also examine nondemocratic countries and are not as inclusive as this work. 9. Specifically, Polity IV measures openness, competitiveness, and regulation of executive recruitment, constraints on executive authority, and the regulation and competitiveness of participation. See the home page of the Polity IV project, www.systemicpeace.org/polity/polity4.htm, accessed 27 February 2015. 10. The correlation coefficient between Polity and FH is .857; between Polity and VA, .818; and between VA and FH, .956. Some object to FH on conceptual and methodological issues. For example, see Foweraker and Krznaric 2000 and Munck and Verkuilen 2002. While recognizing concerns, I find value in FH insofar as it adopts a more “liberal” notion of democracy, and there may be, as discussed later in this chapter, more pronounced tension between Islam and liberal democracy, as opposed to democracy per se. 11. A six or higher establishes a country as “democratic” according to the designers of Polity. FH, which claims to be measuring “freedom” as opposed to “democracy,” rates a country with a score of 2.5 or lower as “Free.” There is no such threshold for the VA index; in Table 1.1 I have used a score of 0 on the ±2.5 scale as the marker. 12. Level of economic development is commonly cited as affecting democratic success (Przeworski and Limongi 1997; Geddes 1999) and dependence on rents from oil, gas, and minerals has been found to hamper democracy (Ross 2012; Kuru 2014a). Of the statistical studies, Potrafke (2012) may be the most impressive as his examines a longer time period, not just a year’s snapshot of data. Using World Bank data on national income and revenue from oil as well as the KOF Globalization Index (http://globalization.kof.ethz.ch), the data from 2012 also reveal this relationship. 13. If one defined “free” as FH does, very few Muslim-majority countries would qualify. The 3.5 threshold, while more generous, more accurately reflects what Polity is capturing in its more minimalist conception of “democracy.” 14. The VA Index was first published in 1996 and is therefore less useful for comparisons over a longer time frame. 15. No doubt, one could contest this classification for many countries. However, use of Polity and FH gives one a consistent standard to define “democracy” or “free,” and this study will abide by these standards in case selection. 16. Neither country would shed much light on possible connections between Islam and democracy. The majority of Albanians are nominally Muslim, but religious belief among Albanians is lower than that of any Muslim-majority country

Islam and Democracy: Exploring the Relationship

33

(49.7 percent in a World Values Survey in 1998 claimed to be nonreligious) and Islam played a small role in the democratization of the country in the 1990s. Albania also has strong diffusion effects from the collapse of communism as well as strong external incentives to democratize in the form of European Union (EU) conditionality. Gambia is the smallest country, by area, on mainland Africa and is surrounded by Senegal. It did have competitive elections for nearly three decades after gaining independence, but during this time it had only one leader, Dawada Jawara, and his party controlled roughly 80 percent of the seats in parliament for most of this period. He also had more of a pan-African than an Islamic orientation. 17. This assertion may not hold, at least in some parts of the non-Arab world. In Uzbekistan, a cult of Tamerlane is associated with Uzbek nationalism (although this hardly bodes well for democracy) and in Iran pre-Islamic identity and traditions are preserved in the reverence held for works such as Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh. 18. There is, of course, a rich literature on the Iranian case, and although many figures agreed on the need for an Islamic state, Khomeini’s interpretation was disputed by many. For more on various strands of Islamist thought in postrevolutionary Iran, see Dabashi 1993; for more on Khomeini, see Khomeini 1981; Akhavi 1988; and Calder 1982. 19. Schwedler (2011a) and Cesari (2014) make an important point that secularism is an ideal type insofar as ostensibly “secular” regimes employ Islamic-oriented rhetoric and symbols. This is seen throughout the case studies in this volume. 20. The classic source for this literature is Schmitter, O’Donnell, and Whitehead 1986. 21. For a review of several works that examine this issue, see Schwedler 2011b. 22. The R square for a regression including Muslim-majority countries (n = 39) is .25, with the standardized beta coefficient for logGDP –.497 (p < .001), meaning as income goes up, Polity scores decline. The effect using FH is present but not statistically significant. 23. I am aware of charges of “Western bias” against FH as well as shortcomings in numerous areas in developed Western societies. Nonetheless, I would uphold advancing individual freedoms as well as minority rights and gender equality as universal principles. 24. Universal Islamic Declaration of Human Rights, available at www.alhewar .com/ISLAMDECL.html, accessed 27 February 2015. 25. Surveys by the Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life (2013) found majority support for the death penalty for apostasy in a diverse array of states, including Malaysia (62 percent) and Pakistan (76 percent). Many dispute the legitimacy of the hadith ostensibly commanding this punishment or view it as contextually bound by conditions of war. See Talbi 2006: 113–114. 26. See note 24. 27. The 2013 Global Gender Gap Index, available at www3.weforum.org /docs/WEF_GenderGap_Report_2013.pdf, accessed 27 February 2015. 28. The R square for the regression including all three dependent variables is .54; R square for Islamic population alone is .36. Ross (2008) finds a relationship between oil and women in the workforce and in parliament, but he uses different variables. 29. Arab Human Development Report 2002: Creating Opportunities for Future Generations, available at www.arab-hdr.org/contents/index.aspx?rid=1, accessed 26 February 2015. 30. One could also argue in favor of a chronological presentation if there was a diffusion effect among the cases. Given the ups and downs of the democratic experience in many states, however, it is very hard to identify such influence.

2 Turkey: Democracy and the Dynamics of Secularism

The Republic of Turkey, founded in 1923 as the successor state to the Ottoman Empire, was the first Muslim-majority country in the modern world to democratize. For most of its first two decades, Turkey was a one-party state governed by the Republican People’s Party (Cumhuriyet Halk Partisi, CHP). However, in 1946 a multiparty system was established, and in 1950, an opposition party, the Democratic Party (Demokrat Partisi, DP) gained power. Since this period, Turkey has for the most part remained at least formally democratic (brief periods of military rule constitute the primary exceptions) (see Figure 2.1). It has also been upheld as an inspiration and model for other Muslim countries. For example, Kemal Karpat, writing in the late 1950s, suggested that Turkey’s multiparty system was a reflection of “the political maturity of the Turkish people and . . . their successful efforts toward modernization and democracy” and that countries facing similar conditions as Turkey would be naturally inclined to “follow the Turkish example” (Karpat 1959: x, xi). The heart of this conception of the “Turkish model” was secularism, or, more precisely, the “assertive” (Kuru 2009) French version of it (laicité) that was one of the foundations of the Turkish Republic.1 Turkey’s secularism distinguished it from other Muslim countries—Gellner (1997: 236) concedes that Turkey is “the exception within the exception” of otherwise “unsecularizable” Islam—and made it an important case for early studies on modernization and political development (Ward and Rustow 1964). One common assumption was that religious influences would “gradually decline” as the country engaged in an “upward march from Islamic empire to secular republic” (Dodd 1961: xvi; Findley 2010: 1). These assumptions, obviously, are in need of revision. While Islamicoriented actors were not central to the story of Turkey’s initial democratiza35

36

Political Islam and Democracy in the Muslim World

Figure 2.1 Democratic Development in Turkey F 10 10 88

66

44

22 00

–2 -2 –4 -4 –6 -6

Polity score, –10 to 10

–8 -8

Freedom House score, 1 to 7 (inverted)

–10 -10 1923 1928 1933 1938 1943 1948 1953 1958 1963 1968 1973 1978 1983 1988 1993 1998 2003 2008 2013

tion—by the same token they were not wholly absent—they have become more prominent over time, challenging the state’s definition of laicité and, in 2002, coming to power in the form of the Justice and Development Party (Adalet ve Kalkınma Partisi, AKP), a self-proclaimed “conservative democratic” party that emerged out of previously banned Islamist parties. The AKP ushered in a range of reforms, many of which bolstered democracy. At the same time, however, its challenge to the traditional secular paradigm has been acute and it has increasingly come under fire for rather authoritarian methods and policies. Whereas many once upheld the AKP’s apparent reconciliation of Islam and democracy as a positive example or evidence of the rise of “post-Islamism” in Turkey (Altunısık 2005; Ibrahim 2006; Çavdar 2006; Dağı 2013; Bokhari and Senzai 2013; Kuru 2013), some now question the future of democracy in Turkey and are reconsidering what lessons, with respect to Islam and democracy, might be learned from the AKP period (Kuru 2014b; Kilinç 2014). This chapter examines the relationship between these two concepts in republican Turkey. The story, of course, is a long one, as Islam has deep roots in Turkey and Turkey has a more extensive democratic record than any other country in this volume.2 While this chapter devotes some attention to the emergence of Turkey’s secular paradigm and its early experience with democracy, most of it is dedicated to the period when political Islam became more relevant. In particular, I examine the rise and rule of AKP,

Turkey

37

whose rule has been accompanied by the emergence of a “postsecular” society in Turkey (Göle 2012). Atatürk and the Foundation of Secularism in Turkey Discussions of the political development of modern Turkey typically begin with Kemal Atatürk3 (1881–1938), the founder and, until his death, president of the Republic of Turkey. His rule was accompanied by a series of sweeping reforms designed to modernize and Westernize the country. With respect to this study, the most important element was laicité, which evolved over time and included various components: the disestablishment of Islam as the state religion; the closure of religious schools and religious brotherhoods; elimination of the long-standing Islamic institution of the caliphate; adoption of European legal codes; bans on Islamic modes of dress; and measures giving women equal political rights and opportunities for education and employment. In contrast to Malian secularism or Indonesia’s multiconfessional Pancasila ideology, which we’ll encounter in later chapters, there is no concession authorizing traditional laws or use of sharia (şeriat in Turkish). Secularism was later enshrined as an unchangeable attribute of the constitutional order, and no political party or movement is allowed to campaign for sharia. Thus one issue identified in Chapter 1 as a potential problem with respect to democracy has been taken off the table. Mosques and other religious institutions were also placed under the control of the state’s Directorate of Religious Affairs (Diyanet Işleri Başkanlığı). In sum, this produced “the most radical secular revolution” in the Muslim world, one with a clear desire to “supplant Islam as the dominant socio-cultural force” and thus “break its hold on the mindset of the Turkish people” (Harris 1979: 21; Algar 1996: 55; Lewis 1961: 416). The Atatürk period is well covered in many works on Turkey. For our purposes, a few issues stand out. First, although it may be tempting, as some Turks are wont to do, to view Atatürk as a deus ex machina who decisively broke with the past, numerous authors (Lewis 1961; Berkes 1964; Yilmaz 1997; An-Na’im 2008; Findley 2010; Hanioğlu 2012) make the important point that there were a variety of secular-oriented reforms in the last century of the Ottoman Empire. Berkes (1964: 90), for example, observes that as early as Sultan Mehmed II (1808–1839) the medieval concept of Islamic empire had given way to secular principles of state sovereignty and that one saw the “gradual separation between state and religion.”4 This was, to be sure, incomplete—the ulama remained part of the state bureaucracy, there were efforts to Islamize society and promote panIslamism under Sultan Abdülhamid II (1876–1909), and the sultan continued to serve as caliph for all Sunni Muslims—but the larger point is that in

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the nineteenth century the Ottoman Empire was not a full-blown Islamic state.5 Furthermore, it was one in which the demands of modernization augmented autocratic state authority (the devlet baba, or father-state), often at the expense of an autonomous sphere for religious authorities or institutions (Karpat 2001: 8–11). In the early twentieth century, the “Young Turks” gained control of the government and promoted rationality and science over religion, and Turkish nationalism over an exclusively Islamic identity. This nationalism, however, looked to the West as a model, with one of its main proponents, Ziya Gökalp, acknowledging that “there is only one road to salvation . . . to adapt ourselves to Western civilization completely” (Berkes 1959: 276). In other words, many of the “radical ideas destined to become central planks” in Atatürk’s reform program were already widely held among the intellectual and military elite of the late Ottoman Empire (Hanioğlu 2012: 41). Second, laicité did not mean the elimination of Islam. Instead, Islam was institutionalized in the form of a government agency (the Diyanet) and employed to serve the needs of the state. Religious institutions (e.g., the Sufi brotherhoods) that had the potential to challenge state authority—as seen in Sufi inspiration for Shaikh Said’s Kurdish-Islamist rebellion in 1925 in eastern Turkey that called for reestablishment of the caliphate and was brutally crushed—were banned. The aim was to create a “Turkish Islam” purged of foreign (read: Arab and Persian) elements that could be “co-opted to serve as a vehicle for progress” (Hanioğlu 2012: 42) and, in Atatürk’s words, “fit reality, intellect, and logic” (Cizre-Sakallıoğlu 1996: 236). Islam—or, more precisely, Sunni Islam, as opposed to Shiainfluenced Alevi versions, which were held as suspect—was promoted as a common identity, one of the markers of “Turkishness.”6 One should note that while such arrangements did centralize religious institutions, a factor that was posited in the opening chapter as possibly working against democracy, it did not create a religious hierarchy of ulama that empowered individuals to speak “for” Islam on the basis of religious scholarship. No one was able, for example, to issue legally binding fatwas. The goal was to create a cultural (but not a legal or explicitly political) space for Islam that could promote social morality and guard against atheistic, leftist ideologies (Cizre-Sakallıoğlu 1996; Yavuz 2003; White 2013).7 In Lewis’s terms (1961: 486) God was doubly replaced: as a source of sovereignty by the people and as an object of worship by the nation. How successful was this endeavor? Heper (1981: 357), drawing upon earlier survey and anthropological research, suggests that Turkish society, both in the urban centers and in the ostensibly more conservative countryside, had experienced by the 1960s “normative secularization as desacralization,” which included embrace of secular institutions, erosion of dogmatic views of religion, and adoption of citizenship as opposed to religion

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39

as the prime marker of identity. While it is hard to prove that state propagation of a more “modern” form of Islam is the cause, survey evidence does reveal that Muslims in Turkey, more so than in other countries surveyed in this volume, are less likely to favor state imposition of religion and more likely to view religious obligations as a matter of individual choice. Data with respect to views on sharia and powers for religious judges were presented in Table 1.5, and data from the same Pew Forum survey in Table 2.1 compare respondents in Turkey on additional questions with those from Indonesia and Senegal, where secularism is also relatively strong. One sees that Turks are much less likely to think religious leaders should have political influence, have more “progressive” views on women’s rights, and abjure religiously defined punishments, although most affirm that belief in God is necessary for morality—a proposition advanced under statesupported Islam. Interestingly, while most Turkish Muslims consider themselves religious8 and a majority in the Pew survey (74 percent) think Islam is the one true faith that leads to eternal life, only a small percentage (18 percent) of those who claim they pray more often favor imposition of sharia. In other words, although one can agree with Lewis (1961: 416) that “the secularization of Turkey was never quite as complete as was sometimes believed,” what emerged was a “Turkish Islam,” one that is much more concerned with individual moral development and piety (dindarlık) than Islamism (dincilik) (Yavuz 2004; Çınar and Duran 2008: 23; Heper 2013: 149). Finally, Atatürk promoted “authoritarian secularism,” one divorced from Western notions of secularism that are tied to the Enlightenment and liberalism (An-Na’im 2008). While Atatürk may have been an “enlightened

Table 2.1 Evidence of “Liberal” Islam in Contemporary Turkey, Indonesia, and Senegal (percentage of Muslim respondents that agree) Issue Religious leaders should have a lot/some influence in political matter There is one true understanding of sharia Women should decide if they wish to wear the veil Wife has a right to divorce her husband Favor death penalty for leaving Islam Stoning for adultery Have duty to convert others to Islam Necessary to believe in God to be moral Source: Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life 2013.

Turkey

Indonesia

Senegal

11/25

30/45

n/a

36 90 85 8 9 39 70

45 79 32 16 42 31 95

n/a 58 n/a 35 58 75 72

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despot,” dictatorial powers enabled him to carry out his reforms (Findley 2010: 257). Power was vested in a “monoparty state” (Ahmad 1977) that could duly represent the true interests of all Turks. However, this was not genuine representation. On the contrary, part of the reason that reforms such as laicité did not fully take hold was that they were imposed in a topdown fashion by an elite that sought to transform, not represent, society (Mardin 1973). The state’s organic, corporatist vision of society also downplayed any conflict among classes or ethnic groups, and minorities such as the Kurds and Alevis were not recognized. Turkey’s poor record on minority rights, an element of democratic practice raised in Chapter 1, has been (and remains) a source of concern. However, it would be hard to blame most of this on Islam.9 Indeed, for most of the republic’s history it would be difficult to attribute most of the blemishes on its democratic record—the guardianship role played by the military, lack of recognition of Kurdish identity, limitations on civil and political freedoms, primacy of the state over the individual—to “Islamic” influence, even in its broadest definition. Nationalism, statism, secularism, and modernization were the primary drivers of Atatürk and his immediate successors. “Political Islam” that employed Islamic texts, frames of reference, or values for expressing collective interests has been, at least for the first several decades of the history of the Turkish Republic, primarily a form of opposition to state authority. Indeed, according to Yavuz (2003: 5, 9) Islam became “emanicipation-oriented” and “a counterideology to the authoritarian hegemony of the state and its administrative elite.” While rarely challenging secularism outright, Islamic-oriented actors have sought to expand the public role for religious expression and at times advocated that religious values drive state policy. These actors, as we’ll soon see, were given “opportunity spaces” by Turkey’s movement to democracy (Yavuz 2003). Multipartyism in Turkey, 1946–1960 Turkey’s initial experience with “democracy,” broadly defined, began under the presidency of İsmet İnönü in 1946, eight years after the death of Atatürk. İnönü was Atatürk’s longtime collaborator and had served as prime minister from 1925 to 1937. He became president in 1938 and wisely kept Turkey out of World War II,10 but during the war the state implemented a variety of harsh policies—including martial law, clampdowns on media, enhanced police powers, and a rapacious tax policy directed at non-Muslim minorities—that augured poorly for political liberalization. However, in 1945, in the aftermath of intense factional debates within the CHP over land reform, İnönü agreed to creation of a multiparty system that would, in

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his words, serve the “proper functioning of freedom and democracy” (Ahmad 1977: 9). Former CHP luminaries who had resigned or been expelled from the party, including Celal Bayar, Atatürk’s last prime minister, created the DP in January 1946. The DP won over a tenth of the seats in that year’s parliamentary elections. More parties formed, and in 1950, the DP won an overwhelming electoral victory. The CHP ceded power peacefully, thus advancing Turkey’s movement toward democracy. An obvious question is what led to this development, which established, at least in a minimal sense, democracy in Turkey. Several answers suggest themselves.11 First, the international environment was an important consideration, as Turkey wanted to establish itself as part of the West and secure US assistance to protect it from possible Soviet threats. However, internal dynamics also played a role. Lewis (1961: 303), for example, notes that Turkey was becoming more urban and more literate, and this modernization was producing a need for political change. Democracy, from this perspective, thus can be seen as a culmination of years of Westernization under Atatürk and evidence of the “political maturing of the Turkish people.” This seems a bit overblown. While it is true that many groups in Turkey were displeased with the CHP government, there was no large-scale popular mobilization for liberalization. Rather, the key factor was splits within the CHP itself, centered on state economic policy, with statists of the old guard opposed to a rising bourgeoisie, which would later constitute the backbone of the DP (Ahmad 1977). İnönü, despite his long years in government, lacked the stature of Atatürk and could not repress this growing schism and keep the party together. However, rather than risk instability, he allowed the DP to emerge as a “control party,” a “safety valve” that “could be turned on and off so as to deflect public hostility and head off a popular explosion” (Ahmad 1993: 105). The DP initially served this role; it pledged fealty to the principles of Kemalism and claimed that its differences with the CHP were over methods, not goals and values (Ahmad 1993: 109). In this respect, initial “democratization” in Turkey can be seen as more of an intraelite deal than something that arose from explicit popular demand. Things, however, did not turn out as İnönü had hoped. The DP quickly gained support, and supplanted the CHP in 1950. Moreover, many rankand-file members of the DP were deeply hostile toward the CHP. The DP’s prime minister, Adnan Menderes, oversaw numerous measures that attacked the CHP, including seizure of its property. The DP also retained the authoritarian habits of its opponents, passing laws to muzzle the media and strengthening already harsh penal codes. Ahmad (1993: 110) suggests that the DP’s contribution to democratic development in Turkey was “virtually nil.” Findley (2010: 306–308) largely concurs, noting that the DP oversaw a “white terror” that utilized fears of communism to harass and arrest its opponents and purge the bureaucracy and courts of allegedly subversive

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elements. This assessment is supported by data presented in Figure 2.1, which show a dip in Turkey’s democracy score in the 1950s. While the DP won reelection in 1954 and 1957, it became “drunk with success” (Findley 2010: 307). The government’s plans in 1960 to form a parliamentary commission to investigate the CHP—and concomitant barring of CHP deputies from parliament—led to demonstrations. The government responded by announcing martial law. Junior officers in the military, however, staged a coup in May 1960. Menderes and two of his ministers were hanged the following year by the military junta. This is an admittedly brief review of an important time period in Turkey. With respect to the relationship between democracy and Islam, two points are pertinent. First, the democratic opening in Turkey in 1945–1950 was not inspired by or reacting to “political Islam” in any discernible way. There was, in fact, no significant Islamic-oriented political mobilization. However, while Islam was not a cause of democracy, one can argue that it was, in a sense, an effect of it. In other words, political liberalization, by forcing elites to compete for votes and respond more to popular preferences and values that previously had been repressed, resulted in the reemergence of Islam—if not its “relegitimation” (Mardin 1973: 185; Çınar and Sezgin 2013)—into the political sphere. As Ahmad (1991) and Yavuz (2003) note with respect to Turkey, religion became a primary method to express and mobilize opposition to the political order. This phenomenon, one should add, is hardly unique to Turkey. It frequently occurs, as we shall see in this volume, throughout the Muslim world when there is a democratic opening. What precise form this takes, and how extensive the resulting role of religion in public policy becomes, are key considerations and vary from country to country. In the case at hand, one could see some evidence of Islam’s reemergence as early as 1946, when the CHP government, in an effort to win public support, opened parliamentary debate on instituting voluntary religious instruction in the schools. This policy was put into effect in 1949, albeit with a government-issued textbook promoting a modernized Islam that “they would probably have some difficulty in recognizing in Mecca or even Damascus” (Lewis 1952: 41). This was, however, an important breakthrough, albeit one driven more by electoral considerations than a genuine change of heart. As one observer at the time noted, “this party [the CHP] which has boasted so far about its revolutionism and secularism has found salvation by embracing religion at the most critical juncture of its life” (Ahmad 1993: 107). However, this was not enough to stave off electoral defeat. Upon assuming power, the DP, which was much more the party of the “periphery” and more open to expressions of Islam, pushed through a number of further measures: religious education became mandatory; the call to

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prayer (ezan) in Arabic was restored; funds were provided for mosquebuilding, state radio–broadcast religious programming, and Imam-Hatip (imam training schools) under the auspices of the Diyanet. These policies were presented as demands of the national will (milli irade) that the duly elected government should serve (Ahmad 1991: 10). In other words, they were an outgrowth of democratization. Writers at the time spoke of a “religious revival” in Turkey. Evidence for this included increased mosque attendance, emergence of new religious movements (e.g., the Nurcus, discussed later), a vibrant Islamic press, more assertiveness of religious functionaries in public life, and even attacks on Atatürk memorials by some religious leaders (Lewis 1952; Reed 1954). What is most relevant, however, is that Islamic-oriented actors by and large embraced democracy as an opportunity for them to express their views and tap into state-controlled symbolic and material resources, although, to be sure, not all of their demands (e.g., curtailment of women’s rights, closure of some non-Islamic associations) were congruent with what one could call liberal democracy (Çınar and Sezgin 2013). Toprak (2005a: 171) notes that of the twenty-four new parties established to contest elections in 1950, eight had religious themes in their programs, although none of these garnered substantial support. There are still debates as to what the legacy and meaning of the initial multiparty period was with respect to Islam. Writing in the aftermath of the 1960 coup, one writer noted that one could argue as to whether the DP period was “one of the betrayal of secularism, the exploitation of religion, the restoration of freedom of worship, or the beginning of a new period of ‘modernized Islam’” (Weiker 1963: 9). Absent the coup, would DP rule, perhaps unintentionally, have led to the “Islamization” of Turkey? Many maintain that such a suggestion is “inaccurate” (Yavuz 2003: 62) and “unconvincing,” as its actual religious “agenda” was relatively modest, “hardly the kind of changes aimed at dismantling the secular state” (CizreSakallıoğlu 1996: 237). True, the party was willing to use religion and court religious authorities to win votes. However, its leaders, including Menderes, were convinced secularists’ embrace of Islam was not ideological but merely one of respecting cultural traditions. At the same time, the DP also passed laws to protect Atatürk’s memory and imprisoned the leader of the Tijani Sufi order in Turkey, whose followers had attacked Atatürk statues as idols of paganism (Yavuz 2003: 62). It opened court cases against reactionaries and closed Islamic publications for exploiting religion for political purposes. It expelled some of its more “Islamist” deputies, and used police forces to prevent the most prominent shaikh from the Nakşibendi Sufi order from being buried in the garden of Istanbul’s Fatih Mosque. As for a greater “Islamic Revival,” only one of the aforementioned parties, the National Party (Millet Partisi), formed in 1948 as a more conservative offshoot of the DP, entered parliament, winning a solitary seat in 1950. It was

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subsequently closed in 1953 by the DP government for allegedly violating secularism.12 However, there is little question that Islam was given more space during the DP period. In the words of one DP deputy, these were “seeds sown in the public space” (Çınar and Sezgin 2013: 339). The period of militant secularism was over. Islam would have to be, in some measure, accommodated into the political system. Many political actors and voters who were more favorably disposed toward Islam would subsequently find a home in center-right parties that contested for power against the CHP and served as the spiritual successors of the DP. Thus, rather than threatening democracy, one can argue that a more tolerant attitude toward Islam helped expand the basis of state authority and legitimacy and prevented the radicalization of religious groups (Yavuz 2003: 62), a development in line with the inclusion-moderation hypothesis discussed in Chapter 1. In other words, because of Turkey’s democratic features—imperfect though they were—political manifestations of Islam could be channeled into democratic outlets. Before continuing with this story, however, let us switch gears a bit and consider the development of “Islamic” political thought in Turkey. The View from Below: Elements of Islamic-Oriented Political Thought in Turkey To this point, we have largely looked at developments in Turkey from the perspective of the state and contestation for power, which is logical enough given the state-centric nature of Turkish political culture (Yavuz 2003: 8). However, one should not overlook developments “from below” among Islamic-oriented thinkers and activists that mark important steps in the development of “Turkish Islam” and provided the basis for more explicitly Islamic-oriented political action. On this front, one must first recognize the diversity of Islam within Turkey, which included not only the “official” Islam of the Ottoman court and, later, the Diyanet, but also a host of more conservative religious figures, a variety of Sufi orders, and the heterodox Alevis. In other words, to return to factors mentioned in Chapter 1, there were strong traditions of religious pluralism—Turkey was a “melting pot” of religious beliefs in Yavuz’s terms (2004: 221). While some expressions of “political Islam” were more reactionary and directly challenged the established order, others were more modernist or reformist. Indeed, efforts to reconcile imperatives of liberalization and modernization with those of Islam predate the formation of republican Turkey. For example, Namık Kemal (1840–1888), the “first Islamist thinker at the core of the Ottoman Empire,” supported the

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45

constitutionalist Young Ottomans and envisioned a parliamentary democracy as an example of the Islamic principle of shura (Guida 2010: 348). Coverage of the entire gamut of “Islamist” thought in Turkey is thus well beyond the scope of this chapter. Looking at Turkey through the midtwentieth century, three sets of actors stand out for their importance, both at that time and extending to the present day. The first of these is the Nakşibendi Sufi order, which was established in Central Asia and India in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries and quickly developed a presence in Turkey.13 Shaikh Mavlana Khalid alBaghdadi (1776–1827), a Kurd born in northern Iraq, did much to revitalize the order and expand its influence in the Ottoman Empire. While the Nakşibendis employ mysticism as well as ascetic and esoteric practices to gain insight into the inner levels of the Quran and Islamic teaching, they can be thought of as traditionally “conservative” in the sense that they emphasized the need to follow sharia and they were largely loyal to the Ottoman state as it was seen as a means to defend and advance Islam. After World War I, some joined with Atatürk in the Turkish War of Independence, viewing it as a jihad against foreign occupation, but many Nakşibendi shaikhs later turned against the secular republican state.14 As a consequence, Sufi orders were banned in 1925, although the Nakşibendis, relying more upon silent rituals and not on physical lodges (tekke) for meetings, were able to continue an underground existence. Many of their shaikhs became imams at state-controlled mosques and kept circles of disciples. The Nakşibendis thus remained relatively well organized and, with the advent of democratic politics, began to play a more pronounced social and political role. Many shaikhs backed the DP. The Süleymanli community, an offshoot of the Nakşibendis, became active in religious education, and by the 1950s and 1960s established a “symbiotic relationship” with the state by espousing pro-state, nationalist positions and preaching against dangers of Islamic radicalism (Yavuz 2003: 146–147; Yükleyen 2008: 383–384).15 The clearest evidence for the political importance of the Nakşibendis, however, is found in the circle that emerged around Mehmet Zahid Kotku (1897–1980), who became leader of the prominent Gümüşshanevi order in Istanbul. He pitched his appeals to the urban middle class, maintaining that Muslims needed to be active in worldly affairs, including private enterprise, which would in turn free them from dependence on the state. His mosquebased community subsequently became a center for business, education, publishing, professional associations, and, eventually, politics. Among his followers were three future Turkish prime ministers: Necmettin Erbakan (1926–2011), founder of several Islamic-oriented political parties; Turgut Özal (1927–1993), who liberalized the Turkish economy in the 1980s; and Recep Tayyip Erdoğan (1954–), who led the AKP to electoral success in the

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Political Islam and Democracy in the Muslim World

2000s. Kotku was described as the “hidden hand” (Algar 1996: 58) or, in the words of the head of Diyanet at the time, as the “brainchild” of Islamicoriented parties in the 1970s (Yavuz 2003: 207). However, he was not a full-fledged Islamist. He repudiated inflammatory remarks by some of his followers (e.g., about needs for a jihad), rejected a perspective that saw the secular state as the primary “enemy,” and backed away from advocating creation of an Islamic state, claiming it would be too destabilizing. He laid emphasis on the cultural and moral rejuvenation of Turkish society and individual piety. Yavuz (2003: 150) notes the largely positive contributions of Kotku and other Nakşibendi leaders in “reimagining” Islam in a way that could accommodate itself to modernity, including a democratic state. Making a more general point, he also sees Sufism as central to the creation of “Turkish Islam,” one that embraces some pre-Islamic traditions, long-standing traditions of diversity and syncretism, a nonliteral and inclusive vision of Islam, and acts as a “shield” against the emergence of more radical Islam by presenting itself as genuinely “Turkish” (Yavuz 2004: 220–221). What is the goal or endpoint of this form of Islam—akin to the “civil Islam” later advanced by Fethullah Gülen (1938–)—remains, for some, unclear. Some suggested that Kotku and his circle favored the gradual rise of a “theo-democracy” in which an Islamic-oriented state evolves from popular demand (Heper 1997: 39). This issue continues to haunt all Islamic-oriented actors in Turkey. Perhaps the most important individual thinker—as opposed to activist—in republican Turkey is Said Nursi (1876–1960),16 who inspired many eponymous (Nurcu) groups as well as Gülen and his Hizmet (“Service”) movement. Yavuz (2003: 131), who writes sympathetically of Nursi and Nurcu groups, contends that together they “have evolved into the most powerful and effective sociopolitical communities in contemporary Turkey.” Findley (2010: 285) notes that Nursi’s vision of Islamic modernity would have “lasting reverberations.” Numerous works in English—starting with Mardin (1989)—constitute a cottage industry within Turkish/Islamic studies and, together with the fact that his Quranic exegesis, Risale-i Nur (Epistles of Light), remains widely read in Turkey, testify to his importance.17 Although influenced by the Nakşibendis and other Sufi orders, Nursi has a different approach and conception of Islam. First, he developed a text-centered approach, eschewing the personal shaikh-disciple relationship of the Sufis. For most of his life, his works were banned by the state, but it was through various reading circles that his followers were linked together. They were encouraged to apply their own reasoning (ijtihad) and draw their own conclusions from the texts (Mardin 1989: 183). Second, the overarching theme to Nursi’s work—how to fashion a new religious idiom that can reconcile faith with modernity, epitomized by sci-

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ence—has significant ramifications for how his followers conceptualized Islam. In this respect, Nursi’s work is a reflection of the Islamic notion of renewalism (tajdid). However, one need not venture into what Mardin (1989: 224) concedes can be his “obscure religious commentaries.” Instead, one needs to bear in mind the big idea: “modernity,” broadly defined, and “Islam,” traditionally understood, should be reconceptualized in a manner to emphasize how they connect, not conflict. Advocates of modernity need to concede that science, for example, cannot provide all answers. Religion, for its part, needs to move away from literal interpretations and recognize complexity as well as multiple dimensions and meanings to texts. Believers should engage in critical and deliberative analysis, and faith through imitation or blind obedience had to be replaced by faith by inquiry (Yavuz 2003: 158). This was not, however, turning away from the Quran and Muhammad’s practices. Rather, one should recognize the Quran as a living text and reclaim its forgotten, more progressive principles. Through study of the writings and life of Muhammad, true Muslims would eschew extreme positions, adopting instead a “middle way” of tolerance and respect for pluralism (Voll 1999). These aspects of Nursi’s thought—ones that seek to empower individuals and that speak of tolerance and moderation—are “democratic” in their general ethos. Nursi himself embraced parliamentary constitutionalism and a multiparty democracy as sound means to ensure a just society (Yavuz 2003: 156), and he lent his support to the DP in the initial multiparty period. However, he did not develop a political theory or even, for that matter, advocate a political vocation for his followers. Although early in his life he had been politically active, he mostly adopted an apolitical approach, meaning he made no claim or effort to found an Islamic state and refrained from political engagement (Kuru and Kuru 2008). While he believed that Muslims should follow Islamic law (Vahide 1992: 44), he viewed this as an individual imperative, not something that should be imposed forcibly by the state. Politics, he believed, was corrupting—and he cited the experience of many ostensible “Islamic” rulers to demonstrate this—and thus his focus was on moral and spiritual renewal, restoring individuals to the faith and spreading that faith. He wrote, “Ninety-nine percent of Islam is about ethics, worship, the hereafter and virtue. Only one percent is about politics. Leave that to the rulers” (quoted in Kuru and Kuru 2008: 100). He thus did not directly challenge secularism per se, arguing instead that a proper secular state should be respectful, not hostile, to religion. Nursi, however, often found himself in trouble with the authorities, as he was internally exiled and faced trial several times for allegedly founding an illegal organization (he was never convicted). After his death, his works found a wide audience, particularly in urban areas and among the better educated, and his ideas, as suggested, became influential in Turkey.

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At this point, one should address an important analytical question: how does one explain the development and resonance of “modern” thinking by the Nakşibendis and Nursi? This is important, as it gets to the issue of why Islam adopts certain forms in certain environments. As noted, one can see them as outgrowths of Turkey’s history, both in terms of the plurality/heterogeneity of religious practices as well as the lack of a powerful ulama in republican Turkey that could define Islam in one particular manner. In other words, there was opportunity in Turkey for new interpretations of Islam to emerge “from below.” Some observers, however, see these movements not simply in historical terms but as more novel and a reflection of incipient modernization. Voll, for example, situates Nursi in a broader, worldwide phenomenon of midcentury religious movements confronting modernity, arguing that Nursi’s less dogmatic approach and call to uncover multiple meanings is a precursor to postmodern thought. With respect to the Turkish case, he argues that economic development, education, and social change no longer created an environment amenable to “reactionary” Muslim revivalism (Voll 1999: 258). However, there is more than one way to confront modernity, as seen in the Iranian Revolution. Nursi and his ideas do not automatically arise and find an audience based upon socioeconomic structural conditions alone. Şahin (2011), for example, advocates for a more agent-centered explanation drawing attention to Nursi’s frustration with politics that prompted the rise of an “atomistic” approach that focused on individual development. As for the resonance he found, one could invoke aspects of structure and agency. Yavuz (2003), for example, stresses the role of print capitalism—a manifestation of a more modern world—in creating a structural “opportunity space” for Nursi’s message and medium. He filled this “space” with a message that appealed to “traditionals on the move” (Mardin 1989: 231), who, unlike in many parts of the Muslim world, were not focused on struggle with the West. They lived in a state that had in many ways a progressive, future-oriented perspective directed toward modernization. In this way, one might credit the Turkish state for creating an environment more conducive to what might be deemed “liberal” or “democratic” Islam. One should note, however, that not every innovation in Islamic thought in Turkey was so oriented. The third group of actors can be defined as Islamic-nationalist in their orientation, picking up on efforts by the state to use Islam as a source of national identity. Indeed, as early as the 1940s, with the advent of multiparty politics, “nationalist-conservative” activists and writers maintained that Islam was an integral part of Turkish national identity and that militant laicité had unnecessarily cut Turks off from their past and thereby crushed aspects of the national conscience. They propagated their views in various journals, found a temporary home in the 1950s

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in the National Party, and participated in sociopolitical associations such as the Nationalist Association of Turkey. While some espoused more radical views such as adopting sharia, many proved willing to cooperate with the state to defend Turkey from a perceived communist threat (Çetinsaya 1999; Çınar and Sezgin 2013). However, their emphasis on including Islam as a core and necessary component of Turkish identity suggested the need to significantly revise the Kemalist vision. On this score, several writers could be mentioned. Nurettin Topçu (1909–1975) stands perhaps as the foremost among them. In 1939 he founded the journal Hareket (Action), which became “the center of a new Islamic and Anatolian Turkish identity movement” (Yavuz 2003: 115). Kemalist Westernization and secularism, in his view, had alienated Turks from their past and their spiritual core. His “Anatolianism” (Anadoluculuk) celebrated rural life and carved out a distinct identity for Turks within the Islamic tradition. While he embraced anticommunism and anti-Semitism, he rejected liberalism as the negation of traditional values, including religion (Karaömerlioğlu 2010: 107). Topçu’s influence on conservative thinking in Turkey was “formative” (Karaömerlioğlu 2010: 103). He helped found several nationalist groups, including the Milliyetçi Derneği (Nationalists’ Association) in 1954 and Aydınlar Ocağı (Intellectuals’ Hearth) in 1970, the latter of which played an important role on the political right and contributed to the formation of the Turkish-Islamic Synthesis (Türk-İslam Sentezi, TIS), discussed more later. Necip Fazıl Kısakürek (1904–1983) was another seminal Islamic thinker and writer in mid-twentieth-century Turkey. Fazıl’s journal Büyük Doğu (Great Orient) first appeared in 1943 and, like Topçu’s Hareket, became a hub of Islamist political engagement, briefly evolving into its own political association in 1949–1951 before being closed by the government. Fazıl went further than Topçu in pushing Islam as a “holistic and totalist ideology” (Yavuz 2003: 116). He described republican Turkey as a “moral prison” (Guida 2012: 116). His vision of Islam was seen as more threatening by the state; he was jailed in 1952 for alleged involvement in the assassination of a secular journalist (he was acquitted), briefly imprisoned again after the 1960 coup, and Büyük Doğu was closed down thirteen times in its thirty-five-year history (Çınar and Sezgin 2013: 332). Although always associated with a more Islamic orientation, he blended this with Turkish nationalism, and by the late 1970s he was clearly more in the “nationalist” camp. Among his slogans were “all or nothing” (ya hep ya hiç) and “be or die” (ya ol ya öl) (Guida 2012: 118). Proof of his influence is the fact on the thirtieth anniversary of his death Prime Minister Erdoğan—who along with Özal also attended his funeral—cited him as a “master” whose ordeals “helped us, like no other, to make sense of history and the present” (Singer 2013).

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Finally, one could mention Ahmet Arvasi (1932–1988), who is closely identified with the TIS (Aslan 2014). Arvasi was heavily influenced by Fazıl and other Islamic thinkers of the latter’s generation. In his threevolume work, The Turkish-Islamic Ideal (Türk-İslam Ülküsü), Arvasi argues that the true idealist (ülkü) is an “uncompromising Muslim and a conscious Turkish nationalist.” For Arvasi, Turkishness is Turks’ “body” and Islam is their “soul” (Çetinsaya 1999: 372). He played an important role in the 1960s in giving a more Islamic cast to the Nine Lights (Dokuz Işık) of the Nationalist Action Party (Milliyetçi Hareket Partisi, MHP) (Aslan 2014). There was, however, tension in nationalist circles between emphasis on distinctive Turkishness as opposed to universal Islam, which emphasizes the fact that all Muslims are a single community (umma), and what the TIS would require remained unclear. Arvasi, for example, advocated Islam as a total way of life and believed the state must be ruled in accordance with divinely revealed principles. In contrast, İbrahim Kafesoğlu (1914–1984), the first president of Aydınlar Ocağı and another champion of the TIS, maintained that Turks needed an Islam stripped of wornout ideas that would serve as a matter of conscience, not a political or legal system. Indeed, he argued that an Islamic state was counter to uniquely Turkish traditions (Aslan 2014). This “safer” version of the TIS was later embraced by state authorities. Military Coups, Political Polarization, and Islam The 1960 coup was a dramatic and traumatic event in Turkish history. One might have thought it would have spelled the end of Turkish democracy. This was not so. Blame for the problems of the 1950s was placed largely with the DP (whose deputies were all put on trial for violating the constitution) and its leader, Menderes, who was hanged. While the military saw itself as a guardian of the state, and changes to the constitution and in public policy ensured that it became “an integral part of the political and socioeconomic life of the country” (Ahmad 1993: 130), it did not, as in Pakistan, wish to hold on to political power. Many officers worried about the corrupting influence of politics, and thus power was ceded back to civilians in 1961 (Findley 2010: 310). The military intervened again in 1971 and 1980, in both instances due to political polarization and instability, but, as before, its rule was relatively brief. The restoration of democracy in 1961 in some ways recreated the previous dynamics. The Justice Party (Adalet Partisi, AP) emerged as the successor to the DP, courting voters on the “periphery” and adopting a more tolerant view toward Islam and religious expression. Positions within the AP were often filled by religious figures and it received support from Sufi

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tarikats and other religious organizations (Toprak 1981). It represented the center-right of the political spectrum, with the more ardently secularist CHP occupying the center-left. Other, smaller parties formed, necessitating coalition governments. From 1961 to 1965, Turkey had four weak coalition governments, three of which were led by former president İnönü with the military’s blessing (Ahmad 1993: 137–138; Findley 2010: 312–313). The 1960s were also a time of political polarization in Turkey. The new constitution gave autonomy to the universities and greater rights for trade unions. Student and labor groups became the basis for far-left political parties. The CHP itself turned more leftist, espousing a social democratic line. Nationalists organized to counter what they saw as a communist threat. As suggested above, some nationalist groups found Islam useful in their political programs. The struggle between the right and left was not merely at the ballot box; backers of the two sides often clashed violently in the streets as well. In this period, Islamic-oriented actors were able to take advantage of a more liberal environment to form their own associations. Most significantly, some came together to form a political party. From this emerged the Milli Görüş (National View, MG) platform, usually associated with Necmettin Erbakan, who published the MG in 1969 and led a series of Islamic-oriented parties in Turkey from the 1970s to the 1990s. White (2013: 39–40) claims that MG is Turkey’s “only” Islamic movement, one that used Islam not in a purely functional way to curry favor with voters but as a “basic building block of party policy.” As suggested above, Erbakan was active in Nakşibendi circles, and Mehmet Kotku was credited with taking the lead in creating an Islamic-oriented party. Some of Nursi’s followers were also among early backers of these parties. Erbakan was elected to parliament in 1969 as an independent, and in the following year he created the National Order Party (Milli Nizam Partisi, MNP), which was banned in 1971 but then reincarnated in 1972, with support from some in the military (Yavuz 2003: 209–210), as the National Salvation Party (Milli Selamet Partisi, MSP). The MSP competed in elections in 1973 and 1977, winning 11.8 percent and 8.6 percent of the vote, respectively. Between 1974 and 1980, it joined three coalition governments—led both by the left (CHP) and by the right (AP), neither of which could secure a majority—making it a key actor in Turkish politics (Dağı 2005: 24; Sarfati 2014: 81–86). What was the MG’s basis? It was a mixture of various strands of thought, organized on themes of culture, industrialization, social justice, and education. It contained, to be sure, an Islamist character, although, because explicit political use of religion was prohibited (indeed in 1971 the MNP was shut down on this ground), it was often framed around “subtle Islamic symbols” (Yavuz 2003: 212) or “code words” (Eligür 2010: 66–67) that praised Islam and the Ottoman period and suggested that Turkey

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needed not Westernization but to return to its traditional past and develop more ties to the Muslim world (Dağı 2005). It espoused Turkish nationalism, albeit one derived largely from its Ottoman-Islamic heritage. Its socioeconomic component emphasized social justice and elimination of corruption. Indeed, Erbakan rose to prominence mainly on economic issues, criticizing other parties for serving Western interests and winning election in 1969 as the president of the Union of Chambers of Commerce and Industry (Ahmad 1993: 144). The MG also advocated state withdrawal from the economy and breakup of monopolies in favor of promotion of small business, a position championed by Kotku and the Nakşibendis (White 2013: 39). This in turn was linked to advocacy of modernization and economic development, albeit a process that would be internally driven and not dependent upon the West as a model or basis of economic support. Toprak (2005a: 171) suggests that it was this last component that accounted for the MSP’s success, as the “Islamic card” by itself could not win elections as voters cared more about their everyday needs and economics than religious issues. Yavuz (2003: 210) opines that the largely rural backers of the MSP voted for “electricity, not the sharia,” and Ahmad (1993: 159) goes so far as to suggest the MSP preached more “Islamic socialism” than “Islamic fundamentalism,” although this glosses over its general procapitalist orientation. Indeed, it is important to note that all the major “Islamic” political parties in Turkey have had a strong socioeconomic component, built on an alliance of the urban poor and small businesses from Anatolian provinces.18 In this respect, the MSP and its later incarnations were manifestations of the “periphery” in its struggle with a Western-oriented, more cosmopolitan center (Sarfati 2014). There is no question, however, that the core of the “national vision” of the MG, the cultural marker and the glue that held its supporters together, was Islam, necessary for the “retraditionalisation of the social and cultural milieu” (Toprak 1984: 124). For example, its education policy included more imam training schools and a new curriculum for high school that included a course on ethics based on Islamic principles (Yavuz 2003: 212). Overall, it was to be, as the head of Diyanet noted at the time of its founding, “a party where Muslims could feel at home” (Yavuz 2003: 207). The MSP, however, could not and did not directly challenge democracy or, for the most part, secularism. Indeed, Erbakan showed both willingness and adeptness in electoral politics. Democracy, at least as a possible means of gaining power, was therefore embraced, confirming the inclusionmoderation hypothesis, although how far the MSP—or, for that matter, its successors—would go in terms of embracing liberal elements of democracy is another matter, but one that was not prominent in the 1970s as the party remained only a junior partner in coalition governments. Some (Yavuz

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2003; Sarfati 2014) have also construed its emergence and success as evidence of democratization, insofar as it articulated the needs and desires of heretofore largely marginalized voices. However, this may be a bit of a stretch in terms of the MSP’s overall impact, as it remained a small party and had a limited influence in terms of public policy. The MSP used Islam as a cultural touchstone to discuss political and social issues. This included the causes of Turkey’s economic underdevelopment as well as the breakdown of social, cultural, and familial order, including a decadent morality. Indeed, in government many of the actions of MSP leaders were directed at issues such as removing “pornographic” statues from public squares (Toprak 1984: 124–125). Its defense of the “little man” was linked to a restoration of Islamic values that were disrespected by the political, economic, and cultural elite. In this respect, its name has a clear meaning. Milli signifies a religiously defined community, and selamet, derived from the Quranic term for “salvation,” has both a material and ethical meaning (Yavuz 2003: 208). The MSP’s Islam, however, was not merely a return to the past. Rather, the MG maintained that Islam was compatible with needs of modernity—particularly economic development—and provided a basis for social rejuvenation moving Turkey forward. The 1960s and 1970s were difficult periods in Turkey, reflected in economic difficulties, weak coalition governments, and acute political polarization and violence. The military intervened in 1971 to restore order, banning several political parties; however, it returned power to civilians. Subsequent coalition governments were ineffective. Minorities such as the Kurds and Alevis gravitated to the left and found themselves targeted by right-wing paramilitary groups of so-called idealists (ülkücüler), whose violence was often condoned by center-right governments (Findley 2010: 320).19 However, political Islamists, at least as represented by the MSP, were not at the forefront of the violence, making it difficult to somehow blame Islam for the troubles in the 1970s. By the summer of 1980, however, the government had completely lost the ability to maintain order. Rival militias controlled neighborhoods in many cities, and there were over twenty political killings a day. At an MSP meeting in Konya, Islamist actors refused to pay homage to the national anthem and called for jihad and an Islamic state in Turkey (Eligür 2010: 87–88). Seeking to restore order and stability, the military openly seized power in September, suspending the constitution and banning all political parties. Over 600 associations and foundations were also banned, 30,000 people were fired from their jobs, and over half a million people were arrested (Yavuz 2003: 69). The military subsequently rewrote the constitution, which was adopted via national referendum in 1982. It gave the military a pronounced role in politics, severed links between civil society and

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political parties, and restricted civil and political freedoms. However, to the extent that this document has been a major impediment to more complete democratization in Turkey in the years after the coup, it is hard to place these shortcomings on Islam. The TIS and the Rule of Turgut Özal

While the 1980 coup was, at least initially, ecumenical with respect to identifying enemies of the state, it was clear that the military viewed leftist groups (including Alevis and Kurds) as the greater threats to the Kemalist order. Political (Sunni) Islam was, relatively speaking, let off the hook (Eligür 2010). To this end, the coup leaders promoted the TIS, whose intellectual roots were described above. According to a 1983 National Culture Report commissioned by the government, the pillars of the Turkish nation were the family, mosque, and military. In this way, the government emphasized, for the first time, “the religious component of the nation and state as being important and worthy of respect” (Yavuz 2003: 73). The TIS was manifested in various ways: more Quranic courses and Imam-Hatip schools; compulsory religious education that linked Turkishness to Sunni Islam and military traditions (White 2013: 71); a rewriting of history that defined Kemalism as a movement that directed “Turkish-Islamic culture” (Sarfati 2014: 88); and elevation of the Diyanet into a constitutional institution charged with “promoting and consolidating national authority and unity.”20 However, this process was to be controlled. The state, for example, would monopolize religious education and proffer versions of Islam that would promote loyalty to the state and not challenge laicité. In this sense, it was similar to Atatürk’s initial strategies—and even those of the early Young Ottomans of the late nineteenth century—to link religion to the nationalist cause.21 However, in some respects it ushered in something new, a “tacit admission” of the shortcomings of Kemalist secularism (Tapper 1991: 10), even a “radical departure” from past practice (Eligür 2010: 85). Subsequent Turkish leaders, including the first postcoup prime minister Turgut Özal from the center-right Motherland Party (Anavatan Partisi, ANAP), could openly display and take pride in their religiosity. The government openly worked with members of the Aydınlar Ocağı to help promote religious consciousness (Sarfati 2014: 86–88) and religious brotherhoods such as the Nakşibendi operated more freely. Religious expressions, provided they were tied to nationalism, found state support, and, later, deregulation of the media helped spread the message. Significantly, these did not have to represent only “modernist” Islam; celebration of the Islamic-Ottoman heritage was now more acceptable, although this could, and often was, used to argue for a distinct Turkish (as opposed to Arab) Islam. Ultimately, the TIS

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helped create a “new opportunity structure” for an “extraordinary explosion of self-consciously Islamic parties and public discourse” in the 1990s and beyond (Eligür 2010: 85; White 2013: 35). In the 1980s, however, Turkish politics was dominated by Özal, who served as prime minister from 1983 to 1989 and whose emergence marked an important event with respect to political Islam. He was by no means an Islamist, but, more than any previous prime minister, he supported a greater public role for Islam. He had run for parliament (unsuccessfully) in 1977 as a candidate of the MSP, and he openly acknowledged his ties to the Nakşibendi order. He embraced much of the TIS and enacted policies that oversaw expansion of Imam-Hatip schools as well as creation of an Islamic banking sector (Heper 2013). He appointed many officials from the MSP to bureaucratic positions, especially in education, where creationism was introduced into the curriculum (Sarfati 2014: 97). His hajj to Mecca was even broadcast on state media. Overall, he moved Turkey away from “assertive secularism” and created greater space for expression of Muslim cultural values and traditions, including respect for the traditional family in which feminism, according to the minister of state, was a “deviation” like a drug addiction (Sarfati 2014: 98). Özal’s most important contribution to the subsequent rise of political Islam was linked to his economic policies. The decree to allow Islamic banking facilitated the rise of a conservative, Islamic-oriented business sector that crucially was not dependent on state largesse. Its independence made it supportive of Özal’s marketization of the Turkish economy. The importance of the rise of this new bourgeoisie—the so-called Anatolian tigers—can hardly be overstated. Its growth created yet another opportunity space for political Islam to emerge, one in which the erstwhile “periphery” was brought, at last, into the “center” (Yavuz 2003: 214–216; Heper 2013; Sarfati 2014: 91–94). In addition to its core business interests, this new class supported Islamic-oriented ventures in diverse fields such as education, media, tourism, and fashion, and, later, it became a crucial constituency for parties that would be far more Islamic-oriented than Özal’s ANAP. The Rise and Fall of the Welfare Party The first of these parties to emerge from the new bourgeoisie was the Welfare Party (Refah Partisi, RP), which was the successor of previous MGinspired parties.22 The RP was formed in 1983, and in 1987 Erbakan assumed formal leadership after a referendum lifted the ban on political activity of former political leaders. The RP appealed to diverse groups and had a broader base than the more “marginal” or “parochial” MSP (Öniş

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1997: 744). Like its earlier incarnations, it reached out to the underclasses—many of whom were recent migrants to big cities and looking for a means to affirm their more conservative identities—with its promise of a Just Order (Adil Düzen), which, among other items, pledged to redistribute resources and eliminate banking interest. It also, in line with the TIS, tried to appeal to Turkish pride, asserting that Turkey could and should become a leader of the Muslim world and turn away from the West. To attract ethnic Kurdish voters, it appealed to pan-Islamic identity. And, as noted, it attracted the rising Islamic-oriented bourgeoisie, whose resources helped give the party a more solid financial base, allowing it to develop supportive media outlets and distribute economic assistance to voters. The RP received only 7 percent of the vote in national elections in 1987, but by 1995 it garnered over 21 percent, making it the largest party in parliament. Its growth was most pronounced in central and eastern Anatolia, and in 1994 it won municipal elections in both Istanbul and Ankara. Its success was facilitated by changes within ANAP when Özal resigned from the party to become president in 1989. The new leadership was less Islamic-oriented; those espousing this position thus found themselves increasingly marginalized. The RP urged them to come to their “real home, next to their brothers” (Sarfati 2014: 101). The decline of left-wing ideology after the end of the Cold War also helped the RP, as the Islamic discourse of social justice was used to capture the votes of the poor (Öniş 1997). The inability of the traditional Turkish parties to solve ongoing problems such as inflation, crime, corruption, and the Kurdish conflict also benefited the RP. Although the other parties had earlier ruled out cooperation with the RP, in 1996 Erbakan was asked to lead a coalition government with the True Path Party of the center-right. This was a remarkable turn of events, one that alarmed ardent secularists. However, in the run-up to 1996, the RP tried to present itself as the voice of a moderate, democratic Islam, in contrast to extremist groups both outside and inside of Turkey.23 It denounced the political system of Turkey as a “fraud” and a “guided democracy” and pledged it would establish “real pluralistic democracy” (Hale and Özbudun 2010: 7). It claimed to defend secularism as a principle that would protect religious freedoms, not repress them, as it alleged Kemalist laicité had done (e.g., by banning women wearing the headscarf from attending university). Göle (1997), writing as the RP came to power, suggested optimistically that the party’s elites had become in various ways “secularized,” that they were “products of the center,” and conflicts between them and the secular elite beholden to principles of Kemalism could be reconciled within Turkey’s democratic structure. In other words, the RP had largely moderated in line with the inclusionmoderation hypothesis presented in Chapter 1, and its emergence would

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demonstrate that political Islam—or, at least, the variant that emerged in Turkey—could be reconciled or be made compatible with democracy. Not all, however, were so optimistic or convinced that the RP was committed to democracy and working within the established constitutional order. Erbakan often emphasized that there were two groups of people in Turkey, RP supporters (often referred to as “believers”) and those waiting to become RP supporters, a notion not very supportive of pluralism and dissenting voices. In October 1996 he even suggested that because the RP was gaining so much support, elections would no longer really be necessary (Hale and Özbudun 2010: 7). Party rhetoric, while usually refraining from the term Islam, often employed the term hak, meaning true, godly, and sacred, and other parties were dismissed as batıl, meaning false and ungodly. Those not in the RP’s “army” were castigated for following a “potato religion” (Sarfati 2014: 143, 157). Erbakan was portrayed as “holy commander” and a “sacred leader,” and one of his admirers suggested he had turned the left-right divide in Turkish politics into a “truth-wrong” division (Yıldız 2003: 193).24 In 1991, Erdoğan, a rising star who was elected mayor of Istanbul in 1994, declared that the RP is not a party that subordinates itself to mortals (kul), as such parties are subject to collapse. According to him, “parties that depend on Allah never collapse,” and the RP will succeed because it gets strength “from Hak first, then from the public” (quoted in Eligür 2010: 162). As noted at the outset of this volume, as Istanbul’s mayor he declared that he was also the “imam” of Istanbul and therefore responsible for the “sins” of its inhabitants. Consequently, he oversaw various measures (e.g., restrictions on alcohol, mosque construction) to encourage more pious lifestyles. The party’s position was that if a true Islamic society was established, democracy would follow, which suggested where its priorities lay as well as the fact that democracy would be defined with reference to Islam (Eligür 2010: 152–153). As for the existing secular order, leaders of the RP looked to the experience of the Ottoman Empire as well as endorsements by Islamic thinkers (such as Ali Bulaç; see later in this chapter) of Muhammad’s Medina Constitution and suggested, as an alternative, legal pluralism, which de facto meant sharia for Muslims (Sarfati 2014: 143–144). The RP also supported using the Department of Religious Affairs more aggressively to promote its interpretation of Islam. In Turkish circumstances, of course, the RP had to be circumspect in its references to Islam, but its use of terms such as “Just Order” and hak clearly expressed Islamic sentiments, and the RP’s program even envisioned entrepreneurs receiving an endorsement from their “moral community” before they could open a business (Gülalp 1999: 41). Without question, however, the RP appealed to those with an Islamist orientation. Surveys from 1995, for example, found that 61 percent of RP supporters

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favored adoption of sharia, compared to minorities for all other parties. As for what this might entail, a 1996 survey found that 56 percent of RP voters believed the wearing of the headscarf should be obligatory or encouraged by the government, 49 percent favored separate education for men and women, and 45 percent favored gender-segregated public transport (Hale and Özbudun 2010: 14–15). Suggesting such policies—let alone implementing them—would completely go against fundamental tenets of laicité in the Turkish Republic. It was thus easy to paint the RP as an “extremist” party and its time in power proved short. The military closely monitored RP leaders and grew nervous with many of their statements and actions, such as proposing to lift the ban on the headscarf in universities and advocating construction of a mosque on Istanbul’s Taksim Square (the heart of secular, republican Turkey). On 28 February 1997, the National Security Council, citing fears of “backwardness” (irtica) as the gravest internal threat to Turkey, issued a directive to the government to ensure maintenance of secularism, including enforcement of dress codes, closure of religious orders, and transferring of assets from religious orders to the state (Sarfati 2014: 161). When the government dragged its feet in complying, the military pressured members of the True Path Party to defect from the coalition, which ultimately brought down the government. Consequently, the RP was charged with being a center for antisecular activities and was banned by the Constitutional Court in February 1998. The government also shut down or took reprisals against many of its allies (including Islamicoriented business figures and foundations), “cleansing Islam from the public sphere” (Yavuz 2000). Islamic-Oriented “New Thinking” and the Emergence of the AKP The end of the RP, of course, is not the end of the story. While its time in power was short, the RP played an important role by mobilizing new constituencies and shifting the main political cleavage from left-right to secularreligious. More significantly, however, in the aftermath of its ban, many Islamic-oriented actors, both inside and outside the former RP, learned important lessons from the party’s failure and began to reshape both their political strategies and the content of their message.25 One such figure is Ali Bulaç (1951–), a prolific writer and public intellectual, best known to the Turkish public for his columns in the best-selling Zaman newspaper, which he cofounded in 1986. An ethnic Arab, he emerged as an important Islamist writer in the 1970s, although he pointedly rejected efforts to carve out a distinct Turkish Islam, stressing instead the universal-

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ity of Islam and the unity of the umma.26 His work, which reflected some of the priorities of the MSP, had a strong anti-Western and anticapitalist character. He had been inspired by figures such as Pakistan’s A’la-Mawdudi (see Chapter 4) and Sayid Qutb from Egypt’s Muslim Brotherhood, and his work shared the spirit of those in Iran who critiqued the “Westoxification” of their society (Dağı 2004: 137). He believed Islam needed to be stripped of its accumulated traditions, including those of Ottoman times, and return to the “undistorted authentic sources” that would provide Muslims with means to address contemporary issues (Çayır 2008: 67). During the RP period, Bulaç gained prominence as an advocate of Muhammad’s Medina Constitution, which addressed the problem of pluralism by giving different groups legal autonomy and rights to manage their own affairs. This, he argued, was more tolerant than Western-style representative democracy, which did not adequately represent minorities and was too intrusive in social and cultural affairs. This blueprint, however, remained limited and fundamentally Islamist: conceptualization of identity is restricted to religion and all Muslims agree to be governed by the same principles, which have divine or scriptural basis. He noted approvingly that the Medina Constitution made the Prophet the “absolute ruler” of the Muslims, which is “natural” because Muslims have agreed to follow him, and is consistent with the principle of “not separating religious practice, belief, and law from each other” (Bulaç 1998: 175). This idea was picked up by the RP and became one of the bases on which it was banned for violating secularism. After the RP’s failure, Bulaç began to rethink his approach, arguing that the state is “not a holy or fetishistic tool” and that Islam itself provides no detailed blueprint for the state (Guida 2005: 493). He rejected the politicization of religion for both its failures within Turkey and how it diminished Islam’s spiritual dimension, declaring in 1999 that “the project of an Islamist state is dead” (quoted in Dağı 2004: 145). In this way, he moved toward “post-Islamism” (Dağı 2004, 2013) and “civil Islam” (Kuru 2006: 140), seeing value in various autonomous religious societies in which individuals could spiritually grow and collectively solve problems (Guida 2010: 354–355). His writings increasingly embraced ideas such as democracy and human rights, which he had derided as exclusively Western concepts (Bulaç 2001). In the early 2000s, he became a supporter of the rising AKP, advocating on liberal grounds for greater freedom of expression, Kurdish rights, and even Turkey’s entry into the European Union (EU). Hayrettin Karaman (1934–) is another important figure, a well-known Islamic scholar who, like Bulaç, has been affiliated with numerous journals, has penned authoritative texts, and is a newspaper columnist. He became a law professor and instructor at the High Islamic Institute in Istanbul. He retired from teaching in 2001 and was (and remains) close to the AKP.

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Early in his career, he established a reputation as an innovative thinker, arguing that Islam is in need of reform (islah) that will rid it of harmful accumulated traditions.27 Like Bulaç, he advocated a return to the primary sources, but also emphasized the need to reopen the gates of ijtihad, which would allow for fresh interpretations of Islam that would reflect conditions of modern life. This did not initially sit well with more conservative Islamists in Turkey, who condemned Karaman. By the 1990s, however, Karaman had emerged as an important reformist voice. He cofounded the newspaper Yeni Şafak (New Dawn, for which he still writes) and the Islamic Research Center, which is connected to the Diyanet. He campaigned for the right of Muslim students to wear the headscarf to classes, which was prohibited in Turkey. However, in an important shift, he did so not by invoking the demands of Islam (e.g., covering is a religious obligation) but by framing it in terms of freedom and rights (Dağı 2004: 142–143). While the RP also tried to make this rhetorical shift, by the late-1990s Karaman grew critical of its record. Among other things, he viewed its economic program as unrealistic, believed it relied too much on charismatic leadership, and thought that it paid insufficient attention to issues of freedom and democracy. His ideal was a state that would preserve religious liberty—which the Turkish state failed to do—and uphold freedom of conscience and expression. Guida (2010: 361) suggests that Karaman’s critique of the RP and focus on freedom and democracy provided “the ideological grounds for the scission from the movement and the creation of a more moderate and pragmatic party” that emerged in the form of the AKP. Karaman, however, was careful to argue that a truly Islamic government and a secular democracy are not the same thing, and he clearly preferred the former. Democracy is valuable insofar as it gives people the freedom to carry out moral and religious duties. He described it as a “means” or a “vehicle” (araç) that would improve the lives of the people—the same phrasing employed by Erdoğan himself in 1997, which was consequently used by some to question his commitment to democracy (Guida 2010: 363). In Karaman’s view, individuals remain subject to God, and they are commanded to enjoin right and forbid what is wrong. This applies to political leaders as well. Certain things—for example, denial of God’s existence— should therefore be prohibited. An Islamic government—a government that truly represents Muslims—cannot abandon a moral agenda. This idea was embraced by the AKP, albeit under the banner of “conservatism” and not Islam per se, and, as we’ll see below, led Karaman in the 2010s to argue in favor of a more activist state that would be able to restrict individual freedoms. The most significant thinker in this period, however, is Fethullah Gülen (1938–), a former functionary of the Diyanet and follower of Nursi who, beginning in the 1970s, developed his own following and inspired the glob-

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ally active Hizmet movement. Discussion of Gülen, who lives in selfimposed exile in the United States, is a veritable minefield. His defenders laud his commitment to democracy and education. Critics, however, see Gülen’s networks as shadowy and mysterious—there is no headquarters or formal membership (only “volunteers”)—and have long accused Gülen and his allies of seeking to infiltrate the state and impose an Islamic order.28 At the end of 2013, Erdoğan, formerly supported by Gülen, made his own accusations that Gülen was directing a “parallel state” and seeking to bring down the government. Gülen is thus a polarizing figure, and it is difficult to find individuals with purely objective or unbiased views.29 Leaving aside at this point the more recent controversies, one can highlight several points to establish him as an important figure.30 While Gülen is clearly inspired by Nursi to reconcile Islam and modernity, he is far more an activist than the ascetic Nursi. Gülen espouses a socially engaged Islam, one that goes beyond mosques and reading circles and focuses on education to develop pious individuals who will be knowledgeable about the world. By the 1980s his network had developed media and business interests in addition to schools, and Gülen himself became close to Özal’s government. He supported the TIS and was an enthusiastic exponent of Turkish Islam. Yavuz (2003: 196) argues that Gülen is “first and foremost a TurkoOttoman nationalist,” albeit one that has an inclusive, civic concept of the Turkish nation. Gülen contrasts Turkish Islam—which he argues is rooted in Central Asian traditions that are profoundly affected by Sufism and the Ottoman period and hence more pluralist and tolerant—with that of Arabs and Persians, who have corrupted the faith by turning Islam into a political ideology.31 Indeed, Gülen spoke favorably of the military’s efforts to remove the RP from power, arguing that it too had excessively politicized religion. Gülen’s most important contribution was to argue for development of a “civil Islam,” grounded not in the state but in social organizations (Yilmaz 2011). For its supporters, the Hizmet movement exemplifies this—decentralized and separate from the state, its goals are to serve the people, promote pluralism and knowledge, and engage in interreligious and crosscultural dialogue.32 Kuru (2005) suggests it has a “tolerant normative framework.” It is officially apolitical and occupies a “supra-party position,” although its backers concede that it can affect politics. It has, for example, supported Turkish membership in the EU—which was pointedly not endorsed by the RP—and numerous political reforms in the 2000s. Gülen (2001, 2005), while acknowledging that Islam does have a political component, maintains, like Nursi, that this is secondary, and that sharia should not be understood as a set of rules imposed by the state but as leading a religious and moral life. An Islamic state, he believed, is incongruent with Turkey’s history and social conditions. He argues Islam has no objection to

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democracy if democracy is understood as a system that promotes freedom—including freedom of religious expression—rule of law, and minority rights. According to the chair of the Journalists and Writers Foundation, a group that Gülen serves as honorary president, democracy is a sine qua non for the Hizmet movement (Yeşil 2014). When Gülen broke with the AKP in 2014, Hizmet’s backers contrasted their “civil Islam” with the nondemocratic “state Islam” propagated by the AKP (Türköne 2014b). Not all, of course, would agree with such a flattering portrait. In one of his earlier works, Yavuz (2003: 198–202), while still sympathetic to Gülen and Hizmet in various ways, nonetheless noted his cooperation with the Turkish security forces in the 1990s. Kadıoğlu (1998: 18–19) argued that one element of his “eclectic” Islam was an embrace of the “centralized, militant state tradition,” and other Nurcu groups criticized him for being a tool of the state (Yavuz 1999: 603). In 1999, the state turned against Gülen, and in 2000 he was indicted for attempting to overthrow the secular system by infiltrating the state by placing his allies in the bureaucracy, police, and judiciary. Gülen was ultimately acquitted (but he did go into exile in the United States). Despite the acquittal, this accusation of overthrowing the secular system has continually resurfaced, as we’ll explore later in the chapter. As for Gülen’s commitment to democracy, it is fair to say he is no liberal (Yavuz 2003: 201). Indeed, he prioritizes the community over the individual and notes that the Islamic concept of the unity of God (tawhid) “prevents unrestricted freedom.” He notes that Islam is not only rituals but also sets out “fundamental rules” for government (Gülen 2001: 134; 2005: 447–448). How these are to be put into practice—and if and how they could compromise democracy or individual freedoms—remains unclear. While Gülen rejects top-down imposition of Islamic laws by the state, his position with respect to “bottom-up Islamization” of society—he would likely reject that precise term—is far from clear and this, together with lack of transparency about his movement, animates fears about his sizable influence. Indeed, his ultimate goal—and, for that matter, that of the AKP—is a question that continues to dog the relationship between political Islam and democracy in Turkey. The experiences of Bulaç, Karaman, and Gülen were hardly unique. Numerous groups in civil society emerged with a more “democratic” Islamic orientation.33 In addition to the multifarious Hizmet-oriented groups, one could mention Mazlum-Der, a human rights organization that committed itself to defend the oppressed (including Kurds and Alevis), and Hak-İş, a trade union committed to workers’ rights and overall democratic consolidation. In politics, the closing of the RP in 1998 led to the creation of the Virtue Party (Fazilet Partisi, FP), whose leader declared that the FP had learned that “democracy must come first” and made a volte-face by

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embracing Turkish membership in the EU (Gülalp 1999: 54). Critics saw these as opportunistic moves to try to limit the role of the military and give greater room for Islamic-oriented actors. The FP was deemed a continuation of the RP and banned in 2001, the fourth of the MG parties to suffer this fate. The AKP was formed just prior to the ban on the FP. It did not form out of thin air. Its emergence was the result of a split in the FP between an older generation more beholden to the ideology of the MG34 and younger members such as Erdoğan and Abdullah Gül (1950–) who embraced ideas such as those held by Bulaç and Karaman and sought to establish something new. The AKP eschewed the inflammatory rhetoric and the at-times antisystem orientation of RP and its predecessors. It embraced capitalism, was pro–European Union and pro-globalization, and presented itself as a champion for freedom and democratic reforms in Turkey, including women’s rights. Secularism was declared in the party platform as necessary for democratic governance, but secularism was defined as an attribute of the state—which was to be neutral with respect to religion, not opposed to religion—not that of individuals, who were to be free to practice their faith (Kuru 2006). There was no mention of sharia. Indeed, Gül contrasted the support for sharia among some in the RP and the “alien imports” that shaped its ideology with that of the AKP, which rested, in his view, on local values and acceptance of “liberalism, human rights, and market economy” (quoted in Tezcür 2010: 157). Like Gülen, AKP leaders were also “Muslim nationalists,” emphasizing both the merits of Ottoman-Turkish civilization and a “Turkish Islam” that was “purified of Arab cultural influences” as core to the national identity (White 2013: 48). The politicization of religion, however, was adamantly rejected. Breaking with his earlier rhetoric, Erdoğan declared that while religion is an important “social value,” “we do not think it right to conduct politics through religion. . . . To make religion an instrument of politics . . . in the name of religion harms not only political pluralism but also religion itself.” He presented the AKP as not an “Islamic” but a “conservative democratic” party, one that accords importance to tradition, social culture, and religion but that is firmly rooted in democratic principles (Erdoğan 2006: 336; Akdoğan 2006). The party’s true predecessor, he suggested, was the DP from the 1950s, not the RP or the MG.35 Based upon these claims, some labeled the AKP “post-Islamist” (Dağı 2013) or even “non-Islamic” (Yavuz 2009: 115–116). However, given the fact that its voters tend to be more religious (Çarkoğlu 2006; Aydın and Dalmıs 2008; Hale and Özbudun 2010), as well as the public displays of piety and cloaked (and, at times, not so cloaked) references to Islam made by many of its leaders—what White (2013: 49) refers to as a model of “personal Muslimhood”—I will continue to refer to it as an Islamic-oriented party.36

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If one considers the AKP as a more “moderate” version of previous Islamic-oriented parties, one question is what prompted this moderation? It is not, as seen in some other cases in this volume, incorporation into political structures—on the contrary, its immediate predecessors had been banned and its leader, Erdoğan, had been convicted and imprisoned in 1999 for allegedly inciting religious hatred for reading a poem by Turkish nationalist Ziya Gökalp.37 However, one could argue these experiences allowed the AKP, as a “rational actor,” to learn key lessons: there was limited utility in adhering to old approaches and dogmas (e.g., the constituency for a purely “Islamic” party was modest) as well as costs (e.g., another ban on political activity). Erdoğan pithily commented, “Prison matures you” (Dağı 2013: 89). Radicalization, a response to repression by some Islamists, was a dead end, particularly given the opportunity structure to gain power via democratic means (Çavdar 2006). Additionally, one can cite class or structural factors, such as the rising Anatolian bourgeoisie, an important constituency for the AKP, which favored a liberal and global economic orientation as well as pragmatism and political stability. It thus supported moves away from the antiglobal and confrontational MG ideology (Gumuşcu 2010; Sarfati 2014: 168–169). One question was (and remains) how much the AKP truly moderated, and whether it did so for purely instrumental reasons or if it was truly committed to the principles it professed. Dağı (2004), for example, suggests that the AKP, as a relatively disadvantaged, outsider party, was able to use its support of EU accession and democracy as a means to gain both domestic and international legitimacy and, once in power, attack the power of its opponents (e.g., the military) in the name of democracy and moving Turkey closer to the EU. “Moderation,” therefore, was based, at least initially, on cost-benefit analysis and conditioned upon the AKP’s relative power in Turkish politics. Erdoğan tried to dismiss this line of argumentation, noting, with respect to the EU’s reform criteria, that the AKP was committed to making the Copenhagen Criteria the “Ankara criteria” and European values “Ankara’s values.”38 This issue—what is the “real” AKP?—became even more contested after the AKP gained power, as noted more later. In any event, there is no question that the AKP was politically successful. It built effective grassroots networks and made connections with movements such as Hizmet.39 It emphasized its desire to serve the people, not spread Islam. Economic crisis in 2001 weakened support for the three-party coalition government. In 2002 elections, the AKP won 34 percent of the vote, enough, given Turkey’s 10 percent electoral threshold, for it to garner a parliamentary majority. Surveys revealed that although most of its supporters had previously backed the RP, it also attracted voters from the center- and nationalist-right (Aydın and Dalmıs 2008; Hale and Özbudun 2010: 36–37). This may reflect what Turam (2007: 4–6) identified as moderation on the part of some secular-oriented actors who acknowledged that

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assertive laicité needed to give way to a secularism that would allow more freedom of religious expression. In other words, the secular-religious divide (sometimes dubbed a “white Turk”/“black Turk” schism) had softened; the AKP had become part of the mainstream and won support beyond the Islamist minority in Turkey. Of course, this is not to say that the AKP did not have die-hard opponents. However, as we’ll soon see, once it gained power it did not immediately pursue an identifiable Islamic agenda. Furthermore, it presided over a period of solid economic growth. In subsequent elections it won even more votes, 47 percent in 2007 and just shy of 50 percent in 2011. Without question, the AKP has seen more success than any previous Islamic-oriented party in Turkey, or for that matter any such party in a Muslim-majority democracy. It has thus been freer to pursue its agenda than, for example, the Pan-Malaysian Islamic Party or various Islamicoriented parties in Indonesia. How extensively its conservative orientation is shaped by religion and whether this furthers or impedes democratic development are issues worth exploring. Turkey Under the AKP: Progress and Disturbing Signs The AKP has been in power for over a decade. During that time, it has overseen a series of reforms designed to deepen democracy and advance Turkey’s EU bid. Improvements have been seen on a variety of long-standing problems (e.g., the military’s role in politics, restrictions on religious expression, rights for the Kurdish minority) that have hampered democracy in Turkey. At the same time, however, problems remain (e.g., status of women, rights of religious minorities), and in some areas, including freedom of expression, conditions have arguably become worse. One way of approaching the AKP period is to examine it chronologically based upon its terms in office. Overall, one sees that its reform impulse has slowed over time. Although it overcame substantial opposition from Kemalist forces, it has also become increasingly intolerant of dissent, so much so that by 2014 even past supporters of the party were accusing Erdoğan of being “increasingly authoritarian” or even trying to impose “totalitarianism” in Turkey (Dağı 2014; Türköne 2014a). Whether this has anything to do with Islam or whether it simply is the result of its control over all levers of power in Turkey is an important question. Political Reforms Under the AKP (2002–2007)

During its first term in office, the AKP presided over a number of reforms that strengthened democracy in Turkey. These were strongly encouraged by the EU, which in December 1999 gave Turkey a path to membership if it

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could meet its criteria, including respect for democratic principles and rule of law. In 2000 and 2001, the Turkish government began passing reform measures to further the country’s EU bid. The AKP, which came to power in 2002 on a pro-EU and proreform platform, accelerated this process, passing constitutional amendments and EU harmonization packages, approving international conventions to protect human rights, and numerous other reforms. They touched on issues such as expanding freedom of expression and association, minority (including Kurdish and non-Muslim) rights, strengthening gender equality, a ban on the death penalty and antitorture laws, and curtailing the prerogatives of the military.40 These reforms helped dismantle a large part of the authoritarian structure created by the 1980 coup, in particular by reducing the ability of the military to interfere in politics and expanding the ability of individuals to criticize the state. These reforms were judged positively by the EU, which determined that Turkey had sufficiently met the political criteria for membership to begin accession talks in 2005. Turkey’s aspirations and ability to join the EU, of course, distinguish it from the other countries in this volume. Moreover, there is little doubt that EU conditionality played a key role in advancing the AKP’s reform project (Kubicek 2011). Öniş (2008: 39) goes so far as to suggest that reforms adopted by the AKP were “inconceivable in the absence of powerful incentives and pressures from the EU.” However, the EU is far from the whole story. There were discernible pressures “from below,” which wanted to dismantle elements of the all-powerful “father state” (devlet baba) and expand the space for civil society (Kubicek 2005). The AKP appealed to some of these groups, which included Islamic-oriented ones such as the Hizmet movement. It sought to gain both domestic and international legitimacy by embracing a reform agenda, and by taking ownership of the discourse of democracy and the EU membership process it acquired a “shield” (Hale and Özbudun 2010: 27) against some of its opponents (e.g., the military) by demonstrating that it had, in Erdoğan’s terms, taken off the “shirt” of the RP and the MG. This is not to say there were no problems. The arrest in 2005 of the writer Orhan Pamuk (who won the Nobel Prize the next year) for “insulting Turkishness” was perhaps the best-known blemish on the country’s record.41 However, overall the results of reforms were impressive. Writing at that time, Dağı (2006: 104) opined that the AKP had “played a historically important role in consolidating democracy in Turkey.”42 Nasr (2005: 23) upheld Turkey under the AKP as the “best picture of Muslim democracy.” One should note that political Islam, in the traditional sense, does not figure prominently in the above discussion; indeed, as a “conservative democratic” party, it was downplayed by the AKP itself. True, there were fears about what the AKP might do. Erdoğan’s past statements that appeared to

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embrace a more Islamic agenda were invoked by his opponents. A 2006 survey, for example, found a majority (50.3 percent) believing the AKP sought to impose an Islamic way of life and 43.8 percent believing it sought to infiltrate the bureaucracy by appointing Islamists to key positions (Hale and Özbudun 2010: 38–39). Aspects of its “Muslimhood” model of personal piety (e.g., Erdoğan’s and Gül’s wives wore headscarves) became a lightning rod for criticism. However, in terms of policy, the AKP displayed what Çınar and Duran (2008: 95) call the “politics of patience,” meaning that it did not push policies that could be construed as part of an Islamic agenda; instead, it focused on dismantling many authoritarian features of the state, a campaign that many groups in Turkey could support. Its attacks against “assertive” secularism were relatively minor. Although AKP leaders spoke of the headscarf (as well as religion as a whole) as a private matter and condemned court decisions that upheld bans on wearing the headscarf by university students and denied promotions to women wearing it outside of the workplace,43 it did not, at this time, try to change the law, which had been a cause célèbre of the RP. Instead, as noted, it framed the headscarf issue as one of rights and questioning the power of the state to dictate dress. Perhaps the most pronounced example of the AKP pursuing an “Islamic agenda” in this period was the government’s attempt in 2004 to criminalize adultery, which was framed as a “conservative” concern necessary to protect the family and human dignity. The AKP’s domestic opponents, as well as the EU, strongly condemned this proposal, but Erdoğan retorted by noting that the West is “not a model of perfection in everything” and that he favored integration into Europe, but not assimilation. This led some to conclude that the “real” Erdoğan remained committed to “Islamic patriarchal values” (Yavuz 2009: 168), and, as we shall see, it could be interpreted as a harbinger for later developments that pitted the AKP’s self-pronounced “conservatism” against liberal interpretations of democracy. In the end, however, the AKP dropped this proposal, which helped clear the way for EU accession talks to begin in 2005. The AKP Consolidates Power (2007–2011)

The AKP treaded carefully on sensitive cultural issues during its first term in office, which was seen by many as successful. The AKP led Turkey into the EU accession process and governed competently, as its policies helped generate significant growth in the Turkish economy. It had substantial support at home and its experience, as noted above, was touted by some as proof that “Islam” and democracy were perfectly reconcilable. Indeed, if one were writing on democracy in Turkey in the mid-2000s, it would be easy to conclude on an optimistic note (Yavuz 2004; Altunısık 2005; Nasr 2005; Çavdar 2006; Dağı 2006; Kuru 2006).

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However, subsequent developments have called this assessment into question. Although in the early 2000s the AKP made progress on a number of fronts, significant tensions in Turkish society remained. Many continued to doubt the AKP’s intentions, accusing it of engaging in takiyye, masking its true intentions. These fears were stoked by two events in 2006. In April, Bülent Arınç, the speaker of parliament, argued that “the interpretation of secularism should be put on the agenda.” Specifically, he maintained that the state should serve the public interest and expand rights to express and practice religion. Secularism, in his view, should uphold freedoms, not suppress them. While this had long been the position of the AKP, this speech attracted attention for its willingness to take on the issue of secularism directly as well as for its implication that if the state is to serve the people, it should be reconstructed, perhaps acquiring a more “Islamic” face if this is what the majority wants (Yavuz 2009: 161–162). A month later, a religious extremist attacked members of the Council of State, which had ruled against the headscarf, killing one judge and wounding four others. This provoked demonstrations against the government and calls by both opposition parties and military elites for a stauncher defense of secularism. In 2007, tensions were thus high as the Turks were due to choose a new president. While the Turkish presidency is not a particularly powerful office, its holder has some powers (e.g., on appointments, a limited veto) and, as head of state, he or she represents the republic. The president is chosen by parliament, which should have given the AKP the right to select one of its own to this office. Gül, then the foreign minister, was duly nominated. This, however, was deemed unacceptable by many, as the presidency was seen by some as a bastion of secularism. From this perspective, AKP control of the presidency would contribute to “creeping Islamism” (Sarfati 2014: 170). Massive demonstrations in Istanbul and Ankara protested the possibility of an “imam” becoming president. Most significantly, at the end of April the military issued what later was known as an “e-memorandum” stating it was an “absolute defender” of secularism. The opposition boycotted parliament, and the Constitutional Court ruled that the lack of quorum in the legislature therefore voided the election process. A repeat of events of 1997, if not 1980, seemed entirely possible. The AKP, however, found a means to defuse the crisis: it called for early parliamentary elections, which it won with an increased share of the vote. Armed with democratic legitimacy, it was able, at the next sitting of parliament, to convince some of its opponents to establish a quorum. Gül was renominated, and a more confident Erdoğan asserted that those who refused to recognize Gül as their president should leave the country.44 Gül became president in August 2007, although top military officials pointedly did not attend his inauguration.

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Up to this point, fears of “creeping Islamism” proved to be based more on perceptions and the long-standing construction of Islamic norms and values as the “negative other” in the Kemalist paradigm (Cizre 2008: 226). However, some of these concerns were given legitimacy in February 2008, when the AKP (together with support from the nationalist opposition) passed a constitutional amendment to allow female students to wear the headscarf. The AKP had campaigned on this issue in 2007, and, as before, it was framed as a matter of rights. Secular opponents, however, saw this as too much, and took the issue to the Constitutional Court, which overturned this amendment in June 2008. As matters continued to develop, the AKP and its opponents became involved in a life-or-death struggle. Secularists used the headscarf issue, as well as some past statements by AKP leaders, to try to ban the party, accusing it of undermining the secular basis of the republic. This had been the rationale in previous bans of Islamic-oriented parties. Had this effort been successful, it would have been, in effect, a coup against a democratically elected government and likely have ended Turkey’s EU bid. While the Constitutional Court ruled against the AKP, it lacked the necessary votes (seven out of eleven judges) to ban it; instead, it imposed fines on the party. While the AKP dodged this blow, it took its own measures, launching an investigation and later trials of military officers, bureaucrats, and writers involved in an alleged plot to engage in terrorist acts as a means to overthrow the government. The trials in what became known as the Ergenekon and Balyoz cases were unprecedented, as they were direct attacks on the military and the “deep state” (derin devlet), eventually involving much of the top brass. Some saw this in a positive light, as the end of military tutelage over Turkey. However, the trials were also controversial, as critics charged evidence was planted or doctored and that they were purely politically motivated as “payback” by the AKP and its Gülenist allies (who were alleged to have infiltrated some judicial organs) against their opponents.45 The military, however, was unable to take action to stop the government; the mass resignation of the general staff in protest in July 2011 was ineffectual. Trials continued through 2013, and hundreds of individuals were ultimately convicted. An additional element of the AKP’s move to consolidate power came in 2010, when it proposed a series of constitutional amendments to reform the judiciary. These were framed as democratic-oriented insofar as they gave parliament more control over the unelected courts. As noted, the courts had not been overly friendly to the government, and thus critics saw this as yet another power play. The amendments were put to a referendum in September 2010, and they easily passed, proof yet again of the AKP’s support from Turkish voters.

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These events, while dramatic and important, were not fundamentally Islamic in character. They can easily be explained in terms of a power struggle between historically bitter rivals, and the AKP was able to prevail in large part because it had democratic legitimacy. Although during this period the AKP did back away a bit from its previous “politics of patience” with respect to what critics charged was its “true Islamist” agenda, its most controversial moves (e.g., lifting the ban on the headscarf, giving graduates of Imam-Hatip schools equal rights to enter university) could easily be justified on the grounds of expanding rights. Moreover, although the AKP challenged the assertive laicité model by rejecting the forced secularization of personal and social realms, its approach to secularism was perfectly congruent with Anglo-American interpretations of the concept. Indeed, Arınç made this very point (Sarfati 2014: 171). Cizre (2008: 225) suggested the limited nature of its Islamist agenda showed that Islam has been “removed from the center stage” of the party, and Yıldız (2008: 57), reviewing a range of AKP policies, including policies toward women, contended that the party made a “radical breakaway” with previously Islamic-oriented parties by abandoning efforts to capture the state and politicizing religion. The above-mentioned policies, while certainly controversial within Turkey, did not compromise democracy; indeed, the greatest threat to democracy in this period came from the AKP’s opponents in their attempt to ban the AKP, which Hale and Özbudun (2010: 75) assert was based on “a certain assertive and authoritarian understanding of secularism without any parallel in any Western democracy.” This is not to excuse the AKP from various shortcomings in Turkey’s democratic record. Indeed, after 2007 EU reports with respect to Turkish political reform became more negative, highlighting the incomplete and slow implementation of previously adopted reforms (e.g., rights for Kurds), long-standing problems (e.g., corruption and a powerful bureaucracy), as well as actions by the government such as use of antiterror laws and statutes banning “insults to Turkishness” to curb freedom of speech.46 These were used in particular against Kurdish activists, and the leading “Kurdish” party was banned in 2009 for alleged links to the terrorist Kurdistan Workers’ Party (Partiya Karkerên Kurdistani, PKK). Again, however, it would be hard to identify a distinct Islamic character to many of these problems. Furthermore, even though the reform momentum from the early 2000s perceptibly slowed in the AKP’s second term of office, this is partially attributable to developments within the EU that made the prospect of Turkish membership increasingly unlikely (thus removing some incentive for reform)47 as well as the fact that some reforms (e.g., adopting a new constitution more in line with liberal democratic standards) were, by their nature, more difficult.

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Beyond the formal political arena, however, one should mention the broader impact of AKP rule on Islam in Turkey’s public sphere, as “Islamization from below,” perhaps more than laws actually passed by the government, has become a pronounced concern (Turam 2012). Toprak (2009), for example, documents how in the 2000s social pressure was increasingly used to enforce adherence of Islamic norms (e.g., dress, fasting, mosque attendance), how local authorities have adopted measures to uphold their religious values (e.g., bans or limitations on alcohol), and how non-Sunni (e.g., Alevi) or nonpious individuals have become, in some areas, social outcasts or “obliged to be invisible” for fear of revealing their identity, while those with proper Islamic credentials (including, in the 2000s, those affiliated with the Hizmet movement) were favored in terms of appointments to government jobs, access to private schools, and getting business contracts. While Toprak notes that social pressure cannot be directly associated with the AKP government, she nonetheless argues that “combined with the effects of the activities of AKP officials and religious communities, the existing social pressure towards people with different identities draws a worrisome picture for the future of Turkey” (2009: 13), later remarking that the concern is not imposition of Iranian-style theocracy or adoption of sharia but “social engineering” (Toprak, quoted in Steinvorth 2009). White (2013) makes similar observations about the rise of “cultural Muslimhood,” which has marginalized minorities and enforced a very conservative view with respect to women. She, however, grounds this more in the rise of a specifically Turkish “Muslim nationalism,” which has been appropriated by the AKP but has long-standing roots dating back to Ottoman times and employed at times by the Kemalist establishment (e.g., the military’s endorsement of the TIS). Arguments such as these have, as might be expected, stirred controversy, as they suggest the limits or contradictions of “civil Islam,” and those more sympathetic to the AKP have retorted that the problems are overblown and do not compare to the systemic harassment and discrimination suffered for many years by the pious (sometimes referred to as “black Turks”) by the secular elite (the “white Turks”) (Küçükcan 2012). Göle (2012) adopts a less polarizing perspective, noting that Turkey’s “selfpresentation” has changed under the AKP; in particular, she argues that Turkey has developed a “post-secular understanding,” a phenomenon that has profoundly altered the often antireligious nature of the Kemalist state in favor of one that tries to overcome the dichotomy between Islam and secularism and respect both. This is, she notes, often a question of maintaining balance of “in-betweenness.” If successful, she suggests, Turkey could be a model for others. If, however, this balance is lost, the risk is “totalitarianism or the tyranny of the majority” (2012: 11).

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The AKP, Islam, and Possible Threats to Turkish Democracy (2011–Present)

Since the AKP won 2011 elections with nearly 50 percent of the vote, thereby consolidating its position as Turkey’s dominant party, many would suggest that this balance has been lost, and that the democratic gains of the past decade risk being lost. True, the AKP campaigned in 2011 on a platform to bring “advanced democracy” to Turkey, including adopting a new constitution to better protect civil liberties and minority rights. Furthermore, in 2013 it pushed through a “democratization package” that, among other items, expanded Kurdish rights and rights of women to wear the headscarf at the workplace, including in parliament. However, as Çınar (2011) noted, the AKP has presented itself as the only party that legitimately represents the nation, and the danger is that its majoritarian conception of democracy engenders a belief that whatever it believes or does is therefore right or legitimate, irrespective of the rights of others. The headline event in this regard, of course, was the Gezi Park protests in June 2013, which started as a demonstration against development of green space in Istanbul but turned into a nationwide protest against what many perceived to be authoritarian tendencies in the government. Indeed, prior to Gezi, many observers—including the EU, FH, and Reporters Without Borders—noted disturbing trends, particularly with respect to press freedom and freedom of expression (Turam 2012; Taşkın 2013). Indeed, by the end of 2012, Turkey had more journalists (forty-nine) in prison than any other country in the world, and Reporters Without Borders ranked it 154 (out of 179 countries) in terms of press freedom, lower than Zimbabwe, Russia, and Iraq.48 Many of those arrested were charged with belonging to illegal Kurdish groups or implicated in the Ergenekon plot, but an additional problem was that the government closed down media outlets (including, from time to time, bans on the YouTube website) as well as pressured editors to run favorable stories and kill those critical of the government. Indeed, Erdoğan displayed little tolerance for criticism, declaring in 2012, “We have a problem with the media. It is their mission to announce good things for my people. This is what I think.”49 Erdoğan also filed defamation lawsuits against journalists who were critical of him, and many lost their jobs because editors and owners were unwilling to risk the wrath of the government, which had demonstrated it “meant business” in 2009 when it imposed a US$2.5 billion tax on the Doğan media group, whose outlets had been critical of the AKP. These problems, while important blemishes on Turkey’s democratic record—indeed, Turkey’s FH score declined in 2012 because of these issues—do not, at first blush, have a direct connection to Islam. Restrictions on speech and media can be found worldwide. In the Turkish case, however,

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some cases did have a more “Islamic” slant: for example, the investigative journalist Ahmet Şik was arrested in 2011 for writing a book, The Imam’s Army, that was critical of the Gülen movement50 (at the time close to the AKP government), and the world famous pianist Fazil Say was arrested in 2012 for insulting religion by writing allegedly blasphemous remarks on the online social media service Twitter. However, critics of the AKP pointed to what they saw as clear evidence of a religious agenda with respect to other policies or statements by government leaders: the continued refusal to recognize Alevi cemevis as houses of worship and thus make them eligible for state support; massive increases in the budget of the Diyanet and ambitious mosque-building projects; censorship of the arts in the name of protecting public morality; expansion of religious education and Erdoğan’s much ballyhooed statement that “we will raise a religious generation”;51 bans on selling of alcohol at music festivals and at outdoor cafes; proposals to require prayer rooms in schools and museums; and Erdoğan’s statements that Turkish women should have “at least three, preferably five” children and that “I don’t believe in equality between men and women.”52 The Gezi protests, in many ways, became a protest against AKP statements and actions. While some in the AKP, including President Gül, expressed a willingness to engage in dialogue, Erdoğan (and others) in the AKP tried to delegitimize the protesters, calling them hooligans and suggesting the demonstrations were a plot to bring Turkey down by foreign forces, including the United States, Israel, the Jewish diaspora, and global financial interests.53 Although a broad swath of Turkish society participated in the protests—including demonstrably pious individuals—progovernment media suggested that the protests were antireligious in nature, as protesters allegedly defiled mosques and attacked covered women (neither was true). The protests were eventually broken up with force, and across Turkey six protesters (and one policeman) died. In the aftermath, thousands of individuals were arrested on charges of vandalism and disrupting public order. Domestic and international observers decried the violence against the protesters, noting that the right to dissent is essential for a free society.54 Erdoğan, however, had an answer for those who would claim his handling of Gezi was proof of autocratic leadership. During Gezi, he suggested he could rally his supporters in even larger protests and that, in a democracy, the government is only answerable at the ballot box. Having won multiple elections, the implication was that the AKP could do what it wanted and opposition represented only a minority view and was therefore illegitimate. By 2014, there were new threats to democratic freedoms. The chief cause was a corruption scandal, fed by leaked tapes that implicated Erdoğan, his family, and high-ranking officials in the AKP in bribery and money-laundering charges as well as ordering media to run pro-AKP stories and silence the government’s opponents. Three government ministers

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resigned, but Erdoğan professed his innocence on the corruption charges (he acknowledged offering “advice” to media owners on how to cover some stories). He dismissed the prosecutors and police officers in charge of the investigation, and accused those who leaked the material of being part of a “parallel state” controlled by Gülen, his one-time supporter. As noted, allegations that supporters of Gülen had infiltrated the state bureaucracy had long been voiced, particularly with respect to the Ergenekon case, and cast a shadow over Gülen’s claims that Hizmet was apolitical and was focused on advancing democracy.55 Whereas in the past Erdoğan had dismissed these allegations, in 2014 he gave veracity to them, even suggesting that those convicted in the Ergenekon trials be retried because prosecutors allied with Gülen may have manufactured or manipulated evidence. Progovernment and pro-Gülen media engaged in a veritable war to demonize the other side, with pro-AKP forces dismissing Gülen as a charlatan and traitor to Turkey and pro-Gülenists contrasting their “civil Islam” with the ostensibly more dangerous “state Islam” of the AKP (Türköne 2014b). Ardent secularists, who had long been critical of both groups, could perhaps feel a bit vindicated, having warned that both were pursuing covert, antidemocratic agendas. Whether either of the two sides is “right” is, at this point, impossible to say—indeed, it is possible both are, meaning Erdoğan and his circles are deeply corrupt and Gülen and his allies, angered by various actions taken by the government (including revelations of government spying on Gülen supporters and measures passed in late 2013 to close private tutoring schools [dershane]), are part of a “parallel state” intent on bringing down the government. What is clear, however, is that this crisis posed a real threat to civic freedoms, manifested most clearly in the run-up to March 2014 local elections in bans on Twitter and YouTube, which had been used to publish the leaked materials. This sparked widespread domestic and international outcry. However, the AKP won these elections with 43 percent of the vote, demonstrating, yet again, the weakness of the opposition parties and the strength of the AKP’s appeal with the Turkish electorate. Although the AKP claims it is still rhetorically committed to democratization and even Turkey’s EU bid, it seems clear that its reformist impulse, at least with respect to expanding political freedoms, has largely been lost. Turam (2012: 116) noted this earlier, maintaining that while there had been democratization, at least in procedural terms, this was accompanied with “insufficient liberalization.” Taşkın (2013) suggests clear tensions between the conservative democratic orientation of the AKP, with emphasis on the former element that seeks to protect those with power, and more liberal interpretations of democracy. Notably, the project to draft a new constitution was abandoned in 2013. For our purposes, the important question is what these developments say about the relationship between Islam and

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democracy. In other words, is movement away from democracy in Turkey, (or, more accurately, away from liberal democracy and perhaps the rule of law), proof of the irreconcilability of Islam and democracy, or, perhaps, the limits of Islam’s democratic potential? Many would say no. Bulaç (2012: 72), whom we encountered above, has become a critic of the AKP, arguing that the government’s actions by and large have nothing to do with Islam; they are driven by the need for “power for the sake of power.” Türköne (2012: 95) agrees that Islamism has “vanished” from the AKP, which might have used Islamic themes in opposition but, once in power, has captured the state and used the state machinery in ways similar to its secular, authoritarian predecessors. Yilmaz (2013) labels this “Kemalo-Islamism,” in that the AKP now upholds the “sanctity of the state,” justifying its efforts to control society and limit freedoms. Tombuş (2013), reviewing the decade of AKP rule, suggests that the AKP instrumentally embraced democracy in the early 2000s in the “polemical phase” of its rule as a means to weaken its opponents (e.g., the military) and thereby safeguard its own position, but in its “ruling phase,” once it consolidated power, it continued many antidemocratic, bureaucratic practices of the past (control over universities, interference in the judiciary, denying recognition to Alevis) and was less supportive of democratic principles such as free speech, as they were increasingly used against the AKP. Although Tombuş wrote before Gezi, one sees this very clearly during Gezi and its aftermath, and it provides a relatively straightforward, Ockham’s Razor means of understanding developments in Turkish politics, as one does not have to delve into the thicket of arguments about political Islam. To invoke the terms of Hamid (2014), writing about developments post– Arab Spring, democracy is compromised because leaders give in to the “temptations of power.” That being said, it is hard to completely dismiss Islam, or at least the AKP’s use of Islam, to defend its policies and actions. Indeed, many of the weaknesses of Turkish democracy are on the “fault lines” between Islam and democracy discussed in Chapter 1. True, not all issues (e.g., Kurdish rights, the expansive power of the state) have an Islamic character and many predate the emergence of any Islamic-oriented party. However, some do: actions to limit speech in the name of defending religion or morality; refusing to recognize Alevis as a distinct faith and efforts to portray the traditionally secular-oriented Alevis or Shiite minorities as enemies of the state (Cesari 2014: 46–48);56 and a host of measures and statements that have attacked women’s rights or pushed a patriarchal program, including efforts to ban abortions and Caesarean sections, laws requiring husbands or fathers be notified if a wife or daughter is pregnant (which opens the door to violence against them), laws on domestic violence that are labeled “Protection of the Family” and require beaten women to participate in a recon-

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ciliation process, changes in the education law that, according to critics, have the potential to limit schooling of girls, and, as noted, statements by Erdoğan himself denying female equality and encouraging motherhood.57 According to the World Gender Gap Index, while in absolute terms Turkey made some modest progress in the 2000s, it still ranked 120 (out of 136 countries) in gender equality, mainly due to low levels of female participation in the workforce and in political positions.58 Moreover, as noted at the outset of this volume, the government managed to procure favorable “fatwas” from learned figures such as Karaman (mentioned earlier), who continued to support the AKP and “ruled,” among other items, that much of what the government was accused of doing (e.g., requiring those who won government contracts to “donate” funds to “charities”) was not, in an Islamic sense, “corruption” and that harm to an individual or group is allowed in order to protect the public and the umma.59 Labeling the Gezi protesters and other critics of Erdoğan as enemies of the state, he has directed “everyone who loves the country and sacred values” to pray to God for Erdoğan’s protection.60 Most disturbing, perhaps, in the wake of the bans on YouTube and Twitter, the Diyanet directed preachers at staterun mosques to deliver sermons justifying the ban in Islamic terms, citing social media as a “center of destruction” and quoting hadiths that freedom must be used responsibly and for the good of all.61 One might defend the AKP by noting that in some cases it is simply reflecting its “conservative” orientation and some similar policies or actions (e.g., bans or limits on abortions, misogynistic statements by political figures, invocation of religion to justify policy) occur in many democracies; indeed, they are common in the United States, like Turkey an ostensibly secular state. Indeed, one would expect, as the AKP party program notes, that “reflection in politics of one’s personal views and feelings based on religion is only to be expected.” However, one can and should ask how far this goes. In remarks that recall earlier statements that he was the “imam” of Istanbul, Erdoğan has contended that “as prime minister, everything in this country is my responsibility” (quoted in Karaveli 2012). While on some level this might be admirable, it has led Erdoğan both to express his views and suggest changes in policy on a host of matters, including those (e.g., cohabitation among university students, use of Caesarean sections) that clearly fall under personal choice and freedoms. While he defines democracy as a search for Allah’s consent (riza) regarding what is “just” and “unjust,” he has taken his popular support to mean that he can define what is “just” or “proper,” which Heper (2013: 154) concedes “may not bode well for democracy.” Significantly, this perspective has been given “Islamic sanction” by Karaman, who argues that “governments cannot pass laws or regulations to afford protection to harmful, ugly, and illegitimate acts, practices, and relations of which the majority disapproves.”

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Those in the minority, he suggests, need to “voluntarily” refrain from exercising some of their freedoms for the sake of the majority, who, if they continue to feel offended or harmed, have the right to exert “pressure” on the minority.62 Writing at the end of 2014, it is clear that the AKP has cemented its position in Turkish politics. Erdoğan became Turkey’s first popularly elected president in August 2014, and he has declared his intention to augment presidential powers. The party is also poised to win 2015 parliamentary elections, in part due to the AKP’s record on the economy and in part due to the problems of the opposition to unite and present a strong alternative. It is hard, however, to offer a definitive conclusion, as Turkish democracy remains, in many respects, a work in progress, faced with numerous challenges with respect to democratic consolidation. It has a solid record of electoral democracy; indeed, its record in this respect is the longest in the Muslim world. For much of this period, however, Turkey was assertively secular; the question of whether Islamic-oriented actors could embrace and develop democracy remained open. This has changed in recent years, particularly under the AKP, the most recent manifestation of political Islam in Turkey. The AKP embraced democracy, secularism, and “civil Islam” and, at least initially, did much to foster democratization. Its calculus and agenda, after more than a decade in power, have perhaps changed—or, according to its longtime critics, it is now free to abandon takiyye and reveal its true self. Although there are some disturbing developments,63 Turkey is not in danger of witnessing overt, state-sponsored Islamization, which occurred in nonsecular semidemocratic Malaysia and Pakistan, the subjects of the next two chapters. But it is also, in Göle’s (2012) terms, “post-secular,” meaning that Islam will, for ill or for good, continue to play an important social and political role. As we’ll see, this holds true for other countries as well, meaning that democratization has provided an opportunity for Islamic-oriented actors to assume more importance, rarely openly challenging democracy but often trying to redefine the relationship between religion and politics. What this means—particularly with respect to possible development of “Muslim democracy”—will be discussed in Chapter 9. Notes 1. Cesari (2014: 6–7), maintaining that equidistance from all religions is an essential element of secularism, argues that Turkey is not a secular state as it grants, in education and in official recognition, privileges to Sunni Islam. 2. Many books have addressed these topics. A partial listing includes Berkes 1964; Toprak 1981; Yavuz 2003; White 2002, 2013; Turam 2007; Findley 2010; Eligür 2010; Kuru and Stepan 2012b.

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3. He was granted this last name in 1934 by the Turkish parliament. It literally means “Father of All Turks” and no one else is allowed to appropriate this moniker. 4. This is also emphasized by Yilmaz (1997: 483), who notes that these reforms “exiled” Islam from the state to society. 5. Yavuz (2003: 41) emphasizes, for example, that while sharia was a basis for law, there was also the kanun, essentially the Sultan’s law, which regulated issues not covered directly by sharia. 6. Alevis are sometimes classified as “Shias” but they do not identify with the Twelver Shiism as practiced in Iran and Iraq. They believe God lies within all humans and lack a religious hierarchy. They tend to be very secular and fearful of expressions of political Islam in Turkey, which advances the Sunni version of the faith. Estimates are that Alevis constitute 15 to 30 percent of the population (Cesari 2014: 46). Kurds, a sizable minority in Turkey, are also Muslims, and use of Islam was one way that they were to be included in the new Turkish nation. However, they were never recognized in the monolithic version of Turkish nationalism under the Kemalists. This issue, while important for contemporary Turkish politics, is beyond the scope of this volume. 7. After an uprising in 1930 instigated by a Nakşibendi shaikh, the state adopted a more militant version of secularism that downplayed Islamic elements in Turkish nationalism, and pre-Islamic and even pre-Turkic (e.g., Hittite) elements have also been propagated as elements of Turkish identity. However, as White (2013) persuasively argues, the idea that being at least nominally Muslim was an essential part of being a Turk persisted, culminating after 1980 in the government-supported “Turkish-Islamic synthesis” (Türk-İslam Sentezi), discussed more later in this chapter. 8. For example, according to the World Values Survey, 74.6 percent of Turks in 1990 and 81 percent in 2007 considered themselves religious. See www.worldvalues survey.org, accessed 18 May 2014. 9. Cesari (2014) disagrees, focusing in particular on the “Sunnification” of the faith and what this meant for Alevis and non-Muslims in Turkey. In her schema, Turkey is not truly a secular state, as the state backs one “hegemonic” faith above others. 10. Turkey declared war on Germany in February 1945, allowing it to join the UN, but Turkey did not participate in the conflict. 11. This section borrows from Karpat 1959; Lewis 1961; Ahmad 1977; and Vanderlippe 2005. 12. Interestingly, the party was constituted the next year as the Republican National Party, establishing a pattern in which parties deemed to be too Islamicoriented are closed and then reopen under a different moniker. 13. The eponymous founder of the order is Bahaediin Nakşibendi (d. 1389) of Turkistan, but its principles were most firmly established by Ahmed Sirhindi (1536–1625) of India. For more on Nakşibendis in Turkey, see Mardin 1991 and Algar 1996. 14. Yavuz (2003: 139) notes one source that argues Nakşibendis were behind most of the revolts between 1924 and 1938, although others (Algar 1996) suggest some “revolts” were staged by authorities to justify crackdowns. 15. The founder of this group is Süleyman Hilmi Tunahan (1888–1959), whose followers believe him to be the thirty-third and final piece of the spiritual chain of Sufi masters in the Nakşibendi order. 16. Şahin (2011: 237–238) notes controversies over the date of his birth, which is given in different accounts from 1873 to 1878. Here I follow that given by Mardin (1989: 2), which was the first major work on Nursi to appear in English.

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17. Other sources include Vahide 1992 and 2005; Voll 1999, one of several articles of a special issue of The Muslim World devoted to Nursi; Abu Rabi 2003; Kuru and Kuru 2008; and Şahin 2011. For numerous sources in Turkish, see Yavuz 2003: 300–303. See also the website http://nursistudies.com. 18. Consider the English translations of the names of the two largest parties in the 1990s and 2000s: “Welfare” and “Justice and Development.” 19. For example, right-wing groups were blamed for the deaths of over 100 Alevis in Kahramanmaras in 1978. 20. Yavuz (2003: 70) cites the deputy head of the Diyanet as saying that “our task is not confined to religion only but also includes preservation of Turkish nationalism.” 21. Çetinsaya (1999) provides details on this, as well as links between thinkers among the Young Turks such as Ziya Gökalp and the TIS. 22. Useful sources on the RP include Öniş 1997; Yavuz 1997; Gülalp 1999; Dağı 2005; Toprak 2005a, 2005b; Eligür 2010; Yilmaz 2012; and Sarfati 2014. 23. The worst event within Turkey was a massacre of thirty-five Alevis in 1993 in Sivas, which was perpetrated by a mob of Sunni extremists. 24. The Quranic verse “The Truth Has Come and the Wrong Has Become Void” was the logo of the semiofficial paper of the party, Milli Gazette. 25. Perhaps the most accessible and complete review of many figures that represent “new thinking” is Şentürk 2009. 26. For reviews of his life and work, see Meeker 1991 and Guida 2005, 2010. 27. The best sources on Karaman in English are Şentürk 2009 and Guida 2010. The website www.hayrettinkaraman.net contains archives of past and more contemporary writings. 28. For documentation of some of these “defamations,” compiled by a supporter of Gülen, see Koç 2012. For a more balanced view, see Steinvorth 2009. 29. While there clearly are hagiographic works on Gülen as well as scholars and journalists who are clearly partisans, I have tried to rely on sources that present a more nuanced, if not occasionally critical, view. 30. This section draws heavily on the work of Hakan Yavuz (Yavuz 1999, 2003, 2013; Yavuz and Esposito 2003). Other sources include Kuru 2005 and Lorasdağı 2007. Numerous works by Gülen as well as interviews with him are available at http://en.fgulen.com. 31. See his interview, “Türkiye Müslümanlığı” [Turkish Muslimness], Sabah, 23 January 1997. 32. The phrase “service to the people is service to God” (halka hizmet hakka hizmetdir) became a mantra for the AKP (Dağı 2013). 33. To be sure, this was not the only orientation (Kuru 2005), but this more “moderate” Islam is the one that gained more public support. 34. These figures formed the Felicity Party (Saadet Partisi), which received only 2.5 percent of the vote in 2002 and has remained politically marginal. 35. “Erdoğan: Milli Görüş’ün değil Demokrat Parti’nin devamıyız,” Zaman, 17 May 2003. 36. Heper (2013: 147) contends it is defined by “Muslim cultural values,” which would also qualify it, in my parlance, as Islamic-oriented. 37. The lines in question are, “The mosques are our barracks, the domes our helmets, the minarets our bayonets and the faithful our soldiers.” 38. See “Erdoğan: Kopenhag Kriterleri Ankara kriterleri olacak,” Hurriyet, 17 December 2002; and Erdoğan’s 2004 speech at Oxford University, “Why the EU

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Needs Turkey,” at www.sant.ox.ac.uk/esc/docs/Erdogan1.pdf, accessed 12 October 2012. 39. Hizmet is officially nonpolitical, but there is no doubt many of its “volunteers” backed the AKP. 40. A list of the major reforms can be found in Hale and Özbudun 2010: 55–67. 41. Pamuk’s prosecution was undertaken by a nationalist-oriented prosecutor and was not initiated by the bequest of the AKP government. Amid widespread outcry, the charges were dropped in January 2006. 42. Dağı 2006: 104. 43. One case, Leyla Şahin vs. Court of Turkey, was heard by the European Court of Human Rights, which ruled in 2005 that the headscarf ban was permissible as liberal and secular principles were allegedly “under threat” in Turkey. In 2005, Turkey’s Council of State upheld denial of promotion for a teacher who wore the headscarf to and from (but not at) school. See Yavuz 2009: 165–166. 44. Deutsche Welle, 28 August 2007, available at www.dw.de/turkeys-prime -minister-sparks-debate-on-press-freedom/a-2755239, accessed 27 February 2015. 45. For a positive assessment, see Kavakci 2009. For an alternative view, see Jenkins 2011. 46. EU reports available at http://ec.europa.eu/enlargement/countries/strategy -and-progress-report/index_en.htm, accessed 23 February 2014. 47. These include outspoken opposition to Turkish membership by European leaders such as French president Nicolas Sarkozy and German chancellor Angela Merkel, public opposition to Turkish membership, as well as clear evidence of “reform fatigue” after the 2004 and 2007 expansion. See Kubicek 2011. 48. See Freedom House’s 2013 report at www.freedomhouse.org/report /freedom-world/2013/turkey#.U0t98vl_s30 and the Press Freedom Index at http://en .rsf.org/press-freedom-index-2013,1054.html, both accessed 27 February 2015. 49. “Shame on Professors: Turkish PM,” Hurriyet Daily News, 22 December 2012. 50. “Turkey Feels Sway of Reclusive Cleric in the US,” New York Times, 24 April 2012. 51. “Controversy over Education of Religious Generation,” Today’s Zaman, 9 March 2012. 52. See, for example, Turam 2012; Karaveli 2012; and Steinvorth 2012. 53. “Erdoğan’dan Türk Bayrağı çağrısı,” Yeni Şafak, 16 June 2013. 54. The fullest report in English is “Turkey—Gezi Park Protests: Brutal Denial of the Right to Peaceful Assembly in Turkey,” Amnesty International, available at www.amnesty.org/en/library/info/EUR44/022/2013/en, accessed 13 January 2014. 55. The US ambassador to Turkey, in a cable published by Wikileaks, acknowledged in 2009 that while he could not confirm the infiltration of the police, “no one disputes it.” See http://wikileaks.tetalab.org/mobile/cables/09ANKARA1722.html, accessed 14 March 2014. Gülen had earlier been critical of the AKP, particularly in actions hostile to Israel, the slowdown of some reforms, and some initiatives on Kurdish rights. For more background, see Yavuz 2013. 56. Alevis were very visible in the Gezi protests. In March 2014, a fifteen-yearold boy, who was put into a coma after being hit with a tear gas canister during the protests, died. This led to Sunni-Alevi violence in Istanbul. In response, at an AKP rally, Erdoğan linked the boy to terrorist organizations and encouraged the crowd to boo when his mother was mentioned. Some cited this as an example of Alevi hate speech. See Özkirimili 2014.

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57. Useful sources include a 2012 report from the Turkish Nongovernmental Organization Forum on Convention to Eliminate All Forms of Discrimination Against Women at http://tinyurl.com/n467gnj, and Tolunay 2014, who calls the government’s approach to women’s issues “antiquated, pre-modern, and, one could even say, barbaric.” 58. For the 2013 report, see http://reports.weforum.org/global-gender-gap -report-2013, accessed 13 March 2014. 59. Karaman concedes approvingly that because of his knowledge of jurisprudence (fiqh), some may perceive his views as fatwas. See Karaman, “Çoğunluğun diktatörlüğü mü?” Yeni Şafak, 29 November 2013; “Rüşvete ve yolsuzluğa fetva verilmez,” Yeni Şafak, 17 December 2013; and “Türkiye’nin dostları ve düşmanları,” Yeni Şafak, 19 December 2013. Taşkin (2013: 303–304) discusses some earlier “rulings” by Karaman that have similar content. For a critique, see Ayhan 2014. 60. Karaman, “Derin devlet de yapı da meşru değildir,” Yeni Şafak, 22 December 2013. 61. “Cuma hutbesi Başbakan’ın konuşması gibi,” Cumhuriyet, 28 March 2014. 62. Karaman, “Çoğunluğu kale almamak,” Yeni Şafak, 8 November 2013. 63. Allegations made by Seymour Hersh that Turkey was behind a chemical weapons attack in Syria in 2013 are perhaps the most serious charge against the AKP, but this claim was denied both by Ankara and by Washington. See Hersh, “The Red Line and the Rat Line,” London Review of Books, 4 April 2014.

3 Malaysia: Islam and Nationalism in a Semidemocratic State

Malaysia represents a bit of a paradox, one whose experience runs counter to most of the other countries in this volume. It is easily the most religiously diverse and, demographically speaking, “least Islamic”; according to its 2010 census, 61 percent of the population is Muslim, 20 percent is Buddhist, 9 percent is Christian, and 6 percent is Hindu.1 One might think that this would temper the political role of Islam, making state leaders wary of an Islamist agenda; indeed, this has been the case in neighboring Indonesia, covered later in this volume. However, this has not occurred. In contrast to Indonesia, which recognizes a number of religions under the rubric of Pancasila, the state’s ideology, Malaysia counts Islam as its only official religion. Additionally, Islam is defined by the constitution as a core component of Malay identity. Finally, in Malaysia one witnesses not only “Islamism from below” in terms of mobilization of Islamicoriented political parties and groups in civil society (developments seen in a number of countries) but also Islamization as state policy, one that augments state power and complements its development strategy (Nasr 2001).2 Malaysia’s democratic record, as seen in Figure 3.1, also separates it from other countries in this volume. The apogee of its democratic experience, at least judging from the Polity scale, comes in its immediate postindependence period, thus qualifying it, along with Turkey, as an “early democratizer.” However, its initial experience with democracy is more a reflection of inheritance of British colonial rule than, as in Turkey, a more “homegrown” development. The quality of Malaysian democracy, measured both by Polity and FH, has deteriorated over time, so that for the last thirty-odd years, the country is best described as a “semidemocratic,” “competitive authoritarian,” or a “soft authoritarian” state, one that regularly holds elections in which various parties—including Islamist ones— 83

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Figure 3.1 Democratic Development in Malaysia 10

8 6 4 2 0 –2 -2 –4 -4 Polity score, –10 to 10 –6 -6 Freedom House score, 1 to 7 (inverted)

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participate, but also features restrictions on political activity and has yet to witness the ruling coalition lose power at the national level.3 While there have been some changes in the 2000s and growing opposition to the ruling party, for much of Malaysia’s history elections have “given a cloak of legitimacy for what is really authoritarian rule” (Crouch 1996a: 114), and the country has not yet seen a “democratic breakthrough” akin to what occurred, for example, in Indonesia in the late 1990s. What is the relationship between Islam and democracy in Malaysia? Some contend that “moderate” Malaysian Islam has been channeled by the state and political leaders so that it has “played a central role in the foundation of the nation’s democratic system and in the evolution of its democratic institutions and practices” (Bakar 2006: 76). However, the use of Islam to legitimize the government and expand state power and the connection among Islam, nationalism, and privileges given to ethnic Malays has sparked concerns in many quarters. Some would contend that it is not coincidental that the country’s turn toward “semidemocracy” coincided with its greater Islamization. In contrast with both the Turkish case, which was examined in the previous chapter, and the more successful democratizers such as Senegal and Indonesia, the factors posited in the opening chapter that tend to favor democratization do not line up neatly in one direction. Some certainly create at least potential for democratization; as of yet, however, a combination of other factors, including the nonsecular nature of the state and its use of

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Islam, work against it. This makes Malaysia, in some ways, a more complex case, one whose outcome with respect to democratization remains, as of 2015, still in doubt, as a variety of actors, some of whom employ Islam in a markedly different fashion than the state, continue to lobby for liberalization and democratization. Islam and the Formation of Malay Nationalism and Statehood Our examination of the connection between Islam and democracy, however, shall begin much further back in history, as the initial experience with and construction of Malay Islam holds relevance for contemporary developments. Prior to the arrival of Islam, the territory that now comprises Malaysia was subject to extensive Indian and Chinese influence and ruled by small Hindu-Buddhist kingdoms.4 Islam was introduced by Arab and South Asian merchants and preachers, and this brand of Islam was heavily influenced by Sufism. Islam became a significant political and cultural force in the early 1400s, when the sultan of Malacca on the tip of the Malay Peninsula converted and forced all of his subjects to follow suit. As Malacca became the most powerful kingdom in the region—its dominance hailed today by some as the “golden age” of the Malays (Milner 2008: 47)—other sultanates embraced Islam as well, so that by the seventeenth century Islam was the state religion on most of the peninsula and the islands in the archipelago. Islam’s ability to win adherents was not only due to the economic influence of the Arab traders and the political power of Malacca. Under the influence of Sufism, Islam was open to mysticism and supernaturalism, both reflected in preexisting local practices. This eased conversion. Moreover, Sufism espoused the idea of following a “perfect,” saintly man. Together with Persian and Indian influences that helped make Islam accepting of monarchy, this later component strongly attracted local leaders; indeed, upon conversion a local sultan could become the “Shadow of God on Earth,” allowing him to wield both temporal and spiritual authority (Milner 2008: 41–42). Official conversion was thus often driven by elites, but at the mass level Islam blended with many local practices, including religious rituals and customary law (adat). While this allowed for some diversity across kingdoms and regions, the rule of the sultan over his dominion was absolute, including deciding what sharia did and did not include (Milner 2008: 44). Malaysia’s early experience with Islam shares much in common with that of Indonesia (discussed in Chapter 7); indeed, Malaccan power helped spread the faith to Indonesian islands such as Java. Both countries, begin-

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ning in the sixteenth century, also experienced European incursions, at first primarily by the Portuguese (who conquered Malacca in 1511) and later by the Dutch and British. Europeans were not, however, generally interested in converting locals to Christianity. European control of trade routes challenged, but did not remove, the sultans from power, particularly outside of areas of European settlement. The divergence of the two countries, one with a significant effect on the subsequent development of Islam, occurred in 1824 with the Anglo-Dutch Treaty of London that divided control over the archipelago and Malay Peninsula, with the Dutch gaining what would become Indonesia and the British exercising control over Malaya (most of present-day Malaysia). Malaysia’s experience under British control shapes much of the country today (Noh 2013). It inherited the Westminster parliamentary system, which, with some modifications, it has retained. British interests in Malaya were strongly tied to trade, and they established good relations with resident Chinese and Indian merchants. When the British began to develop tin and rubber industries, they brought in more Chinese and Indian labor. This immigration is what accounts for most of the ethnic and religious diversity in contemporary Malaysia. Average ethnic Malays, who resided in the countryside, were, however, little affected, as the British practiced indirect rule over most of the country5 and they continued to be subjects of the sultan, who retained feudal authority over peasant labor. The British formalized their role by concluding treaties with various sultanates on the peninsula (e.g., the 1895 Federation Agreement with Selangor, Perak, Pahang, and Negri Sembilan, which created the Federated States of Malaysia). Typically, these treaties stipulated that the territories would fall under British protection and be subject to a resident British “adviser,” who would protect British interests. However, until 1946, when the Malayan Union was formed, the sultanates were still treated as independent, sovereign entities. This arrangement had important repercussions with respect to Islam, whose management was left in the hands of individual sultans (Nasr 2001). Religious courts adjudicated local civil and criminal matters, and British administration assisted in tax collection and creation of religious endowments. In the early 1900s, the British helped form a Religious Advisory Council (Majlis Agama Islam) in all the sultanates. These were placed under the authority of the sultan. They helped enact sharia (mostly for family law), established control over local religious officials, supervised religious and secular education, oversaw publishing of religious texts, and assumed authority to define “correct” Islamic doctrine. They became centralized religious hierarchies—a factor mentioned in Chapter 1 that would work against democratization—whose members were dependent upon the sultan for their authority. In turn, they helped legitimize the sultan’s rule,

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creating strong ties between Islam and the state (Roff 1967: 72; Funston 2006: 53). There were also countervailing trends above and beyond the level of individual sultanates. The British imposed uniform administrative practices across Malaya and created a Malayan civil service, staffed primarily by members of the Malay aristocracy. Many of these individuals were educated in Britain or in English-language schools. By the early 1900s, a Malay intelligentsia formed in urban centers such as Malacca and Singapore. Its members critiqued both what they viewed as the stagnation and corruption in the sultanates and the growing presence of immigrants. They adopted Western terms such as individualism, progress, race, nationality, and citizenship. In this, they were often encouraged by the British, who helped foster ideas of peninsular Malay nationalism, even though, implicitly at any rate, such discourse contained the seeds of anticolonialism (Milner 2008: 111–117). At the same time, however, those espousing a greater Islamic identity for Malaya emerged as competitors both to the British as well as to those advocating a strictly national or ethnic conception of Malay identity. This was fueled by the immigration of non-Muslims, who were seen as an economic and cultural threat, as well as expanding communication and education, including contact with the larger Muslim world and familiarity with ideas such as those espoused by the Egyptian Muhammad Abduh (1849–1905), who advocated a return to a purer form of Islam, not Sufism or syncretic practices that were viewed as “antimodern” or rooted in superstitions (Roff 1967: 78). Malay Islamic reformers established their own seminaries and a vernacular Islamist press. Often referred to as the Kaum Muda, or “Young People,” they were largely urban, residing primarily in the British colonial settlements of Penang, Malacca, and Singapore (which were governed under secular law), not the rural hinterland ruled by the sultans (Noor 2009: 210). From this relatively safe position, they challenged what they viewed as “self-serving” control of religion by local sultans, who were, in their view, often stooges of the colonial authorities (Kessler 1978: 23). Their calls for overhauling Malayan Islam, however, did not initially turn into a mass movement—their more strident interpretation of Islam did not have wide appeal—and they were opposed by both sultanic and British colonial authority (Hadiz and Teik 2011: 470). Japanese occupation of Malaya in World War II, however, helped their cause, as the reformist ulama emerged as a staunch defender of ethnic Malay rights and interests against both Western colonialism and the local Chinese residents. They “infused communal interests, enmeshed with Islamic consciousness, into the nationalist discourse,” so that by the end of the war, Islam had become “an indispensable component of peninsular-wide Malay identity and nationalism” (Nasr 2001: 40).

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The British returned to Malaya after the war and faced a complex political environment. Their plan for a multiethnic Malay Union—a stepping stone toward independence—was rejected by traditional leaders, who did not wish to cede authority to a central government, as well as nationalistoriented Malays, who believed that any political arrangement must give special privileges to ethnic Malays. The latter group coalesced around the United Malays National Organization (UMNO), which was formed in May 1946. In 1948 the UMNO proposed an alternative federation, one that unified the nine sultanates plus the colonies of Penang and Malacca. However, this plan allowed traditional rulers to exercise religious authority in individual states, created a national monarch to be chosen from and by the sultans, and gave special rights to ethnic Malays and other indigenous peoples, the “sons of the soil” (bumiputera). This proposal, to which the British agreed, created the Federation of Malaya and included restrictive citizenship provisions for those not ethnically Malay. This generated interethnic animosity, and ethnic Chinese became the backbone of a communist insurgency that lasted until 1960. Meanwhile, more Islamic-oriented organizations also began to form. The first emerged in 1948 in the form of the Hizbul Muslimin, which has been described as the “Islamic wing” of the more radical Malay Nationalist Party formed in 1945 (Liow 2009: 21). Hizbul Muslimin called for both independence and a Malay-dominated Islamic state. Its past ties to leftist groups led to the arrest of its leaders, but Islamists, including those who believed UMNO was insufficiently supportive of Islam, regrouped in 1951 under the Pan-Malayan Islamic Association, which was renamed the Pan-Malayan Islamic Party (Parti Islam Se-Malaya, known as PAS) in 1955. As the country moved toward independence in the 1950s, Islam—and, by extension, the status and rights of non-Muslims—was a central issue. Although Onn Bin Ja’afor, the first leader of UMNO, said he was open to the idea that nonethnic Malays could become “Malay” and thereby join his organization (Milner 2008: 155; Liow 2009: 209n14), this suggestion was not embraced. Ja’afor eventually lost his leadership position in UMNO and, despite support from the British, failed to lead the interethnic Independence of Malaya Party to electoral success (Noh 2013). Instead, communal politics took hold, and ethnic Chinese and Indians formed their own parties. However, they were in a defensive position, lacking the voters to win elections on their own, and thus they eschewed direct confrontation with leading Malay groups. The largest Chinese and Indian organizations eventually joined with the UMNO in an interethnic Alliance coalition to contest national elections.6 The first of these, in 1955, was for a Federal Legislative Council. The Alliance won fifty-one of fifty-two available seats, with the remaining one going to PAS.

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In 1956, representatives of the UMNO, together with those from the sultanates, took part in the Reid Commission, which was responsible for drafting a constitution for the new country. Major issues were the status and rights of non-Malays, Malay demands for affirmative action–type quotas, and the place of Islam. The UMNO proposed in a memorandum that Islam would be “the religion of Malaya” but non-Muslims would be free to practice their faith and that, in somewhat twisted language, recognition of Islam would “not imply that the State is not a secular State.”7 In the final constitution, Islam was established as “the” state religion but, while citizenship requirements were relaxed and minorities were given religious freedoms, the word secular was dropped. Furthermore, in Article 3, the constitution declares that previous rights of hereditary rulers as the Heads of Islam in individual states would be “unaffected and unimpaired,” and an elected national constitutional monarch, the Yang di-Pertuan Agong, would serve as the Malaysian head of state and the Head of Islam for states without such rulers and oversee nationwide religious acts and ceremonies. The Malaysian monarch—an equivalent figure is absent in all other states covered in this volume—thus provides a “kind of permanent authority for the institutionalization of the place and role of Islam in the state” (Bakar 2006: 70), although some ulama have been guardedly critical of the monarchy as an institution (Saat 2013). He is also empowered to ensure that special rights for Malays and other “sons of the soil”—mainly related to quotas for business licensing, university admission, and civil service appointment—are implemented.8 The constitution also links Malay ethnicity with Islam, declaring in Article 160 that “‘Malay’ means a person who professes Islam,” implying that any Malay who converts to another faith would no longer be “Malay.” Thanks to these constitutional arrangements—which are unique among the cases considered in this volume—Islam not only is empowered to play a political role in the country, but it is also intimately connected to ideas of nationalism and ethnicity, both making it a “perennial issue in Malaysian politics” (Bakar 2006: 76) and creating, potentially, grounds for religion to be used as a basis for ethnopolitical mobilization and conflict. Consociational Democracy in Malaysia, 1957–1969 Despite the obvious potential for religious and interethnic conflict—best exemplified in the preindependence period by the Chinese-dominated communist insurgency—Malaysia has, with one exception (discussed later) done an admirable job of avoiding violent political clashes.9 Moreover, in its first decade of independence, Malaysian democracy was, by most standards, generally successful, even if its politics was not overly competitive.

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As seen in Table 3.1, the governing coalition (first known as the Alliance, later in 1974 becoming the National Front [Barisan Nasional, BN], and always dominated by the UMNO) has never lost its parliamentary majority; indeed, until 2008 it lost its two-thirds majority only once (1969). Malaysian leaders managed the country’s diversity by creating a political system dominated by one coalition that rests on interethnic bargains and cooperation; in other words, to employ Arend Lijphart’s term, it is a form of consociationalism. Lijphart himself (1977: 152–154) cites—with some critique—the consociational elements of the Malaysian political system, and this concept has been employed by many other observers of the country (Chee 1991; Yusoff 1992; Case 1996; Crouch 1996a, 1996b; Milne and Mauzy 1999; Sani 2009; Reilly 2011; Noh 2013). The fundamentals of the consociational bargain in Malaysia were that Malays were given the lead political role and constitutionally enshrined special rights, and ethnic Chinese and Indians, who traditionally were economically dominant, were given rights to participate in politics and hold some (but not the top) leadership positions10 and were allowed to keep their property and benefit from the state’s efforts to develop and industrialize the country (Means 1986: 100–101; Case 1996: 82–84). Esman (1972: 261) described this as resting on “mutual deterrence,” as the ethnic Malays and

Table 3.1 Election Results in Malaysia

Election Year 1959 1964 1969 1974 1978 1982 1986 1990 1995 1999 2004 2008 2013

Seats Won by Ruling Coalitiona/Total Seats

Percentage of Seats Won by Ruling Coalition

74/104 89/104 77/144 135/154 130/154 132/154 148/177 127/180 162/182 148/193 199/219 140/222 133/222

71.2 85.6 53.5 87.7 84.4 85.7 83.6 70.6 89.0 76.7 90.9 63.1 59.9

Sources: Inter-Parliamentary Union Database (www.ipu.org/parline-e/parlinesearch.asp) and Nohlen, Grotz, and Hartmann 2001. Note: a. The Alliance (1955–1969) and the National Front (1974–). Its largest member is UMNO.

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the non-Malays, especially the Chinese, were each strong enough to inflict damage on the other and each clearly recognized this reality. Logistically, this meant that the Alliance fielded a single candidate in each district, and its supporters, regardless of ethnicity, were urged to vote for that candidate, even if that candidate was from a different ethnic group. In this way, the Alliance helped ensure that some ethnic Chinese and Indians were elected to parliament, even, in some cases, from majority ethnic Malay districts. However, the UMNO remained the largest party in the Alliance, commanding a majority of seats on its own but needing coalition partners to secure the two-thirds majority to change the constitution. Economically, even though Malays took advantage of quotas to secure positions in the civil service and the UMNO tried to funnel state largess to rural, predominantly ethnic Malay areas—especially in the form of infrastructure—the fundamental patterns of ownership and control did not markedly change. Many of the benefits of Malaysia’s economic growth in the 1960s thus went to non-Malay business interests, whose success proved essential in providing funds for the government to redistribute to ethnic Malays (Esman 1972; Snodgrass 1980; Nasr 2001). Indeed, the relationships among the parties were characterized as symbiotic. Mohamad Khir Johari, a prominent UMNO official, said in 1965, “The Chinese in the MCA [Malayan Chinese Association] are holding the reign of business, the Indians in the MIC [Malayan Indian Congress] are keen in labor matters, while the Malay are giving political peace. The Chinese can be regarded as sand, the Indians as water and the Malays as cement. When the three are used together, a strong block can be built” (quoted in Yusoff 1992: 17). Notably, efforts by the minister of agriculture to circumvent and undermine Chinese traders for the sake of Malayan business led to his dismissal; this is evidence that despite the existence of Malay privileges, the government was careful not to antagonize non-Malay business owners (Case 1996: 101; Mohamad 2007: 31–32).11 This is not to suggest that early Malaysian democracy was without flaws—notwithstanding its “perfect” 10 score on the Polity Index for much of the 1960s12—or even met all the requirements of consociationalism as outlined by Lijphart (Milne and Mauzy 1999: 17–18). It was not built on a proportional representation system or even, in terms of power-sharing, on proportionality, as Malays dominated beyond their numbers, which led some Chinese to press (unsuccessfully) for greater political power (Case 1996: 95–100). In terms of parliament, Malay dominance was reinforced by gerrymandering, which overrepresented rural, overwhelmingly ethnicMalay voters. There was also no formal “mutual veto,” meaning UMNO did not give its coalition partners the right to reject measures deemed vital to ethnic Malay interests (Case 1996: 84). However, like all consociational systems, elite bargaining, as opposed to popular mobilization and participa-

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tion from below, predominated, which helped maintain interethnic peace while also facilitating a certain degree of corruption (e.g., Chinese campaign donations to Malay politicians [Case 1996: 101]). Nasr (2001) points to a larger problem of state weakness, as national political leaders had to compete with regional authorities, powerful non-Malay economic actors, and foreign capital, all in an environment in which there was a weak sense of civic Malay nationalism as well as fresh memories of ethnic-ideological rebellion. To compensate, perhaps, restrictions were put on some political activity—for example, anti-subversion laws were used throughout the 1960s to arrest left-wing activists and trade unionists as well as alleged “pan-Malay” elements, including leaders of PAS, whose loyalty to Malaysia was called into question, particularly during the “confrontation” with Indonesia in 1963–1966 (Mohamad 2007: 26–28; Liow 2009: 29).13 What of Islam during this period? In short, it played a limited role in national-level politics, particularly given the government’s wishes to foster interethnic harmony. Prime Minister Tunku Abdul Rahman, echoing sentiments by Sukarno, Indonesia’s first postindependence leader, declared, “Our country has many races and unless we are prepared to drown every non-Malay in the sea, we can never think of an Islamic administration” (quoted in Noor 2009: 212). Mutalib (1990: 51) suggests that there was a “neglect of Islam,” as the government’s policies and discourse prioritized ethnic identity and communal politics, and that during this time Islam “did not make inroads into the political system or into Malay identity politics.” Others noted that the UMNO’s commitment to Islam was “fairly weak,” consisting mostly of modest gestures such as state support for the hajj and mosque construction, state-sponsored Quran-reading competitions, and approval of religious education in the schools (Liow 2009: 22; Hussein 2002: 86). Religious programming was only a small part of state-owned media, and alcohol was often served at government functions, whereas an opening prayer was rare (Funston 2006: 56). Matters were a little different at the state level, where Islamic departments (Jabatan Agama Islam) were created by regional governments and took over the tasks of the preindependence Majlis Agama and, as before, oversaw mosques and Islamic schools. Individual muftis at the state level also gained the power to issue fatwas. In 1968, the state sultans formed the Malaysian Council for Islamic Affairs, which is formally chaired by the prime minister. These federal- and state-level bureaucracies initially had, however, limited powers and resources compared to what they would later acquire, and adherence to many Islamic practices (e.g., veiling, mosque attendance) was not strong (Funston 2006: 54–56). PAS, the largest opposition party, was the most pronounced voice for greater Islamization. However, its electoral successes (e.g., in 1959 it won 21 percent of the national vote [nearly

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half of the ethnic Malay vote] as well as state elections in Kelantan and Terengganu) were generated more by concerns about social justice and the economic predicament of rural Malays than by Islam per se (Kessler 1978). Indeed, during this period, PAS focused more on questions of language and communal politics, disavowing the goal of immediate creation of an Islamic state (Liow 2009: 28). The above points are important, particularly in light of what comes later. Malaysia’s period of “liberal democracy” reflected the “continuity of the colonial structures” (Hussein 2002: 84) and was overseen by an elite that, for the most part, was committed to Western traditions of a secular state. While a large portion of the country was Muslim, governance, if not completely secular—Islam was the state religion and thus was privileged in terms of state support—was surely not “Islamic” in the sense that the government justified its positions in terms of religion or tried to use religion to bolster its legitimacy. Political Islam was present, but did not have a major impact on the system, and “Islam” was not to blame for whatever flaws the system had. To return to points raised in Chapter 1, another key factor was that democracy emerged and took root before political mobilization under the banner of Islam. The largest problem for Malaysia’s democracy rested on the aforementioned constitutional provisions that gave special rights to citizens on the basis of ethnicity and in turn tried to balance the political, economic, and cultural demands of different groups. In elections in 1969, the ruling Alliance nearly lost its parliamentary majority, when non-Malay opposition parties, campaigning to reduce or eliminate special privileges for Malays— which were understood by some to be temporary measures—gained many seats (Mutalib 1990: 52–53). Rallies by these parties and counterrallies by the UMNO led to interethnic rioting that left nearly 200 dead and led to imposition of a state of emergency, arrests of opposition leaders, the suspension of parliament for nearly two years, and the fall of Tunku from the premiership. This event is a major marker in Malaysian politics, ushering a new area of greater ethnic Malay dominance, restrictions on civil and political freedoms, and Islamic-oriented mobilization. Malay and Islamic Revival in Semidemocratic Malaysia The riots of 1969 produced a “profound change in the character of the state,” one that would “limit the scope of pluralism” and, eventually, lead the state to embrace Islamization (Nasr 2001: 69–70). Initially, however, emphasis was placed elsewhere: on economics and on redressing the grievances of ethnic Malays and other bumiputera, not Islam. This section will examine the promotion of this cause in the New Economic Policy (NEP),

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how this led to Islamization both “from below” in the form of social organization and “from above” with respect to state policy, and how these developments affected Malaysian democracy. The New Economic Policy: Promoting the Malay Cause

In 1971, the government of Tun Abdul Razak, who headed the National Operations Council while parliament was suspended, announced the NEP, which was designed to prevent a repeat of the 1969 riots.14 In adopting this policy, it was clear that the government recognized the legitimacy of demands from ethnic Malays for greater economic opportunities, thereby implicitly endorsing the view (expressed, among others, by Mahathir Mohamad [1925–], who was temporarily expelled from the UMNO in 1969 for this position but, as we’ll see later, reemerged as the preeminent Malaysian political figure) that the government had been insufficiently rigorous in promoting Malay rights and privileges, particularly as, in Mahathir’s terms, Malays were “the rightful owners of Malaya” (quoted in van Dijk 2009: 65).15 The NEP expanded quotas in civil service and education, created new universities for ethnic Malays, established state institutions to supply credit to Malay entrepreneurs, set up trusts to expand Malay ownership of existing assets, and gave Malay businesspeople tax breaks, discounts on land purchases, and privileges in development of highpriority sectors. In addition, the NEP affected the private sector, requiring businesses to meet targets in terms of Malay-owned equity and employment. It also put priority on rural development.16 Mauzy (2006: 57) argues that the NEP was an admission by the government that protection of Malay language, establishment of Islam, and preservation of traditional leaders was not enough for the Malay masses, who demanded state efforts to help them catch up to the richer non-Malays. While some might argue that the NEP was just the “intensification of an existing trend” (Case 1996: 112), it was presented by the government as something new. Prime Minister Tun declared that there needed to be a “new realism” about interethnic relations (Mauzy 2006: 58) and that “democracy cannot work in Malaysia in terms of political equality alone. . . . Everything possible must be done to correct the economic imbalance among the races” (quoted in Case 1996: 119). Henceforth, the government would not be neutral, equidistant from all communities; it would be an advocate for the Malays (Nasr 2001: 70). Several points are worth making. First, the NEP was accompanied by political changes that limited pluralism. The government passed a Sedition Act in 1970 and new laws prohibiting criticism of special Malay privileges and the powers of the sultans. Together with the preexisting Internal Security Act of 1960, it employed these to attack its opponents, at first mostly on the ideological left or those representing ethnic Chinese, later more Islamic-oriented groups. Opposition leaders were frequently detained or

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arrested, and the government also used the Societies Act to control the registration of political parties. In 1971, it passed measures to prohibit students from joining political parties, hoping (unsuccessfully, as it turned out) to eliminate a potential source of opposition. Open-air rallies were banned. The government also controlled much of the media and used patronage to co-opt local elites and ensure electoral support. In 1974, the Alliance was re-formed as the National Front, and it incorporated more parties, including, until 1977, PAS. This broad coalition, as seen in Table 3.1, dominated parliament, but it was controlled by UMNO in what some observers called “coercive” or “hegemonic” consociationalism (Mauzy 1993; Milne and Mauzy 1999: 18). How democratic this was remained debatable. Tun suggested that the changes reflected “Malaysian realities” and were suitable for a “developing country with different communities.” However, he acknowledged that this arrangement was designed to curb what he called “politicking” and “democratic excesses” (Mauzy 2006: 58; Sani 2009: 98–99). Nasr (2001: 70), while conceding that the system was authoritarian, nonetheless maintained that it “grew with relative ease” because it was designed to placate many of the concerns of the Malays while providing the state with sufficient power to preserve stability and prevent attacks on minority communities. Other observers were less generous. Lijphart, who had pointed to Malaysia as a relatively successful case of consociationalism, noted that after 1969 the country was no longer democratic due to “limitation of freedom of expression and the interesting political and economic discrimination in favor of the [ethnic] Malays” (1977: 153). Elections, as noted, were held, but the system was gamed in various ways to ensure a favorable result for the ruling coalition. Some opined that the government agreed to hold elections because it was not inconvenienced by them (Case 1993: 187). Barraclough (1985: 821), while noting that the government’s use of coercion was not indiscriminate and was based upon the legal framework, nonetheless conceded that the sum effect of its actions made it impossible to render a favorable assessment of Malaysia as an “open” or “democratic” state. Furthermore, as seen in Figure 3.1 and discussed more below, these tendencies, with some alterations, continued well beyond the lifespan of the NEP. The second point worth emphasizing, however, is that neither the NEP nor the various limitations on democracy were couched primarily in Islamic terms. They were presented as necessary to defend Malay interests and preserve stability. Restrictions on political activity were not justified in terms of the Quran, hadith, Islamic traditions, or even defending Islam, and their thrust was to expand state power, not that of the religious establishment. True, the state later assumed a more Islamic-oriented nature, but it also justified its policies in terms of promoting “Asian values” of social harmony. Both of these developments will be discussed more below. However, for

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now the primary observation is that during this period in Malaysia, similar to the first decades of the Turkish Republic, democratic shortcomings were not directly connected to Islam. Finally, we might briefly assess the impact of the NEP. In terms of overall economic development, Malaysia can be hailed as a success, one of the “Asian tigers.” According to the World Bank, GDP per capita grew from US$1,383 in 1970 to US$2,318 in 1980 to US$3,417 in 1990.17 In terms of its goals of advancing Malays, however, the record is more mixed (Nasr 2001; Haque 2003). Without question, Malay enrollment in higher education increased, more Malays were employed in the civil service and in business, and an urban, Malay middle class began to emerge. At the same time, however, Malays did not “catch up” to other ethnic groups in terms of average incomes or corporate ownership, and inequalities among Malays, particularly between urbanites and those in the countryside, grew. Some accused the NEP of being elitist and too probusiness and giving at best only lip service to the concerns of the majority of Malays in the countryside. Others focused on corruption and the growth of a consumer culture, maintaining that the state’s pursuit of economic development was devoid of a moral compass or concerns for social justice. This is the context in which Islamic-oriented movements emerge with greater force. Islamic-Oriented Social Mobilization

The 1970s witnessed the emergence of a host of movements in Malaysia, often grouped together under the label of dakwah, meaning a “call” or “invitation.” The call, in this case, was to turn to Islam, and it was taken up by a wide swath of Malays, including urban students and workers as well as peasants. During this period, Islam was conceived in various ways—as a personal faith, as a source of identity, as a call for justice and action, and as seen, a complete way of life. It was directed against Westernization, the perceived corruption and shortcomings of the UMNO and the government, and customs of adat that had non-Islamic origins (e.g., shadow plays). Several factors helped contribute to the dakwah movement. Greater urbanization of Malays made them more aware of their ethnic background, and Islam—more so than the Malay language (which was becoming more widely spoken and thus not distinctive to Malays) and adat (which in some respects they left behind in the village)— provided a sense of identity, not only one that they could internalize but one that also had, in terms of dress, communal prayers, and dietary requirements, an external dimension. Chandra Muzaffar (1947–), a human rights activist and critic of many elements of Islamization, views Islamic mobilization as primarily derivative of the dichotomous Malay/non-Malay discourse that comes out of the NEP, reflecting a desire for individuals to protect their “Malayness” (Muzaffar 1986, 1998). Nasr (2001: 73) connects it to the mixed record of the

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NEP, seeing Islamic mobilization primarily among those who were left behind or disappointed by its results. It is also worth noting that Islam—as opposed to leftist ideologies—was an acceptable discourse, one given legitimacy both by its constitutionally defined connection to Malay identity and, from 1973 to 1977, the presence of an Islamic-oriented party (PAS) in the governing coalition (Liow 2009: 33). Islamic mobilization was also given a major boost by Malay exposure, often through overseas study, of developments in the broader Muslim world at a time when Islamic-oriented activism was becoming more pronounced. Sources of inspiration included Muslim activists in Indonesia, Jamaat-e Islami in Pakistan, the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt, and, later, Khomeini and the Iranian Revolution (Nagata 1980; Funston 1981; Jomo and Cheek 1992; Nasr 2001; Liow 2009). There was no single organization or orientation of dakwah, although cumulatively it led to greater public piety in terms of mosque attendance, religious-oriented social organizations, schools, and discussion groups, and emphasis on halal food and dress (Liow 2009: 33–34). One of the largest organizations was the Darul Arqam (House of Arqam),18 which was founded by the charismatic Shaikh Ashaari Muhammad, a former PAS activist. Darul Arqam set up its own self-sufficient community on the outskirts of the capital, and it emphasized proper Islamic behavior (dress, communal eating, sexual segregation) against what it viewed as corrupting Western influences. Other groups emulated it. Darul Arqam was critical of PAS and other Islamic-oriented organizations as being insufficiently Islamic, but its criticism of the government was relatively muted. Indeed, insofar as Darul Arqam stressed communal self-sufficiency and general withdrawal from the broader society, it was, for a long time, not deemed a threat by the government (Mutalib 1990: 89; Jomo and Cheek 1992: 82–84). Its eventual ban, in 1994, arose after Ashaari began making bizarre claims (e.g., directly communicating with the Prophet Muhammad) deemed heretical by Malaysian authorities. The largest and most directly political dakwah organization was the Malaysian Islamic Youth Movement (Angkatan Belia Islam Malaysia, ABIM), which was officially registered in 1971 by recent university graduates, many of whom had been active in campaigning for promotion of the Malay language and greater economic privileges for Malays. Like Darul Arqam, one of its goals was to encourage Malays to (re)discover the true Islamic faith. However, it was more socially and politically engaged. Its motto was “toward building a society that is based on the principles of Islam”; an observer noted that one of its founding goals had been to “generate an Islamic movement as the path to Islamic revival in Malaysia” (Funston 1981: 174). One of its leaders suggested that it helped fill a vacuum created by government policies that lacked a “moral foundation and spiritual guidance” (Nasr 2001: 88). The core of its membership was

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university-educated youth (whose numbers greatly expanded in the 1970s), and by 1979 it had 35,000 members (Nagata 1980: 423). Anwar Ibrahim (1947–), who as a student had championed Malay causes, was its founding leader. He directed ABIM away from purely ritualistic concerns (e.g., fasting, prayer, dress) and more toward broader concerns of social justice, which he argued was central to Islam. In December 1974, Anwar and the ABIM took the lead in mass demonstrations to highlight the plight of the rural Malay poor. This was a seminal event, one that strongly challenged the government by shattering illusions of Malay unity and calling into question the focus of the NEP. Over 1,000 ABIM members were arrested, and Anwar spent nearly two years in detention. ABIM emphasized Muslim internationalism and maintained close ties with Islamic movements elsewhere in the Muslim world. Anwar himself visited Iran right after the Iranian Revolution. However, ABIM did not call for immediate creation of an Islamic state. Anwar suggested in 1979 that “there is no point in harping on Islamic government” when people did not fully understand Islam (quoted in Funston 1981: 175). Overall, Anwar and the ABIM tried to cultivate both a modern and more pluralistic Islam.19 The theme of its 1979 conference, for example, was “Islam is the solution for the problems of a plural society,” which emphasized Islam’s commitment to equality and social justice and differentiated its approach to the ethnicbased appeals of the government. While favoring greater use of Muslim personal law, Anwar conceded that it should only apply to Muslims. ABIM was also active in promoting the education of women. Most significantly for our discussion, ABIM also made expansion of political freedoms one of its priorities, although by its own by-laws, its members could not belong to a political party. The political party that most clearly tried to ride the dakwah movement was PAS, and PAS and the ABIM had close relations for much of the 1970s. PAS, however, went through its own transformation in that decade and into the early 1980s. In 1972, it joined the governing coalition, gaining access to state funds and placing some of its leading figures in the statereligious bureaucracy. In part, this was a reflection of the fact that the NEP promoted an important part of PAS’s agenda, advancement of ethnic Malays, as well as the fact that the government was amenable to propagation of Islamic values. However, under the leadership of Asri Muda (1971–1982), PAS did not push aggressively for creation of an Islamic state. Over time, however, Asri’s willingness to cooperate with the UMNO led to schisms within PAS, as its youth wing became more vocal in demanding a stronger commitment to Islam and criticized the NEP on the grounds that ethnic-based policies were un-Islamic.20 In other words, the incorporation of PAS into the governing coalition did not, pace expectations of the inclusion-moderation thesis discussed in Chapter 1, lead to moderation.

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Splits in the party led it to pull out of the ruling coalition in 1977, and changes in PAS leadership eventually led to the displacement of Asri by Yusof Rawa, a religious scholar. This was an important change, as prior to this the ulama had taken a backseat within the party (van Dijk 2009: 67). After this, PAS changed course, suggesting that the struggle for political power is a “must for every Muslim” and that the goal must be creation of an Islamic state (Liow 2009: 37). Within PAS, the Ulama Council, with its own spiritual leader, became more empowered to ensure party discipline and pass judgments on the party’s actions and positions, not just religious questions. This model was clearly inspired by Iran, which was praised by many PAS officials as a positive example, and the Ulama Council became the de facto ruling body of the party. In contrast to its earlier cooperation with the UMNO, PAS leaders began to accuse the UMNO of being a kafir (infidel) party because of its willingness to work with non-Muslims and its inclination to separate religion and politics, a position, according to a book published by the Ulama Council in 1980, that amounted to apostasy. Further incendiary remarks led to detention of some PAS leaders, bans on their gatherings in some states, and by 1985 violence between PAS and UMNO supporters. Noor (2003) suggests that PAS’s “radicalization” was due to the fact that the state, as will soon be discussed, began to occupy more and more of the Islamic-oriented “space” in Malaysian politics, forcing PAS to the more radical fringe in order to distinguish itself. This was not particularly successful, as PAS alienated many voters and was soundly defeated in elections in 1986 (Liow 2004: 367). However, a bridge had clearly been crossed: religious issues, which had once been secondary to issues of “Malayness,” had become primary concerns in Malaysian politics. Islamization from Above

The irony is that PAS’s radicalization was occurring as the UMNO began to embrace policies of Islamization. Seminal developments in this regard were the election of Mahathir Mohamad as prime minister in 1981 and the surprise decision of Anwar Ibrahim of ABIM to join UMNO and the government in 1982. Anwar subsequently served in various ministerial posts, becoming deputy prime minster (and heir apparent) in 1993. The alliance between Mahathir and Anwar served the needs of each. For Mahathir, working with Anwar co-opted a potential opponent and gave his government greater Islamic credentials to fend off challenges from PAS. For Anwar, the UMNO’s willingness to embrace a moderate Islamic agenda made it a more attractive partner than PAS, which he believed had become too radical and ulama-dominated, and working within the government gave him means to shape policy (Mutalib 1990: 84–85; Nasr 2001: 91–92). One author notes that “if previously Islam was mainly expressed in symbolic

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terms . . . the government’s efforts [under Mahathir] drew Islam into the heart of all economic and non-economic life” (Shamsul 1997: 210). State-sponsored Islamization was not, as might be thought, simply a tactical response to the dakwah and the criticism of the PAS and others who were at that time championing a greater political role for Islam. In fact, the Malaysian government had come to embrace what might be considered elements of an Islamist agenda in the 1970s. It expanded the religious bureaucracy, created a National Fatwa Council in 1974, created its own dakwah organizations, and began to employ Islamic discourse to justify its policies, including the NEP, whose principles, according to the government, were rooted in the Quran (Nasr 2001: 88–89). Starting in the 1980s, however, the Malaysian government’s embrace of Islam placed the latter center stage in Malaysian politics (Mauzy and Milne 1983: 631). In 1981, the UMNO announced that it was the “largest Islamic party in Malaysia” and that to “oppose the policies of the UMNO was also to oppose Islam.” Mahathir suggested that “our goal and cause” were to “ensure that the Malay community truly adheres to Islamic teachings” (Nasr 2001: 113). Government programs oriented toward Islam included creation of Islamic banking and insurance funds, establishment of an International Islamic University (headed in the late 1990s by Anwar) and think tanks such as the Institute of Islamic Understanding and International Institute of Islamic Thought and Civilization to propagate “progressive” interpretations of Islam (Liow 2009: 52; Noor 2009: 214–215), and formation of new departments within the government such as the Islamic Consultation Board to recommend policies and the National Council for Islamic Affairs.21 Much of this was tied into Mahathir’s development agenda, as he believed Islamic values such as discipline, community, and hard work could help overcome what he had previously identified as “Malay backwardness.” His 1991 statement Wawasan (Vision) 2020, which laid out the country’s development goals, can be considered the culmination of his efforts to promote a developmental Islam that, in his words, would “make Islam in Malaysia synonymous with economic progress” (quoted in Lee 2010: 16).22 Islamization, however, also included political and legal changes, which built upon the preexisting Islamic hierarchy while expanding state powers. Some, such as creation of a central office to certify halal products, were relatively benign. Others, however, more directly impinged upon democracy. In 1993, for example, the Administration of Islamic Law Act gave muftis in individual states expanded powers to issue and amend fatwas. These were binding and legally enforceable in their states and, if approved by all muftis in the National Fatwa Council, became national law. The content of fatwas varied: some were directed at allegedly immoral behavior (e.g., various fatwas concerning consumption and sale of alcohol, a 1996 fatwa against

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Muslim participation in beauty contests); others were directed at banning deviant practices. Connected with the latter, the Department of Islamic Development under the prime minister’s office increased surveillance of groups considered threatening. Those that, in the words of the minister of Islamic affairs, threatened to “disunite Muslims in the country,” would be arrested (Liow 2009: 58). Some, such as Darul Arqam, as noted above, were forcibly shut down, thanks in part to fatwas issued against them. Proselytizing by non-Muslims was also banned. The jurisdiction of sharia courts was expanded, and their verdicts could no longer be overturned by civil courts. The government also sponsored measures to centralize sharia and the administration of Islamic affairs, taking away some powers from the sultans. Establishing authority over the ulama, however, was more problematic, as they were legally sanctioned to speak “for Islam” and thus had potential to undermine or contravene the government’s Islamization efforts. To strengthen its position, the government expanded domestic training of ulama (as opposed to sending them abroad), and through its control over mosques and licensing of preachers—similar to that of the Turkish Diyanet—it helped ensure that the mosques would not become centers for antigovernment activism. While the government did not challenge the ulama directly, it tried to co-opt them so they would serve the state. Nasr (2001: 120) suggests the overall aim was “to use the ulama’s position to sanction policy and to use their social-religious role to enhance state capacity.” Saat (2013) notes that this policy has been generally successful, insofar as the ulama tend to support the status quo: identification of “Malayness” with Islam, Malay supremacy, and rights of hereditary rulers. They have focused most of their criticism on rival groups that seek to lessen their powers or offer a very different interpretation of Islam (e.g., Shias, the feminist organization Sisters in Islam, discussed more later). One significant development was that greater use of Islam by the central government emboldened state governments to pass their own Islamicoriented measures. These included bans on public indecency (e.g., kissing), dress codes, prohibition of alcohol, and closure of casinos and nightclubs. While some of these were passed in states controlled by the UMNO— potentially undermining arguments about “moderation” of Islamic-oriented groups given access to power—more radical or extreme measures were passed in states controlled by PAS (Martinez 2011). Thus, one saw in 1993 in Kelantan and in 2002 in Terengganu passage of hudud laws, which sought to apply sharia-sanctioned punishments such as whipping, stoning, and amputation of limbs for crimes such as fornication, adultery, and theft. Mahathir, among others, spoke out against them on legal grounds (i.e., states lack authority to create crimes and punishments) and on pragmatic grounds (i.e., unsuitability in a diverse country). Despite efforts by PAS to

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reanimate this issue in various locales, hudud punishments have yet to be meted out. This speaks to an important point: Islamization in Malaysia, at least at the federal level, has not been as “radical” as in, for example, Iran or even, as we’ll see in the next chapter, Pakistan. Mahathir is not a cleric, and his primary interest in promoting Islam was as a tool for development and a means to increase state power. His efforts to unify sharia, for example, were supported by the Islamic-feminist group Sisters in Islam (SIS), who saw this option as a means to overcome more discriminatory measures at the state level (Nasr 2001: 119). His version of Islam is a “middle way” between pure secularism and that of PAS, whose positions were condemned as “backwards,” “extremist,” and “antimodern,” in short, the “wrong” type of Islam (Noor 2003: 205). Anwar has also positioned himself as a moderate, one who rejects the state functioning as a moral police and is sensitive to the needs of a pluralist, diverse society (Nasr 2001; Esposito and Voll 2001). Overall, however, the Malaysian case does not fit neatly into the inclusion-moderation hypothesis, insofar as Anwar (the main Islamicoriented figure incorporated into the state) was already a moderate and incorporation of PAS in the early 1970s did not have a moderating effect on its agenda. One might also note that neither Mahathir nor Anwar endorsed Islam as the only answer. Both, in various ways, have embraced “Asian values” as a foil against the West. Anwar’s work The Asian Renaissance (1996), for example, acknowledges the need for both freedom and responsibility as well as faith and religious practices. Islam, but also Buddhism, Hinduism, and Confucianism, distinguishes Asians from overly individualistic Westerners and provides an important basis of identity for its community. Mahathir, together with Singapore’s ruler, Lee Kuan Yew, was highly associated with the promotion of “Asian values” in the 1990s. Mahathir contrasted values such as community, consensus, stable leadership, and obedience against what he viewed as the excessive individualism of the West that promoted crime and immoral behavior. In contrast to Anwar, who adopted a more positive view of pluralism and freedom, Mahathir praised “Asian” traditions of maintaining unity and order while arguing that “too much freedom is dangerous.”23 This point returns us to the question of democracy. One should already understand that Islamization in Malaysia was not accompanied by democratization. Many of the policies used earlier, such as use of the sedition laws against opponents, continued into the Mahathir era. For example, protests over Chinese-language schools in 1987 led to the arrest of leaders of the Chinese-dominated Democratic Action Party in 1987. Islamicoriented groups, including PAS, have also been targeted by the government under these provisions. In the late 1980s, the government passed restrictive

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laws on publishing and a Police Act that it used to disrupt political gatherings (Liow 2009: 56–57). In 1987, Mahathir survived a leadership challenge within the UMNO, whose losers appealed to the High Court, which declared UMNO an unlawful party because some of its branches had failed to register. Mahathir quickly registered the UMNO Baru (New UMNO) and in the following year sacked three High Court justices, a blow to judicial independence. The result was that “all significant political institutions, that is, the judiciary, the press, the Malay Rulers [sultans], and even Islam, were systematically enervated by the centralization of executive power,” which increasingly rested on Mahathir’s personality (Hwang 2002: 206). It would be hard to argue, however, that these moves were animated primarily by “Islamic” rationales; priority was on preserving stability and enhancing governmental authority. Furthermore, while moves to control the sultans or ulama were designed to centralize power, they were not per se antidemocratic as they were not attacking the power of democratic institutions. However, this occurred in an environment in which obedience to the state was lauded not just as an “Asian value” but also, as expounded upon by Syed Muhammad Naquib al-Attas, the head of the state-sponsored International Institute of Islamic Thought and Civilization, a core component of Islam (Noor 2009: 214–215). In other words, Islam could be harnessed to justify both expansion of state power and moves to limit dissent. Fatwas issued by legal scholars were given force of law. Frequently their aim was censorship in the name of “Islam” or “morality,” including bans on books by Western authors such as Karen Armstrong and John Esposito that were deemed too provocative. Measures that infringed upon minorities and religious freedom—including those that de facto prevented conversion from Islam and discriminatory policies with respect to construction of nonMuslim houses of worship—were also problematic (Mauzy and Milne 1983; Freedman 2009; Liow 2009; Lee 2010; Martinez 2011). Restrictions on private activity—ranging from consumption of alcohol and musical performance to ownership of dogs (so as not to offend Muslim neighbors) and fatwas against yoga—also clearly reveal a contrast between Malaysian “democracy” and more Western liberal practices. One should, of course, also note how Islamization is gendered: laws are adopted or watered down to give men greater freedoms (e.g., with respect to polygamy or domestic violence) or to restrict interaction between men and women—not just restrictions on public displays of affection but also laws mandating segregation on public buses and separate checkout lines in grocery stores (Ting 2007; van Dijk 2009: 68). These issues will be discussed more below. Finally, there is the overarching question: Why did the Malaysian state embark upon Islamization, what Shamsul (1997) labels “mainstreaming” of Islam? Different accounts emphasize different causal factors. Certainly, the political threat posed by PAS and other more “radical” actors is an impor-

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tant part of the story; the government found “the only sure way to challenge Islam is with more Islam” (Nagata 1980: 429). Nasr (2001) makes a compelling argument that the state was not only reactive and “forced” to Islamize but saw clear advantages in it as it helped augment state power— by shoring up its legitimacy, by co-opting opponents, and by centralizing authority away from the sultans—and served its developmental goals, including promotion of ethnic Malay causes. Other elements of “Malayness” such as language and royal powers by the 1980s had less utility and attraction. On this score, one might also note that outright denial or repression of Islam was also not viable because of the connection between “Malayness” and Islam. A key point here, however, is that unlike in Turkey or in other states discussed later in this volume, Malaysia, despite some early statements by UMNO officials, was not truly a secular state, neither legally nor, as described above, in practice. Islam was the state religion, and thus it could be used by the state in a systematic way to further the state’s own goals. The end result was most likely less “radical” than what might have been the case under PAS. While perhaps more “moderate” with respect to Islam, however, Islamization on the whole contributed to the country’s movement away from democracy. The Malaysian “Islamic State,” Its Critics, and Prospects for Democratization The apogee of the Islamization campaign under Mahathir came in September 2001, when he announced that Malaysia had become an Islamic state. This development, one should note, came after a period of political instability, generated by the Asian financial crisis of 1997–1998, which had significant effects in Malaysia (although not as serious as in Indonesia); the dismissal and later arrest, beating, and trial of Anwar on charges of corruption and sodomy; and the beginnings of a reform movement (reformasi) by various opposition groups (including PAS) that unified for 1999 national elections. Although the government forcibly cracked down on protests by the reformasi, and Mahathir, unlike Suharto in Indonesia, was not forced from office, the opposition succeeded in taking many votes away from the ruling coalition and especially UMNO. However, thanks to the first-past-the-post system and the way districts were drawn, the authorities preserved their two-thirds parliamentary majority.24 The proclamation of an “Islamic state” needs to be seen in this light and can thus be viewed less as one of victory as a defensive maneuver to reassert the government’s Islamic credentials. Mahathir’s and the UMNO’s conception of an “Islamic state,” to be sure, was not something akin to that in Iran or Saudi Arabia. This Malay-

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sian version acknowledged the need to respect minority rights and did not establish theocratic rule. Nonetheless, it sparked controversy, which prompted the government to issue a booklet (later withdrawn from publication), Malaysia Is an Islamic State, which justified this designation by citing verses from the Quran and Islamic scholarship. It also suggested that obedience to the government was required by Islam, as challenges to the government that could undermine national unity were “an offence which is viewed seriously by religion” (Fealy and Hooker 2006: 245). This, needless to say, did not stem the controversy, which arose from different quarters. Some—both non-Muslims and Muslims—saw this as ominous and threatening the country’s secular traditions as well as interethnic harmony. Others, such as PAS, viewed Mahathir’s pronouncement as presumptuous as the state had not, in their view, met the requirements of a true Islamic state. Advocates of a More Democratic Islam

Although Mahathir’s government had for several years tried to both define acceptable parameters of Islam and to foist this vision on much of Malaysia, this effort met resistance, including from more liberal-oriented Muslim intellectuals and activists who questioned both his interpretation of Islam and the very legitimacy of state efforts to enact a religiously ordered vision on society. One prominent dissident figure has been Chandra Muzaffar, a political scientist and founder and leader of nongovernmental organizations committed to social justice and intercultural dialogue such as Aliran (Justice, 1977–1991), International Movement for a Just World (1992–), and Yayasan 1 Malaysia (Foundation for One Malaysia, 2009–). Chandra is of Indian origin and converted to Islam. Although not trained in Islamic studies, he has written extensively on religion, development, and human rights, both in the context of Malaysia and more globally.25 While he considers himself a pious Muslim, he has been, over several decades, critical of stateled Islamization programs and actions by parties such as PAS to impose an even more complete Islamic vision. His objections are rooted both in practical politics—for example, Malaysia is a diverse society and state promotion of one religious view creates social tensions—and, more importantly for our purposes, in a conception of Islam that emphasizes equality, justice, and human dignity. He sees Islamization as an outgrowth of the NEP and, at its base, an extension of ethnic politics, which he rejects as un-Islamic, as Islam upholds the view that “there is no pride in ancestry” (Muzaffar 1998: 157). He also maintains that religion is fundamentally a private matter, as there is no intercessor in Islam and a person’s relationship with God is direct. Hence, while an individual may seek guidance, “the responsibility of understanding and applying it [religion] to ourselves is our own” (Muzaffar

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2002: 176). State authorities, he warns, can easily lose sight of the liberating elements within Islam, adopting a “selective, sectarian approach which in itself is an injustice to God’s revelation” (Muzaffar 2002: 177). He rhetorically asks if the ruling elites are blind to “the exalted position of freedom in their own spiritual traditions” or “is it possible that these elites who are often estranged from their own traditions do not realize that freedom and dissent are sacred values which should be accorded due respect” (Muzaffar 1998). He calls for creating a new Islamic discourse “to recreate the conditions in which an open, tolerant, and pluralistic society can emerge” (quoted in Noor 2009: 217). Chandra has worked with numerous political figures and organizations to promote human rights in Malaysia, formally joining the multiethnic opposition party Keadilan (People’s Justice Party), whose leading figure is Anwar (who will be discussed later in this chapter). In 2008, Chandra had a major falling out with Anwar after he suggested Anwar lacked sufficient tolerance of different ethnic and religious groups. This led to a lawsuit for defamation, which was finally settled in 2014. Chandra continues to campaign for greater democracy, human rights, and religious freedom, speaking against, among other issues, efforts to change the constitution to define Sunni Islam as the state religion, confiscation of imported Bibles, and efforts to restore the Internal Security Act, under which he was arrested before it was withdrawn in 2011.26 Farish Noor (1967–), comes from a younger generation. Like Chandra, he is also a political scientist. He served as secretary-general for the International Movement for a Just World and writes extensively on Islam and human rights. His critique of state-led Islamization efforts is grounded less in Islamic doctrine than in how it violates principles of freedom and equality. Contrary to the government’s efforts to portray Malaysia as a “moderate” Islamic state, Farish sees many worrying signs: censorship, persecution of political opponents, and a morality police that has become “a law unto itself.”27 He views the government as being in an “Islamization race” with PAS, one it has not entirely won insofar as it has helped spawn new, more extremist versions of political Islam that the government has been forced to brand as “deviant” or “criminal” in order to control. Declaration of an Islamic state, in his view, inherently puts non-Muslims in a subordinate position and belies efforts to create a unified Malaysia (Fealy and Hooker 2006: 253–256). Support for sharia and hudud, he claims, is rooted in the corruption of the UMNO-dominated government and its disregard for social justice. The answer for Malaysia, he suggests, is not more “Islam” but movement away from religious and communal politics and toward a more genuinely pluralistic, democratic system. Anwar must also be noted here, as he has become the leading opposition figure in Malaysia. As discussed above, he was active in the dakwah

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movement and served for many years in government. His falling out with Mahathir and dismissal as deputy prime minister were based on disagreements over economic policy and Anwar’s criticism of corruption within the UMNO, and his arrest and subsequent trial in 1999 on the charge of sodomy made him a cause célèbre, both domestically and internationally.28 He was jailed for five years, and formally returned to politics in 2008 to become leader of the opposition after serving a ten-year ban on political activity. He opposes imposition of an Islamic state but argues for upholding democratic traditions in Islam. Chong (2006) suggests that his notion of Islam Madani (Modern Islam) is rooted in ideas of self, individual empowerment and reasoning (ijtihad), and civil society, as opposed to the government’s use of Islam to justify state power. For example, in 2008 he argued that freedom and justice were the higher objectives of Islam and denounced the government for its “state-sponsored Muslim Puritanism borne more by racist sentiments than religious principles.” Backing away from some of his earlier positions, he acknowledged in 2009 that the “Asian values” thesis had “fallen by the wayside.” Rather than stressing Asia’s or Islam’s uniqueness, he found commonalities in Islamic thought with positions espoused by John Locke and other Enlightenment thinkers. He compared, for example, the exhortation of the Prophet Muhammad for protection of property rights, women’s rights, and racial equality with the “utter disaster” of Malaysia’s “pseudo-democracy.”29 He upholds ideas such as civil society, freedom of expression, and constitutional democracy as “moral imperatives” for Islam and argues that “freedom is the fundamental objective of divine law” (Ibrahim 2006: 6–7). To be sure, Anwar is not without his critics, some of whom suggest that he is too willing to make compromises with those who lack a firm commitment to a tolerant, liberal democracy.30 An Islamic Feminist Critique

As suggested at several points earlier, the connection between politicized Islam and lack of democracy, or at least liberal versions of democracy, is often in relation to restrictions put on women by Islamic laws at the national and (more often) state level. These measures, inter alia, include mandatory dress codes, restrictions in the public sphere of unaccompanied women, and discriminatory measures with respect to female testimony in courts and in inheritance law. Furthermore, political figures in Malaysia, mostly, but not exclusively from PAS, have suggested women should not work or engage in certain professions more suitable to men. Many figures, including Chandra and Anwar (as well as Anwar’s wife, Wan Azizah, who led the Keadilan Party while he was jailed and banned from political activity), have taken up the cause of women in Malaysia. Sisters in Islam (SIS), however, stands out among them. It was founded in

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1987 by figures from the Association of Women Lawyers and, according to its own “story,” it began with a simple question: “If God is just as Islam is just why do laws and policies made in the name of Islam create injustice?”31 SIS has tried to answer this question by articulating a feminist discourse from within Islam. In other words, SIS critiques “Islamic-oriented” measures by arguing that they are not truly “Islamic” or the best interpretation of Islam given the realities in contemporary Malaysia. For example, SIS argues that inheritance laws that give women only half as much as men arose at a time when men were the main monetary providers of their families. In today’s times, SIS argues that many women have to earn a living and contribute to family needs or they may be divorced or widowed and have no man to provide for them. Furthermore, SIS argues that when Islam was formed the new Islamic inheritance laws were progressive in that they granted women the right to inherit property, something they did not have in pre-Islamic Arabia. Consequently, SIS argues Islam today needs to be “progressive” in terms of women’s rights (Fealy and Hooker 2006: 201–202). It makes a similar critique of hudud punishment laws, objecting to them not only because they discriminate against women, but because they were intended, originally, to have strict limits on when such punishments could be applied and to be upheld as a manifestation of God’s mercy. Now, SIS suggests, there are prisons and other means to punish and rehabilitate criminals.32 SIS’s general orientation is that the historical context and rationales for various “Islamic” measures (including polygamy) need to be taken into account and Muslims today need to apply ijtihad to realize the true aims of Islam, which are equality and social justice. Published statements by SIS emphasize that Islam is based on equality and dignity for all, and that the Quran and numerous hadiths praise female leadership and in no way establish blanket superiority of men over women (Fealy and Hooker 2006: 301–304). More recent SIS activity has been directed against child marriage, violence against women, mandatory wearing of head coverings, and creation of a sharia police within the Department of Islamic Development, as well as toward promoting freedom of expression and religion for all Malaysians.33 SIS is a prominent organization, one that has attracted the attention of both Malays and the international community. However, its impact is often limited. One reason is that its ties to the foreign donor community allow opponents to brand it as not authentically Malay. The government has also tried to limit its influence, for example, by banning its publication Muslim Women and the Challenge of Islamic Extremism in 2008.34 A more serious reason the group has limited impact, perhaps, is that SIS lacks, in the authorities’ view, the religious credentials to speak authoritatively on religious subjects. Chandra and Farish and other advocates for reform have a similar handicap. In this respect, Malaysia’s hierarchical religious structure

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and the powers given to traditional rulers to speak for and interpret Islam clearly work against empowerment of a counterdiscourse that might develop into a more “liberal” Islam “from below.” Farish Noor (2009: 224) is ultimately skeptical of prospects for such a reformist discourse because of the power of the state, including its ability to co-opt certain elements of Islam for its own ends while ignoring concerns about democracy, justice, and human rights. The Challenge of (and Within) PAS

Not all opponents of the government and its declaration of an Islamic state, however, invoke contextual or “liberal” interpretations of Islam. PAS rejected the government’s claim to have created an Islamic state, but recognized that its hand was forced: it would now have to declare explicitly what its vision of an Islamic state was, something it had heretofore been reluctant to do. After much internal debate and publication of different draft documents, it issued its Islamic State Document in late 2003. In this, PAS embraced Islam as both a way of life and basis for governance; that Allah must be affirmed as the ultimate sovereign; that the Quran, sunnas, and hadiths should be sources for legislation; that hudud punishments are required; and that sharia is the divine truth and not subject to contextual interpretation. Shura and freedom are upheld, but exercise of neither can go against sharia. Religious freedom would be granted to non-Muslims, but, according to the document, leadership should be assumed by the most pious among the Muslim community, who would be God’s vice-regent and implement His will. Islam stands as a “religion that is to be obeyed” and Muslims have “no choice except to completely abide by their religion” (Fealy and Hooker 2006: 246–252; Tong 2007). Clearly, in PAS’s view, Malaysia, pace Mahathir’s declaration, was not yet an Islamic state. While one might use the above—as well as PAS’s call in late 2001 for jihad against the United States after US intervention in Afghanistan—to argue that PAS is a radical, Islamist party (Noor 2003), this is a bit simplistic and overlooks debates and changes of course within PAS. Liow (2004), for example, notes that after its defeat at the polls in 1986, PAS adopted a more moderate and tolerant discourse, abandoning emphasis on full implementation of sharia in favor of concerns for social justice, human rights, and democracy. True, there was an instrumental reason for this—PAS was fearful of being shut down as other “radical” groups had been—and, as seen in the controversies over hudud laws, it did not give up its push for sharia legislation at the state level. However, it did try to change its tone, reaching out to intellectuals and professionals and trying not to antagonize non-Malays. The proof of PAS’s more moderate turn—a turn that occurred not when it was included in the state, as might be expected by the inclusion-moderation

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hypothesis, but when it was excluded from power and trying to win votes— was its joining the Barisan Alteranif (Alternative Front, BA), an alliance with Anwar’s reformasi Keadilan and non-Malay parties for the 1999 elections. The issue of an Islamic state, according to Fadzil Noor (1937–2002), then-president of PAS, “did not arise in the context of the coalition” (Tong 2007: 112). PAS won twenty-seven of the forty-five seats won by the BA, its best electoral result ever.35 PAS, however, did not build upon this. If its “mainstream” faction prevailed in the 1990s over the “purists,” the early 2000s saw another turn of course. It quickly passed hudud laws in Terengganu after gaining control of the state government. The Chinese-dominated Democratic Action Party, leery of PAS’s intentions, withdrew from the BA in 2011. PAS’s jihadist rhetoric later that year became “an own goal” (Noor 2003: 202), making it easy for the government to label (and Malaysians to believe) that PAS was too extreme. This was re-enforced, as noted above, by its Islamic State document. In 2004 elections, PAS was once again crushed, losing the state government of Terengganu and barely retaining Kelantan and garnering only seven parliamentary seats. Its leader, Abdul Hadi Awang, lost his. Whereas one could argue that aspects of the government’s Islamization program enjoy support, the appetite for a “more Islamic” alternative clearly seems limited. Democratization After Mahathir Mahathir stepped down as prime minister in 2003; his twenty-two consecutive years in office made him the longest-serving elected leader at that time. His successor was Abdullah Badawi (2003–2009), son of a Muslim scholar and grandson of one of PAS’s founders. He thus had strong Islamic credentials, and used these, as well as pledges to tackle corruption and address poverty, to both distinguish himself from Mahathir and to combat allegations from PAS that the government was insufficiently Islamic. He advanced Islam Hadhari (Civilizational Islam), which emphasized Islam’s universal values and compatibility with modernity and development. It invoked the notion of ijtihad to ensure that “interpretations [of Islam] are suited to the developmental needs of the prevailing time” (quoted in Fealy and Hooker 2006: 257). This was, in his words, a more “progressive” Islam that would ensure Muslims would not “fall into PAS’s trap” of extremism (Chong 2006: 31). While some debated whether Islam Hadhari was really anything new—indeed, its stress on development reflected the priorities of Mahathir—and PAS condemned it as an effort to pick and choose certain elements of Islam, Abdullah succeeded in leading the UMNO and the governing coalition to an overwhelming victory in 2004 (Khalid 2007).

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Malaysia did not make much progress toward democracy under Abdullah. Many of the same problems—including control of the press and use of the Internal Security Act against opponents—continued. While these may have a more “statist” than “Islamist” character, issues related to Islam continued to compromise personal and civic freedoms. In 2006, the government banned public discussion of Islam, religious freedom, interfaith issues, and reporting on race and religion.36 In 2007 the Malaysian High Court ruled that the conversion from Islam to Christianity of a Malaysian woman would have to be approved by a sharia court. Given that such courts do not recognize conversion, this ruling denies non-Muslim Malays legal recognition of their conversion, meaning they are still governed as Muslims (Lee 2010). Abdullah, however, proved unable to consolidate power. Economic problems, endemic corruption, concerns over human rights and lack of democracy, as well as divisions within the UMNO itself (sowed in part by Mahathir, who was critical of Abdullah) were all major issues by the time of the 2008 elections. Notably, PAS, stung by its 2004 defeat, once again moderated itself, playing down the requirements and need for an Islamic state and instead emphasizing greater freedom as well as women’s and minority rights (Liow 2011). It cooperated with the Democratic Action Party and Keadilan prior to the 2008 elections, afterwards forming a new coalition with them, the Pakatan Rakyat (People’s Alliance, PR). As seen in Table 3.1, in 2008 the parties of the PR fared well: the BN lost its twothirds majority, and Anwar, the leader of the PR, became the official leader of the opposition. Abdullah lost leadership of the UMNO in 2009 and was replaced as prime minister by Najib Razak, whose signature campaign is 1Malaysia, which emphasizes interethnic cooperation. Notwithstanding some positive developments under Najib (e.g., repeal in 2011 of the Internal Security Act and more permissive measures for political activity, which contributed to the bump in Malaysia’s Polity Score as seen in Figure 3.1), democratic progress was still limited.37 Sodomy charges once again were brought against Anwar (they were dismissed by a court in 2012), and he was suspended from parliament in 2010 for comparing the government’s 1Malaysia program to a similar program in Israel.38 Protests in 2011 and 2012 by Bersih (Coalition for Clean and Fair Elections) were broken up by police. Despite changes in some laws, the government retains many powers, including use of anticorruption institutions, to take action against those it deems threatening. The press is largely controlled by the government, creating an uneven electoral playing field. And finally, human rights groups are harassed or denied the right to register. One could argue that none of this has anything to do with Islam. At the same time, however, it is apparent that government and religious leaders have interpreted Islam in restrictive and nondemocratic ways: non-Sunni

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Muslim religious practices are prohibited and non-Muslims often find it difficult to gain approval to build houses of worship; censorship of books continues; Bibles are confiscated; state religious officials retain authority to issue fatwas to govern personal behavior; Muslims, regardless of the extent of their religious beliefs, must use sharia courts for matters of family law; discriminatory measures against women (e.g., unequal inheritance laws) continue; and, in a case that had been argued for years in Malaysian courts and received significant international attention, in 2013 the High Court reversed an earlier ruling and banned the use of the word Allah by nonMuslims. Those who refuse to abide by this ruling will be subject to sedition laws for undermining interethnic harmony. Najib’s pitch for 1Malaysia was belied in 2013 in a divisive election campaign in which the UMNO played the ethnic card to try to win over Malays. This alienated many non-Malays, and the UMNO suffered additional losses. It failed to receive a majority of the vote for the first time, but gerrymandered districts that overrepresent rural districts (as well as, according to the opposition, significant vote rigging) helped it retain a majority of seats. This outcome, however, created hopes among some Malaysians that the UMNO’s hold on power would come to an end (Welsh 2013). Prospects for democratization—and, concomitantly, a more liberal and less state-centered interpretation of Islam—remain uncertain, however. The PR is a motley coalition, cobbled together by Anwar and united against the corruption of the UMNO but not on much else. Whether multiethnic/nonMuslim parties such as Keadilan and the Democratic Action Party will continue to work with the more conservative and Islamic-oriented PAS remains to be seen; in 2014, the PR was hampered by in-fighting as its various parties could not agree on who should become chief minister in the state of Selangor, in which the PR has a parliamentary majority.39 For our purposes, PAS is the most interesting of the three parties in the PR. Liow (2011), writing before the 2013 elections, notes that PAS realizes that it cannot win power on its own and has moderated itself (as it did in the 1990s) in order to broaden its appeal and gain influence. It has, for example, created a non-Muslim wing (which is admittedly small), and its leaders in 2009–2010 spoke in favor of court rulings that (at that time) allowed non-Muslims to use the word Allah. At the same time, however, some in PAS have advocated abandoning the PR and forming a “Malay alliance” with the UMNO—a development that, if realized, could revolutionize Malaysia’s politics—and, while part of the coalition government in Selangor, it has advocated creation of a moral police, a ban on SIS, and required attendance at public prayers by Muslims. Müller (2014) similarly documents divisions in PAS, emphasizing that changes in style in its youth wing (e.g., embrace of some types of rock music, use of social media) have not

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moderated its policy positions, which remain, in his view, focused on hudud, creation of an Islamic state, and construction of a new caliphate. It is, in his view, premature to view PAS as a “post-Islamist” party. By the end of 2014, the government was doubling down in its battles against its opponents. Najib backtracked on a pledge to eliminate laws against sedition, instead pushing through changes to strengthen the law, including prohibiting the insulting of religion. Defenders of this move suggested it was necessary to prevent “misuse” of various freedoms, while opponents noted that by failing to define what was speech with “seditious tendency” it gave the government wide latitude to stifle any dissent.40 Meanwhile, in March 2014 an appeals court overturned Anwar’s 2012 acquittal on sodomy charges, imposing upon him a five-year prison sentence and a ten-year ban on political activity. As before, many believe these charges are purely politically motivated; notably one of Anwar’s lawyers has also been charged under sedition laws.41 Anwar’s final appeal against his conviction was denied in February 2015, meaning he will serve a ban on political activity after his prison sentence, effectively ending his political career. The fate of the PR, whose prospects seemed strong after the 2013 elections, is now very much in doubt.42 In sum, Malaysian “semidemocracy” has potential to change, although whether it will turn toward more authoritarianism or greater democracy remains to be seen. What can be said is that it represents an interesting and important case for this study. One might have thought that Malaysia’s syncretic Islamic traditions would help foster democratization. Indeed, immediately after independence there were encouraging signs in this direction, as the state refrained from pursuing an “Islamic” agenda. However, when faced with political mobilization by more openly Islamic groups, the state found it relatively easy to play the Islamic card by fusing Islam with Malay identity and building upon powers exercised by traditional religious authorities. The fact that Islam was established as the state religion facilitated this, supporting the contention that secularism is more strongly associated with democratic development. This is not to say that Malaysia cannot democratize. However, various developments, including the incorporation of Islamic-oriented actors in the political system, have had mixed effects, and there has yet to be a “democratic breakthrough” of the type that we will encounter in countries such as Indonesia, Mali, and Senegal. Notes 1. Official 2010 census report, available at www.statistics.gov.my/mycensus 2010. Ethnic Malays (defined as Muslims) make up 54.6 percent of the country’s citizens. Minority groups include ethnic Chinese (24.6 percent, largely Buddhist or

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Christian), indigenous peoples (12.8 percent, predominantly Muslim), and Indians (7.3 percent, largely Hindu). One might add these figures reflect an increase in the number of ethnic Malays, who were just under half the population in 1957 at the time of independence (Milner 2008: 151). 2. These phenomena are analyzed in Nagata 1980; Funston 1981; Hussein 2002; and Liow 2009. 3. For sources employing these terms, see Case 1993, 1997; Means 1996; Weiss 2005; and Giersdorf and Croissant 2011. 4. The origins of the term Malay may come from a kingdom on the island of Sumatra, which is now part of Indonesia (Milner 2008: 19). The precolonial histories of Malaysia and Indonesia significantly overlap. Until 1963, the term “Malaya” was used to designate most of the territory of today’s Malaysia. 5. The British ruled directly over the Straits Settlements of Singapore, Malacca, and Penang, which were more urban and more multicultural than most of the country. 6. The Alliance was formed in 1952 between the UMNO and the Malayan Chinese Association to contest local elections in Kuala Lumpur and was originally directed against the Independence of Malaya Party, which received support from ethnic Indians. The Malayan Indian Congress joined the UMNO in 1955. 7. For text of the Reid Commission’s 1957 report, which notes this issue, see www.krisispraxis.com/Constitutional%20Commission%201957.pdf, accessed 28 January 2014. 8. These are outlined in Article 153 and were originally intended to last fifteen years, but, despite the controversy they have engendered, they remain in place. For more, see Means 1986 and Haque 2003. 9. “Malaysia” formally came into existence in 1963, after Sabah, Sarawak, and Singapore joined the Federation of Malaya. Singapore, which is predominantly ethnic Chinese, left in 1965. I take 1957, the year the Federation of Malaya became independent, to be the beginning of independent “Malaysia.” 10. The prime minister and deputy prime minister, for example, have always been ethnic Malays. 11. See also Case (1996: 95–96) for a more general discussion of accommodation to Chinese economic interests. 12. This score no doubt reflects the emphasis in Polity on electoral competition, which was present in Malaysia, even if the outcome seemed quite predictable given the bargaining among the main parties. 13. Burhanuddin al-Helmy, leader of PAS who espoused a pan-Malay ideology, was jailed in 1965 for allegedly undermining Malaysia during the conflict with Indonesia. Indonesia and Malaysia engaged in low-intensity fighting, mainly on the island of Borneo, after the northern part of the island was incorporated into Malaysia in 1963. 14. I refer to the “Malay cause” here because, although non-Malay bumiputera received priority in government policy as well, they were far outnumbered by ethnic Malays. 15. Mahathir was expelled in 1969 after writing a letter critical of Tunku, whose points would be expanded upon in his The Malay Dilemma, which was published in Singapore and banned in Malaysia until 1982. 16. For details, see Milne and Mauzy 1999: 51–55; Nasr 2001: 69–73; and Haque 2003. 17. Online data from www.worldbank.org in constant 2005 dollars.

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18. Arqam was a companion of Muhammad during his time in Mecca. 19. A positive assessment of ABIM and Anwar’s work can be found in Esposito and Voll 2001: 177–198. For a more mixed view, see Nagata 1980, who notes, among other criticisms, the money ABIM received from Libya in the 1970s. 20. For extended treatment on PAS’s youth wing, see Müller 2014. 21. There is a sizable literature on various government initiatives. This draws from Shamsul 1997; Nasr 2001; Liow 2009; and Freedman 2009. 22. Teik 1995 is the definitive treatment of “Mahathirism.” See also Nasr 2001 for the argument about how Islam served developmental goals. 23. “No Freedom Without Responsibility,” New Straits Times, 20 May 1995. For more extended expositions of Mahathir’s views, see Teik 1995 and Mohammad and Ishihara 1995. 24. Hwang (2002) reports that the BN’s percentage of the national vote fell from 65.1 percent in 1995 to 56.5 percent in 1999. It lost votes mainly in Malaypredominant areas. The BN still won 76.7 percent of parliamentary seats, although the UMNO’s total in the coalition was less than half of the seats (72 out of 148). 25. A useful compilation of his work in English is Muzaffar 2002. 26. This comes from a sampling of his writings on the website of Yayasan 1 Malaysia (www.yayasan1malaysia.org) on 31 January 2014. 27. A good source for Farish’s views is his website, www.theothermalaysia.org. This paragraph draws from two of his essays from 2009, found at www.other malaysia.org/2009/11/02/revisiting-the-spin-of-malaysia-and-indonesia-as-moderate -muslim-states, and www.othermalaysia.org/2009/10/08/religion-between-control -and-contingency, both accessed 21 January 2014. 28. Homosexuality is a criminal offense in Malaysia. Anwar’s conviction on this charge was overturned, but he has been dogged by additional charges of homosexual behavior. Many believe these to be crude political attacks. 29. One can find many of his statements at www.anwaribrahim.com. These selections come from www.anwaribrahim.com/speech.asp?artid=46 and www.anwar ibrahim.com/speech.asp?artid=123, both accessed 2 March 2014. 30. See, for example, Zaid Ibrahim, “Anwar on Democracy and Islam,” The Malaysian Insider, 22 October 2013, at www.themalaysianinsider.com/opinion /zaid-ibrahim/article/anwar-on-democracy-and-islam, accessed 12 March 2014. His fallout with Chandra in 2008 was sparked by the latter’s criticism of his political tactics. 31. Much more information on SIS can be found at its website, www.sisters inislam.org.my. 32. Statement by Dr. Nik Noriani of SIS, 2011, available at www.sistersin islam.org.my/news.php?item.904.121, accessed 2 February 2014. 33. From SIS’s website, accessed 2 February 2014. 34. This ban was subsequently overturned on appeal in 2010. See “Press Statement: Federal Court Dismisses Government Appeal on Decision to Lift Ban on SIS Book,” at www.sistersinislam.org.my/news.php?item.1157.50, accessed 10 February 2014. 35. One should note that the main item this alliance could agree upon was the need to defeat the BN and UMNO; divisive questions such as the role of Islam in Malaysia were played down. 36. Freedom House, Freedom in the World 2007, Malaysia Report, at www .freedomhouse.org/report/freedom-world/2007/malaysia#.UviVe_l_swA, accessed 27 February 2015.

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37. Whether Malaysia has made progress can be disputed. Case (2011), for example, speaks of “authoritarian backlash” during this period. Much of this paragraph is taken from Freedom House Reports from 2010–2013. 38. Anwar has alleged conspiracies involving Israel, the Malaysian government, and the United States, and he has been accused by B’Nai B’rith of antiSemitism. In 2013, Anwar noted that Malaysia’s government’s new slogan, “Endless possibilities,” had also been used by Israel. 39. “A Lousy Sequel,” The Economist, 1 November 2014, p. 37. 40. “Malaysian Premier Says Sedition Act Will Stand,” New York Times, 28 November 2014, and “As Sedition Act Stays, IGP Wants It Made Easier to Charge,” Malay Mail Online, 28 November 2014, available at http://tinyurl.com/ndf3sr9, accessed 27 February 2015. 41. “A Lousy Sequel”; “Anwar Ibrahim Begins Appeal Against Sodomy Conviction,” The Guardian, 28 October 2014. 42. “Malaysia’s Dark Side,” The Economist, 14 February 2015, p. 38.

4 Pakistan: Democracy After Islamization?

Pakistan became independent in 1947 and was explicitly founded as a Muslim country, uniting Muslim-majority regions of British India.1 It is ethnically diverse,2 which has often posed significant challenges to the state, most clearly evidenced by the secession by the Bengalis of East Pakistan (Bangladesh) in 1971. Islam, the faith of the overwhelming majority of Pakistanis,3 has thus been employed as the “cementing bond” and a “shortcut” to unite its diverse population (Ayoob 2007: 64; Masud 2014), but defining what “Islam” means or requires, especially in a political sense, has been (and remains) a vexed question. While some have suggested that Pakistan’s founders sought to “invent a model of Muslim democracy that recognized the compatibility of Islam and democracy” (Khan 2006b: 156), this was not immediately realized. There were no national-level elections until 1970, and the results of these elections precipitated the breakup of the country. For almost half of its existence, Pakistan has been ruled by military governments, and Islam has frequently been invoked to restrict political and civic freedoms. As seen in Figure 4.1, Pakistan has a very inconsistent democratic record and, indeed, the weakest one among the countries covered in this volume. Yet, it does, at least by Polity’s reckoning, sustain “democracy” for ten years, beginning in 1988, which is also when it was ranked highest on FH’s rubric. It therefore counts among our cases as a Muslim-majority democracy, although, to be sure, democracy has been more the exception than the rule. In the 2000s, Pakistan was deeply affected by events in Afghanistan and has seen more Islamic-inspired violence (as well as violence directed by the state and United States in response) than any other country in this volume. However, in 2013, for the first time in its history, a civilian government finished its complete term of office, offering some 117

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Figure 4.1 Democratic Development in Pakistan 10 88 66 44 22 00 –2 -2 –4 -4 –6 -6

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hope, perhaps, that the country might be able to develop a more democratic system. This chapter examines the role of Islam in Pakistani politics. While it discusses the more democratic periods, it will also examine how and why “Muslim democracy” did not, at least for many years, take root. While many factors worked against democracy in Pakistan—indeed, this outcome is clearly “overdetermined”—there is no doubt that political Islam, at least as used by some actors, played a negative role. To what extent there is a “democratic repertoire” in Pakistani Islam and whether this is connected to manifestations of democracy are also key considerations—in other words, is political Islam as constructed and employed in Pakistan only something to be “overcome” or can it be deployed in support of democracy? As was the case with Malaysia, however, we’ll start with a historical review of the development of Islam, focusing in particular on whether it evolved in a more pluralistic or hierarchical fashion. Islam and the Creation of Pakistan Islam has a long and variegated history in South Asia.4 Islam came through trade, settlement, and conquest. The first mosque on the subcontinent was built in Kerala in 642, and the region of Sindh in today’s Pakistan fell to

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Arab forces in 711 and became the easternmost region of the Umayyad and Abassid Empires. Over the next several centuries, numerous Islamic kingdoms and sultanates appeared, and the region was subject to Arab, Persian, and Turkic influences. Many converted to Islam from Hinduism and Buddhism, but the region remained religiously diverse. This included various manifestations of Islam, including Ismaili Shiism and Sufism, both of which attracted followers by adopting elements of pre-Islamic traditions into their practices. While some powerful Islamic states emerged, they did not impose a singular version of Islam on the population. Religious syncretism and diversity reigned. For example, while the Sunni-Turkic Sultanate of Delhi (1193–1526) had its own religious leaders and Islamic-centered legal system, there was a vibrant religious life outside the purview of the state, often centered around Sufism (Kugle 2006: 471–472). As the Delhi Sultanate weakened, various regional dynasties emerged, some of which embraced Shiism. The Mughal Empire (1526–1857), founded by Turkic Central Asians, later became the dominant power, encompassing most of the subcontinent. While it was a “patrimonial-bureaucratic” imperial state, it was also, for much of its history, inclusive, with various religions and ethnicities represented among its nobility. Loyalty to the emperor, not “narrowly defined interests of Islam,” held it together (Richards 1995: 59–60, 284). There was no effort to impose a single “orthodox” Islam; various Sufi orders remained important; Hindu traditions influenced its arts (music, poetry, etc.); measures were passed to appease Hindus (e.g., prohibition on the killing of cows); and some in the Mughal elite even tried to suggest that monotheistic Islam and polytheistic Hinduism were compatible.5 Akbar (1542–1605), perhaps the greatest of the Mughal emperors, even tried to promote a new faith, Din-i-Ilahi, that blended different traditions but centered on him as a great prophet. This did not take root and was condemned as blasphemous by many Muslims. Later Mughal rulers, especially Aurangzeb (1658–1707), tried to create a more “Islamic” empire, adopting sharia, destroying Hindu temples and declaring war on the Sikhs, and practicing forcible conversion (Richards 1995: 171–176). Moreover, there were efforts “from below,” led by Nakşibendi Sufis, to reform and purify Islam in a more orthodox direction. These can be interpreted as precursors to subsequent movements to spread a more fundamentalist version of the faith (discussed later), but at the time, their influence “should not be exaggerated” (Kugle 2006: 477). While the decline of the Mughal Empire, which began in earnest in the early 1700s, strengthened local religious leaders—both Sufi pirs (elders or masters) and more orthodox ulama (Metcalf 1982: 25)—syncretism and diversity continued to prevail, and some non-Sunni groups (e.g., Shia in Awadh) gained significant autonomy.

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By the early 1800s, the British replaced the Mughal Empire as the dominant power. By this time, perhaps 20 percent of the population was Muslim, but they were spread out across the region: half lived in Bengal (the eastern part of which later became East Pakistan and then Bangladesh) and areas in the west such as Punjab and Sindh also had Muslim majorities (Robinson 2010: 203). British rule was not well accepted by many Muslims, who lost their positions of political leadership and were now on the “wrong side of the political equation” (I. Haqqani 2006: 220). Some, such as Sayyid Ahmed Shahid (1786–1831) in Punjab, rebelled under the banner of jihad and tried to establish an Islamic state ruled by sharia. In Bengal, Muslims organized against the British and Hindu landlords. In 1857, Muslims were prominent actors in the mutiny against the British, which was brutally crushed and left many British wary of Islam as a means to challenge colonial authority. Not all Muslims, however, were openly hostile to the British. Some, such as Sayyid Ahmed Khan (1817–1898), a Mughal noble, called on Muslims to work with the British and advocated a more open, progressive view of Islam that embraced science and modernization. He opened schools to provide Western-style education, including the Aligarh Muslim University (1875), which became the center of the Aligarh movement, designed to foster a modern Muslim identity. In northwest India, the region that would become (West) Pakistan, the British ruled indirectly, working with Muslim feudal and tribal leaders to maintain order and provide security against Russian threats from the north. Customary and tribal law, as opposed to strict Islamic law, continued to prevail (Nasr 2001: 43). This last point is important and addresses an important difference between British policy in Pakistan and that in Malaysia, which was discussed in the previous chapter. In contrast to Malaysia, where British policy supported the traditional sultans as defenders of Islamic law and thereby created religious hierarchies, in British India the ulama’s “socioreligious role as interpreters of the faith [that existed] under Muslim rulers could not have a place in British rule” (Nasr 2001: 44). A more decentralized basis of rule, centered on tribal identity and feudal lords, was the norm. Patronage between the British and these elites was the basis for governance. Both were distrustful of the masses, arguably bolstering attitudes that would later inhibit democracy in independent Pakistan (I. Haqqani 2006). The Aligarh movement and the alliance between the tribal/feudal elites and the British did not go unchallenged. The politically marginalized ulama opposed British rule and sought to restore their “rightful” place. Among other actions, they founded the Darul Uloom Deoband school, which became the center of the Deobandi movement that advanced a more anti-Western “Islamic” vision for South Asia’s Muslims. The Deobandis believed human salvation demanded a politically engaged Islam, one in

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which the ulama, based upon knowledge of fiqh (jurisprudence), would play a leading role (Metcalf 1982). The Ahl-i Hadith movement, most associated with Siddiq Hasan Khan (1832–1890), was also consequential. In contrast to the Deobandis, who largely upheld the traditional position of the ulama, it sought to purge Islam of its inherited traditions—including both syncretic Sufism and legal interpretations by ulama—and return to the “pure” faith. By the early twentieth century, there were thus several interpretations of Islam—including the Barelvi movement, which upheld Sufism and folk Islam and may have had the most adherents—present in British India (Talbot 1998: 28; Kugle 2006: 479). Schemes to unify Muslims in a politico-religious sense, such as those proposed in the 1920s by AbulKalam Azad (1888–1958) to create an amir-i shari‘at (leader of holy law) in each Indian province, which would be aided by a council of ulama to oversee religious affairs and would elect an amir-i hind (leader [of the Muslims] of India), a system akin to what did emerge in Malaysia, came to nought (Nasr 1994: 17–18). One might therefore imagine, based upon the historical factors conducive to a “democratic” or “liberal” Islam identified in Chapter 1, that Pakistan possesses a positive heritage with respect to the relationship between Islam and democracy. It has a rich history of religious pluralism and syncretism, one that it could potentially draw upon—as democratic actors have done in Mali with respect to the Malian Empire (discussed in Chapter 6)—to promote tolerance and diversity.6 There was also—certainly throughout British rule up until independence—no single actor with the authority to speak “for” Islam (although many aspired to this role) or connected to state power to impose a singular version of the faith upon the population (Binder 1961: 27). Islam in Pakistan was nonhierarchical, diverse, and decentralized. However, the key point—one that becomes even clearer after Pakistan becomes independent—is that Islam is central to the state itself, its raison d’être. It became the rallying cry—literally—for Pakistan (“Land of the Pure” in Urdu), described by one writer as the “Muslim Zion” (Devji 2013).7 The story of the creation of Pakistan is a long one.8 An essential point, however, is that it was directed at least as much (if not more so) against Hindu nationalism and Jawaharlal Nehru’s vision of a secular India than against the British (Binder 1961: 3). Islam was what united the Muslims of India—a statement that, it is true, is tautological—but how Islam, as a religion, related to cultural claims of “Muslim nationalism” in the “twonation” theory that became the justification for an independent Pakistan was neither clear nor subject to universal agreement. Separatism, however, neither appeared as the initial goal of what might be called the “Muslim movement” in British India nor was it universally embraced. This was particularly true for those who had a clear “Islamic”

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character (Alavi 1986: 21). For example, the Jamiat-al-Ulama-i-Hind, composed mostly of Deobandi clergy, cooperated with the mostly Hindu Indian National Congress and opposed creation of a separate Pakistani state (Binder 1961: 28). Other representatives of the ulama also remained “aloof” to campaigns for Pakistan into the 1940s out of concern for the plight of Indian Muslims outside the boundaries of a proposed Pakistan (Qasmi 2010). Other Islamists, such as Abu’l A’la-Mawdudi (1903–1979), who founded the Jamaat-e Islami (JI) Party in 1941 and became a seminal figure in the development of global Islamism, argued that nationalism was antithetical to Islam and advocated Muslim takeover of all of India.9 Muhammad Ali Jinnah (1876–1948), the “father” of Pakistan, initially refused to join the Muslim League (ML), founded in 1906, and spent much of his early political career lobbying for rights (e.g., separate electorates, reserved seats in parliament, creation of Muslim-majority provinces) for Muslims in a united India. The anticolonial cause, however, was dominated by Hindu Indians. As the prospect of becoming a permanent majority in independent India began to sink in, Muslims began to seek self-determination as the surest way to secure their rights. One notable advocate was the poet and philosopher Muhammad Iqbal (1877–1938), who established himself as an important Islamic scholar with his Reconstruction of Religious Thought in Islam and became president of the ML in 1930. He is credited in Pakistani historiography with first envisioning a separate Pakistan.10 Iqbal, while presenting an idealized picture of Muslims within India as a separate nation based on homogeneity and inner unity, was not a secular nationalist. He advocated Islam as a total system that provided a basis to organize political life and as an ideology that could be used by Muslims to emancipate themselves from Western rule. A nationalism that displaced Islam was “unthinkable” given Islam’s capacity to unify the community and to foster the development of the individual (Iqbal 1930). However, Iqbal presented himself as a modernist, an advocate of a “different type” of Islam (Sevea 2012: 94), one who encouraged ijtihad to rejuvenate the faith and make it more relevant to contemporary concerns. Significantly, while he found democratic elements within early Islam, he did not try to rehabilitate past practices of Islam on the subcontinent as a model (Hassan 2009: 168–169). While Iqbal had immense intellectual stature, it was Jinnah, who returned from England in 1934 with Iqbal’s urging to assume leadership of the ML, who led Pakistan to independence.11 Prior to this, the ML had been relatively ineffective in uniting all of India’s Muslims, who, pace Iqbal’s observation, were divided along class, linguistic, and regional lines (I. Haqqani 2006). Jinnah built a strong political coalition, reaching out to the feudal/tribal/military elite in Muslim-majority provinces (especially Punjab) and, after 1936, even rhetorically committing to an Islamic state, which

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was a clear concession to the ulama (Binder 1961: 29). In 1940, in the Lahore Declaration, Jinnah and the ML formally called for partition, recognizing that the Hindu-dominated Indian National Congress would not accede to their main political demands. During World War II, Jinnah became the spokesperson for Indian Muslims in talks with both the Indian National Congress and the British, and the ML dominated among Muslim voters in national and provincial elections in 1945 and 1946, vindicating his leadership as well as the idea of Pakistan. Last-ditch efforts to avert partition failed, and, amid much violence as populations moved across the new borders, two states (with Pakistan divided into western and eastern parts) came into being in August 1947. Competing Visions of Islam in Independent Pakistan The creation of Pakistan, while a victory for Iqbal’s and Jinnah’s twonation theory, did not resolve the role of Islam in Muslim Pakistan. Jinnah, a Shia who married a Parsi (Zoroastrian), was, like the initial postcolonial elite in Malaysia, secular in outlook and saw Islam more as an ethnocultural than a religious marker (Alavi 1986). Some have suggested that his vision for Pakistan was of a “modern, liberal, secular [my emphasis], and democratic state” (Khairi 1995: 159), although what Jinnah truly wanted remains a major (and perhaps unanswerable) question in Pakistani historiography. During his lifetime, however, Jinnah encountered opposition from those who endorsed a more “Islamic” ideal for Pakistan, such as Mawdudi. They viewed Jinnah and the ML with distrust, as the latter was led by a Westerneducated elite drawn from the feudal aristocracy and included in its ranks heterodox Ahmadis.12 Mawdudi dubbed the ML as a “party with no morals” (quoted in Nasr 1994: 88). Jinnah, however, died in 1948, thus was unable to realize whatever vision he may have held. An Islamic, Not Secular, Republic

His demise might be seen as a crucial turning point. Had he lived, one might suggest, he could have been Pakistan’s Atatürk, meaning he could have put the country on a secure Westernizing and secular path that could have augured well for democracy. Whether Jinnah had genuine democratic credentials or is better seen as a representative of an elite that had little intention of empowering the illiterate rural masses13 is another open question.14 What is clearer is that secularism had little chance in Pakistan given that it was to be the homeland of Muslims. Nasr (2001: 46) argues the demand for Pakistan itself “was not about religion” but about “safeguarding Muslim rights,” but Qasmi (2010: 1200) persuasively maintains that such

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a position is an “academic interpretation of events” and does not reflect real policy options once independence had been achieved. Alavi (1986: 22) likewise concedes that even though Islam as a faith was not central to Muslim nationalism prior to the creation of Pakistan, after 1947 it became a major concern. The question, in short, was not Islam or not, but what kind of Islam should be reflected and promoted in Pakistan. This proved to be a difficult question. Islam, along with the division of powers between Pakistan’s ethnic groups and regions, played a central role in debates over Pakistan’s constitution, which took nine years to draft and adopt. During this time, Islamist political forces, including the JI as well as parties and organizations of ulama, rejected initial drafts that were mostly silent on Islam and pressed instead for creation of an Islamic state (Binder 1961; Nasr 1994).15 They had some success, in part because many of the state’s leaders were Muhajirs, migrants from what became India, and they found Islam a convenient means to legitimate themselves (Nasr 2001; Devji 2013). Thus, the Objectives Resolution (1949) on constitutional principles affirmed the sovereignty of God and that authority delegated by Him to the people is “prescribed within [Divine] limits” and the 1956 constitution created the Islamic Republic of Pakistan (whose capital would be Islamabad, “City of Islam”), one that contained elements of parliamentary democracy as well as various concessions to Islamists: the state was to be based on “Islamic principles”; the head of state was required to be Muslim; laws found to violate the tenets of Islam would be declared invalid; and creation of a Council of Islamic Ideology (CII) and an Islamic Research Center to assist in “the reconstruction of Muslim society on a truly Islamic basis” (Esposito 1986: 336). These developments are important, as they clearly steer Pakistan away from a Turkish-style secular course and later provide a means for Islamists to make claims against the state. Furthermore, they could be construed as analogous, in many ways, to Mawdudi’s conception of an Islamic state, which he posited as a “theo-democracy” that would empower “capable and qualified” Muslims to issue opinions on matters of Islamic law but also foresaw restrictions on popular sovereignty in favor of upholding the Divine Will (Mawdudi 2007). Nasr (2001: 60) maintains that the constitutional debates show that “Islamic forces were fully included in its [Pakistan’s] political process and moved to appropriate the national political discourse from the state,” and it is certainly true, as we’ll see later, that Islam remained in the “back pocket” of the authorities when they needed to legitimate themselves. However, it is also worth emphasizing that democracy, at least as a discourse to challenge the authorities and as a means to acquire power, was not rejected by most Islamist groups; indeed, the JI and other Islamist parties regularly took part in elections and, when the country was ruled by authoritarian governments, often became advocates for democratization.

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Islamic Modernism and Military Rule

The “Islamic” orientation of the 1956 constitution should not be overblown as a wholesale Islamist victory. “Islamic principles” were not precisely defined. Esposito (1986: 336) suggests that the framers of the constitution purposefully skirted the question of the Islamic nature of the state, and certainly did not articulate an ideological or virtual totalitarian Islamist vision à la Mawdudi in which a “universal and all-embracing” state would refuse to recognize “any field of [an individual’s] affairs as personal and private” (Mawdudi 2007: 266). Indeed, Qasmi, looking at the role of Islam in the first two decades of Pakistan’s independence, argues that general and vague references to Islam in these core documents were a victory of a “power elite” that embraced a modernist, flexible, and in some ways even “liberal” version of Islam grounded in the Aligarh movement against Islamist actors rooted in the Deobandi, Ahl-i Hadith, and Barelvi traditions of a “closed religious system” with “clearly defined dogmas and practices” (Qasmi 2010: 1204). For example, while the constitution did contain “repugnancy” clauses, meaning that laws counter to Islam would be repealed, this did not have a major effect on legislation. Lau (2006: 11) argues that “the paucity of reported cases involving an explicit recognition of Islam as an additional source of law indicates that in the 1950s and 1960s judges were still able and willing to reject any express reliance on Islamic law.” Even more significantly, state leaders, in both the executive and judicial branches, refused to empower the ulama with special powers to interpret the faith, while, on their own accord, they propagated a version of Islam that, among other items, openly called into question the legitimacy of various hadiths and ulama-defined fiqh while advocating an Islam that was contextually based, not scriptually bound.16 Prime Minister Khvaja Nazimud-Din (1951–1953) asserted the following: The principles enunciated by Islam had to be interpreted in terms of the democratic constitutional practice of the 20th century . . . so that we could bring about a synthesis not only of the fundamental teachings of our faith and the requirements of progressive democracy but also of the requirements of the 20th century and best elements in our own tradition and history. (quoted in Qasmi 2010: 1207)

State agencies were staffed with scholars who reflected this modernist view, and Fazlur Rahman (1919–1988) known for his scholarly works to reconcile Islam and modernity, returned to Pakistan in 1961 to head the Institute of Islamic Research.17 State officials debated measures to solve what they viewed as the “fundamental conflict” in Pakistan between the educated classes and the ulama by introducing the latter to “modern knowledge” so they could then play a “constructive and desirable role in society”

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(Qasmi 2010: 1249).18 In terms of policy, the most noteworthy “victory” of the modernists was passage in 1961 of a new Family Law Code, whose chief architect was Rahman and, inter alia, required civil registration of marriages, granted women greater rights of divorce, put limitations on polygamy, and raised the legal age of marriage. This act was vehemently opposed by the JI and the ulama, but its passage revealed how the latter had been “excluded” and “disenfranchised” in an area that had previously been “their domain” (Qasmi 2010: 1233). For most of the period under discussion, Pakistan was ruled by General Ayub Khan (1958–1969), whom Nasr (2001: 61) describes as “avowedly secular.” Indeed, one of the motivations of the military’s seizure of power was to stop growing power of the ulama and JI, which, according to General Iskandar Hizra, had been indulged by weak civilian leaders and had demonstrated their potential to “mess up the state” (quoted in Nasr 1994: 119). Put in the terms invoked in the opening chapter, Islamic-oriented mobilization complicated governance in the absence of strong democratic institutions, creating an excuse for the military to step in. In this respect, one of the military government’s most significant achievements was the takeover of religious endowments and nationalization of mosques and Sufi shrines. This, akin to what Atatürk did in Turkey, reduced the independence of the ulama and gave the state a means to propagate its preferred version of Islam. The authorities also cracked down on the activities of the JI, including jailing Mawdudi. In addition, the government rewrote the constitution, offering in 1962 a version free of references to Islam, but, amid widespread opposition, the original clauses declaring Pakistan an Islamic republic were reinserted in 1963. Khan, however, proved willing to use Islam to justify some of his policies, including his push for economic modernization and the “Basic Democracy” scheme that fulfilled the obligation of shura by giving elected local councils some limited powers (Sayeed 1961: 255).19 Most interestingly, he obtained a fatwa in 1965 to try to prohibit Fatima Jinnah, Muhammad Jinnah’s sister, from running against him as head of state. Mawdudi, however, issued a counter fatwa to approve her candidacy, thus breaking with his earlier work that had proscribed purdah (seclusion) for Muslim women and effectively denied them a role in the public sphere.20 This effectively settled the issue of whether a woman could become Pakistan’s leader.21 Compared to what was to come later, however, Khan’s regime remained relatively secular, making it an “anomaly” and “transient phenomenon” in Pakistan’s history (Nasr 2001: 63). It was, however, to be clear, nondemocratic; indeed, both parts of the aforementioned goal to create “Muslim democracy” proved elusive. Pakistan’s undemocratic nature was apparent before the 1958 military coup.

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Talbot (1998: 126) describes its first decade of parliamentary politics as an “abject failure.” Problems were manifold: continuation of the British “viceregal” system in which power was concentrated in the executive and bureaucracy; closure by executives of regional assemblies and the national Constituent Assembly; failure to adopt a constitution; rigged elections that entrenched the power of feudal and tribal elites; ethnic and regional tensions; corruption; restrictions on civil liberties and the jailing of political opponents; and an outsized role for the military, fostered in part by conflict with India. Irshad Haqqani (2006) notes that most of the elite in Pakistan came from a feudal culture that had no interest in majority rule, especially as most Pakistanis lived in East Bengal and the elite came mostly from Punjab or were Muhajirs. Hence there were no national-level elections. By the late 1950s, conflict among the feudal elite and various institutions had created an anarchic Hobbesian struggle for power, in which the military asserted itself in 1958 as the “Leviathan” to restore order (Sayeed 1959: 389–390). Military rule banned political parties and placed further limits on freedoms. While fear of Islamists was invoked as a justification to seize power and, as noted, the government tried to spread a more “progressive” interpretation of Islam, this was not the same as democracy. Indeed, Rahman, who had impeccable credentials as an advocate of a “modern Islam” and endorsed democracy in principle, argued that the lack of economic development and illiteracy in Pakistan made the realization of democracy difficult. In his view—one shared by many in the elite—it would be preferable to have a “strong man” in charge for the sake of economic development and gradually cultivate the “spirit of democracy” (quoted in Hassan 2009: 172). This left the JI and many of its Islamist allies, which were in opposition to the government, to advance a more democratic discourse. Nasr (1994: 122) observes that in the 1960s “religious modernism went hand in hand with martial rule, while the fortunes of [Islamic] revivalism became intertwined with those of democracy.” Interestingly, one victim of the Islamists was Rahman, who was forced to resign his position as head of the Institute of Islamic Research in 1968 and leave Pakistan in the wake of mobilization against him and accusations of being a kafir or apostate when excerpts of his work Islam appeared in Pakistan.22 This event prompted Khan to lament—in words that some might deem prophetic—the prospects of new and progressive interpretations of Islam taking hold in “this priestridden and ignorant society” and that “these people [Islamist parties and their ulama allies] will not allow Islam to become a vehicle for progress” (quoted in Baxter 2007: 90). The larger point, however, is, as in the case of Turkey, one cannot easily “blame” Islam for most of the democratic shortcomings of governments committed to authoritarian secularism.

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Islam and Democracy Under Zulfikar Bhutto (1971–1977)

Democracy, would, however, have another chance in Pakistan. Growing inequality, corruption, tensions between the two parts of Pakistan, and defeat in a 1965 war with India all damaged the legitimacy of the military government. In 1969, rioting across the country led to Khan’s resignation, and his successor committed the country to its first national elections in 1970. These were won by the Awami League (AL), a Bengali nationalist party. Pakistan’s president, General Yahya Khan, refused to allow AL leaders to form a government, precipitating an uprising in East Pakistan and a war with India that eventually led to the creation of Bangladesh. These events are discussed in more detail in Chapter 5. After the breakup of the country, Zulfikar Bhutto (1928–1979)—the scion of an aristocratic family and leader of the left-wing Pakistan Peoples’ Party (PPP), which had dominated the polls in (West) Pakistan—became president. Bhutto had served in various posts in Ayub Khan’s government. He promised to both democratize and develop the country. He ended the country’s state of emergency; oversaw passage of a new constitution in 1973 that, among other things, upheld women’s equality and earmarked parliamentary seats for non-Muslim minorities; and embarked upon a socialistinspired development program that included land reform and nationalization of many industries. He was, in the Pakistani context, secularly oriented, noting in his campaign that Islam was not relevant as both the exploited and exploiters in Pakistan were Muslims. His elevation to power could thus be seen as evidence of the “political bankruptcy of the old order and the irrelevance of political Islam as flaunted by the erstwhile rulers of Pakistan” (Ayoob 1979: 537).23 Bhutto had more democratic legitimacy than any of his predecessors, and, judging from Figure 4.1, for much of his reign (1971–1977), Pakistan was judged to be “democratic” by Polity. This is not to say that all functioned democratically or even well during much of his administration: provincial governments, as before, were dismissed in the name of combating separatism; a Federal Security Force was used to attack political opponents; Bhutto repeatedly sought more powers for the executive, including passing constitutional amendments to limit the power of the courts; the leading opposition party, the National Awami Party, was banned in 1975; and corruption was endemic as the PPP turned into a patronage machine. 24 His economic reform programs generated intense opposition from the landed elites and the business class, and after elections in 1977, which were widely viewed as rigged by the PPP and followed by arrests of many opposition leaders, he was removed from power as the army intervened amid the “near collapse of state authority” (Nasr 2001: 81).

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For our purposes, however, what is most relevant is that it is under Bhutto that Islam moved to the “center stage” of Pakistani politics (Esposito and Voll 1996: 107). This was, as noted, not necessarily Bhutto’s agenda or choice, as he was driven in this direction by Islamist mobilization that, among other things, blamed the loss of East Pakistan on secularism and proposed Islam as a solution to the country’s myriad troubles. The ulama and JI, which had both campaigned against Khan’s military regime, benefited from an Islamic revival, particularly among the middle and professional classes, and found a new enemy in the socialist Bhutto. Over a hundred ulama issued a fatwa against socialism and anyone who supported it, and Mawdudi suggested that “the tongue that utters the word socialism would be severed” (Esposito and Voll 1996: 107–108; Qureshi 1980: 567). They found allies among the wealthy classes by invoking Islam’s defense of private property. In this way, Islam became “central to all struggles of power in the 1970s” (Nasr 2001: 78), a phenomenon made possible, as in Malaysia in the same time period, by the fact that the state was not secular and thus had to develop some sort of Islamic orientation. To this end, Bhutto patronized Sufi ceremonies and shrines—mostly in his native Sindh—in an effort to promote “popular Islam” against the more conservative interpretations of the ulama, but this was by and large a losing battle. The Islamists, who had demonstrated their power in forcing Rahman to resign, were not going to give credence to yet another secular leader trying to burnish his Islamic credentials, and there was no prominent “moderate” voice of Islam (akin to ABIM in Malaysia) with whom he could make common cause. Bhutto was thus forced to “ride the tide of Islamic consciousness” (Nasr 2001: 79). He made a variety of concessions to try to legitimize his rule. Some were symbolic (e.g., changing the weekly holiday from Sunday to Friday and the name of the Red Cross to the Red Crescent; convening international conferences on Islam; dubbing the country’s nuclear weapons program a quest for an “Islamic bomb”); some were more substantive (e.g., constitutional amendments in 1974 to declare Ahmadis non-Muslim and thereby disqualify them from high office). In 1977, Bhutto banned alcohol and closed nightclubs. These, however, were not enough for his opponents, and Islamist actors figured prominently in the Pakistan National Alliance that contested the 1977 elections under the slogan “Islam in Danger” and called for Nizam-i-Mustafa (System of the Prophet) (Esposito 1986: 340–341). Islamization Under Military Rule Bhutto was not overthrown by Islamists, although Islamic-oriented mobilization certainly contributed to the instability that precipitated the mili-

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tary, yet again, to intervene in Pakistani politics. As before, and in contrast with the Turkish case, the military did not quickly relinquish power. Instead, under General Muhammad Zia-ul-Haq (1924–1988), it tried to refashion Pakistan in its preferred image. However, in contrast to Khan’s embrace of “modernist” or “progressive” Islam, Zia, personally pious and attracted to Mawdudi’s Islamist ideas, promoted a more dogmatic, scriptualist, and ideological interpretation, one that he had promoted among the officer corps. The period of Zia’s rule, which lasted until 1988, is the least democratic in Pakistan, as seen in Figure 4.1. It is thus not the place to look for a positive relationship between Islam and democracy. However, it is worth briefly considering why and how Zia’s interpretation of Islam, one that was used to legitimize an autocratic regime, prevailed for over a decade. One way of answering this question is that while the form Islam took under Zia was different, he was not the first Pakistani leader to use Islam to try to legitimize the government and strengthen state power. In this respect, pace Talbot (1998: 245), “everything” did not “change.” What was clearly different was that Zia favored a more fundamentalist and politicized version of Islam, but this too had strong roots in Pakistan, developed by, among others, the Deobandis in the 1800s and later endorsed postindependence by the JI and numerous ulama groups in their opposition to previous governments. In this sense, Zia simply drew upon history, albeit a different one from the previous military government that was inspired by the Aligarh movement. By the 1970s, this more “liberal” or “secular” interpretation had been discredited, associated with the failures of the previous governments and not deemed authentically “Islamic.” Zia’s coup was welcomed by many as a chance to create a strong, stable state, and Islam became the “leitmotif for the resurrection of Pakistan,” which was to be grounded on piety, discipline, and conformity (Ziring 1984: 942). Crucially, by the end of the Bhutto regime the arbiters of what was and was not “Islamic” were the JI and various ulama groups, who clearly wished to capture the state and implement their blueprint of an Islamic society. Again, there was nothing like Malaysia’s ABIM. Zia offered the JI and other Islamist groups cabinet positions and appointments in state bodies, a form of “inclusionary corporatism” (Nasr 1994: 148). However, given Zia’s commitment to Islamization, this did not, contrary to the hypothesis presented in Chapter 1, moderate the Islamist groups; indeed, the JI became one of the loudest voices to demand Bhutto’s execution in 1979, and it became radicalized as it was given large responsibilities with respect to Islamabad’s support for the Afghan mujahidin. Combined with grave political crisis facing Pakistan—far more severe than that which confronted Malaysia in the 1970s—the overall result was a more “ideologically strident Islamization” (Nasr 2001: 131).

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This included many elements.25 Some, such as creation of an Islamic University, proliferation of Islamic schools, reanimation of the CII to advise the government, promotion of Urdu over English, more vigorous bans on alcohol, promotion of Islamic programming in state media, censorship in the name of public morality, and introduction of interest-free banking, had parallels with Islamization in Malaysia and did not directly impinge upon democracy, at least in terms of political rights. Others, however, clearly fell on the authoritarian side of many of the “fault lines” addressed in Chapter 1, as they clearly restricted personal and political freedoms while empowering the state to define what “Islam” requires. New articles (62 and 63) in the constitution required that candidates for office be honest, have “adequate knowledge” of Islamic teaching, and “practice obligatory duties” as prescribed by Islam. Special police squads ensured that fasting during Ramadan was observed and government officials performed Muslim prayers. Blasphemy laws prohibited criticism of Islam; offenders risked the death penalty. The government enforced payment of the zakat tax. Sharia courts, which included representatives of the ulama, were empowered to determine if laws were consistent with Islam.26 Political parties were prohibited as non-Islamic, and elections were postponed multiple times as Zia claimed he needed time to “reform a degenerate society” (quoted in Jafar 2005: 39). Women’s and minority rights were limited. The government passed hudud laws that proscribed flogging, amputation, and stoning for various offenses, including consumption of alcohol, theft, fornication, and adultery.27 Jafar (2005) convincingly demonstrates how these measures, under which it is easy to convict women of engaging in illicit sex but virtually impossible to convict men for rape, were used against women. These were accompanied by other nonlegal (e.g., government leaders encouraging the wearing of the chador and purdah, vigilante vice squads to enforce “Islamic” dress, negative depictions of working women in the media) and legal measures (prevention of women working in banks and the foreign service, restriction on female athletes in the name of modesty, requirements for female government employees to wear the chador, discriminatory treatment with respect to giving evidence in court) to restrict women’s rights and uphold a “traditional/patriarchal social structure” (Jafar 2005: 40).28 While non-Muslim minorities were exempt from some measures (they could still consume alcohol and did not have to pay zakat), they could not serve on sharia courts or give testimony against Muslims. The Shia minority objected that the Hanafi-Sunni version of Islamic law was being imposed upon them and mobilized, with some success, for changes in the zakat law.29 Ahmadis, already declared non-Muslims, were banned from proselytizing or referring to themselves as Muslims.

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In sum, Shah (2012: 317) concludes that Zia’s Islamization emphasized “regulative, punitive, and extractive” policies as opposed to aspects of Islam that uphold equality and government accountability. Former chief justice Muhammad Munir, who in the 1950s had issued a report critical of Islamist actors, argued that Zia’s policies presented a “grim and dreadful picture of Islam and ignored the forgiving and merciful attributes of God” (quoted in Esposito and Voll 1996: 118). However, dissenting voices such as his risked the wrath of state security forces, as Zia portrayed himself as above reproach as a “defender of the faith” and a “soldier for Islam.” He was the final ruler on the recommendations of sharia courts while creating (under the rubric of shura) an unelected Federal Assembly that would merely serve an advisory function.30 The Iranian Revolution and the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan both bolstered Pakistan’s geopolitical importance, and Zia and the Pakistani military as a whole benefited from massive aid from the United States (including aid funneled by the Pakistanis to the Afghan mujahidin). By the mid-1980s, however, there was growing opposition to Zia, not only from secular-oriented groups such as lawyers and women’s organizations but also from Islamists such as the JI, who were frustrated with the continual postponement of elections (which they believed they could win) and Zia’s abrogation of powers for himself. They argued that a military government was not compatible with Islam. Zia also came upon international criticism for human rights abuses. He pledged to return the country to democracy, but first ensured the continuation of his Islamization program (and, not coincidentally, his continuation as president) in a referendum in 1984 in which he won 98.5 percent of the vote but that was subject to low turnout and widely viewed as rigged. In 1985, power was officially returned to civilians after nonparty elections (which were boycotted by several parties) were held, but Zia made sure this was not a threat to him by having the Assembly give legal sanction to all his actions as president and by passing a constitutional amendment that made it difficult to repeal his Islamization measures and gave the president the power to dismiss parliament, which he did in May 1988 to maintain power in his hands. Less than three months later, however, Zia died under mysterious conditions in a plane crash. A (Limited) Democratic Opening Zia’s death removed a significant obstacle to democracy. In November 1988, the country had competitive elections, judged to be largely free and fair. The PPP, the main opposition party and led by Benazir Bhutto (1953–2007), Zulfikar Bhutto’s daughter, prevailed. Bhutto had been sub-

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ject to years of jail and house arrest after her father’s execution, and, upon leaving the country in 1984, became the most visible figure in the opposition. The PPP’s victory allowed her to become prime minister, the first female leader of a Muslim country. She was subsequently defeated in elections in 1990, which were won by the Islami Jomhuri Ittihad (Islamic Democratic Alliance, IJI), a coalition led by Nawaz Sharif (1949–) and the Pakistan Muslim League (PML). Bhutto and Sharif, bitter rivals, exchanged leadership throughout the 1990s, with Bhutto prevailing again in 1993 elections and Sharif regaining power in 1997. This period, as seen in Figure 4.1, ranks as the most “democratic” in Pakistan’s history, and the length of it, at least as captured by Polity, allows the country to be included in this study of “relatively successful” Muslim democracies. However, as suggested in the opening chapter, Pakistan ranks as the “least successful” of these successes, and many might object to the classification of Pakistan in this period as a “democracy.”31 The country’s FH scores remain lower than the threshold for “free” (3.5) employed in this volume. During this time period, the country experienced a number of serious problems that compromised its democratic credentials, including the continued domination of landowning feudal elites, widespread corruption, political crises,32 ethnic and sectarian violence,33 lawlessness and breakdown of authority, interference by the military and intelligence services in politics, detention and jailing of one’s political opponents, restrictions on media freedom, and discrimination against minorities. Nasr (1992) refers to a “crisis of governability” that produced a profound sense of disillusionment during the early part of this period, and Amin (1995: 140) notes that the “institutional decay” and widespread violence had produced “near anarchic conditions in certain parts of the country.” While the country did have elections and (unlike semidemocratic Malaysia) witnessed transfer of power from one party to another, Talbot (1998: 3–4) suggests the “proliferation of elections” is actually an “unhealthy sign,” insofar as no elected government served out its term, with each being removed in a “constitutional coup” engineered by the military and the indirectly elected yet powerful president. In this sense, Pakistan remained a classic praetorian state, with the military playing a dominant role amid weak political institutions. This brief “democratic” period ended in 1999, when the military openly seized power, suspending parliament and the constitution. Many of these problems, of course, were nothing new, and some, including sectarian violence and the institutional powers of the presidency, can be blamed on legacies from Zia’s regime. Moreover, Pakistan “democratized” rather quickly. Nasr (1992: 523) argues Pakistan became a democracy “by default” after Zia’s death, and its ostensibly prodemocratic forces were weak and fragmented. However, Pakistan’s “democratic” leaders also had their own shortcomings. Bhutto’s and Sharif’s rivalry paralyzed the

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government and exacerbated ethnic tensions. Each gave lip service to democracy but demonstrated more interest in “personal aggrandizement and cronyism” (I. Haqqani 2006: 226), which in parliament “at best became the fountainhead of patronage politics” (Talbot 1998: 287). What can be said about the role of Islam during this period? Did the government, as it did in the 1950s, try to articulate a more “progressive” version of Islam to undo features of Zia’s autocratic regime and to support, even if only at the rhetorical level, greater democracy? Did it try to incorporate Islamic-oriented actors into the system, thereby hoping to moderate them? Or, were questions of Islam, as in Malaysia prior to 1969, largely elided, as the government focused on other priorities? By and large, the last approach predominated, as Islam lost its central place in Pakistani politics (Nasr 2001: 152). This was, to be sure, more the case under Bhutto than under Sharif, an ally of Zia who was willing to demonstrate, often more with rhetoric than actual policies, his Islamic credentials and whose political coalition included some Islamist groups (Nasr 2005). Bhutto had been, of course, a harsh critic of Zia, deploring, among other things, his policies toward women. Given her Western education, the heritage of the PPP, and her endorsement of “progressive” as opposed to the “reactionary” Islam of Zia and his Islamist allies (Bhutto 1998), one might have expected her to challenge the “Islamic” rationale behind many of the country’s laws.34 By and large, however, this was not the case. Laws against blasphemy, anti-Ahmadi measures, and hudud punishments remained on the books, and the so-called zina ordinances continued to be used to disproportionately punish women for fornication while making it very difficult to prosecute men for rape. Jafar (2005: 49) suggests that while Bhutto spoke out on women’s rights and made some largely symbolic gestures (e.g., creation of a Ministry of Women’s Development, a high-profile appearance at the 1995 Beijing Conference on Women), she was highly constrained in terms of changing policy. Her party lacked a majority in parliament; Islamic laws adopted under Zia were, thanks to constitutional amendments made in 1985, exempt from judicial review and required a two-thirds parliamentary vote to overturn; by the late 1980s secular or more “progressive” notions of Islam were held only by a minority (Nasr 1992: 523–524); and she needed the support of provincial leaders who embraced patriarchal norms. One example of Bhutto’s limited ability to make progressive changes was the accession to the UN’s Convention to Eliminate All Forms of Discrimination Against Women, which finally occurred in 1995 after acrimonious debate (in which the Ministry of Religious Affairs and CII voiced objections) but also included, as a concession to conservatives, a reservation that the accession was subject to constitutional provisions and was not followed up by legislation to incorporate the convention into Pakistani law (Weiss 2003;

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Ali 2012). Shafqat (1996: 659), while skeptical of Bhutto’s commitment to progressive ideals, nonetheless concedes that she was, in her own words, “not a free agent,” but instead continually looking over her shoulder at the political opposition, the military, and the president who had the power to dismiss her and parliament (and finally did so in 1990). Nasr (2001: 152) notes that she also had to worry about Islamists, who, although not successful at the ballot box, had the capacity to mobilize on the streets and, in some cases, had adopted a violent ideology of jihad, which had been fomented by their involvement in the Afghan conflict and later their connection to the Taliban. This raises an important point about the limits of change once a country has experienced Islamization (Haqqani 2013). One problem is convincing parliamentarians to change measures once defined as part of God’s law. More serious, perhaps, is the fact that Islamists can employ extraconstitutional means outside the confines of parliament (fatwas, violence) to “persuade” leaders to leave these measures in place. Pakistan has seen more than its share of violence in this respect, which continues to color its politics. Thus, to invoke Bayat’s (2007) terms, while it is one thing to imagine “post-Islamism” as an intellectual construct or project, it is another to actually implement it, something witnessed in the failures of the post-Islamists in Iran to produce significant political change. In the case of Pakistan under Bhutto, the government could have, for example, reached out to followers of Fazlur Rahman, the exiled scholar who died in 1988 but had become a strong proponent of contextual, progressive readings of Islamic texts.35 Instead, Bhutto, in an effort to bolster her Islamic credentials, made common cause with Fazlur Rehman, leader of the Jamiat-i Ulama-i Pakistan (Fazi Group), an advocate of a conservative Islamic state who was given free rein to run schools to train the Taliban so Pakistan would have greater influence in Afghanistan.36 Sharif, whose IJI was backed by the military and intelligence services and included Islamist parties, did much more than Bhutto to continue Zia’s legacy of Islamization. In 1991, the government passed a sharia bill, which had been tabled in 1985, that established Islamic law as superior to any legislation in Pakistan. During his second term of office in 1997, he introduced a constitutional amendment to establish the Quran and Sunna as the supreme law and obligate the government to promote amr bil ma’roof and nahi anil munkar (to prescribe what is right and to forbid what is wrong). This did not pass the Senate and thus was not enacted, but women’s rights took a step backwards with passage of the Qisas and Diyat Ordinance in 1997, which legalized payments (“blood money”) as punishment for honor killings and took issues such as intrafamily violence out of the hands of the legal system (Jafar 2005). Some local authorities took matters even further, allowing women to be handed over (like property) as compensation for

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crimes. In terms of democracy, passage of constitutional amendments in 1997 to prevent the president from dismissing parliament was a positive step, but, amid festering problems of corruption and sectarian and ethnic violence, the military, which had lost confidence in Sharif, launched a coup in October 1999, ending Pakistan’s “democratic” run. To be sure, not all of the past (or present) problems of Pakistani democracy can be tied to political Islam, as used either by the state or by nonstate actors. However, Islam clearly played (and still plays) a debilitating role (among other factors) on all of the fault lines (limits of popular sovereignty as enshrined in law, freedom of expression, minority and women’s rights) identified in Chapter 1. If anything, the role of Islam in Pakistani politics has become even more pronounced in the 2000s. Pakistan in the Post-9/11 World: Is There Hope for Democracy? As was the case with the previous coups, Pakistan’s military leaders justified their actions as saving their country from “sham democracy” and instability generated by feckless politicians. They pledged to stabilize Pakistan and build the foundations for “true” democracy. General (later president) Pervez Musharraf’s rule, however, hardly improved the country’s position on either front. Musharraf tried to engineer various means to retain power while claiming Pakistan was “not ready for democracy” (quoted in H. Haqqani 2006: 120). At the same time, the country became more unstable, in part because of the spillover of conflict from Afghanistan and the emergence of an indigenous Taliban movement and other violent groups, many of which have an Islamist orientation. While competitive elections in 2008 restored civilian rule and, judging from Figure 4.1, there has been some improvement in its democratic record, it arguably remains, as one report in 2009 noted, a “semi-democratic” and “semi-failed” state (Rahman 2009).37 President Musharraf and Enlightened Moderation

Musharraf’s seizure of power ended whatever democracy existed in Pakistan.38 Parliament was dissolved, the constitution was suspended, political rallies were banned, and the government ruled by decree. Many critics of the regime were jailed or forced into exile. A rigged referendum in 2002 made Musharraf president and gave the country a veneer of democracy, but it remained an authoritarian state, with the military in charge and civil rights routinely violated. Musharraf’s hold on power, however, became more tenuous over time, particularly as the country faced dire economic problems and ethnic and sectarian violence. Musharraf’s support after 9/11

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for the US “war on terror” created tensions with many Islamic-oriented, pro-Taliban groups in Pakistan (Abbas 2005; Hussain 2010). In 2007, opposition to his regime increased after his dismissal of the chief justice of the Supreme Court and an attack on militant groups in Islamabad’s Red Mosque produced significant casualties. His promises to restore order and democracy rang increasingly hollow, and he controversially engineered his reelection as president in October 2007. By then, not only was his rule opposed by a wide swath of Pakistanis but it was also seen as a liability by his primary external backer, the United States, which was keen on a powersharing deal between Musharraf and Benazir Bhutto, who returned from exile in 2007. Eventually, there was an agreement for new elections, but Bhutto was assassinated in December 2007, the most dramatic evidence of polarization and extremism in Pakistan and an event that some believed to be masterminded by the state intelligence agency. Elections were briefly postponed but were held in February 2008. The PPP, led by Bhutto’s widower, Asif Ali Zardari, won the largest share of the vote and formed a coalition government. Musharraf, facing the prospect of impeachment once parliament convened, resigned all of his political and military positions and left Pakistan. Musharraf’s rule, while certainly not democratic, nonetheless is noteworthy for our purposes because, like the military government in the 1960s, he tried to preside over what he called “enlightened moderation.”39 True, in part this was an effort to establish Pakistan as a “moderate” Muslim country and prove his bona fides for the US-led (and, crucial for Pakistan, financed) “war on terror,” but even upon seizing power pre-9/11, he disassociated himself with any religious agenda and praised Atatürk as a model for Pakistan, which would obviously have been unthinkable under Zia’s government (Nasr 2004: 200; Zia 2009: 225). He supported more inclusive, tolerant Sufi traditions to oppose radical, violent groups, and he appointed to the CII reformist/modernist thinkers who espoused more “liberal” interpretations of Islam.40 One was Muhammad Khalid Masud (1939–), who had worked with Fazlur Rahman in the 1960s and had several international academic appointments and became head of the CII in 2004. He embraced Iqbal’s earlier call for ijtihad and argued that Islam supported democracy, pluralism, and women’s rights (Hassan 2009). Another was Javed Ahmad Ghamidi (1951–) a former member of the JI who developed a “postIslamist” orientation (Amin 2012). Ghamidi became a prominent figure in Pakistani media. He cited a diverse array of Pakistani Islamic-oriented thinkers as his inspirations, including Mawdudi and Iqbal, and thus tried to position himself in between the fundamentalist positions of the Deobandi and the explicitly “liberal” orientation of the Aligarh movement. Amin (2012), however, argues that his core approach has much in common with Khan and Rahman. For Ghamidi, Islam is defined by the Quran and sunna;

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he rejects fiqh as developed by human, fallible ulama. In terms of democracy, he broke with Mawdudi and the Islamist camp by arguing that God, while the universe’s creator, does not have political sovereignty, and that humans have been vested with free will and authority to rule their own affairs. Taking a broad view of shura, he contends that Islamic principles demand both elections of leaders and popular input in government policy. Significantly, he downplays any limitation imposed by sharia, suggesting that a truly democratic government in a Muslim-majority country would by definition be Islamic. In terms of policy, there were some victories for more progressive voices. Foremost among them was a change in 2006 in the Hudud Ordinances. Masud authored a report for the CII that argued they were unIslamic as they were used to victimize women (Hassan 2009). While they were not completely repealed, as Masud favored, they were altered by a Women’s Protection Bill, which lowered the punishment for sex outside marriage and made rape a prosecutable offense under civil law, which would henceforth be proved with forensic and circumstantial evidence, not, as before, in Islamic courts with testimony from four witnesses.41 Musharraf also raised the quotas for female appointment to the civil service as well as the quota for parliament, by which 60 (out of 342) seats would be reserved for women. More women were also appointed to cabinet positions and were allowed to serve in more prominent positions in the military (Zia 2009). However, Musharraf’s period in office was not solely one of Islamic liberalism. Blasphemy laws landed many, particularly non-Muslims, in court. Ahmadis and Shias continued to suffer discrimination. Adultery and sex outside marriage remained crimes, with the overwhelming number of female prisoners in Pakistan convicted for various “sex crimes.” Ghamidi became a lightning rod for criticism by conservatives for what they deemed his heretical views.42 He resigned from the CII in 2006 to protest Musharraf’s creation of a separate, nonconstitutionally authorized ulama committee to review legislation on gender issues, which in itself was a concession to religious conservatives, who had been gaining strength because of their ties to the military and support for the Afghan jihad. Islamists received a major boost in 2002, when a six-party coalition of various Islamist parties, the United Council for Action (Mutahida Majlis e Ama, MMA), fared well in national and provincial elections, a result Nasr (2005: 22) attributes to the weakening of Sharif’s PML as a viable alternative for religiously minded voters. The MMA was backed by the army and intelligence services as an alternative to the more secular-oriented parties (Ayoob 2007: 84). It garnered fifty-nine national parliamentary seats, the best performance ever by Islamists, and captured the provincial government of the Northwest Frontier Province (NWFP), the bastion of the Deobandi and Pashtun-dominated Jamiat-i Ulama-i Islam. Musharraf could not afford

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to alienate this group, whose support was essential for the 2003 constitutional amendment that allowed him to be both president and army chief. For its part, the MMA government in NWFP, which became a base for the Afghan and Pakistani Taliban, advanced a number of measures to restrict women in the public sphere, including a full-fledged gender segregation ordinance that was ultimately ruled unconstitutional by the Supreme Court (Brohi 2006; Zia 2009). It also looked askance at the rise of tribal jirgas as a parallel legal system, which frequently adjudicated honor killings.43 More serious, perhaps, were the efforts by the MMA (and others) at “vigilante Islamism,” in which students and armed gangs forcibly enforced their interpretation of Islam, in particular with respect to dress, gender relations, and speech (White 2008). These actions claimed the lives of both ordinary Pakistanis as well as intellectuals and political and legal figures who spoke out against what they viewed as the dangers of radical Islam. This violence, which continued after Musharraf left power, is far more pronounced than in any other country in this volume and constitutes a profound threat both to democracy and to Pakistan itself.44 One can debate the responsibility or complicity of state actors in much of this violence. Certainly, since the 1980s the military and intelligence services had nurtured violent Islamist groups whose targets were in Afghanistan and India; by the 2000s, some of these “chickens had come home to roost” (Shah 2002: 69). Islamization in the 1980s also fueled the growth of militant Sunni and Shia groups that targeted each other within Pakistan. Even if one views these groups as wholly autonomous from the state—an “uncivil” manifestation of “civil society”—this does not mean the state is absolved from guilt. Zia (2009: 239) makes the point that if, as in Pakistan, the state embeds religious legality so as to “uphold pure Islamic culture,” then “necessarily some historical moments with patriarchal culture and religion will overlap and logically, will [inter alia] condone stoning and honor killings.” Put somewhat differently but in line with discussion in Chapter 1, it points to problems of a nonsecular state in which it becomes too easy (and tempting) to justify laws or actions in the name of religion, and certain actors will thus try to “out-Islamize” others. We saw this, to a less radical extent, in Malaysia in Chapter 3, and have seen it throughout this chapter as various actors throughout Pakistani history have employed Islam to justify their actions. By the 2000s, it is true, the state was no longer taking the lead in Islamization. Indeed, state authorities had become targets for radical forces; Musharraf survived several assassination attempts, but other officials and candidates for office have not been so fortunate. However, this entire phenomenon demonstrates not only the difficulties of “de-Islamizing” an “Islamized” state (Haqqani 2013) but also, as we’ll presently see, how hard it is to construct an effective democracy once Islam becomes politicized and mobilized.

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Return to Civilian Rule, A Chance for Democracy?

Musharraf’s political party, the Pakistan Muslim League–Quaid, as well as the MMA, was decisively defeated in 2008 elections. The PPP, led by Zardari, and the Pakistan Muslim League–Nawaz (PML-N), led by Sharif, were the two leading vote-getters. They formed a coalition government, and Zardari became president. Both parties, of course, had ruled Pakistan before, demonstrating the resiliency of the patronage and feudal-dominated system and suggesting that Pakistan was not going to make a clean break with its past. Indeed, the sense of déjà vu was heightened in 2013 when Sharif returned to the prime minister’s seat, one he had held twice in the 1990s. However, some things are novel and evidence of progress (Tudor 2014). The previous PPP-dominated government completed its term of office, the first civilian government to do so. It oversaw passage of constitutional amendments that strengthened democracy, including measures that prohibit the president from unilaterally dismissing parliament and strengthen electoral fairness. New laws were passed to protect women’s rights of inheritance and sentence those found guilty of acid attacks on uncovered women. The Supreme Court was assertive, ordering the reopening of the corruption case against President Zardari and dismissing Prime Minister Yousef Gilani for his refusal to comply with this directive.45 Cases were opened against Musharraf for, inter alia, the assassination of Benazir Bhutto, suggesting, perhaps, that the civilian leadership was willing to assert itself vis-à-vis the military. Elections in 2013 had record turnout (55 percent), helped in part by the emergence of a new party led by the ex-cricketer Imran Khan. These elections were also judged free and fair and resulted in a change in government. One can thus speak, albeit with some reservations, of electoral democracy in Pakistan.46 Indeed, despite all the problems Pakistan has experienced, the country’s leaders (as well as most of the Islamist opposition) continue to view elections as a valuable means to legitimize power. While this is encouraging, it does not mean that Pakistani democracy, in practice, is strong or effective. It is hampered by numerous problems, many of which also generate feelings of déjà vu: infighting between rival parties, including the attempt by Zardari in 2009 to disqualify Sharif from running for political office; chronic corruption; dominance of feudal elites at the expense of expansion of public welfare policies (Tudor 2014); the inability of the government to enforce its writ throughout the country, especially in the tribal areas bordering Afghanistan; pervasive ethnic and sectarian violence,47 in particular that directed against Ahmadis, Shias, Sufis, and those espousing more “tolerant” or “pluralistic” Islam;48 torture and extrajudicial killing; intimidation and murder of journalists; censorship of the media; and gender

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inequality and violence against women. Most of these problems surface— repeatedly—in FH reports between 2008 and 2013, justifying Pakistan’s middling score on its index.49 Most disturbing, perhaps, whereas surveys revealed Pakistanis continued to back democracy in principle, there was also evidence suggesting many would welcome the return of military rule.50 With respect to the relationship between Islam and politics, or more specifically Islam and democracy, it is hard to see significant progress as many of the problems inherited from the 1980s remain or have even gotten worse. Restrictions remain on activities of the Ahmadi minority. Blasphemy laws are enforced with greater vigor. Between 1986 and 2010, over 1,200 people, half non-Muslims, were charged with this offense, and more people were convicted in 2006–2013 than in the previous twenty years.51 In 2014, over 100 people were accused of blasphemy, which, because its definition has expanded, can now include spelling errors by schoolchildren or throwing away a business card bearing the name “Muhammad.”52 The PPP, the country’s most secular-oriented party, has stated it will never amend this law, and the country’s clerics are united in defending it, including those from the Barelvi school, often thought to embrace a more “moderate” form of Islam. By mid-2014, convictions on blasphemy charges had placed seventeen people on death row—no one has yet been executed, but dozens of alleged blasphemers and their defenders have been murdered in extrajudicial killings.53 The most high-profile case was in 2011 when two Pakistani politicians, including Salman Taseer, the governor of Punjab, were assassinated after suggesting the laws be changed or abolished and that a Christian woman, Asia Bibi, who was sentenced to death for blasphemy, be released. There were mass demonstrations in favor of Taseer’s confessed killer, a member of his security detail from a “moderate” Sufi organization (Ullah 2013: 2).54 In 2013, mobs burned over 150 homes in a largely Christian neighborhood after allegations that a Christian man had blasphemed the Prophet Muhammad; by the end of 2014, only the alleged blasphemer, not anyone who committed arson, was in jail.55 In 2014, sixty-eight lawyers, mostly Shia, were charged with blasphemy at the instigation of a Sunni Muslim cleric after they allegedly insulted a police officer, an action critics derided as but one of many uses of this law for personal vendettas or political ends against minority groups.56 In the state’s battle with extremists, the latter, in some areas, seemed to be gaining the upper hand. For example, in 2009 as part of a ceasefire deal with militants in the Swat Valley in the Federally Administered Tribal Area, the government agreed to a measure to implement Islamic law and give local Islamic judges the right to rule on civil and criminal matters. This was viewed by many, both in and outside of Pakistan, as a capitulation to the Taliban, and some fear it sets a precedent for other regions of the country while threatening, among other items, women’s rights.57 In 2014, leaders of

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the Pakistan Taliban, negotiating a permanent accord with the government, rejected the idea that talks had to occur within the framework of Pakistan’s constitution because this document—which includes provisions that all laws must be in accordance with Islam and, after Saudi Arabia’s basic law and Iran’s constitution, is the most “sharia dense” in the Muslim world— was insufficiently Islamic.58 Whether the government will make legal changes in line with the desires of the Taliban remains an open question. Islamization is also being increasingly observed in the election process. Most notably, in 2013, laws from Zia’s regime that required candidates for office to demonstrate knowledge and fealty to Islam were enforced—previously the state was lax on this issue—ostensibly to ensure that candidates were “honest” and weed out those deemed to be corrupt.59 Such a religious test, however, has overtones of the Council of Guardians in Iran that vets candidates on the basis of their Islamic credentials and obviously opens itself up to abuse—for example, there is no criteria for what “adequate knowledge” of Islam is. While charges of corruption or faked education credentials60 were the main reasons candidates were rejected, some were denied a place on the ballot for questioning the Islamic basis of the state.61 Women’s rights, as noted, remain under threat, particularly (but not only) in the tribal areas ruled by Islamic law. In 2013, Pakistan ranked 135 (out of 136 countries [only Yemen was lower]) on the World Economic Forum’s Global Gender Gap Index, with severe gaps in female empowerment in the workforce, education, and political representation.62 Over 900 women were killed in so-called “honor killings” in 2013. One potentially encouraging development, however, was a ruling by the Ulama Council in May 2014 that honor killings are un-Islamic and a sign of ignorance (jahillya).63 While, as before, one cannot and should not blame all the problems of Pakistani democracy on Islam, there is enough evidence of problems along the “fault lines” between (liberal) democracy and Islam, as developed in Chapter 1, to conclude that Islam—or at least how it is being interpreted and applied in Pakistan—is part of the problem. In short, despite the diverse array of Islamic traditions and practices and lack of a powerful religious hierarchy—factors that elsewhere work in favor of a more “liberal” interpretation of Islam—in Pakistan a more conservative, restrictive, intolerant, scriptualist version of Islam—one that has local roots in the Deobandi movement but is also shaped by more contemporary Islamist ideology—has grown in strength, abetted by state power and the need for political actors to legitimize themselves in terms of Islam. Democracy has given a means for Islamists to express their views and mobilize, and at times some Islamist groups have become “fierce defenders of democracy when they are being kept out of power through undemocratic means”

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(Ullah 2013: 3). However, they have often used their power to restrict the political sphere to protect only that which is deemed “Islamic” enough and sanction actors and policies that fall outside of those boundaries. While not outright negating democracy in terms of elections, Islam’s salience in Pakistan’s public sphere has certainly compromised it (Tudor 2014: 111). Prospects for change are limited. Part of the problem, as suggested above, is the number of violent and extreme groups, whose interpretation of Islam leaves little room for pluralism or dissent. Ghamidi, now in exile in Malaysia, has spoken out on issues such as the blasphemy laws, which he says have no basis in the Quran and are supported by the ulama who “tell lies.” Yet, he concedes, would-be moderate or more liberal voices in Pakistan are fearful, particularly given the “street power” and vigilantism of Islamist groups.64 Masud (2014), the former head of the CII, laments that there is “no political will for reforms in Islamic law,” partly due to fear but also because more conservative forces have captured institutions such as the CII. The result, in his view, is that there are no prospects for developing a more liberal, less politicized, more pluralistic Islam. The “capture” of the CII by more conservative actors is attested by its rulings in 2013 and 2014 that laws prohibiting underage marriage are un-Islamic—indeed, a nikah (nonconjugal) marriage can be, in the CII’s view, authorized at any age— and that DNA evidence should not be the primary basis to judge rape cases.65 These rulings are only advisory and generated some protests, but the larger point is that Islamists feel emboldened and are challenging some of the (limited) gains made by more liberal forces in the 1990s and early 2000s. More importantly, these actors may speak for a larger society, which, judging from data in Table 4.1, tends to embrace, more so than in any other case examined in this volume, a more “conservative” version of Islam that gives little room for notions such as ijtihad and displays little tolerance for transgressions against the faith. Not only are Pakistanis overwhelmingly supportive of sharia, but they are, more so than Indonesians, Malaysians, and Bangladeshis, who also have witnessed significant political mobilization of Islam, more inclined to believe sharia is the revealed word of God (as opposed to something compiled by humans) and that there is only one true understanding of Islam. Majorities support harsh punishments such as stoning and the death penalty for apostasy, and a sizable number condone honor killings. The same survey also reports 75 percent believe blasphemy laws are necessary to protect Islam (Pew Forum 2013). Interestingly, however, Pakistanis are less likely to believe that Islamic parties are better than other parties and are also less likely to believe religious leaders should have influence on politics, although a majority does support this position.66 One could hypothesize that this is because some of these parties have been asso-

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ciated with extremist violence—which is not supported by the general population67—and that some have been “too close” to power and thus, in various ways, compromised themselves.68 In any event, however, parties such as the JI, which have never threatened to come to power via the ballot box, are not the only ones to embrace Islam. Parties across the spectrum in Pakistan will ensure that many of these views expressed in Table 4.1 will find (or maintain) their place in Pakistani laws and interpretations of Islam. The overall picture is thus not especially encouraging, at least if one hopes to find “liberal,” “tolerant,” or “secularized” Islam. The Pakistani case, while technically qualifying as a “democracy” for a small part of its history, is more instructive, perhaps, in how Islam, or at least some interpretations of it, can threaten democracy. In particular, one sees that the nebulously defined relationship between politics and Islam, in conditions in which the state faced numerous crises and politicians needed to legitimize their rule, gave rise to Islamization. While there have been subsequent attempts to democratize, these have been rather shallow, meaning the state has not been assertive in supporting the panoply of rights and freedoms generally associated with democracy. If Pakistan was to be an example of “Islamic democracy,” it is clear, over sixty years after its formation, that the Islamic component has largely prevailed over the democratic one.

Table 4.1 Little Support for “Liberal” Islam in Pakistan Pakistan Favor sharia as law of land Sharia is revealed word of God There is one true understanding of sharia Democracy/strong leader Death penalty for apostasy Stoning for adultery Honor killing of women justified Muslims have duty to convert others Islamic parties better than others

Bangladesh Indonesia Malaysia

84 81 61

82 65 57

72 54 45

86 41 43

29/56 75 86 41 67

70/27 43 54 36 33

61/37 16 42 8 10

67/30 58 54 19 47

29

41

31

43

Source: Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life 2013. Notes: Results show percentage expressing agreement. Surveys report results for Muslim respondents only. Survey in 2011 in Pakistan and Indonesia, 2011/2012 in Bangladesh and Malaysia.

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Notes 1. The exception was Kashmir, where the local ruler chose to remain with India. This has been the subject of wars between India and Pakistan and remains contested territory. 2. This is evidenced in the diversity of languages. According to the 1998 census, 44.2 percent of the population speaks Punjabi as their mother tongue; 15.1 percent speak Pashto; 14.1 percent Sindhi; 10.5 percent Saraiki; and 7.6 percent Urdu, the national language. See www.census.gov.pk. 3. The 1998 census reports 96.3 percent of Pakistanis are Muslim. Of these, 10–20 percent are commonly estimated to be Shia of either the Twelver or Ismaili sects; there are also smaller numbers of other groups (e.g., Ahmadis). 4. This initial section borrows from Binder 1961; Kugle 2006; Robinson 2010; and Avari 2013. 5. For example, Abu Fazl (d. 1602), a close adviser to Akbar, defended Hindus in his Akbarnama against the charges of idol worship and polytheism. 6. This is not to suggest that interreligious relations were always harmonious. The point, however, is that there is a “usable history” of this type. 7. In 1937, the Muslim League adopted the slogan, “What is Pakistan about? ‘There is no God but God’” (Pakistan ka matlab kiye hey? La ilaha ila’llah) (Nasr 1994: 87). 8. Useful sources include Hodson 1969; Prasad 1982; Jalal 1985; and Devji 2013. 9. Ayoob (2007) compares Mawdudi’s JI to the Muslim Brotherhood. The seminal source on the JI is Nasr 1994. 10. This is dated to his 1930 presidential address to the ML (Iqbal 1930), in which he calls for a single Muslim state. However, at that time it was still framed as a “Muslim India within India,” not a wholly sovereign state. 11. Hodson (1969: 37–38), among others, sees Jinnah’s role as indispensable and Pakistan as the “creation of one man.” 12. The Ahmadi faith was founded in 1889 by the Indian Muslim Mirza Ghulam Ahmad (1835–1908), who claimed to be the Messiah (Mahdi) awaited by Muslims. Ahmadis see themselves as Muslims, but because they deny the final prophethood to Muhammad, other Muslims consider them heretics. They have been subject to persecution and discrimination in Pakistan and in other countries. 13. The 1998 Pakistani census, cited earlier, notes that literacy was only 26 percent in 1981, three decades after independence. 14. For skepticism about his commitment to democracy, see Prasad 1982 and I. Haqqani 2006. 15. The ulama were split into different parties. Clergy affiliated with the Barelvi school formed the nucleus of the Jami’at-I Ulama-I Pakistan, while those from the Deobandis gathered as the Jami’at-I Ulama-I Islam, which later subdivided into different factions. 16. The most significant action by the courts was the Munir Report (1956), an evaluation of the causes of violence against the Ahmadi minority in 1953. Many in the ulama argued that Ahmadis were not Muslims and their right should be restricted. The Munir Report, named for its author, Chief Muhammad Munir, by calling into question the ability of the ulama and lay Muslims to agree on the definition of a “Muslim,” revealed the problematic nature of devising an “Islamic con-

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stitution.” Nasr (1994: 111) writes it was “the most celebrated ‘modernist’ expression of backlash against Islamic activism.” 17. After resigning this position in 1968 (discussed later), Rahman became an academic in the United States, ending up at the University of Chicago. He subsequently became a formative influence on numerous “progressive” Islamic scholars, including Nurcholish Madjid, discussed in Chapter 7. 18. For a more sympathetic view of at least some of the ulama, see Binder 1961. 19. This initiative, which created a hierarchical system of councils, gave voters very limited say. It functioned more as a means for the regime to establish a power base in the countryside and was derided as Bakas (Hapless) Democracy (Talbot 1998: 156). 20. The source for this is his Purdah and the Status of Woman and Islam (1939), available at www.universal-islam.com/phpfiletrace.php?file=purdah.pdf, accessed 27 February 2015. 21. Some ultraconservatives in the ulama in the 1980s tried to disqualify Benazir Bhutto from becoming prime minister on the basis of her gender, but this had no success. 22. Details of Rahman’s travails can be found in Mooda 2006. The primary reason that Rahman angered Islamists was they believed his Quranic interpretation suggested the revelation to Muhammad was not genuine. 23. For example, the JI won only 6 percent of the national vote and only 4 seats, compared to 81 seats and 18.6 percent of the vote for the PPP, which only contested seats in West Pakistan. 24. For more on this period, see Burki 1980. 25. Good sources that focus on this period include Qureshi 1980; Ziring 1984; Weiss 1986; Esposito 1986; Burki and Baxter 1991; and Shah 2012. 26. They were prohibited, however, from reviewing elements of martial law and, interestingly, family law provisions as well. 27. Floggings were common. A sharia court ruled that stoning was not prescribed in the Quran and would be repugnant to Islam, but on appeal, it was reinstated as a penalty for adultery. Stoning has not been carried out under court sanction, although there have been stonings under the auspices of tribal leaders. 28. Interestingly, however, Zia did not propose to amend the controversial Family Law Code of 1961. 29. There was also occasional violence between Shias and Sunnis throughout the Zia years, and violent sectarian groups continue to undermine the country’s stability. 30. Esposito and Voll (1996: 115) thus refer to Pakistan under Zia as a “shuracracy.” 31. Nasr (2005), however, upholds it as a positive example of “Muslim democracy.” 32. Newberg (1994: 161) notes that amid squabbles among the various branches of government in 1993, the country had five governments, four prime ministers, three presidents, and two army chiefs. 33. In addition to conflict between Sunnis and Shias, one should mention conflict in Sindh between Sindhi nationalists and Muhajirs, the latter of which had become dominant in Karachi, Pakistan’s largest city and commercial center. Nasr (2001: 151) noted that daily violence between competing groups in the 1990s produced a veritable “civil war” in Karachi.

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34. Her progressive point of view comes across most clearly in her book Reconciliation: Islam, Democracy, and the West (New York: Harper, 2007), completed just before her assassination. This had, to be sure, a Western audience in mind. For statements relating to the role of women, see Bhutto 1998. Within Pakistan, especially as prime minister, she did not push this interpretation of Islam very aggressively in terms of undoing Zia’s policies. 35. Rahman, one should note, was no political activist and did not try to reinsert himself into debates over Islam in Pakistan. His most noteworthy work is Islam and Modernity (1982), which argues that proper interpretation of the Quran requires that readers distinguish what is contextually bound from general, universal principles. 36. The connection between Bhutto and the Taliban is well established in Rashid 2000. 37. Cesari (2014: 241) pointedly refuses to label it an “unsecular democracy,” maintaining that its government is better understood as a “praetorian regime” with numerous problems, including weak rule of law and widespread violence. 38. This section borrows significantly from Shah 2002; Nasr 2004; H. Haqqani 2006; and El-Khawas 2009. 39. See his “A Plea for Enlightened Moderation,” Washington Post, 1 June 2004. 40. “Extremists Winning the Mind Games,” Asia Times Online, 22 October 2010. 41. Finding the required number of witnesses is a virtually impossible barrier. The result is that a woman who brings a rape case is inevitably convicted for fornication, while the guilt of her ostensible attacker cannot be proven. 42. Chief among these was his denial of hadith as a source for Islamic law and teaching. He received death threats throughout the 2000s and his television shows were canceled. He left Pakistan in 2010. 43. The most notorious case was not from NWFP but from Punjab, in which a woman was ordered to be raped as punishment for an alleged transgression of her twelve-year-old brother. See “Mukhtar Mai—History of a Rape Case,” BBC News, 28 June 2005, at http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/4620065.stm, accessed 23 March 2014. 44. The Pew Research Center, for example, ranked Pakistan the top country in the world in 2011 in terms of religious-oriented hostilities, garnering a “perfect” 10 out of 10 on measures such as terrorism, mob violence, harassment and violence toward women, and destruction of property. See Pew Research Center, “Arab Spring Adds to Global Restrictions on Religion,” 20 June 2013, available at www.pew forum.org/2013/06/20/arab-spring-restrictions-on-religion-findings, accessed 29 March 2014. 45. One could argue this was excessive judicial interference, but given the corrupt nature of Pakistani politics and past temerity of the courts, this appears to be a positive development. 46. Through 2013, FH had yet to acknowledge Pakistan as even an electoral democracy, pointing to problems of maintaining order as well as the outsize role of the military in politics. 47. Surveys from 2011 report that 57 percent of Muslims in Pakistan believe conflict between religious groups is a very big problem, a higher figure than any country in this volume and the fifth highest among the thirty-eight countries surveyed (Pew Forum 2013). 48. In addition to Salman Taseer, discussed later, one should mention Dr. Sarfaaz Naeemi, a Sufi leader killed by a suicide bomber in 2009. As for Ahmadis, in

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order to vote they must declare Muhammad as the final prophet, in effect renouncing their faith. 49. See reports at www.freedomhouse.org/country/pakistan#.U3E6-_l_s30, accessed 30 March 2014. 50. According to the 2012 iteration of the World Values Survey, over 78 percent of Pakistani respondents rated democracy as “important” (7 or higher on a 10point scale) and over 89 percent thought honest elections were important to help develop the country. However, 59 percent also thought having the army rule was a “good thing.” Data from www.worldvaluessurvey.org. See also Table 4.1, which shows more support for a “strong leader” than “democracy.” 51. Haqqani (2013: 12); and “Increasing Violence in Pakistan Surrounding Blasphemy Cases Deters Opposition,” Wall Street Journal, 8 May 2014. 52. “Bad-mouthing,” The Economist, 29 November 2014, p. 37. 53. “Living in Fear Under Pakistan’s Blasphemy Law,” Al-Jazeera online, 17 May 2014, available at http://tinyurl.com/kjha8ny, accessed 27 February 2015. 54. The judge who found him guilty left the country for fear of his life, and the killer’s sentence has been suspended. Bibi remains in jail, and her family has gone into hiding. Mass rallies, including those led by Islamist parties, called for her death. 55. “Attack on Christians Follows Claim of Blasphemy in Pakistan,” New York Times, 9 March 2013, and “Bad-mouthing,” The Economist, 29 November 2014, p. 37. 56. “68 Pakistani Lawyers Are Charged with Blasphemy After Protesting the Police,” New York Times, 13 May 2014. 57. “Taliban Seize Vital Pakistan Area Closer to Capital,” New York Times, 22 April 2009. 58. Corri Zoli and Emily Schneider, “How Islamic Is Pakistan’s Constitution?” Foreign Policy, 15 May 2014, available at http://foreignpolicy.com/2014/05/15/how -islamic-is-pakistans-constitution/, accessed 27 February 2015. 59. Musharraf, who returned to Pakistan, was rejected as a candidate for parliament on this ground. 60. According to Pakistani law, a candidate for parliament must possess a bachelor’s degree or certificate from a madrassa, a stipulation that prevents over 90 percent of the population from running for this office. 61. “Pakistani Candidates Face Religious Vetting,” Wall Street Journal, 4 April 2013. 62. World Economic Forum, “The Global Gender Gap Report 2013” (Geneva: World Economic Forum). For example, female literacy (40 percent) is well behind that of men (69 percent), and women earn only 21 percent as much as men. 63. This ruling was rendered after the murder of a twenty-five-year-old pregnant woman who married against her parents’ wishes. See “Pakistan Clerics Issue Strong Death Decree,” Al-Jazeera online, 1 June 2014, available at www.aljazeera .com/news/asia/2014/06/pakistan-clerics-issue-honour-killing-fatwa-2014619605 36332.html, accessed 27 February 2015, and “Ulema Council’s Fatwa Declares Honour Killing Un-Islamic,” The Dawn, 6 June 2014. 64. “Islamic Scholar Attacks Pakistan’s Blasphemy Laws,” The Guardian, 20 January 2011. 65. See “CII Rules Out DNA as Primary Evidence in Rape Cases,” The Dawn, 23 September 2013, and “Pakistani Laws Prohibiting Underage Marriage UnIslamic: CII,” The Dawn, 11 March 2014.

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66. The survey shows that 27 percent believe they should have “large” influence and 27 percent believe they should have “some.” The corresponding figures are 25/44 for Bangladesh, 41/41 for Malaysia, and 36/45 for Indonesia. As in the table, these are only for Muslim respondents. 67. The 2011 Pew Survey (Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life 2013) reports that 56 percent of Pakistani Muslims are concerned about religious extremist groups. 68. This is, for example, Nasr’s (2001) conclusion with respect to the JI’s cooperation with both the military and corrupt civilian politicians.

5 Bangladesh: Politicized Islam in a Debilitated Democracy

Bangladesh gained independence from Pakistan in 1971. In addition to sharing elements of colonial and immediate postcolonial history, both have also struggled to establish stable democratic governments. As was seen with Pakistan in Chapter 4, Bangladesh has experienced several military coups. It has also witnessed sectarian1 and regional/ethnic2 violence. While Islam did not play a political role in the founding of Bangladesh—indeed, unlike Pakistan, its initial constitution affirmed secularism as a fundamental principle—there has been both Islamic revival in Bangladeshi society and state-sponsored Islamization, including passage of a constitutional amendment in 1988 to declare Islam the state religion. The country remains hampered by a number of problems, including corruption, political polarization, and growth of radical and at times violent Islamist parties and movements. In addition, Bangladesh has historically been very poor and continues to have a low level of socioeconomic development— even lower than Pakistan—which one might expect would augur poorly for democratization.3 However, as seen in Figure 5.1, Bangladesh has a better record of democratic governance than Pakistan. Not only does it have more years of “democracy” as defined by this study (even though it has a shorter history than Pakistan), but since 1991 its FH scores tend to be consistently higher. Its record also compares favorably to semidemocratic Malaysia. Although since 2000 its democratic performance is not as strong as that in Mali, Indonesia, and Senegal, all covered in subsequent chapters, it arguably has the “most democratic success” among the three Asian countries in this volume that experienced state-sponsored Islamization. It was praised in 1998 by Bill Richardson, the US ambassador to the UN, who claimed that “its track record of democracy breaks many of the conventional stereotypes about Muslim countries” and that it had become a “strong democracy” 151

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Figure 5.1 Democratic Development in Bangladesh 10 10

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(quoted in Riaz 2004: 134). Chowdhury (2010: 2) claims it is “well set on a democratic path,” less the “basket-case” it was upon independence and now more a “paradigm” for developing states. While Bangladesh has made some progress on both political and economic fronts and certainly qualifies, at least for a good portion of its history, as a “democracy,” the assessments cited above may be a little much, particularly given recent developments. While it can claim many years of “democracy” under Polity’s rubric, its score has yet to rise above 6 (the minimum to be considered “democratic”) or become high enough to be judged “free” by FH. More skeptical observers, noting problems such as corruption, inequality, and violence, contend that Bangladesh is a “cosmetic democracy” (Parnini and Othman 2014: 35), a democracy “in name only” (Alamgir 2009: 52), or a “hybrid regime” with many authoritarian features (Riaz 2014: 119). In short, one might say that it has a debilitated democracy, one that, among other problems, has had to contend with significant Islamic-oriented political mobilization. While examining aspects of Bangladesh’s history that are relevant for this study, this chapter will examine both its democratic successes and its shortcomings, assessing in particular how the emergence of political Islam, which can be dated to the 1970s, affected subsequent democratization. It makes both comparisons and contrasts with the Pakistani case. It will also

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highlight how Islam is utilized both by democratic-oriented actors and by some Islamist actors that have not adopted democratic norms. Indeed, as in the case of Pakistan, combating radical and violent groups that claim fidelity to Islam remains a major challenge. Islam, Bengali Nationalism, and the Birth of Bangladesh As noted in Chapter 4, Islam has a long history in South Asia. Arab traders and Sufi missionaries arrived in Bengal4 in the eighth century, and Islam won initial converts, mostly from the lower classes, in part due to its egalitarian ethos as opposed to the Hindu caste system. Turkic forces conquered parts of Bengal in 1204, and Islam slowly expanded its reach through conversion and immigration. Until the Mughal conquest of Bengal in 1574, however, the region remained relatively isolated, “depriv[ing] both missionaries and conquerors of the opportunity to tap the political and scriptural resources” of much of the Islamic world (Khan 1985: 837). Accordingly, Bengali Islam developed its own characteristics, with classic texts rendered into the local vernacular and Islamic practices adopting some features of Hindu and pre-Islamic traditions and rituals (Roy 1983; Kabeer 1991; Alam 1993; Bertocci 2001). This phenomenon was not significantly affected by the arrival of the Mughals, who, even though they were influenced by Persian-Turkic culture, did not try to impose their faith on the Bengali masses. Eaton (2001: 28) notes that during the time of the Mughals a cleavage emerged between the folk and rural Islam of the lower classes (atrap) and the Islam of the elite (ashraf) composed mostly of immigrants from the north, the latter condescendingly finding the very idea of native Bengali Muslims as “conceptually impossible.” Islam, however, continued to spread, not so much through conscious state policy but, particularly in the more inaccessible and sparsely populated East Bengal (which would later become Bangladesh), through the clearing of the frontier, as intrepid cultivators were required by the authorities to build either mosques or temples, thus facilitating conversions and prompting many pioneers to live on in folk memory as saints. This Islam, however, celebrated both the tilling of the soil and honored preexisting traditions. It “seeped into the culture” and “became so profoundly identified with the delta’s long term process of agrarian expansion that the cultivating classes never seem to have regarded it as ‘foreign’” (Eaton 2001: 44). There were efforts to (re)fashion the syncretic Islam of the masses, particularly after the region came under British rule in 1757. As was the case throughout India, Muslims found themselves at a disadvantage compared to the Hindus, and some attempted to use Islam as a means to challenge both

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British rulers and Hindu landlords, suggesting that turning to the ideals of the pure faith was “the only road back to political glory” (Ahmed 1981: 15). For example, in Bengal the Faraizi movement (1818), launched by Haji Shariatullah (1781–1840), who was inspired by his experience in the Middle East, rallied local Muslims to abandon local cults and syncretic practices and embrace the fundamentals of the faith as revealed in the Quran and sunna. His son, Muhammad Muhsin (1819–1862), organized attacks against Hindus and created a parallel state in parts of East Bengal (Khan 1985: 841–842). However, the impact of these movements remained limited, and Bengal remained relatively calm during the antiBritish revolt of 1857. On the other end of the spectrum Westernized Muslims associated with the Aligarh movement (see Chapter 4) and exemplified in Bengal by Syed Ameer Ali (1849–1928), founder of the Central National Muhamedan Association (1877), tried to raise Muslim consciousness through modern education and embraced ideas such as liberalism and democracy (Islam 1997: 221). This too had a limited effect, as by design it targeted the English- and Urdu-speaking elite, not the Bengali masses. Far more significant, particularly in terms of having lasting consequences, were the various efforts, beginning in the mid-1800s, to promote cultural Islam—as opposed to territorial-oriented “Bengaliness”—as the main source of identity for Bengal’s Muslims. Bengali identity had previously been centered on regional concerns, language, and, particularly among Muslims, class, as the native people who converted to Islam were in a far inferior economic position to most of the Urdu-speaking Muslim immigrants. It was not a sectarian identity, but the Bengali renaissance that began in the mid-1800s as “the creation of the Hindu upper classes” in Bengal and geared toward Hindu revivalism galvanized a Muslim response, as the fear, at least among the elite, was that Bengali Muslims risked becoming even more Hinduized (Rashid 2014: 349; Alam 1993: 91). There was thus an effort to cultivate Islam as a force to unify the Bengali Muslims. While this did have, like the Faraizi movement, a component that attempted to “purify” the faith, the overall thrust was more cultural in orientation, compelling Muslim Bengalis to view and fashion themselves differently from their Hindu neighbors. This included Islamization of names, a rewriting of history that would deny that most Bengali Muslims were converts (or descendants of converts) from Hinduism, and a push to abandon Hinduized Bengali in favor of Urdu, a proper “Islamic” language. Ahmed (1981: 106) suggests that the goal was to demonstrate that “virtually all that was Bengali in the life of a Muslim [was] something incompatible with the ideas and principles of Islam.” This had decidedly mixed effects. Among elites, an “Islamic nationalism” began to gain ground. In 1905, the British partitioned Bengal, a move

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backed by many Muslims (including those who founded the Muslim League in Dhaka in 1906) as a means for Muslims—numerically superior in East Bengal—to gain resources and power. As for the masses, while there was resistance on various fronts—the condescending attitudes of the ashraf, efforts to portray Islam as an exclusively foreign import (as opposed to something with a “Bengali” character), and promotion of Urdu were clearly problematic—and most people “retained much of their older way of life,” interest in Islam did grow and many became more conscious of Hindu/Muslim divisions and began to “feel” more Muslim (Ahmed 1981: 106, 132). There was additional Islamic revival throughout South Asia in the early 1920s with the Khilafat movement that expressed solidarity with the defeated Ottoman Empire, and there was Hindu-Muslim rioting in Dhaka in 1921 and 1926. Intercommunal violence continued in Bengal throughout the 1930s, and Bengali Muslims refused to join Mahatma Gandhi’s Civil Disobedience Campaign (Rashiduzzaman 1994: 48–49). Proposals for a united independent India became less attractive. The result was an “enforced entente” between elite and popular cultures (Ahmed 1981: 132), as the two-nation theory that would lead to the creation of Pakistan began to take hold. However, Islam did not completely or, as we’ll soon see, permanently triumph over “Bengaliness”; indeed, there would be an “oscillation between the two” (Alam 1993: 91). Class divisions among Muslims continued to be important and fed a “Bengali” identity. For example, in 1937 elections in Bengal, A. K. Fuzlul Huq’s (1873–1962) Krishak Proja Party (Peasant Tenants’ Party), a socialist-oriented, intercommunal association that abjured references to Islam, fared well, and Huq became Bengal’s premier (Khan 1985: 842). However, Huq’s land reform program was unanimously rejected by all Hindu representatives, revealing clear limits to intercommunal cooperation (Rashiduzzaman 1994: 49). In 1940 some Bengalis, including Huq, supported the ML’s Lahore Resolution that called for a separate Pakistan, but whether this would include Bengal remained an open question.5 Indeed, into the 1940s many leading political figures in Bengal, both Muslim and Hindu, called for a separate but united Bengal, an idea that Jinnah himself initially backed.6 By the time of 1945–1946 elections, however, the call that “Islam was in danger” prevailed in Bengal, where Muslims overwhelmingly backed the ML. This convinced the British on the necessity of partition of the subcontinent, and Bengal was also duly divided in 1946 in preparation for independence, with its western portion, including Calcutta, its largest city, becoming part of India. Thousands of Bengalis subsequently died during fighting related to the declaration of Pakistani and Indian independence, and millions crossed the new border to start a new life on “their” side. The final result was that East Bengal (later renamed as East Pakistan) became

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part of Pakistan, separated from the western part of the country by over 1,000 miles. It was not, however, only distance that separated the two. East Pakistan was linguistically distinct, economically less developed, and more religiously diverse.7 Bengali nationalism, as opposed to Bengali Muslim nationalism, reemerged (Khan 1985: 843). As early as 1949, Maulana Bhashani (1880–1976) and other East Bengali leaders broke with the ML to found the Awami (“National” or “Peoples”) Muslim League, which focused its activities on securing greater rights for Bengalis within Pakistan. This gained momentum in the form of the Bengali Language Movement, which demanded that Bengali be named alongside Urdu as a national language. The Awami League (AL)—the word Muslim was dropped in 1953 to appease leftists and court non-Muslim support—swept regional elections in 1954, but the Pakistani government shut down the assembly, imposing direct gubernatorial rule. The 1956 constitution established Bengali as a state language and created a federal structure, but economic issues—there was a great disparity in level of development between the two Pakistans— continued to be divisive, as was Bengali resentment of the dominance of the Punjabi military and bureaucratic elites who treated East Pakistan as a colony and continued to view Bengalis as “unreliable” Muslims (Kabeer 1991: 40). In 1966, the AL under the leadership of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman (1920–1975) (known as Mujib) issued a demand for the end of military rule, free elections, and enhanced regional autonomy. Notably, the AL was committed to both socialism and secular ideals, seeing the attempt to employ Islam to unify the two Pakistans as a “political stunt” (Islam 1997: 223). Alam (1993: 93) suggests that “Islam as an ideology never played a significant role as long as it [Bangladesh] was East Pakistan,” which may be a bit of an exaggeration.8 However, it is notable that Islamist parties such as the Jamaat-e Islami did embrace the Bengali language movement (Hasan 2011a: 159). The final years of Ayub Khan’s military government proved to be decisive. Mujib was arrested on sedition charges in 1968, prompting large-scale demonstrations on his behalf and his eventual release. Demands for political change throughout Pakistan prompted Khan to resign in 1969 and the new military government to commit to national elections. Cyclones also struck Bangladesh in 1970, and the government’s lackadaisical response only fed the separatist impulse. Mujib’s AL swept the 1970 elections in East Pakistan, winning enough overall seats (167 out of 313) to form the national government. The military and Zulfikar Bhutto, whose Pakistan People’s Party (PPP) won the vote in West Pakistan, conspired to prevent the legislature from convening. Student activists’ call for an independent Bangladesh9 (which could be translated as “Home of the Bangala” [Bengalis]) led to a brutal crackdown by the Pakistani military, prompting Mujib

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to issue a declaration of independence. This led to the arrest of many AL leaders—many more fled to India—and a wave of brutal attacks against Bengalis. There was, however, widespread resistance against the Pakistani military. Indian intervention in November 1971 proved decisive, forcing the surrender of Pakistani forces in December and allowing Bangladesh to become independent. This was a horrific and costly conflict.10 Estimates are that up to three million people died, and millions more, mostly Hindus, fled East Pakistan for India. It was also worth noting that it was primarily an intra-Muslim conflict, a rejection of the idea of “Islamic nationalism” for all South Asian Muslims. Significantly, Islamist parties, including the Jamaat-e Islami, sided with (West) Pakistan, and this legacy would haunt Bangladesh—manifesting itself decades later in convictions in 2013 and 2014 against Jamaate Islami leaders for war crimes committed in the war of independence, events that in turn spawned deadly protests.11 Overall, however, the main point is that the victory of the Bangladeshis could be construed as a rejection of the more Islamist vision of Pakistan and the triumph of secular nationalism. Democracy and Secularism Fail to Take Root While newly created Bangladesh was poor and had emerged out of a devastating conflict, it had a chance to develop in a democratic direction. It was led by the AL, which had democratic legitimacy stemming from its 1970 electoral victory and had long campaigned for democratic freedoms. The government was also steadfastly committed to secularism (which we shall detail below) and was inclusive of religious minorities. Mujib himself embraced a vision of Bengali nationalism that would both ensure secularism and provide inspiration for national development (Khan 1985: 846). Islam (1997: 218) suggests that the fact that Bengalis had never really given up their Bengali (as opposed to an exclusive “Muslim”) identity prevented the transformation of Bangladesh into an Islamic state. Returning to factors identified in Chapter 1 with respect to Islam and democracy, newly independent Bangladesh was in good stead: it could draw upon syncretic religious traditions; there was no overarching religious hierarchy to define or dictate what Islam “required”; it had, unlike Pakistan, explicitly committed itself to secularism; and Islamist forces had been discredited and effectively demobilized. However, democracy in postindependence Bangladesh did not fare well. It experienced a number of problems, and Mujib was assassinated in a coup in 1975. Military rule followed for the next fifteen years. While this, as we’ll see, allowed political Islam to reenter the picture, the country did

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not “Islamize” to the same extent as Pakistan did in the 1980s, making it difficult to pinpoint “Islam” as the main factor behind authoritarian rule. Bangladesh Under Mujib Rahman, 1972–1975

Mujib and the AL, at least initially, sought to put Bangladesh on a very different course from that of Pakistan; indeed, Bangladesh can be viewed as the “negation of the state of Pakistan that was based on the ‘Islamic principle’” (Alam 1993: 88). Its 1972 constitution declared it to be a “People’s Republic” and affirmed four guiding principles—democracy, socialism, nationalism, and secularism. It expressly prohibited discrimination on the basis of religion and communalism in all its forms. Basing political parties on religion or the use of religion for political purposes was prohibited. Mujib saw the potential for religion to be used to destabilize the country. The country’s Five Year Plan (1973–1978) declared, “Even though decades of obscurantism and religious fanaticism cannot be obliterated in one day, such bigotry will not be able to thrive on the soil of Bangladesh if communalism ceases to be a political weapon” (quoted in Alam 1993: 96). In practical terms, secularism meant that school books were revised to remove Islamic content, Islamic studies was eliminated from the secondary school curriculum, funding was cut for religious schools, and the Islamic names of various institutions were changed (Islam 2001: 170). Overall, while not necessarily antireligious—Mujib himself noted the cultural value of religion—the state was “religiously neutral” (Alam 1993). In effect, this meant it supported the “customary, communal, pliable” version of Bengali Islam over more fundamentalist interpretations (Kabeer 1991: 44). The government’s commitment to both democracy and secularism, however, would be tested. To minimize problems of factionalism within the AL, Article 70 of the constitution was designed to ensure party discipline so that any member of parliament who voted against his party would be expelled from the body (Khan 1997: 578). The Special Powers Act of 1973 gave the government expanded powers to arrest those it deemed threatening to the state. Faced with leftist insurgents who attacked AL officials and landlords, the government declared a state of emergency, set up special tribunals to try suspected radicals, and banned activities of all political parties (Islam 2001: 171). Elections were duly held in 1973, but critics charged that the AL used “strong arm” tactics to ensure its overwhelming victory (291 of 300 parliamentary seats), which de facto created a single-party state. Afterwards, Mujib even asserted that the elections showed “there is nothing like an opposition party in Bangladesh” and that the failure of the other parties meant they would “disappear by themselves” (quoted in Riaz 2004: 93). However, Mujib chose to give this process a boost with a constitutional amendment in January 1975, which, inter alia, created a presiden-

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tial system, allowed only one political party, and curtailed the powers of the legislature and judiciary (Rashid 2014: 367). There was, however, no Islamic rationale for these moves; on the contrary, they were in part manifestations of an interpretation of Bengali nationalism that asserted the homogeneity of the Bengali people12 and the desire of the government to preserve its rather precarious rule. Evidence of the government’s weak position can be seen in debates over secularism. While Islamist parties were outlawed, there was still agitation in Bangladeshi society for the government to do more to promote Islam. The government’s policy of secularism, it was alleged, unfairly singled out Muslims and was evidence that Mujib had become a “puppet” of India (Islam 2001: 171). Surveys indicated large majorities favored religious education, which was duly restored (Islam 1997: 224). Mujib made a number of other concessions as well: an assertion that no law would be passed against the laws of Islam;13 more funding for religious education; Quranic readings on state media; creation of an Islamic Foundation; and amnesty for all politicians (mostly Islamists) who collaborated with Pakistan during the war (Islam 2001: 171–172). All of this was much more a ploy to win the support of the masses than to Islamize Bangladesh. However, by 1975, a host of problems, including widespread corruption and food shortages and famine, had undermined the government’s legitimacy. Mujib’s purging of the state bureaucracy and creation of special paramilitary units also engendered opposition among key constituencies (Mohsin and Guhathakurta 2007: 47–48). Mujib was eventually assassinated in August 1975 as part of a military coup. Military Rule and (Limited) Islamization, 1975–1990

The military became the primary political force in the country for the next fifteen years. After a period of instability, including countercoups and assassinations, General Ziaur Rahman (1936–1981) (known as Zia) became president in 1977. He was assassinated in a coup in May 1981, which led to another period of instability, which ended when General Hussain Muhammad Ershad (1930–) came to power in a bloodless coup in March 1982. Zia and Ershad were no democrats. Their governments placed restrictions on political activities, media, and civil society. Critics risked imprisonment. Martial law was declared as necessary to restore order. At the same time, however, democracy was not wholly abandoned. After martial law ended, civilian-led governments were formed, although, as president and in command of the military, both Zia and Ershad retained final authority. Notably, both formed their own political parties—the Bangladeshi National Party (BNP) in 1978 and the Jatiya (National) Party in 198614—and allowed competitive elections. This was, to be sure, an “orchestrated”

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process (Bertocci 1982: 997), in which the governing party, by processes of co-optation, coercion, and vote-rigging, ensured its victory. However, the opposition was not completely crushed; in 1979 and 1986 elections, for example, the AL won a quarter of the vote.15 The larger point, however, is that both Zia and Ershad realized they could not rule by force alone, and by engaging in electoral policies, they demonstrated a desire to legitimate their rule. On this point the most important development, especially for our purposes, was movement under both Zia and Ershad away from secularism and various efforts to elevate Islam in the public and political arena.16 For example, Zia declared that “religious belief and love for religion” were “imperishable characteristics of the Bangladeshi nation” (Islam 2001: 172).17 Religious parties were legalized in 1976, and many Islamists, including some who had sided with Pakistan during the war, joined his cabinet. In 1977 Zia issued a decree to remove “secularism” from the constitution, replacing it with “absolute trust and faith in Almighty Allah” as a principle of the state and adding “In the Name of Allah, the Beneficent and Merciful” to its preamble. A new article was also added that stated Bangladesh would aim to have “fraternal ties” with Muslim countries on the basis of “Islamic solidarity.” Quranic verses became commonplace on posters in government offices; state radio and television featured more Islamic programming, including the call to prayer; the official holiday was moved to Friday; state support to Islamic schools was expanded; and state leaders ostentatiously patronized mosques and shrines and opened public meetings with Muslim prayers. Upon seizing power, Ershad declared that “Islam will be given the highest place in the country’s future constitution and Islamic provisions wherever necessary” (Islam 2001: 174). Building upon Zia’s efforts, he made Islamic studies and Arabic mandatory in primary school and created a state zakat fund (headed by himself). Most significantly, in 1988 he secured passage of a constitutional amendment to declare Islam the state religion. Rashiduzzaman (1994: 36) observes that whereas some had earlier believed Bangladesh was “irrevocably on its route to a secular nationalism,” developments under Zia and Ershad showed that Islam returned as a “resilient and widespread phenomenon.” Riaz (2005: 175) contended that Islam had become “central to the political discourse.” How can one explain this, particularly given the recent clash with Pakistan and the ascendency in the early 1970s of secular Bengali nationalism? Several answers suggest themselves. As noted above, one can question how popular secularism truly was in the populace as a whole. Rashiduzzaman (1994: 41), for example, contends that the AL’s secularism was a foreign idea that relegated most Bangladeshis to “cultural exile” in their own country. Bangladesh had (and has) an active religious society of mosques,

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schools, shrines, and associations, some of which (such as the Tabligh Jamaat, which encouraged personal piety and missionary work) had a mass following.18 In this respect, the state’s insertion of Islam into the public sphere was less novelty than a reflection of long-held cultural values and an assertion that both aspects of the majority’s identity—Bengali and Muslim—deserved recognition. However, it would be a mistake to see this purely as a grassroots phenomenon. Alam (1993) makes the point that the military needed a “hegemonic project” to legitimize itself, and Islam was an attractive candidate, as it could be used to mask class cleavages in society and also deprive Islamists—who never entirely went away—of the ability to use Islam to challenge the regime. International factors also mattered, including escalating tensions with India, the need to court support in the Middle East for foreign aid, and the return to Bangladesh of many migrants who had spent time in the Middle East in more Islamic-oriented societies (Ahamed 1983; Kabeer 1991; Hasan 2011a). Islam gained a place in the party spectrum. The BNP adopted an Islamfriendly platform and included within its ranks many members of the old Muslim League. Ershad’s Jatiya was similarly inclined. More explicit Islamist parties were also formed, or, in the case of the Jamaat-e Islami Bangladesh (JIB) in 1979, which was an offshoot of Pakistan’s JI and became the best organized Islamist force, relegalized. Some, such as the Nizam-i Islam (Order of Islam) and the Bangladesh Khilafat Andolon (Bangladesh Caliphate Movement, BKA), campaigned openly for sharia and were centered on traditional ulama and madrassas. Others, such as the JIB, catered more to urban elites and were more interested in Islamizing society than gaining power (Ahamed and Nazneen 1990: 802–803). None, however, posed a real challenge to the system, at least at the ballot box. For example, the JIB fared best among all the Islamist parties in the 1986 elections, gaining only 4.6 percent of the vote. This leads to a crucial larger point: Islamization in Bangladesh was not as extensive as in Pakistan or in Malaysia. It remained, in many ways, more declarative than a wholesale political change. True, in Cesari’s (2014) terms, Islam became “hegemonic,” clearly privileged over other religions, but it did not play the same role as in the other two cases.19 Sharia was not adopted.20 Non-Muslims took their own religious studies courses in school. No state-empowered ulama issued fatwas or rule on what is properly Islamic. No Council on Islamic Ideology issued policy recommendations. Bangladesh was never declared an Islamic republic.21 Indeed, Zia maintained—in contrast to the other General Zia in Pakistan—that there was no need to do so, as the country was 90 percent Muslim and therefore any policy adopted by the government would have to be “Islamic” (Islam 2001: 174), a position adopted by some Islamic-oriented actors in other countries to reconcile the imperatives of Islam and democracy. Constitutional princi-

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ples forbidding discrimination on the basis of religion were not changed. The state’s policy toward women remained mixed22—often it focused more on promoting birth control (deemed by some as un-Islamic) than on genuine economic empowerment, but there was no imposition of an Islamic dress code and those accused of rape were (in contrast to the case of Pakistan) tried in state courts. Gender quotas in parliament were increased from 5 percent to 10 percent, with the same quota adopted for civil service positions. The government created a Ministry of Women’s Affairs. Lastly, congruent with the observation that Bangladesh had a vibrant and diverse religious landscape, there was no effort to impose religious orthodoxy on the population. Indeed, state officials, particularly Ershad, became patrons of Sufi shrines and other elements of traditional “Bengali Islam.” The net result, as Rashiduzzaman concludes (1994: 53), was raising of “Islamic consciousness,” but not the creation of a “doctrinaire state.” In terms of legitimating their rule, uniting society, and providing stability, however, Islamization proved to be one of many failures of the military governments. The military itself was divided among those who had fought for Bangladesh and those who had returned from Pakistan, and Zia was finally overthrown by a faction that believed he had excessively “civilianized” the political system (Kabeer 1991: 43; Rashid 2014: 360). Ershad’s overtures to Islam also won him few allies. Many Islamists, such as the JIB, refused to back him, believing his commitment to Islam was insufficient. The leader of the BKA issued a fatwa condemning Ershad as un-Islamic because he did not rule according to the Quran and did not have the consent of the people (Islam 2001: 174–175). On the other side of the political spectrum, more secular-oriented groups grew alarmed by “creeping Islamization” and the 1988 amendment to make Islam the state religion was seen by some as a stunt to make up for the disaster of the 1988 elections, which were boycotted by the opposition and for which some observers reported only a 3 percent turnout (Kabeer 1991: 49).23 Once adopted, the amendment generated protests by opposition political parties, trade unions, and students’ and women’s organizations. However, it was chronic economic problems and corruption that fostered the greatest opposition to the regime. The government managed to survive protests throughout the latter half of the 1980s, including those related to creation of Islam as the state religion. It failed, however, to legitimate itself, and demands for political change did not evaporate. Its denouement came rapidly after student protests in October 1990 were put down with deadly force. Student groups, however, continued to resist and unified, galvanizing the AL and BNP to put aside their rivalry and press for change, including new elections and Ershad’s resignation. The government tried to divert attention by fostering communal violence and declared a state of emergency. However, a general strike threatened to cripple the country and

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generate further chaos, and the military was unwilling to intervene to declare martial law. Ershad resigned in December 1990, and a caretaker government led Bangladesh to free, competitive elections two months later.24 Bangladeshi Democracy and the Challenge of Politicized Islam These elections ushered in a fifteen-year period of relative democracy in Bangladesh, as seen in Figure 5.1. During this time, as seen in Table 5.1, power has alternated between the BNP and AL, each led by a female relative of a former president: Khaleda Zia (1945–) (hereafter Khaleda), the widow of Zia, heads the former; Sheikh Hasina25 (1947–), the eldest child of Mujib, leads the latter. Both of these women have demonstrated remarkable political staying power, providing continuity (some might call it stagnation) to the political system. At times, these two parties have made coalitions with others, meaning that smaller parties such as the JIB (discussed more later) have had political influence as well. While Bangladeshi democracy has been beset with a number of problems—which we’ll soon discuss—the essential point is that, despite various handicaps (e.g., heritage of military rule, political polarization, dire economic conditions), power was subject to the people’s vote and parties were (relatively) free to organize and vie for power. In the early 1990s, the BNP and AL agreed to constitutional changes to restore the parliamentary system, and they overcame a political crisis in 1996—prompted by the AL’s boycott of elections in February of that year—to usher in new changes (e.g., adoption of a “caretaker” government to oversee elections) to stabilize the system. The government Table 5.1 Election Results in Bangladesh, 1991–Present Year

BNP

1991 1996 2001 2008 2014

30.9/140 38.7/116 41.4/191 33.2/30 Boycotted

AL 30.1/88 48.7/146 40/62 49/231 79.1/234

JIB 12.1/18 1/3 4.3/17 4.6/2 Boycotted

Jatiya

Prime Minister

11.9/35 10.6/32 7.2/14 7/26 11.3/34

Khaleda Zia, BNP Sheikh Hasina, AL Khaleda Zia, BNP Sheikh Hasina, AL Sheikh Hasina, AL

Sources: Bangladesh International Election Observer Network, available at www.lcgbangladesh .org/election01/index.html, and International Foundation for Electoral Systems, “Election Guide,” available at www.electionguide.org/elections/id/2436/, both accessed 27 February 2015. Note: Table reports percent of votes/number of seats. Table does not include prime ministers of caretaker/military governments and does not report results of boycotted elections in February 1996.

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signed an accord with insurgents in the Chittagong Hills Tract in 1997, and it had a respectable record in terms of fostering economic growth, with Muhammad Yunus’s Grameen Bank serving as a model of microcredit (much of which is directed toward women) and garnering the 2006 Nobel Peace Prize.26 The relative “success” of Bangladeshi democracy through the 1990s, at any rate, can be seen in the 2002 version of the World Values Study, which finds low support for military rule (17.2 percent) or a “strong leader” (10.8 percent) and higher levels of satisfaction with democracy and trust in political institutions than in neighboring India.27 However, one would be remiss not to mention numerous problems that beset the country under both BNP and AL administrations. Corruption probably tops the list, generated by “rapacious,” “clientelistic” political parties, who are dominated by an oligarchic elite and use their power to engage in rent-seeking, fraud, and occasional coercion (Parnini and Othman 2014: 44–45).28 In 1996, Bangladesh was in the 27th percentile of all countries on the World Bank’s governance indicator on corruption; by 2005, its overall score had declined and it ranked in the 5th percentile.29 From 2001 to 2005, it had the dubious distinction of ranking last among all countries surveyed in Transparency International’s Corruption Perceptions Index.30 In the mid-2000s, Khaleda’s son, not elected to any office, began to acquire more political power, organizing the ouster of the president and army chief and exacerbating an already polarized political environment (Alamgir 2009: 46). Indeed, polarization between the two main parties—driven more by personality than ideology and fed by the winner-take-all British-style voting system (Mohsin and Guhathakurta 2007: 50; Parnini and Othman 2014: 43)—has often made Bangladeshi democracy a zero-sum game for its players, leading to credible allegations of vote-rigging and (in response) periodic (1996 and 2014) electoral boycotts. Parliament affords little opportunity for the opposition to influence policy or check government power, so parties have frequently boycotted parliament as well,31 preferring to call for strikes and engage in street politics, which occasionally turns deadly. Political stability is an issue.32 Riaz (2014: 129) takes a skeptical view of Bangladeshi democracy, noting that the “alteration in power [of political parties] precluded the complete reversal of democracy but accomplished little more.” However, the elections themselves were hardly smooth affairs, often marred by violence between opposing parties as well as attacks on the Hindu minority.33 Many Bangladeshis also live in abject poverty and the country has seen growing inequality, complicating efforts to foster political empowerment. It is therefore tempting, perhaps, to agree with Mohsin and Guhathakurta (2007: 72–73) that “democracy is in crisis in Bangladesh not because it is a Muslim country but because it is a developing nation.” On one level,

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this is, of course, true. Everything cannot be “blamed” on “Islam.” At the same time, however, Islam is a factor in the country’s politics, and greater Islamization remains a goal for many groups, many of which have employed violence to advance their objective. The subsequent sections thus look at the impact of Islamic-oriented politics on state policy and then at the Islamist challenge. Islam and State Policy

By the time Bangladesh democratized, Islam had become an important element of the country’s politics. While Islamic-oriented groups such as JIB were present in the opposition, they did not take the lead in the final push to oust Ershad,34 which was spearheaded by students, trade unions, business associations, and women’s groups (among others), part of what Riaz (2004: 96) calls a “vibrant secularist civil society.” Bangladesh’s two political parties had, however, incorporated Islamic slogans and symbols into their discourse and programs for the 1991 elections. Sheikh Hasina of the AL, ostensibly the more secular party, made a very public hajj to Mecca and visited mosques and shrines in Bangladesh, began donning Islamic dress (as did other party leaders), peppered her speeches with Arabic and Islamic sayings, and claimed that she would not remove the invocation to Allah from the constitution (Riaz 2005: 175). The BNP, which even more explicitly embraced Islam, forged a coalition with the JIB after the 1991 elections and appointed JIB leaders to several cabinet posts. Hossain (2004: 143) notes that this embrace of Islam continued throughout the period of democratic politics, as a “system of sacred belief” was used to bolster weak democratic institutions and used by the major parties to gain votes and forestall a more explicitly Islamist challenge. Thus, as in Pakistan after the Zia regime, Islam did not “go away” and the country did not “de-Islamize.” However, it did not embark upon an aggressive Islamization campaign either, despite some pressure to do so from Islamist groups (discussed more later) and evidence of public support for, among other items, adoption of sharia (see Table 4.1 in Chapter 4).35 As before, government offices featured posters with Quranic verses, state media included Quranic recitations, and state officials would make pronouncements on religious holidays. However, this was rather “soft” Islamization and did not create serious problems in terms of the “fault lines” between Islam and democracy suggested in Chapter 1. Sharia was not adopted as a basis for law or even explicitly defined, although both major parties have pledged not to adopt a law that would run counter to it.36 Religious minorities were free to practice their faith, and the government has resisted calls— heard as early as 1992 from the JIB—to pass a blasphemy law to protect Islam or declare Ahmadis as non-Muslim, both of which have been done in

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Pakistan.37 Ulama continue to have no political authority, and government legitimacy or public policy does not flow from religious expertise. Although there are traditions of patriarchy and purdah (female segregation) in Bangladesh, elected governments have adopted a host of policies to further female employment, economic self-sufficiency, and education (the work of the Grameen Bank, the Bangladesh Rural Advancement Committee, and international nongovernmental organizations [NGOs] all deserve credit here as well), including free education for all girls through grade eight, which meant that by the 2010s girls outnumbered boys in secondary school (Rashid 2014: 387). Bangladesh was ranked 75 in the 2013 World Economic Forum’s Global Gender Gap report (higher than India [101] and much higher than Pakistan [135] and second only to Senegal [68] among countries in this volume). Over 60 percent of women are in the labor force.38 One can identify a number of factors to account for the relative “tolerance” or “moderation” of state policy. These include the need to please Western international donors, the desire to pursue a middle ground and not promote protests or instability, and, perhaps, being put off by the negative example of “hard” Islamization set by Pakistan and, later, Afghanistan. Invoking some of the historical perspective presented earlier in this chapter, Bertocci (2006: 25) suggests that the strength of syncretic and Sufi traditions may help account for the lack of broad appeal of stricter incarnations of Islamization from above as well as the limited electoral success of Islamist parties. “Bangladeshi Islam,” at least in this form, may thus be rather compatible with democracy. This does not mean that “Islam,” broadly defined to include elements outside of this tradition, presents no difficulties for Bangladeshi democracy. Much of this challenge, however, comes from outside the formal policy realm (e.g., attacks on minority groups, fatwas issued by individuals) and is initiated by nonstate actors or Islamist parties and vigilantes, not the government itself. However, Riaz (2004), who documents many of these difficulties, refuses to let the authorities (both the BNP and AL) completely off the hook, noting their complicity in anti-Hindu violence and property confiscation as well as their embrace of “politics of expediency” that refuses to challenge Islamist groups and allows their discourse to assume more prominence. As for secular groups in civil society, he also notes their failures to “stand up to” Islamist pressure, the result being, in his view, various defeats in the 1990s, including the ultimately unsuccessful campaign to put Golam Azam, a leader of the JIB, on trial for war crimes in the 1971 War of Independence,39 the banning of works by the feminist author Taslima Nasreen, who was forced into exile in 1994,40 and the outbreak of violence in 1998 in Brahmanbaria when Islamist groups attacked NGOs that were working to empower poor rural women. Riaz concludes (2004: 90) that “secularists in

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Bangladesh have repeatedly lost ground in their battles against the Islamists as the latter have gained strength, largely through the patronage of the state.” We shall now turn more explicitly to these Islamist groups and their actions. The Islamist Challenge

Islamist parties and organizations have a long history in Bangladesh. While the state’s embrace of a limited Islamization agenda in the 1970s and 1980s was, in part, testimony to the strength of these Islamist parties and organizations, democratization has allowed them to more openly press their agendas. They are, however, a polarizing force. While some of their activity is centered on the ballot box and within the realm of democratic politics— where they have had, as seen in Table 5.1, limited success41—Islamist groups have also become adept at “street politics” and some have engaged in terrorism, prompting fears that Bangladesh could become a “Taliban state” or that the “pendulum” of Bangladeshi politics and identity will swing decisively toward radicalism (Riaz 2004; Hossain 2007). In terms of the factors identified in Chapter 1, it is clear that Islamist mobilization, occurring in an environment with weak democratic institutions and practices, works against democratic consolidation. One should note that Bangladesh has a variety of Islamist groups.42 Hasan (2011b: 103) reports there were 100 Islamist parties in 2006, although only 7 were registered with the Election Commission. By far the most important is the JIB, which received the most votes among these parties and served as a coalition partner with the BNP after the 1991 and 2001 elections. It is, as noted, the local successor to Pakistan’s JI. It opposed the creation of Bangladesh, and some of its leaders, including Azam, who returned to Bangladesh in 1978 and assumed de facto leadership, have been accused of war crimes during the separatist struggle. While it was initially banned as a religious party, it was allowed to re-form in 1979. It joined with secular-oriented parties in opposing the Ershad regime in the 1980s and, until the 2014 elections (discussed more at the end of this chapter) it has contested elections throughout Bangladesh’s democratic period. Because of this, Riaz and Raji (2011) label the JIB as a “pragmatist” or “opportunistic” party. One central question is whether the JIB has “moderated” to become a constructive force for democracy. Certainly, the JIB is engaged in democratic politics, working with other parties, including, briefly in the 1990s, the AL. It has a strong, centralized organization centered on dues-paying cadres, and has sizable support among the intelligentsia, middle class, and students. Its leader claimed in 2006 that the JIB “is a constructive and responsible Islamic organization that holds and preserves constitutional pol-

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itics in a democratic process in a systemic and peaceful way. . . . We firmly believe that Islamic principles should be established through the democratic process” (quoted in Riaz and Raji 2011: 50). Shehabuddin (2013) notes that the JIB, realizing that it needs to do better with voters in order to gain power, has expanded and in some respect “moderated” its message, particularly to attract rural women voters. According to its 2008 Election Manifesto, it is “a modern, democratic and liberal Islamic political party . . . [that] has been trying to establish liberal parliamentary democracy in this country for a long time.” Furthermore, it notes a number of goals, including anticorruption measures, creation of an Islamic welfare state, and rights of religious minorities.43 This does not mean, however, that the JIB is less “Islamist,” let alone “post-Islamist,“ in its orientation. Its goal, an Islamic state created by “those who know and practice Islam,” remains the same. Such a state would be centered on the Quran and sunna, which are a “complete code of life” and given by Allah, the “only lawgiver.” Furthermore, it maintains that since it is a “spiritual party,” it seeks to establish a completely Islamic social order, defined as “the rule of Allah on every nook and corner of the person, family, society, and state.”44 According to its constitution, it would place governance in the hands of honest and religious leaders in every sector of society (Hasan 2011b: 108). It acknowledges that an Islamic state will not be immediately achieved. More short-term, in its 2008 manifesto, it calls for religious education, measures to establish ritual prayers, a blasphemy law, and “steps” to prevent behavior such as drinking and gambling. Whether any of this qualifies as “moderation” is debatable. Shehabuddin (2013) offers a somewhat sympathetic interpretation of JIB’s activities, but she also notes that its “moderation” in terms of women’s issues is primarily reflected in prioritization it puts on motherhood and giving women rights and freedoms within the confines of purdah (either via physical separation from men or by wearing a burqa), not empowerment in terms of education or advancement in the economic or political arena.45 Indeed, the JIB was denied registration in 2013 because its statutes prohibit a woman from assuming party leadership. This leads to the question about how seriously one should take its support for democratic principles. Clearly, as seen in its proposed blasphemy law, it is not “liberal” in orientation. Its rhetorical support for minority rights, Riaz (2004) suggests, is undermined by the support its members (as well as those of the BNP) have given to attacks on Hindus. It also supported, in principle,46 a fatwa campaign in the 1990s and early 2000s, centered on councils in rural areas (salish), that has been employed to punish women—including in some cases fatally—believed to have transgressed proper “Islamic” sexual behavior (Karim 2004; Riaz 2004, 2005). This was done in conjunction with a condemnation of NGOs that worked on

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women’s issues, which were condemned in the JIB’s newspaper as trying to “wipe out Islamic society and culture from Bangladesh” (Riaz 2004: 85). When Bangladeshi courts prohibited fatwas in 2001, JIB parliamentarians strongly reacted against it, with one declaring in 2002 that “courts won’t be allowed to control fatwas, instead fatwas would control the courts” (Riaz 2004: 88). The JIB is not the only Islamist party that has been part of a governing coalition. From 2001 to 2006, it was joined in government by the smaller (it only had two seats) Islami Oikya Jote (Islamic Unity Front), which also calls for an Islamic state and has expressed support for the Taliban, with party banners at a demonstration in 1999 proclaiming “We are all Taliban, Bangladesh will be Afghanistan” (Riaz 2004: 147). It has been instrumental in many violent actions to protest what it sees as insufficient commitment to Islam. One example is deadly clashes with police after the aforementioned ban on fatwas, which led to the arrest of its leaders (Riaz 2004: 87). As noted, there are a host of other parties and organizations. Riaz and Raji (2011) catalog numerous “idealist” parties led by traditional ulama such as the BKA and Nizam-e Islami that are committed to an Islamic state but have limited support, mainly centered on madrassas. Small parties catering to Sufis, centering on particular shrines or religious figures, also exist. The international Hizb-ut-Tahrir movement established a presence in the 2000s. It is committed to reestablishing the global caliphate. Its support base, however, is narrow (mostly in universities). It refrained from electoral activity, focusing its work on religious revival and recruiting activists. Even though it claims it is committed to nonviolent change, it was banned in 2009 by the government for carrying out “antistate” and “antidemocratic” actions.47 Most of these parties, as noted, are small, and even though the JIB has played an important and visible political role, it has not, as noted, fared particularly well at the ballot box. In 2001 and 2008 elections, for example, it received less than 5 percent of the vote (Table 5.1). This may be surprising, given that Muslims in Bangladesh do exhibit some “Islamist” views, as seen in Table 4.1 (e.g., support for sharia and hudud punishments) that would seem to favor Islamist parties. Indeed, 41 percent of respondents thought Islamist parties were better than other parties. Why then, are more people not voting for them? Several answers suggest themselves: the Westminster system that favors a two-party system and discourages votes for “third” parties;48 their focus on Islam as opposed to economic issues, which are foremost in voters’ minds;49 the failures of the JIB to win over women, despite efforts to do so (Shehabuddin 2013); the JIB’s collaboration with other parties, especially the BNP, that are seen as corrupt; the takeover of social services provided in the past by the JIB and other Islamist groups by

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NGOs and the state; and, lastly, terrorist attacks in the 2000s committed by some Islamist groups, in which the JIB and other Islamist parties were implicated. Indeed, these attacks brought home to many the threat that radical Islam posed in Bangladesh (Mohsin and Guhathakurta 2007; Hossain 2007; Alamgir 2009; Hasan 2011b). While there have been various forms of violence related to Islamist mobilization in the past (e.g., attacks on Hindus during elections, carrying out of fatwas against women, protests against the government or NGOs that turned deadly), the spate of terror attacks in the mid-2000s was on an entirely new level. Thirty-four people on average died per year in terror attacks from 2001 to 2006, and in 2005 there were over forty terror attacks, one of which included the near simultaneous explosion of 459 bombs across Bangladesh (Alamgir 2009: 44–45). Targets included journalists, movie theaters, foreign diplomats, judges, and leaders from leftist or secular parties. Perhaps the most dramatic event was a grenade attack on an AL rally, designed to kill Sheikh Hasina. She escaped, but two dozen (including the president’s wife) died and over 200 were injured. Harkat-ul-Jihad-al Islami and Jammat-ul Mujahadeen Bangladesh, which included former JIB members, were among the jihadist groups implicated in these attacks and subsequently banned. While some accused the BNP-JIB government of having sympathy for these extremists—indeed, Tarique Rahman of the BNP and many of his associates were later indicted in 2012 for involvement in the attack on the AL—the government did form a special antiterrorist force that committed hundreds of extrajudicial killings (Alamgir 2009: 45). As the security situation deteriorated, the AL essentially quit parliament and returned to the streets to push for political change. By 2006, the threats to Bangladeshi democracy—polarization, corruption, centralization of power, and, at last, terrorism—had become acute. Mohsin and Guhathakurta (2007: 52) describe it as the “politics of hatred.” Alamgir (2009: 52) suggests that it had become a democracy “in name only,” governed as a “semiauthoritarian fiefdom,” albeit one that could not provide basic security. Bickering by the BNP and AL over the terms for the next election finally precipitated the military to step in in January 2007 to declare a state of emergency and launch a “soft coup” that, temporarily, ended Bangladesh’s democratic record. Bangladesh in the 2010s Military and emergency rule ended in December 2008, when the “caretaker” government allowed elections and subsequently returned power to elected leaders. While the initial suspension of democracy in 2007 was wel-

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comed by many in Bangladesh and in the international donor community as a chance to restore stability, the overall record of this regime was a disappointment (Alamgir 2009). Although it claimed one of its chief goals was to weed out corruption, it invoked Emergency Powers and created special task forces that allowed it to go after its political opponents (both Sheikh Hasina and Khadela were indicted but plans to exile them did not succeed). Over half a million people were detained in anticorruption probes. Meanwhile, the military further ensconced itself in the administrative and economic life of the country, belying its ostensible commitment to clean politics. While criticism of the government was officially prohibited, it did little to win legitimacy among the political class or the masses. By 2008, international pressure had also mounted for political change. The results of the elections, as seen in Table 5.1, were an overwhelming victory for the AL, which headed a fourteen-party coalition, and Sheikh Hasina once again became prime minister. The BNP and the JIB were soundly defeated. While there was, once again, electoral turnover, it would be hard to argue that there was much political change, as all the previous problems—corruption, polarization, “street politics,” and religious-inspired extremism—resurfaced. The denouement of the AL’s term of office in 2014 was boycotted elections, which gave the AL another term with an even larger parliamentary majority but also was a “serious setback” to democracy that brought the country “to the verge of de facto one-party authoritarianism” (Riaz 2014: 119). As was the case with democratic shortcomings in the 1990s and 2000s, it would be unfair and inaccurate to put an “Islamic” cast on these developments. At the same time, however, many Islamic-oriented groups are not absolved from guilt in the spiral of incrimination and violence that continues to characterize Bangladeshi politics. Before jumping ahead to that part of the story, it is worth mentioning several court decisions in Bangladesh that offer prospects for changing the relationship between Islam and politics. The most consequential was a January 2010 decision by the Supreme Court that revoked constitutional changes in 1977 under Zia and thus restored secularism as a fundamental principle in the constitution. This ruling had earlier been made in 2005 by the High Court, but this had been appealed by both the BNP and the JIB and consequently stayed. The court’s ruling was based on the rationale that the military government lacked legitimate authority to make these changes, thus the original language of the 1972 document should stand. Chowdhury (2010) celebrates this as a major achievement, one that returns Bangladesh, in the words of an editorial in the Daily Star, the leading English-language newspaper, to its true “secular spirit,” which will ensure the equality of all faiths and freedom of religious practice.50 Religiously oriented parties, which had been prohibited in the original constitution, were subsequently banned, which promised a major shake-up of the political system. However,

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in what was seen as a concession to Islamic-oriented actors, the court did not strike down the Eighth Amendment, from 1988, which declared Islam the state religion. The impact of the court ruling was modified further in a direction to appease Islamic-oriented groups in June 2011 when the AL-dominated parliament, in a highly controversial move, passed a new, catch-all constitutional amendment (the Fifteenth). Inter alia, this reaffirmed both secularism and Islam’s official status, relegalized religious-based parties, and kept the invocation of Allah in the document’s preamble. It is notable that the AL, the force behind the original, more secular constitution, was the dominant party in 2011 and agreed to add these Islamic provisions, which in itself is a reflection of what had become politic by the 2000s. How all of these elements will be reconciled may be difficult, but it does seem to put limits on the political role of Islam (e.g., adoption of sharia is now “off the table”) that were not explicitly there previously. One Bangladeshi constitutional lawyer, seeking to allay concerns of more secular-oriented forces, sees the references to Islam as a “constitutional courtesy” that need not imply deviance from a model of secularism that will treat all faiths equally and guarantee religious freedom (Billah 2013), perhaps something akin to what prevails in the UK or what Feldman (2003) suggests could be a form of an “Islamic democracy” that would not violate basic rights and freedoms of minorities. In this vein, one could cite another 2010 court ruling that determined that no one could be forced to wear (or prohibited from wearing) religious dress—mandating veiling was, in the court’s words, “a form of sexual harassment”—thereby necessitating changes in some school dress codes. 51 This establishes a type of Anglo-American or “passive” secularism (Kuru 2009) that gives rights both to express and not express religiosity, and it could bode well for democratization, based at any rate on the factors suggested in this study that promote a more “democratic” interpretation of Islam. However, a more ambiguous May 2011 court ruling, which lifted the ten-year ban on fatwas but decreed that they could only be issued by an appropriately educated person, could not be used as a form of coercion or punishment, and that no one was compelled to accept them, could be more problematic.52 While on the one hand it supports freedom of expression by allowing individuals to express a view that something is un-Islamic, the ability or even willingness of the authorities to protect individuals or practices targeted by a fatwa can easily be called into question given the record of fatwa-inspired violence. The development that grabbed headlines and has had the most obvious political consequences, however, was the creation in 2010 of an International Crimes Tribunal (ICT) to investigate and prosecute war crimes and “genocide” committed during Bangladesh’s war of independence. Most of those alleged to have committed these crimes are members of Islamist par-

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ties or organizations that sided with Pakistan in that conflict and stood accused of organizing mass rapes and killings of Bangladeshi civilians. While surveys suggested the ICT had public support—and the AL had promised to create it during its election campaign—it was politically divisive, as both Bangladeshi and foreign observers feared it would be used by the AL to exact revenge on its BNP and JIB opponents (Curtis and Hossain 2013). JIB and other Islamist groups took to the street to protest the ICT’s creation, and the BNP supported their cause, contributing to greater political polarization. Abdul Quader Molla, a leading JIB official, was the first to be convicted, receiving a life sentence in February 2013.53 While this predictably sparked protests from Islamists (including attacks on minority Hindus and Ahmadis), perhaps more interesting were the large-scale counterprotests by more secular-oriented groups who thought the sentence was too lenient. These became known as the Shahbag movement, named for the square in Dhaka in which the protests originated. The protesters demanded the death penalty for Abdul Molla and all those convicted of such crimes. The government responded by changing the law to allow appeals of the sentence, and the Supreme Court subsequently imposed the death penalty. Meanwhile, a catch-all Islamist group, the Hefazad-e Islam (Protectors of Islam), organized a massive protest in May 2013 to demand the closure of the ICT, a blasphemy law that would carry the death penalty, the end to development policies that encouraged female employment, a ban on men and women mixing in public, imposition of an Islamic dress code, and designation of the Ahmadis as non-Muslim.54 Many of these measures, as noted in the previous chapter, exist in Pakistan. While the government has arrested some “atheist” bloggers for contributing to instability—and some were even killed by Islamists as well—it did not capitulate to the Islamists’ demands, using force to break up their protest, resulting in dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of deaths, an event that Khaleda of the BNP called a “genocide” (Riaz 2014: 125). Molla was hanged in December 2013, generating yet another round of deadly demonstrations. Curtis and Hossain (2013) suggest that these events reveal a stark polarization between urban, more secular groups, and Islamic-oriented groups that predominate in the countryside. It is worth noting, however, that the government’s challenge to the JIB is not primarily framed in Islamic terms (e.g., what does Islam require in a political system?), but is about delegitimizing the JIB in terms of Bangladeshi nationalism and its previous opposition to the creation of Bangladesh. In other words, unlike in Malaysia, nationalism is being framed, at least by the AL government in this case, as separate from Islam. Amid these troubles, Bangladesh headed for general elections in January 2014. The ICT and the government’s campaign against the JIB—culminating in revoking the JIB’s electoral registration because its Islamist plat-

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form did not abide by constitutional principles55—constituted one area of conflict. Another stemmed from a different part of the aforementioned 2011 constitutional amendment, which banned the practice of installing a caretaker government to oversee elections. This was highly controversial, for even though the previous “caretaker” government had overstayed its mandate, this innovation, which helped defuse past crises and was given constitutional status in 1996, was popular with the public and seen by the opposition as necessary to ensure a free election. The BNP thus called for a boycott of the vote. The government arrested some BNP leaders, impeded rallies, and its headquarters was even temporarily shut down. International diplomatic efforts were unable to resolve the crisis. By the time the vote was held, the AL faced no meaningful opposition—over half the constituencies had only one candidate—and Khaleda was under house arrest and Ershad of the Jatiya Party had been “detained” in a hospital. Turnout, according to press reports, was under 20 percent (Riaz 2014: 129). This development, as noted earlier, throws into question Bangladesh’s “democracy,” which, as Riaz (2014) maintains, had deteriorated along many dimensions (e.g., rule of law, press freedom) and whose strongest feature, at least until 2014, had been a competitive electoral system that had allowed opposition parties to gain power. Going forward, this may not be the case. The AL has essentially pushed the JIB underground; in 2014, its leader, Moitur Rahman Nizami, was twice sentenced to death (once for smuggling arms to insurgents in 2004, once for war crimes in the war of independence).56 It has used strong-arm tactics to stifle the BNP, and in April 2014 Sheikh Hasina even declared it was an illegal party because it was founded by Zia, who had illegally seized power.57 The government is intent to prosecute Tarique Rahman, now vice-chairman of the BNP and in exile in London, for a host of crimes, including embezzlement and involvement in terrorist attacks in the 2000s, which will only further political polarization.58 It also, even more controversially, attacked Yunus of the Grameen Bank, who in 2007 floated the idea of launching his own political party and may be the only person in Bangladesh with the stature to break through the AL-BNP dominated system.59 No side is blameless—the violence of the JIB and other Islamist groups is obviously a serious problem, the BNP rejected efforts to form a preelection coalition government to oversee the vote, and the AL has clearly shown authoritarian tendencies. While Bangladesh has some of the factors identified in Chapter 1 (e.g., pluralistic religious traditions, decentralized religious authority, and, once again, secularism) that would seem to bode well for democracy, at present the role of Islam (among other items) remains highly contested, and Islamic-oriented mobilization, countered with weak institutions and an adversarial relationship between the major parties, makes one, at least for

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the foreseeable future, rather pessimistic about Bangladesh’s prospects to create stable, well-functioning, and democratic institutions. Notes 1. According to the Bangladesh Bureau of Statistics, as of 2008 Bangladesh was 89.35 percent Muslim, with Hindus (9.64 percent) the largest minority (http://tinyurl.com/khdbr82, accessed 22 February 2015). Since the 2000s, there has been both Muslim-Hindu violence as well as attacks on non-Sunni Muslim minority groups. 2. Bangladesh is 98 percent ethnically Bengali, and non-Bengalis are not recognized in the constitution. There has been a long-running and occasionally violent conflict with the indigenous Jumma people of the Chittagong Hill Tracts, who have fought for political recognition and land rights. A 1997 peace accord has not been fully implemented and there is still conflict between the Jumma and Bengali settlers. For more, see Amnesty International’s 2013 report, “Bangladesh: Pushed to the Edge: Indigenous Rights Denied in Bangladesh’s Chittagong Hill Tracts” at http://tinyurl.com/myb3py3, accessed 14 February 2014. However, it would be hard to find an “Islamic” dimension to this conflict. 3. According to the UN’s 2013 Human Development Report, per capita income in 2005 dollars (purchasing power parity) is $1,785 in Bangladesh and $2,566 in Pakistan. The two countries have similar literacy rates (56.8 percent for Bangladesh, 54.9 percent for Pakistan) and mean years of schooling (4.8 and 4.9, respectively), and each ranks 146 out of 186 countries on the Human Development Index. 4. Bengal is a large region whose borders have changed over time. It was partitioned from 1905 to 1912 and again in 1947 when India and (East) Pakistan were formed. In terms of colonial history, one can talk about the region as a single entity. 5. One might note that Iqbal’s original (1930) call for Pakistan made reference to northwest India, not Bengal, and some interpreted the Lahore Declaration as calling for two separate entities, not a single Pakistan. 6. Alavi 1986: 22–23. One reason for his support was his unwillingness to see Calcutta become part of India. The idea of an independent Bengal was rejected by the Indian National Congress and the British. 7. As of 1951, for example, 22 percent of the population of East Pakistan was Hindu (Khan 1985: 848), compared to 2 percent in West Pakistan. 8. There was, for example, significant violence between Hindus and Muslims in East Pakistan in 1964, prompted by the alleged theft of a relic from an Islamic shrine in Kashmir. Thousands of Hindus fled to India. This event, however, was not spurred on by AL authorities in East Pakistan. 9. Note that the name of Bangladesh, as opposed to Pakistan (“Land of the Pure”), has national, not religious, connotations. 10. For a detailed account of the conflict, see Sisson and Rose 1991. 11. Abdul Quader Molla, the assistant secretary-general of the party, was hung for war crimes in December 2013. Moitur Rahman Nizami, the leader of the party, was similarly sentenced to death in October 2014. See “Bangladesh: Reprieve from Death,” New York Times, 12 December 2013, and “Dialling Down,” The Economist, 1 November 2014, p. 38. 12. See excerpt of Five Year Plan in Alam 1993: 96.

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13. This, significantly, was not enshrined in law, as was the case in Pakistan. 14. Both are center-right parties and many of their members are members of state bureaucracy and prominent landowners. However, during military rule, they are best viewed as a party of power. 15. The AL won seventy-six seats but refused to sit in parliament because it believed the results were fraudulent (Rashid 2014: 375). 16. Good sources on this period include Ahamed and Nazneen 1990; Kabeer 1991; Islam 1997, 2001; and Hasan 2011a. 17. Zia also adopted a territorial, as opposed to ethnic/linguistic, nomenclature for the nation, referring to Bangladeshis, not Bengalis, thereby denying commonalities with Bengalis living in India. See Riaz 2005: 173. 18. The annual gathering of the Tabligh Jamaat in Tongi in the 1980s drew over a million people, making it the second largest (after the hajj) event for Muslims worldwide (Ahamed and Nazneen 1990: 799). 19. She codes all three the same (p. 12), but many features of Islam in Pakistan and Malaysia are not present in Bangladesh. 20. Personal matters such as marriage, divorce, and inheritance continue to be handled differently in the various religious communities, as was the case under the British (Kabeer 1991: 43). 21. The coup leaders in 1975 initially did make this claim, but it was quickly repudiated by the acting president. 22. Kabeer 1991 is an excellent source. She acknowledges there was “no systematic curtailment of women’s rights in the name of Islam” (p. 38), and notes the state’s willingness to include women’s issues as a priority in development. However, she also notes a reaction against this by some in Bangladesh, continued focus on female virtue as a goal for state policy, and an “implementation gap” in terms of policy pronouncements. Rashid (2014: 386) notes the government adopted the UN’s Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women in 1984, but added reservations on some articles for religious reasons. 23. Official turnout was reported at over 50 percent, but these elections were also seriously flawed because many parties boycotted them. 24. A review of major events can be found in Baxter 1991 and Bergman 1991. 25. She was visiting Germany at the time of her father’s assassination, thus escaping the fate of her parents and three siblings who were all killed. 26. Murshed and Choudhury 1997 and Curtis and Hossain 2013. According to World Bank data, from 1991 to 2006 Bangladesh averaged 5.1 percent GDP growth per year and 3.2 percent GDP per capita growth. Online data from http://databank .worldbank.org/data/home.aspx, accessed 20 February 2014. 27. For example, 76.1 percent of Bangladeshis were “very satisfied” or “rather satisfied” with the way democracy was developing, compared to 50.7 percent of Indians. Trust in parliament (86.4 percent) and political parties (77.8 percent) was also quite high. Online data from www.worldvaluessurvey.org. 28. Mohsin and Guhathakurta (2007: 50) report that the phrase “jar nai kono nit shaei kore rajniti” (one who has no principles does politics) has been commonplace. 29. Online data from http://info.worldbank.org/governance/wgi/index.aspx #reports, accessed 20 February 2014. 30. See www.transparency.org, accessed 26 February 2014. 31. Curtis and Hossain (2013) note that about half the time between 1996 and 2013 parliament has been boycotted by the opposition. 32. According to the World Bank’s governance indicator on political stability/ absence of violence, Bangladesh ranked in the 25th percentile in 1996, but fell to the 5th percentile in 2005, mostly due to attacks from radical Islamist groups.

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33. This has been common throughout the 1990s and 2000s (Rashid 2014). According to the Asian Human Rights Commission, attacks on minorities have become “an election tradition.” Over 500 incidents were reported in 2014. See “Horror of Hindus in Secular Bangladesh,” The Northeast Today (India), 14 March 2014. 34. In this respect, the experience of Bangladesh is similar to that of Mali and Senegal, in which some Islamic-oriented groups were active in the democratic opposition, but they were not the leaders of it. 35. According to a 2011–2012 Pew survey in Bangladesh, 84 percent supported sharia and 54 percent supported stoning for adultery. See Table 4.1. 36. What this precisely means given the lack of a standard to define what sharia commands is unclear, but given that the country is overwhelmingly Muslim, an explicitly “anti-Muslim” law would be unlikely to be adopted anyway. 37. Section 295A of the Penal Code prohibits speech that offends religious sentiment, but it does not, as Pakistan’s law does, explicitly defend Islam. 38. The wage gap (women earn 53 percent of that of men) remains pronounced, and no doubt many women work in harsh conditions for low wages. Female literacy rates, according to the World Bank, have improved from 25.8 percent in 1991 to 53.4 percent in 2011, and life expectancy over that time went up twelve years, from fiftynine to seventy-one. Global Gender Gap report at www3.weforum.org/docs/WEF _Gender Gap_Report_2013.pdf, accessed 14 February 2014 and online World Bank data at http://databank.worldbank.org/data/home.aspx accessed 20 February 2014. 39. Although Azam was “tried” by an informal “people’s court” in 1992, the state courts ultimately released him from jail and restored his citizenship, which had been taken away after he fled to Pakistan in the 1970s, allowing him to become the official leader of the JIB. As noted later in this chapter, he was found guilty of war crimes in 2013 by the International Criminal Tribunal that was established by the government in 2010. 40. She became an international cause célèbre after her short novel Lajja (Shame), which portrayed issues of Hindu-Muslim relations, was banned and a fatwa with a death penalty was issued against her for some provocative comments she made about the authenticity of the Quran. She continues to live in exile— banned from returning to both Bangladesh and West Bengal in India—and some of her writings in favor of women’s rights and critical of Islam (similar in many respects to those of Dutch-Somali firebrand Ayaan Hirsi Ali) can be found at freethoughtblogs.com/taslima, accessed 12 March 2014. 41. The JIB has been, by far, the most important political party, but its best showing was in 1991. Since then, its support has significantly declined. 42. The typology employed here borrows from Riaz and Raji 2011 and Hasan 2011b. 43. Available in English at www.jamaat-e-islami.org/en/articlepdf/110_manifesto %20in%20english.pdf, accessed 22 February 2015. 44. All of these are taken from JIB documents at http://jamaat-e-islami.org /en/aboutus.php, accessed 2 March 2014. 45. One example of this is that the JIB has yet to nominate a female candidate to contest a parliamentary seat. 46. The qualification was that the JIB did question the qualifications of rural mullahs to issue fatwas. However, the idea of a fatwa was unambiguously supported. 47. Hasan 2011b: 101. This group has been banned in many other states (e.g., Turkey, Saudi Arabia, Pakistan) as well, primarily because its call for the caliphate inherently challenges the legitimacy of existing rulers and states. 48. Indeed, the JIB has frequently run candidates in only a fraction of the 300 constituencies (e.g., it contested 40 in 2008), pushing down its total national vote.

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49. Its 2008 Election Manifesto is comprehensive in coverage of issues, but popularly it is seen as focused on Islam. 50. The High Court’s 2005 ruling affirmed that “the state must not be seen to be favouring any particular religion” and must protect the rights of all “even atheists.” See “A ‘Secular’ Bangladesh: Country’s Top Court Lifts 4-Year Stay on Order Banning Religion in Politics,” Indian Express, 7 January 2010. 51. “Forced Veiling Debate Divides Bangladeshi Women,” The Dawn (Pakistan), 16 September 2010. 52. “Bangladesh Lifts Fatwa Ban but Forbids Enforcement,” BBC News (South Asia), 12 May 2011, and “Verdict Hailed,” Daily Star (Dhaka), 13 May 2011. 53. By the end of 2013, nine people (seven from the JIB, including Azam, who avoided trial in the 1990s, and two from the BNP, including one sitting member of parliament) had been tried by the ICT. 54. “In Hot Blood,” The Economist, 11 May 2013. 55. Specifically, its statutes were deemed unconstitutional because it refused to recognize parliament as the final political authority and it banned women and nonMuslims from leadership positions. The denial of registration, however, did not outright ban the party; it only prohibited it from contesting elections. 56. “Dialling Down,” The Economist, 1 November 2014. 57. “Dirty War of Words,” Daily Star, 14 April 2014. 58. Rahman was acquitted of money laundering charges in November 2013, but fifteen cases are still pending against him. See “Tarique Acquitted,” Daily Star, 18 November 2013. According to a US government document published on Wikileaks in 2011, he had become a symbol of “kleptocratic government and violent politics.” See www.wikileaks.org/plusd/cables/08DHAKA1143_a.html, accessed 23 February 2015. 59. Yunus was removed as head of the Grameen Bank in 2011, and the government also launched investigations into possible corruption. Many observers, including those outside Bangladesh, saw these as politically motivated (D’Costa 2012: 149). A November 2013 act put the Grameen Bank under the authority of the Central Bank.

6 Mali: A Least-Likely Case of Democratization

Of all of the countries in this volume, Mali least fits the profile of a successful democratizer. Landlocked and uninhabitable in much of its Saharan north, it is one of the world’s least developed countries. For example, in 1992, the year it established its democratic institutions, Mali was ranked 155 (out of 160) on the UN Human Development Index, with mean income of $576 per capita, a 32 percent literacy rate, and 0.3 mean years of schooling. Two decades later Mali was ranked 175 out of 187 countries, with roughly double the income ($1,123) but a drop (26 percent) in adult literacy.1 Creating and sustaining a democracy in such an environment makes Mali a statistical outlier. It is ethnically diverse2 and has experienced periodic separatist violence, perpetuated mainly by ethnic Tuaregs (also known as Tamasheq) in the north.3 Unlike Senegal (covered in Chapter 8), its colonial period did not feature incipient democratic institutions, and it did not experience a long period of “quasi” or “semi” democracy prior to a more complete democratic breakthrough. Rather, for three decades after gaining independence in 1960, its two leaders—Modibo Keita (1960–1968) and General Moussa Traoré (1968–1991)—ruled by force, heading a single party with a monopoly on power and prohibiting political opposition. There were, in other words, no protodemocratic institutions on which the country could build. Rather, Mali started its transition to democracy with a military coup amid an economic crisis made worse by a crippling foreign debt. Furthermore, it was not located in a region that was democratizing.4 And, lastly, Mali is overwhelmingly (93 percent) Muslim, with 93 percent of Malian Muslims claiming that religion is “very important” in their lives.5 Yet, despite this, Mali democratized—indeed it was one of the first sub-Saharan African states to do so. Moreover, as seen in Figure 6.1, it did so quickly and successfully. After seizing power, the military helped form a transitional government and called a National Conference, which drafted a 179

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Figure 6.1 Democratic Development in Mali 10 10 8 8

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new constitution and created new political institutions. Political parties formed and were free to compete for power. Mali subsequently witnessed multiple elections and a peaceful, democratic transfer of power from one party to another. It has lively media and civil society. Malians state that they prefer democracy over other forms of government and that democracy—not a single strong leader—is the better method to solve the country’s problems.6 Observers suggest it stands as a “symbol of democracy for Africa” (Wing 2008: 35). A military coup in 2012, precipitated in large part by fighting in the north with Tuareg groups and various Islamist militants, both put Mali in the news and, as seen in Figure 6.1, upended its democratic record. Some expressed fears that Mali, or, perhaps, its northern region, would become an Islamist state akin to Afghanistan under the Taliban (Thurston 2013). Foreign intervention helped stabilize the situation, and Mali held competitive presidential and parliamentary elections in 2013. Democracy may very well be restored, although, as the final part of this chapter will discuss, both Malian democracy and the country as a whole are threatened by various forces. Most of this chapter, however, will focus on the two decades of the Malian “success story” from 1991 to 2012. How Mali, of all countries, was able to democratize and sustain that democracy are fascinating questions

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for anyone interested in comparative democratization. Indeed, there have been several studies that try to provide answers.7 This chapter will take up this line of inquiry and draw upon these works, but it will direct greater attention to the role of Islam, which does not appear immediately salient given that the Malian constitution is based on the French laicité model and bans explicitly Islamic-oriented parties. Many discussions of Malian democracy therefore devote little attention to Islam.8 However, according to Benjamin Soares, Islam occupies a “central place” in the country’s “social and historical imagination” (Soares 2005a: 79). This chapter, in addition to examining contemporary Mali, will delve into some of the historical aspects of Islam in the country, in particular as they are credited with producing a pluralistic and more tolerant political culture amenable to democracy. Foundation of Islam and Colonial Rule The Niger River, which bisects today’s Mali, has long served as a trade route and it gave rise to urban centers such as Jenné and Timbuktu. The Niger Basin was also the center of several multiethnic states that ruled over much of present-day Mali and beyond, including the Ghanaian Empire9 (sixth to late eleventh century); the Malian Empire (c. 1230–1400); and the Songhay Empire (c. 1485–1591).10 These constitute what Malians refer to as the grands empires. Afterward, several smaller kingdoms emerged and frequently fought among themselves for control of trade routes before the region fell under French control in the 1890s. Of the grands empires, the Malian Empire, as evidenced by the choice of name for the country after the end of French rule, was the most significant. Its achievements and practices are central to the national imagination and have been appropriated at various times both to provide a sense of nationhood to the contemporary Malian state and to serve as a foundation of sorts for Mali’s democracy (Soares 2005a, 2005b; Pringle 2006b; Le Vine 2007). Islam came to Mali via Arab and Berber traders and travelers during the time of the Ghanaian Empire, and the region was later the target for Muslim missionaries and conquering armies. However, it was during the Malian Empire, in particular during the reign of Mansa Musa (1312–1337) that Islam expanded its influence, with Gao and Timbuktu in particular becoming major centers of Islamic learning. Islam, however, was primarily a religion of the urban centers; most people living in the region continued to practice traditional religions or incorporated aspects of Islam into them. Islam, to invoke concepts introduced in Chapter 1, was syncretic and pluralistic, and it was not forcibly imposed on the population. Various faiths peacefully coexisted under “tolerant rulership.”11

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Beginning in the eighteenth century, Sufi orders, often led by hereditary, charismatic religious leaders later known under the French as marabouts, began to acquire more adherents and exert social and political influence. These marabouts, however, were political outsiders, not scholars attached to a royal court. As such, they saw themselves as spokesmen for the oppressed, and they turned Islam into a rival source of political legitimacy and an ideology of liberation (Loimeier 2010: 273–274). One early example was Sidi al-Mukhtar ibn Ahmad al-Kunti (1729–1811) of the Qadiriyya (or Qadiri) order, who gained an important following as a spiritual leader in the Niger Basin and helped transform Islam from a private religious practice into a more “corporate Sufism” (Brenner 1993: 63) that both defended the interests of its adherents—often members of the merchant class—and presented itself as an alternative to ruling authorities. Later, other Sufi leaders organized jihads against both non-Muslim and, in some cases, Muslim leaders to fight against injustices such as the slave trade. Examples include the Qadiriyya shaikh Ahmad Lobbo (c. 1776– 1845), who launched a jihad against the Fulani, Bambara, and other pagan peoples and established an Islamic state in Massina in 1818 (Loimeier 2010). The most well-known jihadist of the period was al-Hajj Umar Tal (c. 1794–1864) from the Tijaniyya (or Tijani) brotherhood (Robinson 1985). Originally from the Upper Senegal region, in the 1850s Umar Tal attacked several kingdoms (Kaarta, Segu, Massina) in what is today Mali and also fought with French forces. He established an Islamic state, but this fell into decline after his death. These jihads did much to upset traditional institutions of authority and spread the faith. Sufi influences remain important in Mali today, although formal membership in Sufi orders, and their political importance, is far less than in, for example, neighboring Senegal.12 In the late 1800s, the French, moving east from Senegal, gradually expanded their influence in the region. By 1883, they had constructed a fort at Bamako, the present-day capital, and in 1892 a military governor was appointed for what was called French Sudan (Soudan Français), later annexed into French West Africa in 1895. There was resistance to French rule, some of which had an Islamic character. A prominent example was Samory Touré (c. 1830–1900), founder of the Islamic Wassoulou Empire (1882–1898), which included much of contemporary Mali. However, as in Senegal, local forces were outgunned, and many, including Umar Tal’s Tijaniyya successors, made peace with the colonial authority (Clark 1999; Soares 2004). By 1905, the region was solidly under French control. France did not invest as much in inland, isolated French Sudan as it did in, for example, Senegal (Clark 2000: 255). The French did encourage mining and cotton farming and built the Dakar-Niger railway, linking the interior to the Atlantic coast. There was, however, neither colonization nor an

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effort to introduce, even in a cursory way, democratic French institutions. Instead, the French largely worked with traditional tribal authorities. At the dawn of French rule, Islam was still not the faith of the majority in French Sudan, particularly in the south (Soares 2005b: 25).13 Islam, however, spread in the region widely and rapidly during colonial occupation (Le Vine 2007; Peterson 2011). Partially this was due to the collapse of traditional kingdoms. Partially this was due to new forms of transportation and the peace imposed on the region, allowing Islam to reach areas that it had not before. However, no central authority coordinated this development; “Islam” was decentralized and remained pluralistic. French authorities were, by many accounts, ambivalent about the spread of Islam (Clark 1999). On the one hand, they associated Islam with the jihadist movements of the 1800s and feared it might challenge French authority. Furthermore, from 1905 onward France adopted laicité, which officially limited the role of religion in public life. On the other hand, the French saw advantages in working with local Islamic leaders, provided they acquiesced to French rule. Ultimately, this later concern largely prevailed, prompting adoption of policies that promoted certain Sufi leaders and lineages and created working relationships between them and French authorities. In this way, “French colonial rule in present-day Mali was never ‘secular’ in the sense of removing religion from public life or structures of power” (Thurston 2013: 48). For example, French colonial authorities created a service des affaires musulmanes in 1906. The French also made a conscious effort to develop the idea of an Islam noir that was deemed to be less threatening than the Islam found, for example, in the Arab world (Clark 1999; Schulz 2003; Le Vine 2007). The basic bargain was that as long as the religious leaders did not interfere in politics and instructed their followers to cooperate with the secular state, the French administration did not interfere in religious matters or use of customary or Islamic law, particularly in rural areas. The French found willing collaborators, including Seydou Nourou Tal, the grandson of Umar Tal, who preached in the 1930s on the obligation of Muslims to be religiously pious but also to obey French authority (Soares 2004: 210–211). Those who failed to do the latter were subject to strict observation by colonial authorities and travel restrictions. Some were deported. By the 1930s, Muslim associations formed in urban centers, but political debate within them was “attenuated” and their meetings would even close by thanking France for its “civilizing mission” (Soares 2004: 209, 214)! By the 1950s, a different Muslim elite emerged, one that drew inspiration from the Arab world and growing anticolonialism. It was critical of both French authority and traditional marabouts, who were accused of practicing a syncretic, impure Islam. This group formed the Union Culturelle

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Musulmane, which had branches throughout French West Africa, and created their own Quranic schools. The French, however, perceived these groups as threatening and traditional religious authorities tried to delegitimize them as “un-African,” labeling them Wahhabis, as some had studied in Saudi Arabia.14 Anti-“Wahhabi” rioting occurred in Bamako in 1957. This group remained small in terms of overall adherents, but the rival interpretation of Islam that it offers still constitutes an important fault line of Islam within Mali (Brenner 1993).15 After World War II, France granted political rights to all of its West African colonies, including local assemblies and representation in the National Assembly in Paris. Political parties emerged. In French Sudan, the Union Soudanaise du Rassemblement Démocratique Afrique (Sudanese Union–African Democratic Rally, US-RDA), a branch of a pan-regional party, gained prominence and pressed for self-determination (Snyder 1965). It brought together a wide coalition of groups. Modibo Keita, who claimed descent from the founders of the Malian Empire, became by the late 1950s the chief figure in the US-RDA. In 1958, voters in French Sudan elected for autonomy within a broader French community (union française), and Keita, who embraced pan-Africanism, pressed for a regional federation of Francophone states. In 1959, the US-RDA won all the seats in the territorial assembly, cementing its self-declared status as a parti unique. It absorbed its erstwhile rival, the Parti Soudanais Progressiste, which drew primarily from traditional chiefs and religious authorities, who subsequently “lost political terrain” (Thurston 2013: 49). In June 1960, Keita and Senegalese leader Léopold Senghor declared the formation of an independent Mali Federation, with the former serving as head of state. However, numerous problems, including personal rivalries as well as significant policy disputes, hampered this nascent state (Kurtz 1970). Mali, the renamed French Sudan, officially became independent on 22 September 1960 when the federation collapsed.

Independent Mali: From Authoritarianism to Democracy Authoritarianism Under Modibo Keita (1960–1968) and Moussa Traoré (1968–1991)

Mali’s weak democratic institutions that it inherited from the French quickly gave way to a single-party, authoritarian state. Mali remained undemocratic for over three decades under both President Keita and his successor, Moussa Traoré, who removed Keita in a coup in 1968. While both Keita and Traoré were authoritarian leaders, there were differences between them. Keita embraced anticolonial and Marxist-Leninist

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ideas, favoring state planning, collectivization, and forced work brigades to spur economic development. He tried to develop Malian nationalism, utilizing the past (e.g., the glories of the Malian Empire) to argue for the essential unity of the Malian people. Not coincidentally, the emphasis on unity, loyalty, and sacrifice reinforced his desire to create a single-party state, one that embraced revolutionary ideals and would continue, in certain respects, the French mission civilisatrice.16 The US-RDA did not tolerate opposition. Those who objected to government policies were portrayed as French stooges and unpatriotic. Many were imprisoned and executed. History, party, and nation were combined into one ideal entity, and state interests were placed above those of the individual. There was also little room for Islam. Keita did profess to be a believing Muslim, and he disavowed the more atheistic elements of MarxismLeninism, claiming that “a good Muslim is a socialist” (Leininger 2010: 8). However, Mali adopted laicité in its constitution, and Islam was far from central in Keita’s ecletic political philosophy (Snyder 1967). Indeed, because Islam could, in principle, offer a competing ideal to Malian nationalism as defined by Keita and the US-RDA, it was downplayed, “neutralized” (Schulz 2003: 135), and made “officially invisible” (Thurston 2013: 49). Organizations such as the Union Culturelle Musulmane were banned. Education was put under the authority of the state (Brenner 2001). Traditional Muslim leaders were not, as in Senegal (see Chapter 8), courted for political support. As under the French, they were restricted to narrowly defined religious spheres. This is not to say that Islam completely disappeared. Soares (2005a: 82) argues that secularism was always a “derivative discourse” in Mali, and individual Malians continued to apply Islamic principles to business and family matters. However, the postcolonial administrators, mostly trained in secular, French language schools, held little regard for Muslim religious specialists, seeing them as “outmoded, if not explicitly reactionary” (Soares 2005a: 84). Religious leaders, for their part, did not call openly for Keita’s ouster, but they gradually withdrew support from his regime and many welcomed his removal (Clark 1999; Le Vine 2007). The key point on this score, however, is that Mali’s initial descent into authoritarianism can hardly be blamed on Islam. Keita’s regime was overthrown in a military coup in 1968, which was precipitated by economic troubles as well as suspicions that Keita was intent to launch a purge within the military (Vengroff and Koné 1995: 46). Traoré repudiated socialism and restored economic ties with France. He was no democrat, however, ruling first through a military junta and, in 1979, creating a single-party neopatrimonial system that rested on him and the Union Démocratique du Peuple Malien (Democratic Union of the Malian People, UDPM) (Leininger 2010: 8). Like Keita, he invoked history to appeal to the unity and obedience of the people (Brenner 1993: 66–67).

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Corruption was rampant, and periodic student protests and labor strikes were crushed, resulting in massive arrests and many deaths. Many Malians went into exile. Plagued by droughts as well as mismanagement, the economy floundered, becoming increasingly reliant on foreign aid, much of which was siphoned off by the government (Clark 2000: 256–257). Traoré, however, did more than his predecessor to engage with Islam, adopting “the trappings of a Muslim identity in public and on a national level” (Clark 1999: 163).17 Religious programs featured prominently on state-run radio, and attendance at Friday prayers was de rigueur for Traoré and his cabinet. Seeking to prevent something similar to the Iranian Revolution, in 1980 the government established the L’association Malienne pour l’Unité et le Progress de l’Islam (Malian Association for Unity and the Progress of Islam, AMUPI), which was the sole officially recognized Islamic organization. It was designed both to mediate any disputes among Malian Islamic actors and advance government-approved positions via state-controlled media. It essentially functioned as part of the government, the “moralizing arm” of the UDPM (Brenner 1993: 73). The government also expanded ties with the Arab world, which became a source of foreign aid for construction of mosques and religious schools. The regime actively courted both the traditional and the reformist religious leadership, the latter constituting an important part of the economic elite (Schulz 2003: 136). Traoré had his own personal marabout from the Hamaliyya order, and religious services and advice were generously rewarded by state leaders in what Soares (2005b) has called the “prayer economy,” a practice that stretched back to precolonial times. In this way, Islam was used to legitimate the authorities, but Traoré also invoked the principle of laicité to assure that the state would retain control over religious orders and activities. In other words, one should not exaggerate the influence of religious authorities, many of whom exercised a “wary coexistence” with the government, cooperating “only when it was unavoidable or too costly to refuse” (Le Vine 2007: 87). As the regime became more repressive, some religious leaders began to express private dissent. By the later part of the 1980s, unofficial Islamic groups began to emerge and thereby challenged the state’s attempts to manage Islam. One prominent example, who remains an important figure in Malian Islam today, is the shaikh Cherif Ousmane Madani Haidara, who established the organization Ancar Dine18 and preached openly about government corruption.19 Mali’s Transition to Democracy

Mali’s transition to democracy began in 1990 with a proposal from Traoré for limited political liberalization within a single-party state.20 This conces-

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sion was driven both by international events, including pressure from Western donors, as well as mounting economic difficulties. His opponents refused to be mollified, and they began to form various political organizations. The anti-Traoré coalition was a broad one, including teachers, students, labor groups, and intellectuals. Large demonstrations in March 1991 were put down with brutal force, killing several hundred. A coalition of opposition groups, led by the Alliance pour la Démocratie au Mali (Alliance for Democracy in Mali, ADEMA), called for Traoré’s resignation and a democratic constitution. Unions mounted a national strike, and protests and rioting spread throughout the country. In the midst of this chaotic environment, the head of Traoré’s personal guard, Lieutenant-Colonel Amadou Toumani Touré, arrested his boss, citing the regime’s use of force against protesters and chronic corruption. Touré formed an interim government that included ADEMA and other political groups and pledged to return the country to civilian rule and introduce competitive elections. Most significantly, the interim government, following the example of Benin, agreed to create a National Conference to represent a broad spectrum of groups in Mali. It was charged with drafting new rules on elections and political parties as well as a new constitution. It was held over a two-week period in the summer of 1991 and drafted the requisite documents. Voting in municipal, parliamentary, and presidential elections, as well as a constitutional referendum, occurred in early 1992. Numerous parties competed for power. Nine won seats in parliament. ADEMA secured a parliamentary majority, and its leader, Alpha Oumar Konaré, who was a respected scholar and had played a prominent role in the anti-Traoré movement, was elected president in April.21 Touré remained head of the military. Before going further in considering factors that might explain the inauguration of democracy in Mali as well as its subsequent performance, let us ask a crucial question: What roles did “Islamic-oriented” actors or “political Islam” play in the events of 1990–1992? The answer, it appears, is that while individual Muslims, to be sure, were crucial actors, “Islam,” as a motivation for action, a discourse for opposition, or in an institutionalized manner, had only a “small role” (Leininger 2010: 9). Touré and Konaré, although practicing Muslims, were both staunch secularists, and Brenner (1993: 73) makes the general point that opposition to Traoré was “profoundly secular” and not concerned with religious issues, particularly given the fact that many of Traoré’s opponents thought his regime went too far in promoting its form of “official Islam.” The leader of the AMUPI, the “official” Islamic organization, called on observant Muslims to support the government rather than join the opposition. Some small Islamic-oriented groups did participate in the protests and support the opposition, but they lacked the capacity to make a significant contribution to the anti-Traoré coalition (Brenner 2001: 293–298). Leininger (2010: 10), however, argues

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that it was not theology but financial dependence on the regime that better explains the reticence of most religious leaders to embrace the opposition. After the Traoré regime was toppled, there was a concerted effort by the new authorities to prevent emergence of politicized Islam. Indeed, the second decree of the interim government prohibited political parties based on religion, a measure that was later enshrined in the law on political parties. The preamble of the constitution approved by the National Conference reaffirmed a solemn commitment to defend laicité and Article 118 establishes laicité’s immutability. Representatives of religious communities were included in the National Conference, but their numbers were small. For example, 9 out of 575 delegates in the preparatory commission (Wing 2008: 66) were from the religious authorities and 10 religiously oriented associations were among the roughly 100 that took part in the conference (Le Vine 2007: 87). Accounts differ as to how active they were,22 but all agree that the conference was dominated by the country’s economic, intellectual, and military elite. In the end, Islamic organizations from the more conservative or “Wahhabi” orientation failed to win support for proposals such as the abolishment of laicité, state funding for religious schools, and legalization of religiously oriented political parties. Subsequent efforts to rally public support by creating a body to promote Islamic governance never got off the ground (Leininger 2010: 13–14). In the end, however, the Islamicoriented groups did sign on to the various documents approved by the National Conference, which suggests they were willing to abide by democratic processes. It is worth noting that the two political issues that most concerned Islamic associations during Mali’s democratic transition—laicité and the right to form political parties based on religion—figured prominently as well in Turkey, as noted in Chapter 2. In the Turkish case, Islamic-oriented actors by and large lost out, and implementation of laicité was often through authoritarian means. This has not really been the case in Mali, as Islamic groups have been relatively free to lobby their case within civil society. However, the representativeness of Mali’s democratic institutions can be called into question. Villalón (2009: 46) suggests that the vision of democracy that the new elites pursued was a “re-appropriation of French institutions”—first and foremost laicité—and that governance was less about representation and (akin to the Atatürk period in Turkey) more about “social transformation” away from traditional (e.g., Muslim) values and practices. In conclusion, it is hard to paint Malian democratization in the early 1990s in “Islamic” terms or even, for that matter, identify a pronounced “Islamic” agenda in the country’s elected governments after 1992. This is not to say that Islam was or is wholly irrelevant. Indeed, it has made its presence felt in various ways. The following sections take up the perfor-

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mance of Malian democracy and focus on issues that touched on religion and involved Islamic-oriented actors. Malian Democracy Since 1992 For twenty years, Mali sustained a democracy, one that not only had competitive elections but also, as seen in FH scores, was relatively liberal. Opposition parties and groups were free to express their views. President Konaré honored the two-term limit for the presidency, stepping down in 2002. A coalition of opposition parties, Hope 2002 (“Espoir 2002”) displaced ADEMA as the majority in parliament in that year’s elections, and in subsequent presidential elections it backed General Touré, who returned to politics to run for president as an independent and defeated the ADEMA candidate. Civic organizations of all sorts blossomed (Davis 2000; Smith 2001; Wing 2008). Decentralization gave regions and localities more selfgovernance. A peace accord was reached with Tuareg rebels in 1996. Building on the experience of the National Conference, the government has held several national forums to discuss political reforms and has an annual Question and Answer Assembly (Éspace d’Interpellation Démocratique) that facilitates transparency, citizen input, and social dialogue.23 The government also made efforts to improve the economic and social standing of women. As noted at the beginning of this chapter, democracy is seen by the public as the most preferred form of government. This is not to say that Malian democracy was without problems.24 They include corruption and vast income inequality; flawed elections in 1997 that were reheld under an opposition boycott and controversy during the 2002 elections when half a million votes were annulled by the courts; weak political parties that are created largely from schisms within other parties (mainly ADEMA) (Pringle 2006b: 24); excessive executive power; low voter turnout;25 a popular sense, despite efforts at social dialogue, that the average person has little say about government policy;26 overreliance on foreign aid that has produced equivocal results;27 low status of women;28 domestic slavery and human trafficking (Le Vine 2007: 94); and, of course, economic underdevelopment. Indeed, despite being a “poster child” for international financial institutions for adhering to externally imposed structural adjustment programs (Soares 2005a: 78), economic growth has been comparatively modest.29 Finally, one must mention continued problems in the north, which by the mid-2000s included not only the Tuaregs, but also militant Islamic groups, including al-Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb (AQIM).30 This last issue, which the government proved incapable of solving, became the primary justification for the coup in 2012 that ended, at least temporarily, Malian democracy.

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Explanatory Factors

Despite all of these difficulties, however, most commentators argue that Mali has had a strong democratic record, both in absolute terms and in comparison to other African states. Indeed, out of all the countries in this volume, it is the only one to have an average FH score of at least 3 for twenty consecutive years (1992–2011). How was this possible, particularly given the various “strikes” (e.g., low economic development, ethnic strife, lack of democratic experience) against Mali? Various accounts try to answer this question. Vengroff (1994) and Moestrup (1999) stress the role of institutions, particularly the parliamentary electoral system, which uses the French-style two-round majoritarian system in multimember districts. This system compels parties to offer a broad range of candidates to reflect Mali’s ethnic diversity, but, unlike a proportional representation system—which is used only for local elections—it fosters a manageable party system and a majority party in parliament. The international environment—particularly the fall of communism, the end of the Cold War, and the subsequent acceleration of a global “wave” of democratization (albeit one that was in 1991 still limited in Africa)—is also invoked as a factor. Unlike many African states, Mali also avoided ethnic-political mobilization on the national level; the Tuaregs are the exception but are confined to the sparsely populated north of the country. This may be the result of the deliberate downplaying of ethnicity during its authoritarian period (Le Vine 2007: 89; Dickovich 2008). Political leadership, particularly that exhibited by Touré and Konaré, both of whom embraced democracy, also deserves mention (Pringle 2006b; Smith 2001). A significant theme in the literature on Mali is the positive role played by the National Conference in helping to midwife democracy (Nzouankeu 1993; Vengroff and Koné 1995; Clark 2000; Wing 2008). By bringing together a diverse array of actors, it succeeded in forging both political consensus and legitimacy around new political institutions. It signified “the ideal of democratic participation in Malian politics” and its memory serves as the basis for other fora of inclusive social and constitutional dialogues (Wing 2008: 62–63). While it might be tempting to pigeonhole the National Conference into a type of negotiated transition in the spirit of “transitology,”31 the Malian case had some special features that deviate from the ideal type of bargaining envisioned in transitology. First, the authoritarian government had been removed from power, and the interim government and military authorities, although represented at the conference, clearly expressed the desire to hand over authority to an elected government.32 In this respect, the endpoint—a new government based on results of competitive elections—was agreed upon before the conference. Indeed, Clark (2000: 260) notes that the main documents on the new electoral code, char-

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ters for political parties, and new government institutions, were drawn up prior to the conference and approved without substantial amendments. Furthermore, those who were judged to have blocked the democratic process were forbidden to participate in the conference (Wing 2008: 64). In other words, while there were some areas of debate at the National Conference— including decentralization and women’s rights—there was already a strong consensus for democracy. Notably, in other cases in Francophone Africa where authoritarian governments exercised more control over the process (e.g., Togo and Zaire) or there was less consensus (e.g., Niger), national conferences failed to produce a lasting democratic breakthrough (Robinson 1994). What Role for Islam?

In none of the above explanations does Islam—in a positive or negative manner—play a notable part. As noted, overt “Islamic” discourse did not figure in the 1991–1992 democratic breakthrough, Islamic-oriented actors were hardly key players at the National Conference, and religious authorities also remained silent during a wave of protests over economic policy in 1994. There has been, however, proliferation of Islamic-oriented associations since the early 1990s, many of which have a “reformist” nature directed at “purifying” Malian Islam (Schulz 2013).33 Islam is playing a more active role in the public sphere, including the media (e.g., the AMUPI established Radio Islamique in 1994 and Shaikh Haidara’s sermons are bestsellers on CDs and videos), provision of social welfare services, and in education, and many prominent “Muslim” voices and actors are female. Much of the discussion is concerned with personal matters (e.g., what it means to be a good Muslim) or is directed against what is seen as corrupting influences (e.g., gambling, pornography, overzealous Western NGOs) (Brenner 1993, 2001; Soares 2004, 2005a, 2005b; Schulz 2008, 2012; De Jorio 2009; Leininger 2010). However, one should be careful not to make too much of these developments. Most of the new “Muslim” associations lack substantial following or legitimacy (Soares 2005a: 93). Indeed, data from the 2012 Afrobarometer reveal both a relatively low level of activity of Malians in religious associations and that their participation has declined over time.34 With a couple of exceptions—the most significant being debates over family law, which is discussed below—Islamic-oriented groups have largely eschewed open involvement in politics (Clark 1999). Their most pronounced foray in electoral politics was in 2001–2002 when twenty Islamic-oriented organizations staged rallies decrying what they viewed as the antireligious agenda of the government and endorsed the candidacy of former prime minister Ibrahim Boubacar Keita against General Touré in the 2002 presidential elections. This was described by Le Vine

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(2007: 74) as the most “active, open entrance of Muslim leaders, marabouts and imams, onto the political stage” since independence. Keita failed to win that vote—although he did become president in 2013 with some support from Islamic associations—and this open intervention by religious authorities provoked backlash, even among some pious Muslims. However, democracy itself was in no way challenged. More political manifestations of Islam, such as suggestions to implement sharia, are virtually unheard of both among Malian political parties and among mainstream Islamic-oriented actors—the militant groups in the north, heavily influenced if not controlled by non-Malians, are the clearest exception. The government, for its part, while adhering to laicité, has sought cordial relations with religious authorities, and in 2002 created the Haut Conseil Islamique du Mali (High Islamic Council of Mali, HCIM), a consultative body that acts as a liaison between the government and various Islamic organizations. Soares (2005a: 83) suggests that the HCIM is yet another example of Malian authorities seeing Islam as a possible problem for governance and seeking to channel it in a more benign direction. While the HCIM is funded by the state, it elects its own leaders. It has been critical about corruption and some aspects of government policy, and, after 2008, when Mahmadou Dicko, the imam of the Grand Mosque in Bamako, became president of the HCIM, it became more involved in political debates. It is worth emphasizing, however, that it expresses its views within the bounds of democratic politics and represents various organizations. Islam does, however, enter into the equation when variables such as Mali’s history and “unique political culture” (Smith 2001: 73) are invoked. Inter alia, these are often portrayed as a “heritage of tolerance and decentralized government” that makes democracy a “homecoming rather than a venture into uncharted waters” (Pringle 2006b: 1) or one of “pragmatic accommodation and religious syncretism” (Le Vine 2007: 89). Two factors invoked in the opening chapter—tolerant or flexible manifestations of belief and decentralized and pluralistic religious organizations—are clearly found in Mali. The central argument is that since 1991 the country’s democratic political actors have used history, in particular the period of the grands empires, to justify and legitimize democratic institutions and practices, including decentralized rule, deliberation and social dialogue, and interethnic tolerance. Of course, this is a very different use of history than that made by postcolonial authoritarian governments, who argued for the unity, loyalty, and obedience of the people. Wing (2008: 76), for example, notes that speakers at the National Conference explicitly compared their task to that of Sundiata Keita, the quasi-mythical founder of the Malian Empire, who drafted a constitution that devolved authority to local chiefs and did not expressly create an “Islamic state.” On the contrary, coexistence of different ethnici-

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ties and faiths under a secular government is presented, in the words of one female mayor, as a “fundamental value of Mali” (Seek 2012). In this view, “Islam appears to sit lightly on most villages’ shoulders” (Le Vine 2007: 90), and militant or more “fundamentalist” Islam that seeks to impose one particular strand of faith and challenges the secular order is presented as a foreign import. Pringle (2006b), based upon interviews largely with elite actors, suggests that a host of practices and actors—including joking relationships among ethnic groups and griots (bards) that honor the various pre-Islamic traditions of the Malian people—make tolerance and a less doctrinaire approach to religion widespread in Mali. De Jorio (2009) pushes the point even further, suggesting that government actors, specifically the Ministry for Women, have been active in educating Islamic-oriented organizations and the broader public about readings of Islam that favor a more “liberal” perspective. Significantly, this agenda is embraced not only by the more secularized elite but also by the country’s most popular religious figure, the aforementioned Shaikh Haidara, whose mass appeal is evidenced in the fact that his appearances fill soccer stadiums. Although not a Sufi himself—although he has clearly been influenced by Sufism—he defends Sufi practices and denounces what he sees as aspects of “Arabization” of Malian Islam. He employs pre-Islamic or animistic idioms in his preaching. He maintains that genuine Islam demands tolerance of others and that the government should not represent one ethnic group or faith but instead respect all groups in Mali (Deschamps-Laporte 2013).35 He has explicitly affirmed that “Mali is a secular country” and rejects imposition of sharia (Peterson 2012). The preceding section is not meant to suggest that this construction of history is objectively true or complete. Pringle (2006b), for example, acknowledges that it is a selective reading, one that brushes aside darker elements (e.g., local traditions of slavery). Le Vine (2007), however, argues that the historical record supports the idea that Islam in precolonial Mali was tolerant and that authorities allowed expression of, for example, traditional faiths. Significantly as well, this historical construction downplays some aspects of the past (e.g., the jihads of the nineteenth century) that could be employed to justify greater Islamization of Malian society. This consideration about political culture is a crucial point, one that speaks to the importance of the construction of history. However, one can and should ask whether these points have a substantive basis. In short, how “lightly” does Islam truly sit and is there congruence between elite and mass perspectives? Public opinion surveys, such as the one conducted by Pew Forum on Religious and Public Life throughout sub-Saharan Africa in late 2008–early 2009, help provide an answer and allow one to assess the above picture of Malian political culture. Table 6.1 presents data from questions that touch on issues of tolerance, interfaith relations, and the political

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Table 6.1 Attitudes on Religion, Tolerance, and Politics in West Africa

Trust people with different religious views Comfortable if child married a Christian Important for political leaders to have strong religious beliefs The Quran should be taken literally Muslims have duty to convert others Only one way to interpret Islam Make sharia official law Religious leaders should express political views Muslims are increasing influence/this is good Death penalty for those who leave Islam Identify as Wahhabi

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Senegal

Nigeria

43 32 87

59 17 90

43 25 86

86 89 71 63 52 87/85 36 10

80 75 51 55 49 89/86 35 1

90 89 70 71 68 78/73 29 14

Source: Pew Forum for Religion and Public Life 2013. Note: Figures are in percentages and given for those who reply in the affirmative (e.g., “strongly agree” or “agree”).

role for religion. Comparative data are presented from Muslim respondents in Senegal—another former French territory, covered in Chapter 8 and also often viewed as a state with strong tolerant and secular traditions—and Nigeria, which has a different historical experience and has seen significant Islamic political activism.36 Data from the table present a mixed picture, but even a generous reading would suggest that they do not correspond to the rather politically benign or prodemocratic depiction of Malian Islam. Trust toward nonMuslims is not particularly high. Most Malians interpret the Quran literally, believe there is only one way to interpret Islam, and believe in a duty to convert others. Most, significantly, would support adoption of Islamic law, a proposal, as noted, that is not prominent in Malian political discourse.37 Malians are divided on whether religious leaders should express political views. Most, however, see the increased role of Muslims in society as a positive thing. While a majority rejects the death penalty for apostasy, a sizable percentage favors it. Only a minority identify as “Wahhabi,” although the percentage is much greater than in neighboring Senegal, where Sufi orders play a stronger role. Malian Muslims do not seem quite as “liberal” as their Senegalese neighbors (who, in absolute terms, are not “liberal” on all measures) but are more so than Muslims in Nigeria. However, overall, these data—which are purely attitudes and do not address behavior or public policy—belie claims of an overarching, “moderate” Malian Islam.

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What can we say about what might underlie support for a greater political role for Islam? For simplicity’s sake, let us consider support for adoption of sharia as an expression of a greater role for Islam in the political arena.38 Data analysis, for example, shows no statistically significant correlation between support for sharia and age, gender, or income. This may be somewhat surprising, but the analysis reveals that there is support for sharia among the young, women, and the better-off. There is, however, a statistically significant (p < .05) relationship with support for democracy over that of a strong leader, education, satisfaction with the overall direction of the country, and one’s personal finances. Cross-tabulations as well as the strength of the correlations are presented in Table 6.2. While the link with education—those with higher education are less supportive of sharia—is not surprising, what is interesting is that those who report their personal economic situation as good and are satisfied with the direction of the country are more likely to support adoption of sharia. In other words, support for sharia does not seem connected to feelings of personal or general dissatisfaction. As for the link with support for democracy, one sees that those who support sharia tend to be, overall, less likely to favor democracy over a strong ruler. Nonetheless, it is clear that the majority that support sharia also favor democracy, and, on a separate measure, 74 percent of those favoring sharia also assert that democracy is always the preferred form of government. In other words, it would be hard to present support for sharia in Mali as a direct threat to democracy or envision it manifesting itself as a revolutionary or antisystemic movement.

Table 6.2 Factors Affecting Support for Sharia in Mali

Favor democracy Favor strong leader Primary education or less Postsecondary education Satisfied with direction of country Dissatisfied with direction of country Personal economic situation good Peronal economic situation bad

Favor Adoption of Sharia

Oppose Adoption of Sharia

Correlation Coefficient/ p Value

382 146 342 80 204 327 350 209

223 43 130 73 72 196 139 140

.127/.000

Source: Pew Forum for Religion and Public Life 2013. Note: Data are total numbers of respondents.

.093/.007 .115/.001 .068/.047

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One may not want to make too much out of these data. As noted, Malians are not particularly active in religious associations and Islam has not been prominent in political discourse. These surveys may be capturing latent attitudes as opposed to something politically relevant, and what respondents understand as “sharia” is undefined. However, one can at least acknowledge evidence of a gap between elite discourse and policy versus popular preferences. On this score, Villalón’s (2009) point about whether democratic institutions in countries such as Mali truly represent popular opinion and values is again relevant. Laicité, for example, was inherited from the French and repeatedly reaffirmed by the Francophone elite. Since 1991, democratization has created opportunities for new groups to emerge and challenge aspects of public policy. While there has been no significant call, for example, for full imposition of sharia, there have been challenges to laicité in some policy arenas. These illustrate both what issues are most important to Islamic-oriented political actors as well as possible limits to local “liberal” or “moderate” interpretations of Islam. Islam, Women, and Debates over Family Law The most significant intervention of Islam into Malian politics has been in family law, the arena in which the secular order of state authority most clearly confronts traditional practices and beliefs. This also touches on women’s rights, noted in Chapter 1 as a major concern with respect to Islam and democracy. Debates over changes to family law—the Code de la Famille—were a major issue throughout the late 1990s and early 2000s. Writing in the early 2000s, Schulz (2003: 132–133) suggested that the government’s effort to amend the code provoked “some of the most furious clashes” with the country’s Muslim clergy. Taking a somewhat broader perspective, De Jorio (2009: 98, 95) adds that since the advent of democracy “the woman’s question has been at the centre of political and legislative interventions,” and that use of Islam as an “authoritative idiom” to define gender roles reveals the “blurry line” of Malian laicité. Mali’s constitution asserts that all Malians are equal and that discrimination on the basis of gender (as well as language, race, religion, social origin, and political opinion) is prohibited. Its preamble notes that the people of Mali are determined to defend the rights of women. However, Malian women’s groups, as well as international NGOs, have pointed to certain aspects of Malian law, in particular the 1962 Code de la Marriage et de la Tutelle (marriage and guardianship code), as discriminatory toward women insofar as, among other items, it stipulates that the husband is the head of the family and determines where the family will reside, that wives must obtain their husband’s permission to work outside the home,39 and that

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wives must obey their husbands, who in turn offer their spouses protection. These and other provisions—for example, regulation of the bride price, mandatory waiting periods before a woman can remarry—are reflections of traditional Islamic jurisprudence used in Mali (Soares 2009: 407–409). In addition, many elements of family law, including prohibition on forced marriages, bans on divorce by repudiation, and enforcement on rules for polygamy,40 are not observed or enforced. Legal stipulations that all marriages must be registered with the state are also widely ignored, meaning that family law, as it exists on paper, is rendered “obsolete” in large parts of the country (Schulz 2003: 141). Other issues, including inheritance, were not included in statutory law, meaning they would be settled by customary law. The initial push to reform Malian family law was therefore driven by two major concerns. For women’s groups and their allies, the desire was to expunge the discriminatory elements and offer greater protection for women. For government authorities, the desire was to bridge the gap between what was written in law and what was actually practiced. However, this proved to be controversial, as various groups, including foreign donors and numerous Islamic-oriented organizations (including the Union Nationale des Femmes Musulmanes [National Union of Muslim Women], an offshoot of the AMUPI) became involved in acrimonious debates. The latter, for example, argued that the state should recognize religious marriages, and objected to measures that called for eliminating the obligation for wives to obey their husbands. International actors, on the other hand, pressed the government to live up to its commitment to gender equality. Passing legislation proved to be particularly difficult. Islamic-oriented opposition emerged in 2000 when proposals were put before Concertations Régionales (Regional Consultative Councils), gatherings designed to solicit input from civil society. Muslim clergy slammed the government’s proposals as examples of its enslavement to international aid groups and an example of Western imperialism that threatened core Malian values. It also became apparent that there were real divides, based both on class as well as religiosity, among Malian women’s organizations (Schulz 2003). In 2002, the government withdrew its proposal amid intense opposition. It then tried to engage the opposition by hosting various forums in which it tried to advance a more “enlightened” version of Islam (De Jorio 2009). In 2009, with international donors threatening to withhold aid unless reforms were passed, the government reintroduced the legislation. The National Assembly duly approved it with only five no votes, although some legislators asked Allah for forgiveness when casting their yes vote (Leininger 2010). This galvanized Islamic-oriented groups in civil society. The HCIM organized a mass rally against the new code. Its president, Mahmadou Dicko, denounced it as a “satanic inspiration,” and other speakers denounced the

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legislators who voted for it as “kafirs” (infidels) (Fofana 2009). President Touré, who was well-known for his desire to promote social consensus, refused to promulgate the law and referred it back to the legislature. Muslim leaders pressed for changes that would be more inclusive of Islam, particularly recognition of religious marriages. This was framed as a matter of respecting religious freedom. Dicko, for example, argued against “negation of religion by the state,” and Mohammed Kimbiri, secretary-general of the HCIM, suggested that “the [true] secular state integrates religions into the conduct of public affairs” (Thurston 2013: 52). A new version of the code was finally passed in December 2011 and promulgated in January 2012. This time, the HCIM organized a rally to celebrate its passage, particularly as some of its key concerns, such as state recognition of religious marriage, were included. Women’s groups and international human rights groups, however, denounced the measure as insufficient and discriminatory, particularly on issues such as child custody and inheritance. The stipulation for wives’ obedience remained in place.41 Women’s rights activists in Mali complained that the law set the country back fifty years.42 What does one make of this episode, clearly a victory for many Islamic-oriented organizations in Mali? Leininger (2010) decries it, noting that Islamic organizations functioned as extraparliamentary veto-players, although, perhaps, the fecklessness of President Touré in capitulating cannot be blamed on them. While she acknowledges that their behavior was within democratic bounds (e.g., Dicko urged his supporters to protest peacefully), she argues that their attitudes challenged democratic consolidation. This claim raises several issues. First, while the outcome of the family law saga in Mali may cut against liberal democracy—and in so doing merits attention by, for example, FH—it is debatable whether this outcome, in and of itself, truly harms democracy per se. From one perspective, an outcome that reflects popular preferences—if that indeed is the case here—can certainly qualify as “democratic.” These observations raise the issue of what “democracy” truly entails, and hint that there could be something one could label “Muslim” or “Islamic” democracy, a notion briefly suggested in Chapter 1 and taken up more fully in Chapter 9. The question becomes whether the Islamic elements in an “Islamic democracy” fundamentally compromise democracy itself. While Soares’s (2005a) observation is on point that the public sphere in Muslim societies such as Mali may not reflect the idealized, Habermasian secular civic culture of the West, one should emphasize that Mali is far from being “Islamized” and that weakening of assertive laicité need not compromise democracy. Measures such as recognition of religious marriage are perfectly compatible with AngloAmerican versions of secularism, and the new family code can be revisited if the people desire it and press their elected leaders to act accordingly. The

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interaction of competing ideas is, after all, what democracy is about. From this perspective, one might even assert that the outcome of the family code debates, while disappointing to some, speak to the strength and vibrancy of Malian democracy. Postscript: Crisis in the North, the 2012 Coup, and Beyond When this project was initially conceived in 2011, Mali appeared to be a consolidated democracy. This was upended in early 2012 by the seizure of most of northern Mali by Tuareg and Islamic fighters and the subsequent coup that suspended the constitution and forced President Touré into exile. The two events were related, with most accounts suggesting that the cause of the coup was the government’s failure to defeat the militants and the commanders’ refusal to provide adequate equipment for the army. However, one should also recognize that the coup was also a “long time coming” (Wing 2013). The festering problems in the north—the always difficult relations with the Tuaregs combined with the presence of smugglers, kidnappers, and terrorists, many of whom claimed fealty to a jihadist cause—were made worse by the collapse of Muammar Qaddafi’s regime in Libya, which became both a base for fighters and a source of weapons. Nationwide, however, there was also widespread dissatisfaction with corruption and an inability to provide public services such as education. Touré had lost much of his legitimacy. There was a growing sense that Mali had a “sham democracy” (Whitehorse 2012). Polls suggested that residents of the capital actually welcomed the coup. However, what deserves emphasis for our purposes is that the coup did not have, in any form, an “Islamic” character or agenda. If anything, the coup was directed against those Islamist forces—many of which undoubtedly were of non-Malian origin—that seized power in the north. Mali remained in a state of crisis throughout 2012 (Anderson 2013; Hammer 2013; Wing 2013). Northern separatists declared an independent state, which they named Azawad, but the alliance of Tuaregs and Islamists quickly broke down, with the latter prevailing and pledging fealty to alQaeda. Cities such as Gao and Timbuktu were placed under Taliban-style Islamic law, which included bans on soccer, music, and television; destruction of Sufi shrines; and obligatory conservative dress. Transgressors faced harsh punishments; thousands fled. Muslim preachers in southern Mali condemned the actions of Islamists in the north. Shaikh Haidara stated, “We do not know this Islam advocated by these people [in the north]. Those who kill and say they want to act in the name of Islam are not really [Muslims]. . . . Islam is a religion of peace and tolerance” (Peterson 2012).

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In January 2013, Islamist forces headed south, overran the town of Konna, and seemed poised to take the capital. This spurred France, with UN support, to intervene. French action was widely supported by Malians. Most of the north was, at least nominally, retaken by French/Malian government forces. In June 2013, the Malian government signed a peace accord with the main rebellious Tuareg groups and UN peacekeepers arrived in the country. These developments offer a chance for peace in the north. However, Islamist fighters still pose a threat, and past accords with the Tuaregs have not succeeded. In short, events in 2012 revealed very clearly that Mali suffers from a crisis of statehood, both in terms of identity (e.g., do Tuaregs wish to be part of Mali?) and in terms of state capacity (e.g., can the state really exercise sovereignty over the entire country?). What of democracy? The coup leaders justified their actions, in part, by the failures of President Touré, accusing him, among other things, of vote-rigging (Whitehorse 2012). The coup, however, led Western donors to freeze aid and Mali was suspended from the African Union and the Economic Community of West African States. Under this international pressure, the military agreed to allow the president of the National Assembly to serve as interim president, restore the constitution, and have new elections. Presidential elections were duly held in July and August 2013. Several candidates ran, and the top two vote-getters were both former presidential candidates: Ibrahim Boubacar Keita and Soumaila Cissé. Keita decisively prevailed in the runoff with over 78 percent of the vote in elections that were deemed credible by international observers. As seen in Figure 6.1, Mali’s FH score improved from 2012 to 2013, and its Polity score of 5 puts it close to qualifying as “democratic.” As would be expected, Keita’s top priority has been restoring order to the country. While he did not run on anything resembling an “Islamist” platform, he did receive support from SABATI 2012, an organization backed by several prominent Muslim leaders, including Imam Dicko of the HCIM, that seeks, among other items, more funding for religious institutions, adoption of a legal framework to allow Islamic financial institutions, bans on alcohol and tobacco advertising, and the incorporation of Quranic schools into the state education system. However, many, including Shaikh Haidara, criticized the positions and actions of SABATI 2012, and in some mosques fights broke out when some attendees became angry when imams instructed the congregation to back a particular candidate.43 Aside from the terrorist activity in the north, it would, however, be difficult to argue that Islam is the prime threat to Malian democracy. Some Islamic-oriented associations are becoming more politically involved, but they are doing so through democratic means. In 2012, the government created a Ministry of Religious Affairs. While some saw this as a possible means for the government to advance an “Islamic” agenda, others suggested

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that it gives the government a means to steer “Islam” in a less confrontational direction (Schulz 2013). While some public policies may assume more of an “Islamic” character, there are also debates within the Muslim community itself, with Shaikh Haidara, among others, countering the influence of more Islamist groups. While the situation remains, to be sure, dynamic, there is as yet no indication that democracy, or even, for that matter, secular democracy, is at risk because of political manifestations of Islam. Notes 1. Data from UN Human Development Reports from 1992 and 2011, available online at http://hdr.undp.org/en/reports, accessed 23 September 2013. 2. According to the CIA World Factbook, 50 percent of Malians are from the Mande group, which comprises the Bambara, Malinke, and Soninke. Minorities include the Fulani (17 percent), Voltaic (12 percent), Songhai (6 percent), and Tuareg and Moorish (10 percent). See www.cia.gov/library/publications/the-world -factbook/geos/ml.html, accessed 24 August 2013. 3. Although ongoing problems with the Tuaregs and other groups in the north are an important issue, they are rooted more in ethnicity than religion. For more, see Seely 2001 and Lecocq 2010. 4. Benin, another Francophone state, democratized in 1991. While Mali emulated Benin’s experience with a National Conference, it would be hard to argue that Benin set such a strong example as to spark Mali’s democratization. 5. Pew Forum 2013, from 2009 survey. 6. According to the 2009 Pew Survey, 72 percent of Malians prefer democracy to other forms of government and 71 percent believe that democracy is best to solve the country’s problems. 7. Useful sources include Bingen 1998; Moestrup 1999; Bingen, Robinson, and Staatz 2000; Smith 2001; Couloubaly 2004; Vengroff and Koné 1995; Villalón and Idrissa 2005; Pringle 2006a, 2006b; Dickovich 2008; and Wing 2008. 8. For example, Smith (2001) mentions Islam only in the context of almsgiving and interconfessional tolerance; Villalón and Idrissa (2005) do not mention Islam in their account of Malian democracy; and in Wing’s (2008) book-length and detailed account of the democratization process in Mali, Islam merits only a handful of references in the index. 9. Modern Ghana is south of the old state after which it is named. 10. Precise dates vary. These are taken from Le Vine 2007: 76. 11. Le Vine 2007: 79. See also Trimingham 1980 and Levtzion 2000 for the role of Islam in the precolonial period. 12. Based on the 2009 Pew Survey (Pew Forum 2013), 6 percent of Malians claimed they identified with the Tijaniyya order; no other order had more than 1 percent. Also, 62 percent claimed no identification with a Sufi order, although Peterson (2012) maintains that even “reformist” Muslims in Mali will participate in Sufi rituals and festivals, so that “the boundaries between reformists and Sufis are not quite as rigid as outside observers might think.” In contrast, over half (51 percent) of the respondents in Senegal identified with the Tijaniyya order. 13. Le Vine (2007: 77) notes this gives credence to claims that, the nineteenthcentury jihadists aside, there was little effort to impose Islam in Mali.

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14. The premier source for this development is Kaba 1974. Brenner (1993) notes that members of this group typically refer to themselves simply as “Sunnis.” 15. Soares (2004, 2005a, 2005b) cautions that it is too simplistic to present Islam in Mali in dichotomous terms (e.g., “traditional” versus “reformist/Wahhabi”), as Islam has many different forms and expressions. 16. This included efforts to foster a sedentary lifestyle among nomads and campaigns against slavery (Lecocq 2003: 41–42). For an almost hagiographic treatment of Keita, see Snyder 1967. 17. This section also borrows from Brenner 1993, Leininger 2010, and Thurston 2013. 18. Translated as “defenders of the faith”; not to be confused with Ansar Dine, a more militant, fundamentalist group that emerged in the 2000s in northern Mali. 19. Haidara figures prominently in much of the work by Soares (2004, 2005a, 2005b). See also Peterson 2012. 20. This section borrows from Clark 2000: 257–261 and Vengroff and Koné 1995: 47–48. The most extensive treatment is Wing 2008. 21. Konaré did serve from 1978 to 1980 as minister of youth and sports under Traoré’s government. However, by the early 1990s he had solid opposition credentials. 22. For example, Clark (1999: 164) asserts that they exhibited “very little active participation.” Leininger (2010: 12) suggests they were active in pressing their agenda, albeit unsuccessfully. 23. The best source for this is Wing (2008: 125–153). President Konaré has emphasized that he equates democracy with social dialogue as a method of governance (quoted in “In One Poor African Nation, Democracy Thrives,” New York Times, 16 October 1996). 24. The most critical views are those of Villalón and Idrissa (2005), Leininger (2010), and Whitehorse (2012). 25. Wing (2008: 97), for example, reports under 30 percent turnout in 2002 legislative elections and 36 percent for 2007 presidential elections. 26. For example, in a 2009 Pew Survey, 64 percent of respondents agreed that people like themselves have no say in what the government does, a higher figure than reported in Ethiopia, Ghana, Liberia, Botswana, and Zambia. 27. Throughout the 2000s, for example, the World Bank reports that overseas development assistance constituted about 80 percent of the central government’s expenses. Data from www.worldbank.org. For a critique of aid assistance, see Gutelius 2007. 28. For example, in the 2012 Global Gender Gap Report published by the World Economic Forum, Mali was ranked 128 out of 135 countries surveyed, lower than Iran, Egypt, and Mauritania. Its raw score in 2012 was also lower than it had been in 2006, indicating that on measures employed in this survey, including participation in the labor force, political representation, and women’s health, Mali had regressed. Report is available at www3.weforum.org/docs/WEF_Gender Gap_Report_2012.pdf, accessed 15 February 2015. 29. For example, average growth from 2000 to 2010 was 3.6 percent a year, compared to 4.4 percent for Senegal and Mauritania and 5.6 percent for Nigeria. Data retrieved from www.indexmundi.com/mali/gdp_real_growth_rate.html, accessed 23 October 2013. 30. International Crisis Group 2005; Gutelius 2007. Thurston (2013), writing after the coup, puts these developments in a more threatening light. 31. The classic reference remains Schmitter, O’Donnell, and Whitehead 1986. .

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32. Moestrup (1999) argues that including the military in the conference and not subjecting it to reprisals afterward helped keep it out of politics after 1992. 33. Le Vine (2007: 88) reports that since 1991 over 150 Muslim associations with a national reach have formed in Mali. 34. In the 2012 Afrobarometer, only 13 percent of Malian respondents claimed to be a leader or active member of a religious association, among the lowest of all countries in the survey. In 2002, the figure was 26 percent. Data available at www.afrobarometer.org, accessed 2 October 2013. 35. As noted, he figures prominently as well in the work of Benjamin Soares, who has written more about Malian Islam than any other Western scholar. 36. All data are responses from Muslims. See Pew Forum 2013. 37. Significantly, the survey does not probe as to what “sharia” would mean. 38. Analysis using the variable that religious leaders should express political views found a statistically significant relationship only with rural residence and income (those with higher incomes were more likely to think religious leaders should express their political views). 39. This measure was rendered moot when the country adopted a new commercial law code in 1992 (Soares 2009: 410). 40. Polygamy is allowed, provided the first wife agrees to polygamous marriage at the time she marries. However, many men take additional wives but do not register these marriages with the state. 41. See “Mali: promulgation du Code de la famille révisé,” Jeune Afrique, 21 January 2012, available at www.jeuneafrique.com/Article/DEPAFP20120121111 234, and “Mali’s New Family Law: Women’s Rights Denied, Discrimination Upheld,” International Federation for Human Rights, 9 December 2011, at www.fidh.org/en/Africa/Mali,305/Mali-s-new-Family-Law-women-s, both accessed 27 February 2015. 42. “Women’s Rights in Mali ‘Set Back 50 Years’ by New ‘Family Code’ Lwaw,” The Guardian, 1 May 2012. 43. See report “Après le meeting du mouvement religieux ‘SABATI 2012,’ des incidents signalés dans plusieurs mosquées de Bamako Mahmoud Dicko et Chérif Ousmane Madani Haïdara divisés sur la nécessité d’appeler à voter pour un candidat,” from L’independent, 16 July 2013, available at www.maliweb.net/news /politique/2013/07/16/article,158873.html, accessed 27 February 2015.

7 Indonesia: Democratization amid Competing Visions of Islam

Indonesia is the world’s largest Muslim-majority country. It gained independence from the Netherlands in 1945, but for much of its history it was ruled by two authoritarian leaders: Sukarno1 (1945–1967) and Suharto (1967–1998). A severe economic crisis at the end of the 1990s prompted Suharto’s resignation and the country’s subsequent transition to democracy. Since that time, it has held several competitive elections that have been judged free and fair. As seen in Figure 7.1, it has established a strong democratic record, making it one of the most successful examples of democracy in the Muslim world. Like many of our cases, Indonesia does not possess many of the prerequisites typically associated with democracy. It is ethnically and religiously diverse,2 and, even though postindependence governments have emphasized Indonesian nationalism, it has experienced violent secessionist movements as well as political polarization, including a coup and countercoup in 1965 that left hundreds of thousands dead. It has a strong militarybureaucratic establishment that promoted and interpreted Pancasila, the national ideology. The authorities used Pancasila and memories of the coup to suppress opponents on both the right and left. Despite strong economic growth in the 1980s and 1990s, by 1999 its GDP per capita was only US$2,587 and it was ranked 102 on the UN Human Development Index, well behind neighboring countries such as Malaysia, Thailand, the Philippines, as well as Syria, Jordan, and Kyrgyzstan.3 It is an oil exporter, making it susceptible, at least in principle, to the resource curse. Finally, it is, of course, primarily (88 percent) Muslim. Although Pancasila deconfessionalized the state4—it affirms that there is one God but it does not establish Islam as the state religion—the role of Islam in politics has been contested throughout the last century, creating an “uneasy relationship” between 205

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Figure 7.1 Democratic Development in Indonesia 10 10 8 8 6 6

Polity score, –10 to 10 Freedom House score, 1 to 7 (inverted)

4 4 2 2 0 0 –2 -2 –4 -4 –6 -6 –8 -8 –10 -10 1945 1949 1953 1957 1961 1965 1969 1973 1977 1981 1985 1989 1993 1997 2001 2005 2009 2013

Islam and state (Effendy 2003). Indeed, compared to the other “more successful” cases in this volume—Turkey, Mali, and Senegal—it is fair to say that Indonesia has a more extensive record of “political Islam.” Islamic-oriented political activity has not, however, produced an Islamic state or jeopardized the country’s recent democracy. On the contrary, Indonesia is often held up as a model of a successful state where “moderate” Islam, a “cultural” Islam as opposed to a “political” one, or, more suggestively, “Islam with a smiling face,”5 has taken hold. For example, former US secretary of state Hillary Clinton suggested, “If you want to know whether Islam, democracy, modernity and women’s rights can coexist, go to Indonesia” (Tamara 2009: xii). Similarly, Robert Kaplan, often associated with doomsday views of international politics, upheld Indonesia as a place that “exemplifies” a “Wilsonian” democratic vision that represents Islam’s “best case scenario for the future.”6 More scholarly assessments present a bit more sobering view, noting Islamist mobilization since the fall of Suharto that challenges its secular-oriented system (van Bruinessen 2011). In this respect, the Indonesian experience is similar to several countries in this volume, as democratization has led to a proliferation of Islamic-oriented actors in the political arena. This chapter explores these dynamics. However, given the deep roots of the dynamics between Islam and the state and among those espousing different interpretations of Islam, it necessarily has to explore Indonesian

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history, which sets many of the terms of debate among various contemporary actors. Islam and Diversity in Colonial Indonesia As was the case with Malaysia, Islam arrived to what is now Indonesia primarily through Muslim Arab and Indian traders and teachers, perhaps as early as the eighth century.7 The first evidence of a Muslim ruler in Indonesia dates to 1211 in northern Sumatra. Conversion to Islam among local rulers continued for several centuries, with Aceh, at the tip of Sumatra, becoming a center of Islamic learning. A powerful Islamic kingdom in Malacca also helped spread the faith to much of the archipelago. The Portuguese arrived in the 1500s, but they were more interested in trade, not conversion. By the seventeenth century, Islam became the state religion in most of the coastal kingdoms, with the local raja identified as defender of the faith and subordinating religious scholars to his authority (Hefner 2000: 29). Conversion to Islam was largely peaceful, although there were instances of some rulers using force to spread the faith. Although local myths stress the role of miracles and dreams that persuaded rulers to convert (Jones 1979), most accounts view the adoption of Islam as an instrumental process, spread out over time and driven by economic and political advantages of adopting the faith of those who controlled burgeoning trade routes (Johns 1975; Ricklefs 1979; Effendy 2003). As various rulers converted and the earlier Hindu-Buddhist kingdoms fell into decline, Islam gained status. However, conversion was neither uniform nor comprehensive. Coastal areas, more exposed to external influences, saw Islam take hold earlier than in inland areas or more remote islands, where Islam made substantial inroads only in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Moreover, Islam took on different characteristics in different locales, at times manifested in strict, “fundamentalist” forms, but often blending with local Hindu-Buddhist or animist traditions. The result, in short, is great religious diversity in Indonesia. Not only are there sizable pockets of Christian, Hindu, or animist populations, but there is great diversity within Indonesian Islam. Geertz (1960, 1963) famously distinguished between the abangan, nominal Muslims that often incorporated pre-Islamic traditions in their faith and rituals, and the more puritan santri, who in turn are divided between more “modernist” and more “traditional” interpretations of Islam.8 Writing in the early 1980s, before a religious revival took greater effect, McVey (1983: 200) suggested that “unambiguous Islam is a minority religion.” An-Na’im (2008: 227) maintains that “it is therefore not helpful to assert that the country now has the

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largest Muslim population in the world, because the Muslims of Indonesia subscribe to a wide range of understandings and practices of Islam, some of which may not be recognized as Islamic at all by some Muslims in other parts of the world.” Unlike in Malaysia, no royal court or class of religious scholars exercised monopolistic control over Islamic practices (Hadiz and Teik 2011). Many Muslim rulers and scholars incorporated adat (local customs and rules) into their interpretations of sharia. Among various Muslim groups and practices, one should highlight Sufi mysticism, a significant influence on “traditional” Indonesian Islam and exemplified in the nine saints (wali songo) of Java, whose graves remain sites of pilgrimage. Hefner (2000: 14) notes that the people of what became Indonesia have long grappled with cultural pluralism, which is often seen as a modern phenomenon. An-Na’im (2008) largely celebrates the diversity of Indonesian Islam, arguing that it helped nurture traditions of tolerance. There were, however, also tensions. Van Bruinessen (2009: 187) and Kersten (2011: 109–110) note that Indonesians who made the hajj or studied in the Middle East would, upon return, try to purify local Indonesian Islam, condemning practices (prevalent among Sufis) of visiting saints’ graves or intercession in prayer. Immigrants from the Middle East, mainly Yemen, also contributed to intra-Islamic divisions (Eliraz 2004). In the early nineteenth century, the Padri movement in western Sumatra employed violence in its battle to implement a more “pure” Islam, and more orthodox rulers in Aceh put to death religious scholars they deemed heretical (Bowen 1993: 20).9 Hefner (2000: 14) makes the important observation that peaceful coexistence and tolerance were not inevitable, as “the Muslim community could have dissolved into a maelstrom of ethno-Islams, in which each community claimed an opposed understanding of religion’s truth.” Why this does not occur is largely, as we shall soon see, based upon how “Islam” and Indonesian nationalism were “imagined” and constructed in the twentieth century. Before jumping ahead, however, we should give some consideration to the impact of Dutch colonialism. Dutch traders had been active in the region since the early seventeenth century, and in 1800 the Indies formally became a Dutch colony; Dutch rule, however, did not extend to all areas of the archipelago until the early twentieth century. Dutch rule was often harsh, crushing the independent merchant class and making alliances with despotic rulers. After revolts in the 1800s, some of which had a clear Islamic orientation, the Dutch adopted a more divide-and-rule approach, cracking down on more “radical” or threatening Islamic actors while encouraging favoring rulers who relied more on adat than strict application of sharia. Adat courts could overrule sharia courts, and the Dutch even developed an “adat law school.”10 Under the Dutch, however, Islam spread, thanks in large part to economic development and education, including pesantren (Quranic board-

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ing schools). Moreover, local populations began to see rulers who cooperated with the Dutch as “lackeys,” bolstering the legitimacy of an emerging Muslim leadership, including teachers and graduates of the pesantren as well as remnants of the ulama that had been displaced in the secular administration (Hefner 2000: 33–34). By the early twentieth century, a distinctively “Muslim” civil society had formed in Indonesia. The most lasting contribution of the Dutch, however, was the formation of Indonesia itself. An archipelago of some 17,000 islands and diverse populations, “Indonesia” did not exist prior to Dutch rule. As Benedict Anderson (1991), an eminent scholar of Indonesia, argued, nationalism often emerges as an “imagined community.” In this case, one can cite factors such as the creation of “national” boundaries for the colony and Dutch encouragement of a common administrative language, in this case Malay (known now in Indonesia as Bahasa Indonesian), which heretofore had been spoken by only a small minority of the population. Combined with incipient print capitalism—a factor emphasized by Anderson—these factors allowed the people to communicate and “imagine” an Indonesia that previously had not existed. Lastly, as Pringle (2010: 58–59) notes, once this “Indonesia” appeared as an idea, the Dutch, “by constantly repeating all the reasons why ‘Indonesia’ could never happen, usefully underlined what needed to be done.” Islam and the Creation of Indonesia In the initial stirrings of Indonesian anticolonial, nationalist discourse, Islam “played a pivotal role” (Effendy 2003: 15). This was, to some extent, natural, as Islam, despite its diverse manifestations, could serve as an important source of identity, an “in-group symbol against an alien intruder and oppressor of a different religion” (Kahin 1952: 38). The first “nationalist” political organization to emerge was Sarekat Islam (Islamic Union), founded in 1912 by Muslim merchants. It advocated independence and gained a mass following among various class and occupational groups. For a decade it “formed the centre of the Indonesian national awakening” (McVey 1983: 200). Sareket Islam, however, would neither lead the country to independence nor become the country’s most important political or Muslim association. Its fall was caused by various factors, including its embrace of Marxist elements, which fractured the organization (Effendy 2003: 17–19). A different association, Muhammadiyah (Followers of Muhammad), also founded in 1912, became the leading voice for a “reformist” or “modernizing” Islam, taking inspiration from non-Indonesian figures such as Jamal ad-Din al-Afghani (1839–1897) and Muhammad Abduh (1849–1905), who

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championed the need for a more “modern” Islam, albeit one that was grounded in the dictates of the holy texts. Nearly a century after its founding, Muhammadiyah claimed twenty-five million followers (Hefner 2000: 40). It focused mostly on education, health, and provision of social services. It rejected “traditionalist” Indonesian practices centered on Sufism and charismatic leadership. It developed its own bureaucracy and staffed its leadership through elections. It was divided, however, on the role of Islam in politics. Some of its members argued for the necessity of an “Islamic” state based on sharia. Others, however, maintained that Islam offers only general principles (e.g., justice, equality, consultation), not a comprehensive blueprint with specific requirements (Hefner 2000: 40). This division, manifested today in Indonesia among Islamic-oriented thinkers and activists, arguably handicapped its ability to articulate a clear vision of the future Indonesia. Brief mention should also be made here of Nahdlatul Ulama (Revival of Religious Scholars, NU), founded in 1926 and representing more “traditional” elements of Indonesian Islam, especially those connected to the pesantren.11 The NU was, in some respects, defensive in nature, emerging in response to the mobilization of groups such as Muhammadiyah, which believed traditionalists to be more “backward” and adhering to a corrupted form of Islam. Although it occasionally cooperated with Muhammadiyah, it has often been its rival, underscoring McVey’s observation (1983: 200) that “if nothing united Indonesia like Islam, neither does anything divide it so deeply.” NU remains, as we shall see, an important organization in Indonesia, and its longtime chairman, Abdurrahman Wahid (1940–2009), became Indonesia’s first president after its transition to democracy. These Islamic-oriented organizations, however, were eclipsed by a more secular-oriented nationalist movement, centered on the Partai Nasional Indonesia (Indonesian Nationalist Party, PNI), established in 1927 by Sukarno, a protégé of one of Sarekat Islam’s founders. PNI’s basis was kebangsaan (nationalism), not Islam. For Sukarno and his allies, which included many Western-educated intellectuals, Islam could not unify all the peoples of Indonesia, many of whom were not Muslim. His presentation of kebangsaan as more inclusive was rejected by Islamic-oriented critics, who argued it was chauvinistic, ran counter to ideas of a singular Muslim community (umma), and risked elevating nationalism as a rival to religion for peoples’ loyalties (Effendy 2003: 20). Islamic activists, most forcefully Mohammed Natsir (1908–1993), an Islamic scholar who was influenced by the Pakistani Islamist Abu’l A’laMawdudi and in his long life was active in numerous Islamic parties and organizations, entered into a polemical debate with the nationalists, arguing that religion must play a role in Indonesia.12 Natsir introduced the idea of

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kebangsaan Muslim (Muslim nationalism), arguing that “we struggle for independence because of Allah” (Noer 1973: 263). For Natsir and his allies, independent Indonesia, an overwhelmingly Muslim state, should be administered by the laws of Islam. In his view, this was perfectly democratic, but, as Hefner (2000: 102, 106) notes, Natsir (like Maududi) believed that under “Islamic democracy” not everything could be subject to the will of the people, and he overlooked the fact that the largest group opposing imposition of sharia was not the Christian minority but nominal and more secularoriented Muslims, who constituted a sizable segment of the population. Sukarno, an admirer of Atatürk, rejected Natsir’s position, favoring the separation of mosque and state. He did so in the name of democracy, arguing that in a diverse country “there are only two choices: the unity of statereligion, but without democracy, or democracy, but the state is separated from religion.” This position, one might note, was not the one taken in neighboring Malaysia, where Islam became both the state religion and a core component of ethnic Malay identity. Sukarno did concede, however, that in a democratic Muslim-majority country it would be completely natural that, insofar as elected representatives would represent the people, government decisions would be “Islamic in spirit and soul” (both quoted in Effendy 2003: 23). Sukarno proved neither to be a democrat nor, arguably, a leader who embraced the “spirit” of Islam—certainly his opponents did not view him this way. However, he won his battle with Natsir and more Islamic-oriented figures and served as Indonesia’s first president for over twenty years. The reasons for Sukarno’s ultimate victory are several: he had strong anticolonial credentials; he gained the trust of the Japanese, who promised Indonesian independence during the final years of World War II; and he tried to embrace a wide audience, combining in what would become Pancasila elements of nationalism, Marxism, and religion.13 However, part of the story is that his Islamic opponents were divided and proved, at least initially, willing to compromise for the sake of unity and ultimately deferred to Sukarno’s nationalist vision. The chief manifestation of this compromise was the fate of the Jakarta Charter. In June 1945, as the country began preparing for independence, Sukarno announced the five principles of Pancasila, whose fifth principle (in its original formation) was Ketuhanan (belief in God). This did not include mention of Islam, which rankled many. Subsequently, a compromise, known as the Jakarta Charter, was proposed as the preamble to the new constitution. It revised Pancasila’s theological principle so it would read “belief in God with the obligation to carry out Islamic sharia for its adherents” (emphasis mine). How this would be carried out was never specified, but Sukarno signed on to it. However, it quickly became clear

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that this provision would lead some Christians—who composed a majority on some eastern islands—to refuse to join Indonesia. Seeking to preserve national unity, Sukarno persuaded those in the Islamic-oriented group to give up the language on sharia. In return, the now-first principle of Pancasila would affirm belief in one God.14 Pancasila is thus not like Turkish laicité; it deconfessionalizes the state in the sense that there is not (as there is in Pakistan, Bangladesh, or Malaysia) a state religion, but it does put monotheism as one of the foundations of the nation and state.15 However, like Turkey, the state does seek to regulate religion, primarily through the Ministry of Religion, which is responsible for overseeing religious education, Muslim marriages, and family law courts, but also can dispense patronage (van Bruinessen 1996).16 This compromise seemed to work, at least for a while. This is not to say that all was well in the first years of Indonesian independence. The Dutch tried to reoccupy the country and did not recognize Indonesian sovereignty until 1949; there were rebellions on both the left and the right, including ones with an explicit Islamic orientation in West Java (where rebels declared the Islamic State of Indonesia) and in ever-troublesome Aceh; and planned elections were continually postponed, in large part over fears Islamic parties might prevail. Meanwhile, tensions rose between Sukarno and his Islamic-oriented opponents, who were disappointed in Islam’s limited role under Pancasila, which became, in their view, an “antiMuslim” creed (Effendy 2003: 39–41). Matters came to a head after Indonesia’s first general elections in 1955, which were the only truly democratic elections held until 1999. 17 Two “Islamic” parties, the rural- and Java-oriented NU, and Masyumi,18 which had more support on the Outer Islands and was centered around Muhammadiyah, vied for votes. Together, they captured over 40 percent of the vote; a similar percentage was won by two secular parties, the PNI and the Communist Party. A similar split emerged in subsequent voting for a Constituent Assembly, whose primary task was to draft a new, permanent constitution. 19 The assembly had completed most of its tasks by 1959, when it revisited the vexed question of Islam. Some in the Islamic faction, particularly those belonging to Masyumi, pushed their preindependence viewpoints, including the maximalist position that Islam be the basis of the state. However, they lacked the votes to pass this measure. Their opponents saw Pancasila not as an anti-Islamic ideology but as an inclusive reflection of syncretic Indonesian traditions. This time, however, there would be no compromise. With the assembly at an impasse over this issue as no group had the requisite two-thirds of the vote, and in the aftermath of yet another secessionist conflict, Sukarno, with the support of the military, ended Indonesia’s brief experiment with constitu-

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tional democracy. He issued a decree to disband the Constituent Assembly and reinstate the highly presidential 1945 constitution. Islam Under Authoritarian Governments For nearly four decades, Indonesia was dominated by two men: Sukarno and Suharto, who forced Sukarno to leave office in 1967. Neither Sukarno’s “Guided Democracy” (1959–1965) nor the “New Order” associated with Suharto was democratic or especially accommodating to Islam. Nonetheless, political Islam did not go away—it would appear, in a state-friendly incarnation in quiescent political parties tolerated by the regime, and, occasionally, in more mobilized forms. By the 1980s, the country even began to experience an Islamic revival, including the rise of more radical elements. However, as we’ll see in a subsequent section, “mainstream” Indonesian Islam also underwent a transformation and revision due to the emergence of new intellectual movements that assumed greater political relevance after the advent of democratic politics in the late 1990s and 2000s. Islam, Guided Democracy, and the 1965 Coup

Given Sukarno’s long-standing battles with Islamic-oriented actors, it should come as no surprise that once he seized power, he meted out punishment to his erstwhile rivals. Masyumi was banned in 1960. Its officials, including Natsir, were arrested and jailed. Sukarno created a government of national unity, known as NASAKOM, the first letters from the Indonesian terms for nationalism, religion, and communism. This motley group included the NU, which was pleased to dominate the Ministry of Religion, but its larger role in governance was comparatively limited. Hefner (2000: 44) observes that in the early 1960s “Muslim influence in national politics steadily declined.” Muslim groups reacted to Sukarno’s authoritarianism in different ways. While the NU was willing to work with the regime, many of those in Masyumi and Muhammadiyah withdrew from politics, concentrating on proselytizing, especially in rural areas. Meanwhile, Muslim youth groups emerged and later formed militias to counter communist organizations, which were seen by many Muslims as a threat. In particular, communist efforts to press land reform antagonized Muslim landowners and merchants, who began to make common cause with other anticommunists, including those in the military. Hefner (2000: 57) describes this period as one of a breakdown of order, one of “factionalist privilege and state-sponsored gangsterism.”

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This provides an important backdrop to the coup, countercoup, and subsequent bloodletting in Indonesia in 1965, the “year of living dangerously.” The initial coup was a poorly planned attempt by leftist elements in the military to seize power to head off an alleged right-wing coup, backed by the US Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), to remove Sukarno. This action, which included the execution of several generals, spawned a countercoup, led by General Suharto, commander of the army reserve. Sukarno refused to back the coup, and Suharto’s forces quickly put down the rebellion. What followed was a state-supported effort to track down and eliminate those alleged to have been behind the coup, particularly the communists. In the course of a few months, hundreds of thousands of people were killed.20 One could, of course, write much on these events, which are seared into the Indonesian political consciousness. For our purposes, one item is particularly salient: Muslims played a key role in the massacres. Muhammadiyah, for example, issued a fatwa calling for the “extermination” of the communists as an obligatory religious act, “nothing less than a holy war” (Hefner 2000: 108). Crouch (1978: 152) describes actions of the NU in East Java: Although the army had control of operation in the towns, religious leaders in the villages were encouraged to take their own measures. Most commonly the lead was taken by kiyai (religious teachers) and ulama (religious scholars) affiliated with the NU, who mobilized students from their pesantren to drag communists, members of pro-PKI [Indonesian Communist Party] organizations, and suspects from their homes and take them to river banks where their throats were cut and their bodies thrown into the river. Members of the [NU’s] Ansor youth organization moved from area to area inciting Muslims to exterminate “atheists” and by the middle of November killings had taken place in almost all parts of the province.21

This tragedy led many to question just how “civil” or tolerant Indonesian Islam really was. This issue still has resonance as the NU, in particular, has had to come to terms with its complicity in mass murder.22 The most immediate impact, however, was the end of Sukarno, who was forced to gradually relinquish his power by the ascendant Suharto, finally ceding the presidency in 1967. Islam Under Suharto’s “New Order”

Islamic-oriented actors had a variegated and complicated relationship with Suharto’s regime, in part because the government had no consistent policy with respect to Islam (Hefner 2000). Initially, because of their role in “eliminating” the communist threat, some Muslims anticipated favored status in the New Order. However, while the regime gave more room for Muslim

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associations than it did for others, it was no supporter of uncontrolled Islamic political activity, in large measure because of Islam’s connection to earlier separatist revolts. Islamic groups that accommodated themselves to the regime thus endured a “forced depoliticisation” (van Bruinessen 1996: 19), while others assumed the role of a “semiopposition” (Aspinall 2005: 139). Nonetheless, mass organizations such as Muhammadiyah and NU continued to exist, functioning as “two enormous girders” that buttressed civil society (Barton 2006: 224). In many respects, Suharto’s approach to Islam was similar to that of the colonial Dutch (Samson 1978: 222; van Bruinessen 1996: 36): personal piety was fine (if not encouraged as a basis for morality and an antidote to communism) but more political manifestations of Islam were discouraged or controlled. Unlike in Turkey, the regime allowed “Islamic” political parties to exist, including the NU, which was less adamant than Masyumi on the need to create an Islamic state and was in many respects more a “religious welfare association” than a “goal-oriented political party” (Samson 1978: 200). Masyumi remained banned, although the government allowed some affiliated with Masyumi, but not top leaders such as Natsir, to form a new party, the Partai Muslimin Indonesia (Indonesian Muslim Party, PMI). State interference in the PMI, however, was heavy-handed, as the government handpicked the top leadership (van Bruinessen 1996: 26). Many of those in Masyumi, as they did under Sukarto, focused their energies elsewhere, including education and proselytizing. However, splits emerged in this camp, with the older generation, including Natsir, adopting more scriptualist, essentialist positions and cultivating ties to the Arab world (Hefner 2000: 103–110). This group, however, became politically marginalized, with Natsir famously noting in 1972 that the state treated him like a “cat with ringworm” (McVey 1983: 1999). Meanwhile, a younger generation in the reformist or modernist tradition began to rethink the relationship between the state and Islam, eventually endorsing more flexible and less confrontational positions. This important development will be discussed below. As noted above, Islamic political parties were allowed to compete in elections, although voting was hardly free and the regime’s corporatist-style political organization, Golkar, handily won each plebiscite. Still, Islamic parties were a presence in parliament. In 1971, four Islamic parties—NU was by far the largest—won 27 percent of the total vote. In 1973, the government forced these parties to merge, creating the Partai Persatuan dan Pembangunan (United Development Party [PPP]), which it hoped would serve as an acceptable and pliant public face of Islam. Long-standing divisions between “modernists” and “traditionalists,” along with government restrictions on campaigning, hampered the PPP’s activities. Nonetheless,

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the party did win a fair share of the vote: 29 percent in 1977, 28 percent in 1982. However, during this time the PPP generally “toned down” its platform, including moving away from the long-held goal of many Islamic actors of reinstating the Jakarta Charter, which Suharto rejected as an option in 1968. This is not to say that the PPP and other Muslim actors were toadies of the government. In the 1970s and early 1980s, they issued objections to policies that infringed on what they viewed as Islamic values or the place of Islam in society. This included a new marriage law that increased women’s rights for divorce, limited polygamy, and removed authority over marriage from Muslim courts; a proposal to recognize mystical belief as equal to religion; a government-sponsored birth control program; and a state-run lottery (Hefner 2000: 81–82; van Bruinessen 1996: 28–29). In the first two cases, Muslim objections and protests led the government to water down or withdraw the proposals. In the latter cases, the government went ahead with its plans. In the late 1970s and early 1980s, more overt opposition to Suharto began to emerge, including voices within the military (Crouch 1978; Aspinall 2005). Muslim actors also began to voice objections to authoritarian imposition of Pancasila on the population. In 1978, the NU led PPP representatives to walk out of parliament on this issue. This, together with uprisings and bombings—which were blamed on Islamic groups but may have been staged by the government (van Bruinessen 1996: 33–34)—compelled Suharto to crack down on the PPP, replacing its leadership and declaring that the state had to be extra vigilant against its enemies, among them radical Islamists inspired by Iran and other states in the Middle East. In 1983, Suharto declared that all parties and organizations would have to declare Pancasila the sole foundation of their organization. This split Islamic actors: some did not want to acquiesce, but in the end, in order to continue to operate, most fell into line. Meanwhile, the NU, under the leadership of Abdurrahman Wahid23 (discussed more later), ceased functioning as a political party and withdrew from the PPP. In 1987, the truncated PPP won only 16 percent of the vote. The government had other ways of controlling or channeling political Islam. The Ministry of Religion, responsible for funding religious education and mosques, dispensed patronage—it became the largest ministry in terms of personnel (Hefner 2000: 80)—and helped co-opt Muslim actors. In 1975, the state created the Majelis Ulama Indonesia (Council of Indonesian Religious Scholars, MUI). This served many purposes, including mobilizing support for the regime and propagating a Pancasilafriendly version of Islam. Most interestingly, it was empowered to issue fatwas, although they were advisory—lacking the legal power of those

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delivered by, for example, the National Fatwa Council in Malaysia—and often were in line with preferred government policy. For example, in 1983 the MUI issued a fatwa approving birth control (other Muslim organizations, such as Muhammadiyah, remained opposed) and its leader defended the state lottery. Van Bruinessen (1996: 29) suggests that its role as a mouthpiece of the government made it lose support among many Indonesian Muslims. In the late 1980s, the regime initiated a major change in policy and began to adopt a more “friendly” approach to Islam. While some suggested that this was a reflection of Suharto’s desire to “play the Muslim card” and broaden his base of public support, this can also be interpreted as a response to a general Islamic revival in Indonesia, fueled by years of economic growth—leading to the rise of a better educated “Muslim” middle class and more Muslim associations and media—as well as long-standing efforts by Islamic organizations to spread the faith. Evidence of this revival included greater mosque attendance, more people dressing in Islamic-style clothing, and a more pronounced role for “Islamic” media. Hefner (2000: 97) notes that this revival had “decisively altered the rules of the political game” so that “the struggle to capture Muslim allegiances was to be a key feature of national politics.” The government’s more accommodative tack took on many forms (Effendy 2003: 151–171): more funding for mosques, religious celebrations, and the hajj; religious instruction at all levels of education; regulations to allow female secondary students to veil; greater use of Islamic rhetoric by state officials; appointment of Muslim activists into the state machinery; a ban on Salman Rushdie’s Satanic Verses; and, in 1993, the ending of the state lottery. Suharto, who had begun studying Arabic, even made the hajj himself in 1991. The state also created a new association, the Ikatan Cendekiawan Muslim Se-Indonesia (Indonesian Association of Muslim Intellectuals, ICMI), under the leadership of B. J. Habibie, Suharto’s close confidante who became vice president in 1998. This organization brought together Muslim activists in civil society, including some critics of the New Order, as well as civil servants, some of whom became cabinet officials. In some respects, it became a classic interest group, lobbying for more funding for mosques and for more Muslims to be appointed to government positions. However, some important actors, most pointedly Wahid of the NU, refused to join it. While some saw the ICMI as a real innovation 24—or even a sign that the state was backtracking from nonsectarian principles— van Bruinessen (1996: 38) plays down its importance, seeing it primarily as an organ for Habibie to gain support and that it “came to resemble just another state-controlled corporatist organization.” Hefner (2000: 145), while conceding that the bureaucratic elite was the largest group within

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the ICMI, is a bit more positive, noting its contribution to public debates over the role of Islam in society. Perhaps the most significant move—and one that clearly shows the difference between ostensibly “secular” Indonesia and Turkey—was a new law elevating the status of the erstwhile poorly functioning Muslim religious courts. These date from colonial times and primarily handled divorce and inheritance. Under the new rules, they were made equal with civil courts and were given a single, codified reference of state-approved “Islamic” law. In conjunction with this legal reform, the minister of religion, Munawir Sjadzali, suggested the need to develop a distinctive Indonesian fiqh (jurisprudence), one that would rest on a more contextual interpretation of the Quran (van Bruinessen 1996: 36). His remarks that certain verses in the Quran (e.g., on slavery) were no longer relevant or that laws on inheritance should reflect the economic reality of contemporary Indonesia and not that of Arabia in Muhammad’s time stirred some controversy among some Muslims, but deserve our attention as they reflect an effort by “official Islam” to join the debates among numerous Indonesian Muslims about how one can (re)interpret Islam in a more modern and even “liberal” manner. It is to this important development, which emerged in the Suharto years and would carry over into the contemporary democratic period, that we now turn. A View from Below: “New Muslim Intellectuals” in Indonesia As suggested, political Islam retreated from more visible public stages during most of the Suharto years. However, it was not stagnant. On the contrary, Indonesian Islam went through a profound transformation, witnessed in the emergence of new groups and new ways of interpreting the faith. Some of these, such as Jemaah Islamiyah, were committed to violence and were fundamentally antisystem and antidemocratic. Groups such as these will not be the focus in this chapter.25 Instead, our attention, like that of many others who have written on Indonesian Islam, is on the country’s “new” or “young” (well, new and young at one time) Muslim intellectuals.26 Hefner (2000: 59) describes their emergence and impact as a “social renaissance unprecedented in modern Indonesian history.” It is impossible, given considerations of space, to describe and analyze all the contributors of this group. Among the most important were Nurcholish Madjid (1939–2005), perhaps the preeminent figure; Amien Rais (1944–), who led Muhammadiyah in the late 1990s; and Abdurrahman Wahid, who became chairman of the NU in 1984. They were all active in anti-Suharto movements in the 1990s and Rais and Wahid gained political

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office in the post-Suharto period, becoming, respectively, speaker of parliament and president in 1999. Nurcholish Madjid and “Renewal” in Indonesian Islam

Madjid rose to prominence in the early 1970s as leader of the Association of Muslim Students. His family was active in Muhammadiyah and Masyumi, and some suggested that Madjid, a promising student, was the heir to Natsir. Madjid, however, broke with the more formal, doctrinaire approach of the past, embracing in two “paradigmatic speeches” (Kersten 2012: 167) in 1970 and 1972 ideas that he maintained were consistent with the tradition of renewal (tajdid) but shocked much of the religious establishment. Madjid was critical in many ways of the position of Islam and Muslims in Indonesia, and he argued that Muslims themselves were partly to blame for their predicament. He viewed the struggle to create an Islamic party as fundamentally counterproductive, as Islamic parties had failed to attract voters and capitalize on the growing social presence of Islam in society. Madjid’s slogan become “Islam Yes, Islamic Party No!” as he saw Islamic parties as “fossilized and obsolete, devoid of dynamism” (Madjid 1998: 285). Furthermore, he argued that the goal of an Islamic state was unnecessary: there was no such prescription in the Quran, and the focus on capturing the state ended up sacralizing the temporal, which he viewed as unIslamic and an affront to the idea of tawhid, the unity of God, as it elevated earthly concerns and governance with that of God. He argued: The concept of “Islamic state” is a distortion of the [properly] proportioned relationship between state and religion. The state is one of the aspects of worldly life whose dimension is rational and collective, while religion is an aspect of another kind of life whose dimension is spiritual and personal. (Madjid 1998: 294)

Employing the concept of secularization—which he distinguished from secularism—Madjid argued that the transcendental must be separated from the temporal, the latter of which should be subject to ijtihad and not pure fiqhism, a formalistic understanding of Islam at the expense of its spiritual meaning that had “lost its relevance for the present mode of living” (Madjid 1998: 293–294). Muslims, in his view, needed to embrace modernity and progress and recognize that if Islam is to hold meaning, it must be dynamic and its external manifestations—as opposed to the pillars of the faith—needed to be subject to critical thought. From 1978 to 1984, Madjid attended the University of Chicago, and his PhD supervisor was the Pakistani exile Fazlur Rahman, a well-known figure who argued for a modern interpretation of Islam (see Chapter 4). Mad-

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jid wrote his dissertation on Ibn Taymiyya (1263–1328), who stressed the need for pluralism, including tolerance toward non-Muslims (Hefner 2000: 115). Madjid’s later writings (Madjid 2007) take up this theme, arguing for the need for tolerance both from commands of Islamic scripture as well as in acknowledging the diversity of Indonesian culture. In sum, his teachings helped generate a more “empirical” attitude toward Islam (Hefner 2000: 119) and emphasized a “pluralist, substantialist, contextualized understanding of Islam, which came to be known as civil or cosmopolitan Islam” (Kersten 2012: 181). One could add that in terms of offering more respect for Indonesian culture and acknowledging that there could be more than one “face” of Islam, Madjid ended up with a position far closer to that of “traditional” Indonesian Islam and clearly different from that which had been emphasized by Muhammadiyah and Masyumi, which had often been advocates of adopting ideas from the Middle East. Madjid tried to find a middle ground between secular liberalism, which he rejected, and ideological Islam. He held up Muhammad’s Constitution of Medina as a model, but one that was a moral compass for individuals and fully compatible with democracy and respect for human rights. It did not, in his view, suggest the need for an Islamic state. In this sense, he can be said to represent a very early form of “post-Islamism,” a term we have encountered in previous chapters. Madjid was not without critics, however. His use of the term “secularization” and borrowings from Western thinkers produced a harsh reaction, and some thought his thinking was less in accord with tajdid and more a reflection of bid’a, innovation outside of the realm of Islam. Muhammad Hassan, a Malaysian scholar, was perhaps his toughest critic, disparaging both his “pretentiousness and defiant adolescent temper” as well as his “accommodationist response” to the New Order regime (Hassan 1980: 122, 139). Indeed, for several years Madjid proved willing to work with the regime, including ICMI, which he maintained was useful as a public sphere for discussion and exchange of views (Hefner 2000: 145). In this regard, he was assisted by Mukti Ali, one of his professors, who became minister of religion in 1971 and criticized religiously conservative views, thus creating an opportunity space for new voices to be heard (van Bruinessen 2009: 191). In 1986 he set up a foundation, Paramadina, to disseminate his views, especially to the emerging urban Muslim middle class that made up the “new santri.” Because Paramadina did not challenge regime norms—Madjid accepted Pancasila—the government did not interfere in his work. Indeed, eight cabinet ministers served on the foundation’s board (Kersten 2012: 181). Van Bruinessen (2011: 1) suggests the ideas of Madjid and his allies became an “almost hegemonic discourse” with respect to Islam in Indonesia. Madjid’s work attracted younger scholars, who spread and, in

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some cases, revised his ideas. By the early 1990s, Madjid had put himself “at the forefront of this critical and public Islam” (Hefner 2000: 125). However, as we’ll soon see, by the mid-1990s his “critical” eye turned increasingly to the Suharto regime itself, and Madjid would become an important voice and actor in the movement to democratize Indonesia. Amien Rais and Muhammadiyah as Advocates for Democracy

Rais is perhaps less well-known or discussed than Madjid or Wahid. He is, however, an important figure in the development of Indonesian Islam. Like Madjid, he was born into a family active in Muhammadiyah. He studied at both al-Azhar in Cairo and under Rahman at the University of Chicago, and he became a leading figure in the ICMI. While he was less theologically innovative than Madjid, he played an important role in advancing the cause of democracy. Rais’s first notable foray into debates over the role of Islam in Indonesia was in 1982, when he gave an interview to a prominent Islamic-oriented journal in which he, like Madjid, argued that there was nothing in Islamic texts that required an Islamic state (Fealy and Hooker 2006: 224–225). Rather than taking a legal-formalistic approach, he maintained that a state that was concerned with ethics, equality, and social justice was true to Islam. He was critical of countries like Saudi Arabia that ruled in the name of Islam but who denied rights to its citizens. His argument generated controversy but found support among some former leaders of Masyumi, indicating that by this time erstwhile advocates of an Islamic state were revising their position. However, Rais did not, at least at this point, go as far as Madjid insofar as he rejected secularism, maintaining that while a state could not be built on exclusivist Islamic ideology, secularism was anathema to Islam (Assyaukanie 2009: 108–109). While he urged Muslims to accept Pancasila, he contended this did not mean that the state had to reject Islam. In the 1980s, he campaigned actively against Christian missionary work, and, in making arguments such as that the head of state should be Muslim (Abdillah 1997: 103), he suggested that the state needed an Islamic face at least, if not explicitly greater “Islamic” content. Secular critics of the government did not look upon him as a natural ally.27 By the mid-1990s, however, Rais, now leader of Muhammadiyah, moved more firmly into the democratic camp. In part, he was pushed there by heavy-handed tactics of Suharto and more conservative Muslim groups (Hefner 2000: 179–180). His objections to Suharto’s cronyism, calls for democratic reform, and hints that he might become a presidential candidate led the regime to engineer his expulsion from the ICMI in 1997. In early 1998, he put aside past differences with Wahid and the nationalist-secular opposition and called for an alliance against the government. Under Rais’s

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leadership, Muhammadiyah became an important actor in empowering Indonesian civil society and pushing for democratic change (Abdullah 2001: 48–49).28 This is not to say that Rais or his organization stopped promoting “Islamic values,” broadly understood. On the contrary, they did so, but within the confines of democratic politics and not by advocating formal adoption of Islamic legal precepts by the state. He later suggested that while the Quran could be a source of law, it was best understood as a reference, and its passages would have to be reinterpreted “in accordance with the development of time.” He opined that “as long as every citizen is given the opportunity to enjoy their freedoms, as long as religious tolerance is guaranteed, I think that that is fully in accordance with the Quranic moral principles” (Stepan and Kunkler 2007: 206). Given the long-standing preoccupation of many in Muhammadiyah with using state power to implement a particular version of Islam, Rais’s views, like those of Madjid, represent a “post-Islamist” turn in Indonesian Islam. Abdurrahman Wahid: A Muslim Liberal Democrat

Wahid is perhaps the best-known of all of the Islamic reformers in Indonesia, in large part, of course, because he became Indonesia’s first democratically chosen president. Wahid had a long and impressive record before that, however, thrust into national prominence when he became chairman of the NU in 1984. However, he was a bit of an “enigma” (Esposito and Voll 2001: 202), a truly liberal, cosmopolitan thinker who presided over a largely rural-based organization of 30 million people centered around Islamic scholars and formed to counter the threat of modernism. Wahid, however, was truly born into the NU. Both of his grandfathers were founders of the NU, and his father, who became minister of religious affairs in 1950, was also a leader in the organization. Wahid’s strong ties to the NU allowed him to both rise to leadership and maintain this post, even after some became critical of his views. Wahid ventured far from his Javanese roots, studying and traveling widely, including the Arab world and Latin America, where he became familiar with liberation theology. Wahid participated in events and discussions with Madjid and other “new” thinkers, and his leadership of the NU helped spread the renewalist strand of Islamic thinking both within the NU and in the wider public discourse. His own thinking rested on several principles.29 First, like Madjid and Rais, he rejected the idea of an Islamic state. Invoking the arguments of the Egyptian reformist thinker Ali Abdel Raziq (1888–1966), Wahid noted that the Quran never mentions an Islamic state and a secular perspective was “strong and logical” (Wahid in Fealy and Hooker 2006: 231). Wahid believed that Islamic-oriented actors had compromised themselves by getting involved in politics, trivialized religion, and pushed a divisive agenda

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that alienated large segments of the Indonesian population. Thus, not only did he push the NU to accept Pancasila, which he viewed as inclusionary and fully compatible with Islam, but he removed the NU from electoral politics, preferring to concentrate its work on socioeconomic and cultural development. Furthermore, unlike Madjid and Rais, he refused to participate in the ICMI, which he viewed as a vehicle that advanced dangerous sectarianism. Instead, in 1991 he became a major figure behind the creation of Democracy Forum, a group of intellectuals from secular and various religious traditions. This action soured his relations with Suharto, and Wahid became a central figure in anti-Suharto opposition in the later part of the 1990s. Still, he did so as an individual, not as a representative of Islam or with an “Islamic agenda.” Indeed, in 1999, just before he became president, he explicitly declared that “Islam and politics have no relations.”30 Second, like Madjid and Rais, he argued that Islam must be reinterpreted in order to remain dynamic and relevant. Traditional Islamic legalism and literal readings of Islamic texts, in his view, are both theologically flawed and have stifled development in Islamic societies. Instead, he advocated use of ijtihad among scholars and laity to reflect “everchanging human situations,” maqasid al-shari’a (the spirit or objectives of divine law), and maslaha (the common good) (Esposito and Voll 2001: 207; van Bruinessen 2009: 201). Furthermore, he argued for pribusmisasi, the contextualization of Islam based on particular local culture traditions, which he argued was both part of Islamic history and exemplified by Javanese Islam (Mujiburrahman 1999: 342). Theologically, he justified this position by noting that sharia was full of contradictions, that it contained historical anachronisms (e.g., justifications for slavery), and that its application often stressed loyalty to texts rather than humanistic impulses. In 1983, before assuming his post as chairman of NU, he asked the following: Should past laws [of sharia] be accepted and implemented literally by being imposed superficially on the population at large, or should new methods of religious interpretation be pursued diligently? Should the religious approach to life be scriptural—implying a strict adherence to scripture—or more accommodating to the real situations of human life? (Wahid 1983: 44)

In case his insinuation was not clear, he followed up by noting that the former would demand a “monocultural environment” without deviation, which he deemed both impractical and inconsistent with the practice of Islam in Indonesia. To advance the latter, Wahid encouraged scholars to develop a new fiqh, one centered on social justice that would address issues such as property rights, economic development, and women’s rights, the last of which was not emphasized by Madjid, Rais, or most proponents of Islamic renewal (van Bruinessen 2009: 198–199). Much of this was designed to

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expand the concept of rights to heretofore marginalized groups such as peasants and women and was inspired in part by Christian liberation theology. His “Islam” was therefore not merely cultural but social, reflecting, in his words, “Islam’s concern for liberty, social justice, and the rule of law” (quoted in Mujiburrahman 1999: 347). These efforts, which responded to real, contemporary needs of NU members, helped burnish Wahid’s leadership credentials outside of intellectual circles. Third, Wahid upheld the merits of pluralism, arguing that Islam required respect for different actors and views and that pluralism was a fundamental reality of Indonesia. He advocated interfaith dialogues, supported rights for former communists and heterodox Islamic sects (e.g., the Ahmadis), called on Indonesia to establish relations with Israel, and, in 1996, condemned anti-Christian riots in Indonesia, in which many participants were NU members. He championed equal rights for all Indonesian citizens and rejected calls from the MUI and more conservative Muslims that Muslim Indonesians should only vote for Muslim candidates. Democracy, in his view, was the best method for all Indonesians to meet the five basic universal needs within Islam, that of protection of self, family, property, religion, and profession (Mujiburrahman 1999: 346). Wahid’s thought drew upon both classical and modern Muslim thinkers as well as Western social science and human rights norms. Although he framed his position as consistent with Islam, he was not without his critics. He barely won reelection as president of the NU in 1984, when conservatives within the organization as well as Suharto and Habibie lobbied for his removal. However, his work won him the respect of many in Indonesia and worldwide. The fact that he was able to work with many different groups enabled him, in 1999, to be selected president of Indonesia by the country’s parliament. Even though, as we’ll briefly discuss, his presidency was not a great success—he was impeached in 2001—his followers (as well as those of Madjid and Rais and others) have carried on with his work, which was formative in the development of a democratic, “civil Islam” (Hefner 2000). Islam and Democratization in the 1990s The preceding section is suggestive of the important role Islamic-oriented actors and the “renewalist” strand of Islamic thought would play in ending Indonesia’s authoritarian rule. This is not to imply, of course, that these figures represented the pantheon of Islamic political thought. More conservative Muslim actors continued to lobby for creation of an Islamic state and some even cooperated with the government, which, as noted, by the early 1990s was interested in “greening” itself by embracing elements of Islam (Hefner 2000). A variety of Islamic-oriented groups, including some that

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were influenced by thinkers and developments in the Middle East, were active on university campuses. However, even within the more liberal or reformist camp, there were divisions over how far opposition against the government should go. For example, when the student-led Institute for Islamic and Social Studies,31 whose goal was to spread a more democratic and tolerant Islam, proposed giving training courses on human rights and democracy, older religious leaders cautioned against this as too provocative (van Bruinessen 2009: 199). Horowitz (2013: 18) suggests more broadly that those groups favoring democratic change, including both modernist and traditional Muslims as well as nominal Muslims and religious minorities, were so divided among themselves that prospects for regime change in the 1990s, let alone democracy, seemed low. The various developments that led to Suharto’s fall are well-covered in the secondary literature.32 His late embrace of Islam and his cronyism had alienated many within the military, and his efforts at divide-and-rule became less and less effective. In December 1993, Megawati Sukarnoputri, Sukarno’s daughter, was elected leader of the Partai Demokrasi Indonesia (Indonesian Democratic Party, PDI), and some suggested disgruntled elements in the military had lent her their support (Hefner 2000: 170). She emphasized greater need for social justice, economic reform, and the depoliticization of religion. She was friends with Wahid, and the two of them became the leading figures of the anti-Suharto opposition. As was the case with Wahid and the NU, the regime tried to engineer Megawati’s removal, including efforts to engender Muslim opposition to her within the PDI. Fears of her rising power led to the government attack on PDI headquarters in July 1996, which resulted in several deaths and subsequent rioting in Jakarta. While this event succeeded in removing Megawati from the PDI leadership, it galvanized more opposition to the regime, marking the “beginning of the end” of the regime (Hefner 2000: 185). The endgame was messy, although it could have been much worse. The regime helped spark anti-Christian and anti-Chinese riots in late 1996, recruiting some NU members—as was the case in 1965—to do the dirty work. Wahid’s position was weakened, and in 1997 he tried to make a rapprochement with the government. The key development, however, was in August 1997, when the Asian economic crisis hit Indonesia, resulting in a precipitous drop in the value of Indonesian rupiah, investor flight, financial collapse, factory closures, and mass unemployment. This rejuvenated opposition to the regime, including student protests throughout the country. Wahid suffered a stroke in January 1998, which incapacitated him for several months and allowed Rais to assume a more prominent role in the opposition. Suharto was determined to hold onto power, gaining unanimous reelection by parliament as president in March. However, he refused to appoint moderate figures from the ICMI to his cabinet, which alienated

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some of his erstwhile allies. In May, the deaths of student protesters led to the worst rioting since 1965, killing over 1,000 people and forcing over 100,000 ethnic Chinese to flee (Pringle 2010: 112). Most of the violence was blamed on pro-Suharto groups and extremist factions within the military. This, however, galvanized mainstream elements in the military, who, fearing even more violence, demanded Suharto resign. Suharto met with leading figures in the opposition, including Wahid and Madjid, who demanded the same. Having lost crucial support and unable to restore order, Suharto finally resigned on 21 May, ceding power to Habibie, his vice president. By itself, this did not establish Indonesia as a democracy. The transfer of power was in accordance with the constitution, but Habibie was part of the ancien régime, was highly distrusted by many in the opposition, and lacked democratic credentials. Moreover, the military was hardly a bastion of liberal democrats. Thus, as Horowitz (2013: 18–19) notes, many close observers of Indonesian politics were pessimistic about chances for democracy. One (Aspinall 2005: 240) suggested there was “no credible democratic alternative at the point of the regime’s collapse.” While hindsight is 20/20, this seems a bit of an exaggeration. Numerous actors in the opposition, including identifiable Islamic-oriented ones such as Wahid and Rais, were campaigning for democracy. Interestingly, despite their condemnation of Islamic forays into politics, they established their own political parties, albeit of a more ecumenical variety, that tried to reach out to non-Muslims. Habibie himself, aspiring to be elected president, proved willing to shepherd the transition process, expanding freedom of speech and expression, overseeing electoral reforms, and agreeing to elections in 1999. Horowitz (2013: 44) notes that although various groups, in particular the military, pressured him to create only a limited democracy, “on each occasion Habibie declined.” Meanwhile, Megawati, Wahid, and Rais, the three most prominent figures in the opposition, agreed to work with the parliament and Habibie as the country prepared for elections. In addition, both Golkar and the PPP, the latter of which had been tied to the Sukarno regime in its last years, reformed themselves, installing new leadership and committing themselves to respecting democratic practices. In the country’s founding democratic elections in 1999, Megawati’s renamed PDI-P (Partai Demokrasi Indonesia–Perjuangan [Struggle]) came in first (33.7 percent), followed, remarkably, by Golkar (22.4 percent) and then Wahid’s Partai Kebangkitan Bangsa (Party of National Renaissance, PKB) (12.6 percent).33 Numerous Islamic parties ran for office. Effendy (2003: 200, 214) counts 42 of the 181 parties founded in a six-month period in 1998 as Islamic, and Barton (2001) reports that ten of twenty-one Islamic-oriented parties that contested the 1999 elections won seats. Their vote total was 37.7 percent, which as seen in Table 7.1 was a far more

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Table 7.1 Results for Islamic-Oriented Parties in Indonesian Elections

Election

Islamic-Oriented Party

1955

Masyumi NU Others NU Others PPP PPP PPP PPP PPP Secular Islamica PPP and offshoots Islamistb Secular Islamic PPP and offshoots Islamist Secular Islamic PPP and offshoots Islamist Secular Islamic PPP Islamist

1971 1977 1982 1987 1992 1997 1999

2004

2009

2014

Votes (%) 20.9 18.4 4.6 18.7 8.5 29.3 27.8 16.0 17.0 22.4 19.7 10.7 7.3 17.0 11.0 10.9 11.0 6.5 11.5 16.6 6.5 8.2

Total Votes for Islamic-Oriented Parties (%) 43.9

27.2 29.3 27.8 16.0 17.0 22.4 37.7

38.9

29.0

32.3

Sources: Effendy 2003; Barton 2006; Fealy 2009; Pringle 2010; Tanuwidjaja 2010; Hamayotsu 2011. Notes: NU is Nahdlatul Ulama (Revival of Religious Scholars); PPP is Partai Persatuan dan Pembangunan (United Development Party); PKB is Partai Kebangkitan Bangsa (Party of National Renaissance); PAN is Partai Amanat Nasional (National Mandate Party). a. Includes PKB and PAN, which do not promote adoption of sharia, as Islamist parties tend to do, but rely upon religious identity and are embedded in sections of the Muslim community (Fealy 2009). b. Includes parties such as PBB, PKS, and others, noted as “Islamist” by Barton 2006.

impressive showing than such parties had enjoyed in previous elections. Over half of this figure, however, went to the “secular Islamic” parties of Wahid and Rais. In other words, even though there was a groundswell of Islamic-oriented political activity, this did not lead—and has not led, as we’ll see later—to astounding electoral success of Islamist parties. Still, it bears mentioning that once parliament convened, the Islamic parties, together with some from the more secular forces, selected Wahid as president, with Megawati as vice president and Rais as chair of the People’s

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Consultative Assembly. These leaders helped oversee creation of a National Unity Cabinet that included members of all major political parties, regions, religions, and ethnic groups (Horowitz 2013: 102). A little over a year after Suharto’s fall, Indonesia had established the rudiments of democracy. Before moving on to examine the role Islam subsequently has played in democratic Indonesia, what can one say about Islamic-oriented actors in the crucial transition itself? Again, it is hard to generalize, as some selfidentified Islamic actors were Suharto loyalists and welcomed—if not actively participated in—violence directed against the country’s minorities. Moreover, forces in the regime tried to use a conservative interpretation of Islam to delegitimize Megawati and other figures in the opposition. However, this tactic failed and these groups found themselves vastly outnumbered by NU and Muhammadiyah, both of which campaigned for democratic change. Moreover, even though the above analysis has focused on key leaders who spearheaded these campaigns, one should not lose sight of the fact that their credibility rested on their support from rank-and-file members, who, in some cases, were even more vocal in demanding democratic political reform.34 Of course, Islamic groups were not the only ones to demand Suharto go, and it was loss of support within the military that ultimately doomed him. However, in contrast to, for example, Bangladesh, Mali, or (as we’ll see) Senegal, Islamic-oriented organizations were not bit or marginal actors in pushing for democracy. Furthermore, as Barton (2006: 222–223; 2010: 472–473) notes, it was not simply that “Islam” was able to “tolerate” democracy; indeed, Wahid and Rais stood out as “champions of reform” and their organizations “played an important role in ensuring that Indonesia’s transition to democracy was as peaceful and as consequential as it turned out to be.” As expressed by numerous Indonesian Muslim activists and thinkers, Islam—or, at least, their construction of Indonesian Islam— was framed as requiring democracy and thereby played a constructive and crucial role in producing democracy in Indonesia. Islam in Democratic Indonesia This is not, of course, the end of the story. Indonesia has had over a decade of democratic experience, and, as suggested in Figure 7.1, it has been largely successful—indeed, on FH’s more “liberal” rating system for civil liberties and political rights, Indonesia has been classified as “free” (2.5 or better) from 2005 to 2012. This is not to say its democracy is without significant problems. Horowitz (2013), for example, refers to Indonesia as a “low quality” democracy, suffering from problems such as lack of control over the armed forces, corruption and weak respect for the rule of law, and inadequate protection of minorities. Of these, perhaps only the last can be

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blamed on “Islam,” although in many cases it is less a matter of government policy or a reflection of the priorities of large organizations such as NU and Muhammadiyah and more a product of vigilantism and/or actions by more extreme nonstate actors. Nonetheless, one can say the country has made great progress, producing positive outcomes “that we would not have dared to expect in May 1998” (Barton 2010: 471). At the same time, as in all the other countries we have examined, democratization has expanded the public sphere and allowed a variety of groups to form, including a vast array of Islamicoriented ones. Effendy (2003: 200) suggests that the fall of Suharto “opened up the country’s political Pandora’s box,” as seminal questions— including the proper place of Islam in Indonesia—were now reopened. Significantly, Islamic-oriented groups no longer had to be subservient to the state or fear state repression. They could now compete for power and, if successful, “capture” the state and implement their agendas, agendas that in some cases could compromise some elements of democracy. In this respect, fears about an undemocratic turn in post-Suharto Indonesia are similar to what we have seen elsewhere where there is Islamic-oriented political mobilization. The question, of course, is how justified these fears are. Battles over Islamic Law

The entry of various Islamic actors into the social and political arena has, in some respects, put strains on the country’s democratic system. Some groups espouse extreme or antisystem views. For example, the Indonesian branch of Hizbut Tahrir (Liberation Party), an international Islamic movement, seeks to reestablish the caliphate, which it believes is necessary to restore dignity to all Muslims. In its fullest expression, this policy would challenge both Indonesian democracy and statehood. Hizbut Tahrir, however, eschews violence and seeks to achieve its rather quixotic goal by means of propaganda and peaceful demonstrations.35 Although it has staged some mass rallies, it is relatively marginal (Fealy 2007). More serious, perhaps, are groups that have employed violence, directed against “un-Islamic” institutions such as nightclubs and gambling halls and, in some cases, members of heterodox or minority faiths. This issue is discussed more later. The largest political questions involving Islam are, not surprisingly, the same ones that have dogged Indonesia since its creation: should Indonesia, like Malaysia, declare Islam as the state religion and should it apply sharia? With respect to the latter, the issue boils down to reinstating the seven words of the 1945 Jakarta Charter that would apply sharia, at a national level, to all Muslims. In the post-Suharto period, this question has divided various Islamic parties, some of which have been adamantly in favor of sharia. For example, Yusril Ihza Mahendra, founder of the Partai Bulan

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Bintang (Crescent Moon and Star Party, PBB) and a former speechwriter for Suharto, maintains that it is a legal obligation for Muslims—both for individuals to uphold sharia and for the state to enforce it. Contrary to the opinion of Madjid and those in the “renewal” camp, he also argues that to achieve this goal is a “legal obligation” for Muslims to establish political parties (Mahendra in Fealy and Hooker 2006: 232–233). The Majelis Mujahidin Indonesia (Council of Indonesian Mujahidin, MMI), a more radical group that grew out of the banned Darul Islam movement, maintains that sharia is the only way to preserve stability in Indonesia and drafted a sharia criminal code that, among other features, proscribed death by stoning for those who engage in adultery (Fealy and Hooker 2006: 179). The Partai Keadilan Sejahtera (Prosperity and Justice Party, PKS), which grew out of student movements in the 1990s and is the Indonesian version of a classic “Islamist” party in the style of Egypt’s Muslim Brotherhood—with which it had extensive contacts—also campaigns for sharia, although over time it has moderated its message and is split on how explicit or extensive sharia needs to be (e.g., is it sufficient for the state simply to state that it will uphold Islamic values?) and how quickly this goal should be realized (e.g., does society need to be more “Islamized” first?) (Machmudi 2006).36 As was the case earlier in Indonesian history, the case for the Jakarta Charter is made both on grounds of democracy, in that Indonesia is overwhelmingly Muslim, and that it is fundamentally a compromise itself, as it pointedly does not seek to impose Islamic law on non-Muslims. These points were made in 2000 by Habib Rizieq Syihab, the founder of Front Pembela Islam (Islamic Defenders Front, FPI), who called the omission of the Jakarta Charter a “betrayal of democracy” (Syihab in Fealy and Hooker 2006: 236). However, he (and most other Islamists) emphasized that changes must be made in a constitutional manner, and, indeed, throughout Indonesian history most Islamic actors have tried to press their demands through legitimate, peaceful channels. On this score, it is worth noting that surveys have found a majority of Muslims in Indonesia do favor adoption of sharia, including 72 percent in the 2011 Pew Forum survey presented in Table 4.1. Thus, one might think that this long-held goal could be realized by Islamic-oriented actors. However, this has largely not been the case. True, after Suharto’s fall the state did make some concessions: state laws to manage the zakat (Islamic charitable giving), more support for the hajj, and, most significantly, decentralization that allows parts of the country to adopt aspects of sharia. Together with use of religious courts for family law—empowered under Suharto and discussed more below—one can therefore say that Indonesia has given more political/legal space for Islam than other countries such as Turkey or Senegal. Yet, the Jakarta Charter was not reinstated and Islam was not made the state religion. Wahid, who served as president

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until 2001 when he was impeached—largely because of financial scandals, frequent cabinet reshuffles, and inability to preserve stability in the country—predictably spoke out against it, utilizing the same arguments of Sukarno and his father that the primary need was not Islam but preserving national unity. Rais, who served as speaker of the Consultative Assembly that was charged with approving changes to the constitution during the intense debates on this issue, also rejected it, as did Madjid and both the NU and Muhammadiyah (Ichwan 2003). Rais’s successor as leader of Muhammadiyah, Amad Maarif, for example, noted that only a fraction of Indonesia’s Muslims would actually be in favor of it, so that adoption of the Jakarta Charter would be divisive not only with respect to non-Muslims but would divide the Muslim community itself (Maarif in Fealy and Hooker 2006: 149–150). Indeed, surveys from May 2002, during the most intense debate on this question, found a slight majority (52 percent) against change (Ichwan 2003), lending credence to claims that polls—such as the one noted above—that ask only about support for sharia in a general sense fail to capture what respondents understand by the term (Pringle 2010: 181). Rais would later note that those who advocated sharia could never even specify exactly what they meant or what should be included in legislation (Stepan and Kunkler 2007). In the end, secular parties such as PDI-P and Golkar, together with “secular Islamic” or “post-Islamic” parties such as the PKB and Rais’s Partai Amanat Nasional (National Mandate Party, PAN) had enough votes to ensure that the text of the constitution with respect to religion did not change.37 President Bambang Susilo Yudhoyono, elected in 2004, tried to put the issue to rest, supporting tolerance, pluralism, and Pancasila and suggesting that people of one religious affiliation cannot dictate laws or morality for all Indonesians (Pringle 2010: 179). While the high-profile issue of the Jakarta Charter seems settled, other issues have emerged, a reflection, in part, of a more conservative turn in Indonesian Islam since Suharto’s fall (van Bruinessen 2011). This can be attributed in some measure to transnational influences such as Saudi and Gulf states’ money in education and publishing and more interpersonal contact with the Arab world (Machmudi 2006: 145–155), but also a continuation of the growth in piety and public expressions of piety dating to the 1970s and 1980s. Significantly, in democratic Indonesia, more “liberal” or “progressive” Islamic actors have lost some of the patronage they previously enjoyed. Governments have typically been broad coalitions and have reflected a variety of views, including more conservative Islamic ones. For example, Mahendra of the PBB served as justice minister from 1999 to 2004 and pushed the parliament to adopt a new criminal code that, inter alia, would have criminalized adultery, homosexuality, and cohabitation, and a “religious tolerance” law that would have outlawed non-Muslim proselytism, interreligious marriage, and “deviant teaching” and potentially

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required the state to police fasting and observance of halal dietary requirements (Barton 2006). These did not pass, but had they done so, the nonsectarian nature of the state, as well as personal freedoms for many Indonesians, would have been significantly compromised. Islamist actors, however, have had some success on other issues. Horowitz (2013: 250–255) describes a variety of laws directed against pornography and blasphemy that clearly reflect an Islamic or religious agenda. The proposed law against pornography, passed in 2008, was originally very restrictive, banning, among other things, public kissing. While this provision was dropped, it does include broad measures against nudity and anything (images, speech, gestures) that might incite lust—a provision that obviously could be abused—and authorities are empowered to open private electronic data files to search for pornography. Although some provisions were made to protect “traditional rituals” such as those in Hindu Bali, an appeal by Balinese authorities to repeal the law failed. An antiblasphemy law has been on the books since 1965. Wahid, among others, suggested it be repealed, but it has been upheld by the country’s courts, and over 100 people, mainly Christians or members of Muslim minority sects, have been convicted of blasphemy since 1998 (Horowitz 2013: 250). Cesari (2014: 269) cites this as reason to classify Indonesia as an “unsecular democracy.” Furthermore, even though the constitution says that all Indonesians are free to practice their faith (Article 28E), Indonesian law only recognizes certain religions—Islam, Catholicism, Protestantism, Hinduism, Buddhism, and (since 2006) Confucianism. Those of other faiths are not fully protected. In 2008, the government issued a decree banning proselytizing by the Ahmadi sect, which is not considered legitimately Muslim by many Indonesians because it does not recognize Muhammad as the last messenger of God.38 Some localities went further, banning all their activities. Tanuwidjaja (2010: 31) concludes that these events show that parts of the “Islamic agenda are still able to penetrate the legal public sphere.” Both he and Horowitz (2013: 253) make the point that many of these measures are driven by political considerations, often adopted in the run-up to elections as politicians from ostensibly “secular” parties seek to burnish their “Islamic” credentials. Collectively, these problems may not compromise “democracy” in the majoritarian sense—and one might note that surveys have found majorities or near-majorities favoring measures such as bans on Ahmadis and imprisonment for those who “take liberties with the Quran”39—but they clearly impinge on liberal democratic norms, including freedom of speech. Outside the confines of the legislature and the government, there has also been a push by more conservative Islamic actors to counter both secular and, in their view, excessively “progressive” Islamic thinking. A prime example of this was a series of fatwas issued in 2005 by the MUI, which

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had been taken over by conservatives. These declared that secularism, pluralism, and liberalism were incompatible with Islam (and coined the acronym SIPILIS to make their point [Pringle 2010: 170]), condemned interreligious prayer groups and interreligious marriages, and called on the government to ban the Ahmadis (van Bruinessen 2011). Gillespie (2007) interprets these as evidence of a rising tide of conservatism, fueled by political and socioeconomic disappointments created in initial post-Suharto years. Even though the MUI’s fatwas carry no legal weight, they are significant, as they are clear attempts to redefine Indonesian Islam in a new direction, away from the one taken by Madjid and like-minded figures in the post-Suharto Jaringan Islam Liberal (Liberal Islam Network, JIL). Many “liberals” were subsequently subject to death threats. Overall, the actions of more conservative groups have arguably contributed to a rise in violence against minority groups, an issue to which we now turn. Minority and Women’s Rights

As noted throughout this chapter, Indonesia has great religious, regional, and ethnic diversity, and respecting the rights of minority groups has been an issue throughout its history. In the final years of the Suharto regime, minorities such as Christians were scapegoated for the country’s economic problems, and since 1998 some Islamic-oriented actors have campaigned for measures that, while elevating the place of Islam in Indonesia, could have negative repercussions for minority groups. They have, as noted, had mixed success, with perhaps the most troubling legal provisions being some adopted by local and regional governments, which are discussed more later. One major issue of concern, however, is violence against religious minorities, including Christians, Shias, Hindus, and the aforementioned Ahmadis. While the terror network of Jemaah Islamiyah, responsible for the well-known attacks on nightclubs in Bali in 2002 and 2005, has been largely broken up, vigilantes—backed by groups such as the FPI and, it is alleged, elements within the Indonesian military40—have attacked minority groups, driving Shias from their homes or forcing them to convert to Sunni Islam, burning churches, and beating up Ahmadis. Shias and Ahmadis have been killed. The Setara Institute for Democracy and Peace noted in 2012 that there were 371 acts of violence committed against religious minorities, compared to half that number in 2007. The region with the most incidents was West Java, governed by the PKS, an Islamist party.41 Overall, the institute gave the country low ratings for Freedom of Expression and Freedom of Belief, although the overall score had improved since 2010.42 A researcher for Human Rights Watch asserted in 2012 that rights of minorities are “routinely trampled” and that the violence and various restrictions against religious minorities belie the claim that Indonesia

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upholds a tolerant version of Islam (Harsono 2012).43 In some cases, violence is directed less at particular faiths than at individuals deemed threats to public morality. For example, in May 2012 a mob connected to the MMI attacked a book signing of a Canadian author known for her support of gay rights. Out of concerns that similar incidents not be repeated, authorities have canceled lectures or performances of those thought to be too provocative, including, most famously, that of the singer Lady Gaga in May 2012. In some cases, actions of extremists have been countered by protections offered to churches and the Ahmadi by groups such as the NU’s youth wing and the JIL (van Bruinessen 2009). Although one might dismiss these problems as isolated or the product of extreme groups, some reports suggest significant participation by local police in these violent attacks. For example, the aforementioned Setara Institute report claimed the police as perpetrators in 39 percent of the violent incidents in 2012.44 Again, this might be discounted as the actions of some “bad apples,” but critics of the government suggest that the country’s top leadership has not created a positive atmosphere, including President Yudhoyono, who issued the aforementioned measures against the Ahmadis—after which attacks on Ahmadis increased—and approved in 2006 a “religious harmony law” that has been used to block construction of or close churches. Furthermore, national and local authorities have often been less than vigilant in prosecuting those accused of engaging in violence. Indeed, even though Yudhoyono spoke out on this issue in 2013, this action was deemed both too late and insufficient by his critics. They note that he pointedly did not mention the Shia or Ahmadi by name and expressed concern about ambiguous statements by the minister for religious affairs, who, in denying that he condoned the forced conversion of Shia, said he favors a reconciliation program that will “enlighten” them.45 Numerous observers (Tanuwidjaja 2010; Harsono 2012; Horowitz 2013) attribute this less to personal faith or conviction on the part of Yudhoyono, who is a former general and heads a party firmly committed to Pancasila, than political calculation, as he has needed the support of smaller parties, including Islamic-oriented ones such as the PKS, to pass legislation. What of women’s rights, an issue that has been hotly debated in all the countries covered in this volume? Article 27 of the constitution guarantees that all Indonesians are equal under the law, but there are no special provisions that directly concern women. Prior to 1998, both NU and Muhammadiyah recognized women’s public and political role, although the 1997 fatwa by the NU on this issue noted that the “true and natural role of women is the domestic role” (Fealy and Hooker 2006: 312). In the immediate post-Suharto years, Wahid’s wife, Nuriyah, took the lead in a very public effort by the NU to reinterpret Islamic texts in a more liberal view with respect to women’s rights. The final product of her efforts was a new text

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on marriage that pointedly deemphasized the wife’s obligations to obey her husband, which was not well-received among religious conservatives (van Doorn-Harder 2006). The young women’s wing of the NU has also attempted to train religious leaders in the difference between socially constructed gender differences and purely biological differences, suggesting that the former has traditionally placed women in a secondary role (Fealy and Hooker 2006: 295–298). In terms of political and economic empowerment, Indonesian women fare relatively well: the presence of female parliamentarians and ministers has been “unexceptional for decades” (Pringle 2010: 141), although after the 2009 elections women occupied only 19 percent of the national legislative seats. Megawati, Sukarno’s daughter, served as president from 2001 to 2004, and a 2008 law mandates that one-third of the candidates on party lists should be women. Indonesian women can and do serve on sharia courts to administer family law. Indonesia is ranked only 95 on the World Economic Forum’s Gender Equality Index, but this is higher than most Muslim-majority countries and is higher than Japan or South Korea.46 Over half of Indonesian women are in the labor force, and the wage inequality with men is better than that of Belgium, the Netherlands, and the UK.47 There are numerous women’s organizations in Indonesia, many of which have an Islamic character. In comparison with other countries such as Pakistan, there is little support for practices such as honor killing (see Table 4.1), and, according to the 2011 Pew Forum survey, Indonesian Muslims also overwhelmingly (79 percent) believe women should have the right to decide whether or not to wear the Islamic veil and (76 percent) that sons and daughters should have equal rights of inheritance (Pew Forum 2013). This is not to say there are not problems, including adoption of shariainspired laws at the local level that many believe discriminate against women (see later discussion). Many Indonesian women would also like to see polygamy outlawed, and female circumcision is widely practiced, although the Ministry of Health has been trying to ban it and many liberal Muslim organizations have campaigned against it (Pringle 2010: 141–142). Issues of family law, which have been debated in democratic Mali and (as we’ll see in Chapter 8) Senegal, have been less pronounced in Indonesia. This is largely due to the fact that the issue had been debated and settled in the early 1990s, when the government codified a version of sharia to be used in Muslim family law courts. These courts are the courts of first instance for all Muslims on matters such as marriage, inheritance, and charitable bequests.48 Most of the cases brought before these courts concern divorce, and, despite their limited jurisdiction, there are more cases in these courts than in the general, nonreligious Indonesian court system. In a detailed study of these courts, Sumner and Lindsey (2010) found that,

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rather than being somehow discriminatory or harmful to women, these courts help empower them. They do so through a variety of mechanisms, including low court fees and mobility that allow them to reach women throughout the country, a code on divorce that essentially allows divorce on demand, and the ability to establish a woman’s status as head of household, which qualifies her for state welfare benefits. A key point, however, is that these courts do not have the power to willy-nilly interpret sharia on their own. They are bound by a state-approved version of sharia that was approved to be in conformity with Pancasila and the country’s constitution. In this sense, they are an institutional manifestation of the particularities of “Indonesian Islam.” Islamic Law at the Local and Regional Level

Not all legal measures, however, have been as liberal in intention or implementation. Indonesia is not a federal state, but thanks to regional autonomy laws, passed in 1999, sharia-inspired measures beyond previously approved issues of family law (called perda) have been adopted in over fifty districts and municipalities (Bush 2008).49 These have allowed local governments to implement a variety of ordinances on public morality (e.g., brothels, displays of “pornographic” material, cohabitation, regulations on dress) that are typically justified as responding to local adat traditions as well as sharia. Some of these restrictions—e.g., bans on alcohol—are directed at social vices and, while limiting personal freedoms, are not expressly “religious” and may not rise to the level of compromising democracy. Others, such as requiring Islamic dress for public servants or requiring students to demonstrate proficiency in the Quran in order to advance in school, are clearly religious in nature. Still others—such as banning women from being out on the streets by themselves after midnight, as is the case with a 2003 regulation by the provincial government of Gorontalo (Fealy and Hooker 2006: 196), or requiring all women to cover in order to receive public services, as is the case in Bulukumba, South Sulawesi (Bush 2008: 177)—conflict with democratic values of equality and not imposing a religion on someone. In any event, they clearly raise questions of constitutionality as religious matters under the constitution are solely an issue for the national government. Moreover, they point to the fact that at least some local leaders, including those from secular parties such as Golkar and the PDI-P as well as, in some cases, non-Muslims, have felt the need to burnish their “Islamic” credentials to win votes (Horowitz 2013: 132). Indeed, Tanuwidjaja (2010: 41) notes that in a majority of the districts with perda, secular/pro-Pancasila parties have been in control. Their legality and necessity have been intensely debated at the national level, with the lines of division, as in many cases, often between more pious and more secular-oriented

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Muslims (Bush 2008). Pringle (2010: 174–176) suggests that such measures may constitute “extremism by a thousand cuts” and notes that while the central government could annul them, it has been reluctant to do so as President Yudhoyono, as noted, has often needed the support of Muslim political parties to get legislation through parliament. The province of Aceh, which has traditionally been the most Islamic of all the country’s regions and has a long history of rebellions against the center, is a special case. In an effort to end a long-standing rebellion and stave off more serious threats of separatism—witnessed in 1999 when largely Christian East Timor seceded—Jakarta gave Aceh wide-ranging autonomy in 2001, including the right to both establish sharia in social life and create sharia courts. After the 2004 tsunami devastated Aceh, the main rebel groups, the Free Aceh Movement, reached a final settlement with the central government. Beginning in 2005, Aceh adopted a wide range of sharia laws, including rules on dress, requirements that shops close during prayer times, flogging for homosexuality and stoning for adulterers, and rules against unmarried people meeting together (“seclusion” laws). Since 2006, when former rebels won control over the regional government, sharia laws have become more restrictive, and they are enforced by a Saudi-style moral police (Wilayatul Hisbah) as well as “vigilante excesses” (Horowitz 2013: 137), which have included attacks on foreign tourists, on local Christians (with closing of churches), and on “punks,” who are subject to “reeducation” including forced shaving and a ritual cleansing ceremony (Freedom House 2013). Human Rights Watch published a very critical report on the situation in Aceh in 2010, noting how the laws are selectively applied and lead to abuses, including use of virginity tests on women accused of violating “seclusion” laws and the police’s failure to respond to allegations of violence by radical Muslim groups.50 Aceh’s significance extends well beyond its size, which is less than 3 percent of the country’s population. While it may be true, as this study consistently shows, that local “Islams” vary and “Acehenese Islam” may not represent the broader “Indonesian Islam,” Aceh can be instructive. Aceh’s leaders are elected, albeit in circumstances where candidates tend to outbid each other to see who can be more conservative on questions of Islam and sharia (Aspinall 2007).51 Among the more successful “Muslim democracies” covered in this volume—Turkey, Mali, Senegal, and Indonesia (and, for that matter, one could add Albania, which is not discussed)—Aceh is the only case in which sharia law, or at least a variant of it, has been adopted. To the extent the result has been problematic—and there is strong evidence to suggest that it has been with respect to violating basic liberties and rights taken for granted in liberal democracies—it provides credence for the notion that sharia is incompatible with basic democratic principles (An-Na’im 2008).

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Notwithstanding the variety of sharia-inspired local laws, the example of Aceh is unlikely to spread throughout Indonesia. Bush (2008) and Horowitz (2013: 133–134) note that the initial enthusiasm for perda has subsided. More significantly, and perhaps surprisingly, Islamic parties at the national level have not fared well, which has stymied efforts to advance their agenda. Indeed, over time they have been garnering fewer and fewer votes. Given that among our more successful cases Indonesia is the only one that allows explicitly Islamic parties—they are banned in Senegal, Mali, and Turkey, although this obviously does not stop parties from trying to appeal to pious voters—the question of why these parties have not done particularly well is worth examining. Why Aren’t Islamic Parties More Successful?

As noted, after the fall of Suharto a host of Islamic-oriented parties emerged. Some were explicitly “Islamist” insofar as they sought to enshrine Islam as a basis for law; others merely utilized Islamic symbols or slogans to appeal to voters. This development was not universally welcomed, even among prominent leaders of the Indonesian Muslim community. Rais argued that the use of Islamic idioms and symbols would become divisive and Kuntowijoyo, a highly respected Muslim intellectual, warned against the polarizing effects of political Islam, noting how the earlier depoliticization of Islam pursued by the leaders of NU and Muhammadiyah had contributed not only to better relations with the country’s non-Muslim minorities but also helped bridge long-standing divisions between the santri and abangan communities (Effendy 2003: 199–203). These admonitions, however, were clearly not heeded, and Islamic political parties have been fixtures on the Indonesian political scene. Nevertheless, they have not been particularly successful. Indeed, as seen in Table 7.1, they lost significant support in the 2009 elections, with only four of the ten “Islamic-oriented” parties garnering the necessary 2.5 percent of the vote to enter parliament (Fealy 2009). The largest of these was the PKS, which had moderated its message a bit since 2004, but still garnered a disappointing 7.8 percent of the vote, perhaps because it was seen as too opportunistic by backing away from its previous positions.52 By 2014, the PKS’s vote declined still further to 6.8 percent, and the more radical PBB received under 1.5 percent. In Indonesia’s first direct presidential election in 2004, Amien Rais, the candidate with the most pronounced “Islamic” credentials, placed fourth, with 14.7 percent of the vote, losing to three candidates representing national-secular parties. However, in the 2009 presidential elections, all six of the presidential and vice-presidential candidates from the three main parties were drawn from the nationalist-secular side. Leaders of the NU and Muhammadiyah, however, came out strongly

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in favor of the ticket of vice president Jusuf Kalla and retired general Wiranto. This pairing, however, received only 12 percent of the national vote, and surveys indicated that NU and Muhammadiyah members voted largely in line with national results (Effendy 2009; Hicks 2012: 51), with majorities opting for incumbent president Yudhoyono and his running mate, the Western-educated economist Boediono, both of whom were accused in some circles of not being Islamic enough as evidenced, among other things, by the fact that their wives do not cover (Barton 2010: 488). Beyond this one election, one can also see from the table that Islamicoriented parties have never been able to command the support of the majority of Muslim Indonesians, coming closest in the 1955 elections during the country’s quasi-democratic period.53 Those Islamic parties that have had some success have often downplayed their religious objectives and have proved willing to work with other parties (Pringle 2010: 181). Islamist parties, best represented in 2009 and 2014 by PKS and the PPP, command less than a fifth of the total vote, less than half the vote of the country’s Muslims. Given that Indonesia is a Muslim-majority country, and one that has seen significant elements of Islamic revival (e.g., greater mosque attendance and participation in religious study groups, more public use of Islamic imagery),54 one might wonder why “Islam” has not had more political success. By this point, however, the careful reader no doubt can come up with several possible answers to this question, as well as noting that the assumption that Muslims will vote for parties that expressly appeal to Islam is universally flawed, not something peculiar to Indonesia. The fact that Islamist parties have never been able to win the majority of the vote is testimony to the fact that an “Islamic agenda” has an inherently limited appeal with voters. Mujani and Liddle (2009; Liddle and Mujani 2007), for example, note not only the deep roots of secular politics in Indonesia but draw on survey evidence in the 2000s that shows both that most Indonesians are fundamentally secular in orientation and that religion is not an important influence on voting behavior.55 In addition to the inherent limitations of their agenda, Fealy (2009), in an immediate analysis of the 2009 elections, noted that Islamic parties were racked by internal schisms,56 had ineffectual and in some cases discredited leadership, and were disadvantaged because religious and moral issues were not foremost in voters’ minds. Instead, socioeconomic issues were paramount, and on this score most Islamic-oriented parties lacked credibility.57 Pepinsky, Liddle, and Mujani (2012), drawing on experimental data from 2008, demonstrate that Islamic-oriented parties have no advantage over others once voters know the economic policy platforms of different parties. In other words, while there may be a generic “Islamic advantage,” this recedes when voters acquire information about the economic issues that they care more deeply about. Similarly, Hicks

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(2012) argues that declining support for Islamic parties is related to the decreased provision of social welfare services such as health care and education by organizations such as the NU and Muhammadiyah, whose previous work in this area is increasingly being done by the state. As a consequence, a primary factor that might have given Islamic actors credibility and linked them to voters above and beyond any particular religious or moral program was lost. Islamic parties have been dogged by other problems, including party registration laws that require a national presence whereas many of them are regionally based (Buehler 2009). Mujani and Liddle (2009) note that most are disadvantaged in terms of financing. Election laws work against them as well. Since 2008, to nominate a presidential candidate, a party or coalition must have at least 20 percent of the seats in parliament or 25 percent of the parliamentary vote, a threshold that Islamic-oriented parties, because of divisions among themselves, have been unable to meet. Consequently, they were forced to back candidates of the three main parties—the Partai Demokrasi (Democratic Party, PD) of President Yudhoyono, the PDI-P, and Golkar. In 2009, most Islamic-oriented parties, including the PKS, PPP, PKB, and PAN—as well as, interestingly, the sharia-supporting, formerrebel-now-governor of Aceh—aligned with Yudhoyono, even though Kalla, who received support from prominent leaders of NU and Muhammadiyah, was perceived to have more “Islamic” credentials. No doubt, predictions of Yudhoyono’s easy reelection played into this decision. Indeed, Yudhoyono cruised to victory in a first-round landslide, but this had more to do with his personal standing and the weaknesses of his opponents than with any “Islamic” factor (Effendy 2009). In other words, Yudhoyono does not “owe” the Islamists for his victory, and even though he has supported some of their priorities, it is clear that he (and the secular-national parties in general), not the Islamists, are the dominant figures in Indonesian politics. Horowitz (2013: 197) makes the point that because of the majoritarian nature of presidential elections, it is likely that winning candidates will merely have to prove they are “adequately, but not adamantly Muslim.” Tanuwidjaja (2010) largely concurs, observing that parties such as the PD and Golkar have become “secular-inclusive,” meaning they are willing to make some tactical concessions to win some pious Muslims to their side. In this sense, the pronounced “death” of political Islam in Indonesia seems premature. However, Pancasila, the object of so much controversy in Indonesian history, is secure, as are the country’s core democratic institutions. Elections in 2014 did not profoundly shake up the system. The major development on the legislative side was the defeat of the PD, as it garnered less than half (10.2 percent) of its 2009 vote, and subsequent increase in votes for secular, Pancasila-supporting parties, including Golkar and the PDI-P.

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“Secular Islamic” parties such as PAN and the PKB gained a bit (see Table 7.1), and the vote for more ardent Islamists fell. On the presidential side, Yudhoyono was barred from seeking a third term. Two candidates were nominated by coalitions of parliamentary parties. Former general Prabowo Subianto was nominated by parties representing the majority in parliament, including the PD, Golkar, and Islamic-oriented parties such as the PPP, PKS, PBB, and PAN. However, he was defeated by Joko Widodo, the governor of Jakarta, who was backed by, among others, the PDI-P and PKB. Subianto challenged the results in court, but supporters of Widodo hailed his election as a milestone as he is the first Indonesian president not from the military or from the political elite (as was Wahid and Megawati). For our purposes, the main point is that his victory in no way signals movement toward greater Islamization of political life. There are, to be sure, problems with Indonesia’s democracy, particularly with respect to minority rights, and some may feel the state has gone too far in catering to a religious agenda. These are legitimate areas of concern, and may point to limitations of building a truly “liberal” democracy in a Muslim country, an issue we shall take up in Chapter 9. However, the broader lesson, at least for purposes of this volume, is that Indonesia reveals how Islam can be constructed and interpreted to demand and respect democracy. Overall, one can count it as a successful case of democracy in the Muslim world. Notes 1. Like many Javanese Indonesians, he has only one name. 2. The country’s motto, Bhinneka Tunggal Ika, is often translated as “unity in diversity.” Pringle (2010: 14) notes the country has over 300 ethnic groups, and AnNa’im (2008: 233) cites 2003 census data that there are 23 million (11 percent of the population) non-Muslims in Indonesia. 3. UN Human Development Report 2001, available at http://hdr.undp.org/en /reports/global/hdr2001/chapters, accessed 23 March 2014. 4. Technically, Indonesia is not a secular state, as belief in God is a tenet of the state ideology, and Islamic law governs some issues for its Muslim population. 5. Newsweek, 23 September 1996, quoted in Azra 2006: 124. 6. Robert Kaplan, “Hillary’s Roadtrip,” Atlantic online, 13 February 2009, available at www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2009/02/hillarys-road-trip/3073 07, accessed 12 March 2014. 7. The scholar most associated with the study of religion in Indonesia is Clifford Geertz. Classic works include Geertz 1960, 1963. This section also draws from Ricklefs 1979; van Bruinessen 1994; Hefner 2000; An-Na’im 2008; and Pringle 2010. 8. This dichotomy—as well as other aspects of Geertz’s work—is not without controversy, but it has stuck. See van Bruinessen (1996: 22) and Hefner (2000: xix).

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9. Not coincidentally, perhaps, in the mid-twentieth century Aceh was the locus of an Islamic-inspired separatist rebellion and today applies Islamic law to its residents. 10. These policies are most associated with Christaan Snouck Hurgronje, who served as adviser on native affairs, and Cornelius van Vollenhoven, a Dutch law professor. However, these efforts helped to reify the distinction between adat and Islam. See Pringle 2010: 46–49 and Hefner 2000: 32–33. 11. The most extended treatment in English is Bush 2009. 12. Although biased in Natsir’s favor, the best collection of these polemics is Noer 1973. 13. Its five principles are belief in one God, a civilized humanity, national unity, consultative democracy, and social justice. “Internationalism” appeared in its original formulation, and, as noted in the text, its original theological statement was also revised. 14. These crucial events are reviewed in Hefner 2000: 42; Effendy 2003: 30–32; and Pringle 2010: 68–70. 15. Cesari (2014: 12) scores it as a 1 on her three-point scale of “hegemonic Islam,” but acknowledges that it (like Senegal) is a relative exception in the Muslim world in terms of treating various religions equally. 16. Van Bruinessen (1996: 27–28) notes, however, that the Muslim courts, until a change in their status in 1990, had a “marginal existence.” 17. The best source on these elections and this time period is Feith 1962. 18. This is an acronym for Partai Majelis Syuro Muslimin Indonesia (Council of Indonesian Muslim Associations). 19. Indonesia adopted a constitution in 1945 but replaced it with an interim one in 1950. 20. Estimates range from 78,000, the number arrived at by the government’s Fact-Finding Commission, to 1,000,000. Crouch (1978: 155) notes that the most commonly accepted estimates are between 250,000 and 500,000. There has yet to be a full accounting. 21. See also Hefner 1990. 22. For a firsthand discussion of this, see Hefner 2000: xi–xvi. 23. In Indonesia, he is better known by his colloquial nickname, Gus Dur. 24. A good review of contrasting perspectives is Hefner 1993. 25. For more on Jemaah Islamiyah, see Abuza 2007 and Barton 2007. 26. Numerous authors have analyzed these figures. See, for example, Hassan 1980; Hefner 1993, 2000; Woodward 1996; Abdillah 1997; Barton 2002; Federspiel 1992; Effendy 2003; Latif 2008; Assyaukanie 2009; Pringle 2010; and Kersten 2011, 2012. Works available in English by some of these intellectuals include Madjid 1998, 2007, and Wahid 1983. See also Fealy and Hooker (2006), an important collection of documents from several writers in the region. 27. Hefner (2000: 187) notes that Rais, unlike Wahid, refused to condemn the 1996 government attack on the headquarters of the secular-opposition Indonesian Democratic Party. He suggests that many regarded this as “one of the most serious mistakes of his political career.” 28. Barton (2010: 472) makes the point that Muhammadiyah and NU, both enormously large and influential organizations, give Indonesia a stronger civil society than would be expected given the country’s level of economic development. 29. This section borrows heavily from Mujiburrahman 1999; Esposito and Voll 2001; Effendy 2003; and van Bruinessen 2009. Wahid 1983 is perhaps the most

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accessible primary source in English. For a comprehensive review of his life and work through 2000, see Barton 2002. 30. See “Web Exclusive: Amien Rais and Abdurrahman Wahid,” BBC News, 8 March 1999, available at http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/programmes/crossing _continents/291132.stm, accessed 27 February 2015. 31. LKiS is the Indonesian acronym, with the “i” purposefully in lowercase to stress that this group does not advocate traditional Islamism. 32. Hefner 2000 provides detailed coverage. 33. Figures from Barton 2006. 34. Bush 2009 makes this point, particularly with respect to younger members in the NU. Indeed, her work stands out because she is one of the few Western writers critical of Wahid, seeing him as too willing in many cases to work with the Suharto regime or tone down more critical voices within the NU. 35. See statement by Ismail Yusanto of Hizbut Tahrir in Fealy and Hooker 2006: 236–239. 36. Pringle (2010: 176–178) is less convinced of a change in the PKS, suggesting it has engaged in a campaign of “extremism by stealth.” 37. Effendy (2003: 210) notes that only the PPP, the PBB, and a grouping of small parties called the Union of the Sovereignty of the Muslim Ummah, which together commanded only 82 votes out of the total of 462 (and out of the 172 “Islamic” bloc), favored amending the constitution to include the Jakarta Charter. 38. More precisely, as Harsono (2012) notes, the measure restricts Ahmadis from spreading interpretations of the faith that deviate from core tenets of Islam. In effect, this decree stops its public activity. From 2008 to 2012, thirty Ahmadi mosques were shut down. 39. Horowitz (2013: 249) cites a 2007 survey that found 47 percent in favor of the former, 53 percent in favor of the latter, and 48 percent favoring stoning for adultery. Tanuwidjaja (2010: 39) cites a 2009 survey that found 70 percent favoring a ban on Ahmadi activities. 40. See, for example, “Indonesia’s Yudhoyono in the Cross Hairs,” Asia Sentinel, 22 March 2011. This allegation has been denied by the government. See “Yudhoyono Plays Down ‘Fairy Tale’ Coup Threat,” Jakarta Post, 24 March 2011. 41. See report, “Leadership Without Initiative: The Condition of Freedom of Religion/Belief in Indonesia 2012,” at www.setara-institute.org/sites/setara-institute .org/files/Reports/Religious%20Freedom/130617-laporan%20KBB%202012%20 ENGLISH.pdf, accessed 2 April 2014. 42. The report is available at www.setara-institute.org/en/content/human -rights-performance-index-2012, accessed 2 April 2014. 43. Cesari (2014: 266–267) also documents many of these issues. 44. Setara Institute, “Leadership Without Initiative.” 45. “Yudhoyono Defends Minorities amid Continuous Oppression,” Jakarta Post, 18 August 2013. 46. World Economic Forum, “The Global Gender Gap Report 2013,” available at www3.weforum.org/docs/WEF_GenderGap_Report_2013.pdf, accessed 23 May 2014. 47. Ibid. 48. While there is a Muslim Court of Appeals and Muslim Supreme Court, final appeals can be made to the country’s nonreligious Supreme Court. 49. Bush (2008) catalogs seventy-eight perda regulations in 52 of the country’s 470 districts.

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50. Human Rights Watch, “Policing Morality: Abuses in the Application of Sharia in Aceh Indonesia,” December 2010, available at www.hrw.org/en/reports /2010/12/01/policing-morality-0, accessed 12 March 2014. 51. Indeed, some argue that sharia was more imposed from above than freely chosen, as it was not a prominent demand of the Free Aceh Movement. See Fealy and Hooker 2006: 191–193. 52. Pringle 2010: 178. For a more positive assessment of the PKS, see Hamayotsu 2011. 53. This assessment is based on the estimate of Indonesia as 88 to 90 percent Muslim, meaning parties would have to win 44–45 percent of the total vote. 54. This is well-documented in many sources, including Hefner 2000; Effendy 2003; Tanuwidjaja 2010; and van Bruinessen 2011. 55. They assert (2009: 588), for example, that 57 percent of Indonesians are “secular” based upon responses to questions about application of some elements of Islamic law, for example, death to apostates, stoning for adulterers. They classify 33 percent as “Islamic.” Highest support for “Islamic” measures in the 2007 survey they use is for stoning of adulterers (43 percent), monitoring of a woman’s companions (40 percent), and laws against bank interest (39 percent). 56. For example, in 2004, two NU leaders appeared as vice-presidential candidates with two different presidential running mates. 57. This point is also made by Mujani and Liddle (2009: 581), who note that the PKS, which tried to cooperate with President Yudhoyono, lost a lot of credibility after it initially campaigned for preservation of petroleum subsidies but later relented, agreeing to a policy that had severe economic costs for many Indonesians.

8 Senegal: Sufi Brotherhoods, Secularism, and Gradual Democratization

Senegal, like Mali, its neighbor to the east, represents another “remarkable success story” (Coulon and Cruise O’Brien 1989) given, on the one hand, its lack of wealth and ethnic diversity,1 and, on the other, its democratic development and relative political stability.2 Although not as poor as Mali, a variety of measures suggest that Senegal does not possess the socioeconomic “prerequisites” for democracy.3 Indeed, similar to other African states, after independence in 1960 the democratic structure set up by the colonial authorities failed to survive, quickly degenerating into de facto one-party rule. However, Senegal (unlike Mali) never experienced a military coup and continued to hold elections. After a series of reforms in the 1970s and 1980s, Senegal evolved into a “semi” or “quasi” democracy. However, unlike Malaysia’s semidemocracy, Senegal did, in 2000, witness a peaceful transfer of power from the long-ruling Parti Socialiste du Sénégal (Socialist Party of Senegal, PSS) to the opposition Parti Démocratique Sénégalais (Senegalese Democratic Party, PDS). The country also weathered a major political crisis in 2011–2012, with the presidency again changing parties. The progress of Senegalese democracy as measured by Polity and FH is presented in Figure 8.1. This is not to say that its democracy is without significant shortcomings, including corruption and weak legislative and judicial institutions. However, democratic elections arguably remain the “only legitimating rationale,” suggesting that democracy may have become “the only game in town” (Villalón 2009: 42). Public opinion surveys also show strong support for democracy.4 Like Mali, Senegal is overwhelmingly Islamic. Over 95 percent of the population is Muslim. Islam in Senegal is distinctive, however, in that most Senegalese Muslims belong to and identify with Sufi brotherhoods (turuq). The two largest are the Tijani (Tijaniyya) order, founded in Morocco in the 245

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Figure 8.1 Democratic Development in Senegal 10

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1780s and widespread throughout West Africa, and the Mourides (Muridiyya), established in Senegal in the 1880s by Amadou Bamba (1853–1927) with the city of Touba as its spiritual center.5 Rates of religious belief are high.6 Prima facie, however, Islam does not appear to play a major political role. Senegal, like France, its colonial ruler, is constitutionally defined as a republic lacique. Its first and longest serving president, Léopold Senghor (1960–1980), was Catholic. Its main political parties are secular; indeed, Article 4 of the constitution bans religious-oriented parties. This does not mean, however, that Islam is politically irrelevant. Indeed, numerous studies document how Islamic institutions—primarily the Sufi religious orders—exercise political influence, as “the political establishment and the religious leaders are linked in many close but mostly hidden ways” (Rosander 1997: 4). Whether this is for better or worse in terms of democracy is the subject of some debate. Leonardo Villalón (2007: 161) makes the case that the rather unique features of Senegal’s religious institutions have been “an integral element of Senegal’s political successes.” This chapter explores the various links between religion and politics in Senegal, specifically Islam and democracy. As with most of the other chapters, it includes an examination of precolonial, colonial, and postcolonial history. However, the analytical focus is on the political role played by Sufi orders—celebrated by some as an example of “good Islam” (Diouf 2013)—

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in possibly contributing to, both directly and indirectly, democratization. However, their record is not necessarily unambiguously supportive of democracy, and new Islamic political actors have emerged in the 1990s and 2000s that have led some to fear for the future of “Senegalese exceptionalism” (Diouf 2013: 6). Foundation of Islam and Colonial Rule Islam established a significant presence in what is now Senegal in the eleventh century, after the conversion of War Jabi, the ruler of the Tekrur kingdom in the Senegal River Valley.7 As with Mali, Islam was brought to the region by Arab and Berber missionaries and traders, as Tekrur was strategically located on the trans-Saharan trade route. The main ethnic group of Tekrur, the Tukulor, followed their ruler and converted to Islam. Tekrur remained an important center for Muslim clerics and missionaries, even after it became a vassal state of the expanding Mali Empire (discussed in Chapter 6). Islam, however, was not universally embraced. For example, the Wolof kingdoms in central Senegal, united in the thirteenth century to form the Djolof Empire, largely retained their traditional religious practices. The same was true of the Serer monarchies farther to the south. Moreover, even in the countryside where Islam was practiced, pre-Islamic beliefs, rituals, and shrines were incorporated by local religious leaders, known in French as marabouts,8 meaning that conversion was often superficial and Islam did not assume a monolithic or necessarily orthodox form throughout the region.9 The Mali and Djolof Empires declined in the fifteenth century, leading to the emergence of several independent monarchies on the territory of today’s Senegal. They were mostly highly stratified, aristocratic societies, with a caste system in which slavery figured prominently. Portuguese explorers arrived on Senegal’s shores in 1445, and many Senegalese kingdoms began trading with Europeans, including the Dutch, British, and French, all of whom established outposts along the coast. Slaves were a primary commodity, and by the end of the sixteenth century Senegambia became the major supplier for the transatlantic slave trade. This in turn had a major impact on precolonial Senegal, generating warfare among the various kingdoms and strengthening the position of the noble castes. Most accounts depict these societies as despotic, breaking with past practices that included popular selection of rulers and local autonomy (Gellar 2005: 18–19). They were not, however, overtly “Islamized.” Many remained pagan, and, in those where the ruling classes were nominally Muslim, Islam was not the basis for political authority (Cruise O’Brien 1971: 21). Put in terms of factors identified in Chapter 1, Senegal thus possessed a history of

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syncretic/pluralistic Islam and was not organized in a hierarchical, centralized manner. Beginning in the late seventeenth century, Islam emerged as a political force and made inroads among populations such as the Wolof, who had previously resisted conversion. On the one hand, Islam identified itself with the cause of freedom and liberation, as marabouts both preached against the selling of Muslims into slavery and rallied commoners and lower classes to attack the power and excesses of the nobility (Robinson 2000: 18–19). In this sense, Islam constituted a “true social revolution,” with marabouts becoming “natural leaders of the crowd against its oppressors.”10 By the mid-nineteenth century, Islam also became a popular rallying cry against a growing French presence, becoming “an effective means of cultural defence at a time when Wolof culture and localized ‘pagan’ beliefs [which were tied to the discredited aristocratic system] could no longer do so” (Cruise O’Brien 1975: 102). At the same time, however, several Islamic leaders, inspired in part by movements in Arab North Africa, led jihads to purge Islam of pagan elements and establish Islamic theocracies. In other words, it would be a mistake to see these early Islamic movements exclusively through a protodemocratic lens. The most pronounced jihadist effort was led by Umar Tal (c. 1794–1864), a Tukulor marabout of the Tijani order who fought to establish a Tijani Islamic Empire in the 1850s against both native (Muslim and non-Muslim) authorities and the French. However, although several of these campaigns attracted large followings, none had success in establishing for a significant period of time an Islamic kingdom or state on the territory of contemporary Senegal, although, as noted in Chapter 6, Umar Tal did establish an Islamic government in what is now Mali. None of these movements, however, succeeded in resisting French colonial expansion, which began in earnest in the 1850s. In fits and starts, the French extended their power from Saint Louis, their administrative and trading center at the mouth of the Senegal River. Despite widespread resistance against French rule, some of which had an Islamic cast, the French conquered most of contemporary Senegal by the late 1880s. The French broke up the caste-based aristocratic states and put the population under the rule of French administrative structures. French colonial rule, although it lasted fewer than 100 years, played a central role in the development of Senegalese Islam and democracy. With respect to the former, the French destroyed both the ancien régime that in many cases had resisted Islamization. As was the case in Mali (French Sudan), the French were initially wary of Islam (in part because of their earlier experience in Algeria [Harrison 1988]) and exiled some marabouts they deemed threatening. They also tried to cut local populations off from communication with the wider Muslim world. At the same time, however,

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the French procured fatwas from religious authorities in Mecca to approve Muslim submission to European rule (Robinson 2000: 76). Ultimately, however, the French found they would have to abandon policies of assimilation and that they could not unilaterally impose their authority on the entire country and needed local partners, especially in the countryside, to assist in administration. On this front, they discovered that it was more expedient to cultivate Islam noir among the native peoples and cooperate with some local Sufi “saints” who eschewed jihad and outright confrontation (Cruise O’Brien 1975).11 The result by the early 1900s was a type of “social contract,”12 a mutual “path of accommodation” (Robinson 2000) between the French and various marabouts in which “both sides recognized that they could manipulate the other in order to realize their own interests and agendas” (Clark 1999: 150). The French gained civic peace, economic growth through the cash-crop (primarily peanut) economy, and even “second-hand legitimacy” (Cruise O’Brien 1975: 92) through their association with respected marabouts. The marabouts, for their part, bowed to the political reality that military resistance to the French was futile, “picked up the pieces” from the ancien régime and were able to establish moral and spiritual authority over populations, including new converts (Gellar 2005: 24).13 They eventually gained the adherence of the vast majority of the population and would serve to define Senegalese Islam.14 Under the French, they were allowed to organize their own associations and Quranic schools (while the French kept Catholic missionaries out of Wolof areas). They gained substantial local autonomy, including use of religious courts in an ostensibly secular system and, for the Mouride order, administration of the city of Touba. Many marabouts helped secure labor for peanut fields and acquired substantial wealth. Ultimately, they replaced the old native elites and became part of the colonial “Establishment” (Behrman 1970: 31), key intermediaries for the French colonial system, which increasingly resembled a British-like system of indirect rule and thereby “accomplished the victory which the saints had initially been denied by French conquest” (Cruise O’Brien 1975: 105). Frederic Schaffer (1998: 107) adds that the “weak hold of the colonial administration over the rural population increased the political influence of these saints.” Thus, already under French rule many of the elements posited in Chapter 1 to contribute to emergence of a more “democratic” Islam— syncretic beliefs, decentralized religious institutions, secular authority, and incorporation of Islamic-oriented actors—were present in Senegal. As for democracy itself, French rule introduced, albeit on a limited basis, democratic rights and practices. After the 1848 Revolution in Paris, residents of the four French communes in Senegal—Saint Louis, Gorée, Dakar, and Rufisque—were granted French citizenship and the right to elect a deputy to the French National Assembly. In the 1870s, the French

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established elected municipal councils for the communes as well as General Council that served as a colonial assembly. These were the only representative institutions in French Africa, and native Africans, provided they could read and write in French, were granted the same rights as Europeans. Initially, elected offices were dominated by French and creoles, but African actors, including business and Sufi leaders, were courted for political support. In 1914, Blaise Diagne became the first black African elected to the National Assembly. He was backed by various Sufi orders and distributed patronage to build an impressive political machine (Cruise O’Brien 1975: 167). While it is true that suffrage was restricted to men in the larger settlements, in the early 1900s there was also political activism among women and the rural population. Both were enfranchised in the 1940s, and between World War II and independence in 1960 Senegalese voted nine times on various referenda and for delegates to local and national assemblies (Schaffer 1998: 14–15). Thus, to return to the factors enumerated in Chapter 1, one finds the final one—democratization before Islamic-oriented political mobilization—present as well. This is not to say that this was a perfect democracy, but elections became the means to make decisions and legitimize authority. In this sense, this system functioned as a “school of democracy” (Gellar 2005: 61; Stepan 2012). Moreover, Islamic actors, particularly the marabouts in the countryside, did not proclaim elections as somehow “un-Islamic.” To the contrary, they accepted and participated in this process, becoming the “grands électeurs” (Beck 2001: 611), often directing their mostly illiterate followers in how to vote. As one French observer in the 1950s suggested, “electoral contests are at best confused and when the time comes he (the rural voter) will leave the choice to his marabout” (Cruise O’Brien 1975: 176). Senegal After Independence: From Quasi-Democracy to Democracy In a 1958 referendum, Senegalese voters overwhelmingly opted for selfgovernment within the framework of a French commonwealth. Only a minority favored outright independence. However, after its planned federation with Mali collapsed, Senegal became independent in 1960. It adopted many aspects of the French republican system, including Napoleonic law and laicité, a principle affirmed in Article 1 of the Constitution. While avoiding a military coup or civil conflict—fates that befell many of its neighbors—Senegal has experienced one-party rule, a “quasi-democratic” interlude, and, since 2000, substantial democratization. For simplicity’s sake, its political history since independence can be broken into three periods that correspond to the terms of office of its first three presidents:

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Léopold Senghor (1960–1980); Abdou Diouf (1981–2000), and Abdoulaye Wade (2000–2012). Salient events in each period are detailed below. Léopold Senghor’s Presidency: Continuity with the Old Order

Léopold Senghor, a poet, longtime political figure, leader of the dominant Union Progressiste Sénégalaise (UPS), and a protégé of Diagne, who was both Catholic and member of a small tribe (the Serer), was elected president. Senghor survived a political crisis in 1962 when the prime minister, Mamadou Dia, attempted to seize power. Dia was subsequently imprisoned and a new constitution was adopted in 1963 that gave the president more powers. Until 1976, however, Senegal was a de facto one-party state, with only the UPS represented in the Assembly. It was not, however, an overly harsh dictatorship. Many opposition figures were co-opted into the UPS, and, in 1976, amid economic problems and concerns of political instability, the constitution was changed to allow three officially sanctioned, ideological parties, with the UPS, which soon became the PSS, claiming the mantle of democratic socialism.15 Senghor and the PSS easily won semicompetitive elections in 1978. Senghor, of course, was no Islamist. He embraced laicité and helped coin the term “African socialism,” which drew on African communal traditions (Manning 1998: 153). Ideologically, he was on the left, and in the first decades after independence the state played a significant role in the Senegalese economy. However, he was neither a revolutionary nor overtly hostile to religion. Like the French, he differentiated abstract and formal Islam from a more “humanistic” Islam noir (Smith 2013: 158). However, unlike the French, he maintained that laicité did not imply hostility to religion and that religion—in this respect he meant both Islam and Catholicism—could play an important cultural and educational role.16 As a doubleminority, he played the role of mediator among various tribes and clans, and consulted with and formed alliances with the marabouts of various orders. He also proved more than willing and able to work with the clientelistic “exchange of services” model (Behrman 1970: 50) that he inherited from the French. Gellar (2005: 117) argues that Senghor “used government resources to court the leaders of the Sufi Brotherhoods in an effort to transform them into clients of the state by following the French colonial practice of offering state services, favors, and honors.” In other words, there was a significant degree of incorporation of Islamic-oriented actors into the postcolonial state. Senghor was particularly close to the Mouride order and its Khalife Générale, praising the Mouride doctrine of hard work as the epitome of African socialism, appointing Mouride leaders to the cabinet, and helping secure, even prior to independence, funds for construction in Touba of the largest mosque in sub-Saharan Africa, which was completed in 1963,

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as well as a railroad line into the city, which was granted the status of extraterritoriality and placed under the control of the Mourides. Significantly, most Mouride and Tijani marabouts supported the Catholic Senghor over the Muslim Dia in the power struggle in 1962, even though Dia lobbied for programs such as creation of an Islamic education system and creation of a State Council to unify Senegalese Muslims (Behrman 1970: 100–103). Aside from Senghor’s ability to play the clientelistic system, one might also suggest that he garnered support from the marabouts because they wanted to preserve the relatively decentralized system that gave them wide sway over their sinecures. They did not see any need, for example, of a State Council that might threaten their autonomy. The secular state that accommodated diversity (both factors that help shape a more “liberal” Islam and in the Senegalese case one should emphasize that there is no numerically dominant Islamic institution or single “Islamic” doctrine) was their ally—perhaps, in Donal Cruise O-Brien’s words, “the Sufis’ secret love” (2003: 63). However, one should emphasize that this state-marabout relationship was not that of equals: marabouts who went too far in asserting their authority or dissent lost their privileges, and the state was able to use existing conflicts among the brotherhoods to its advantage (Behrman 1970; Loimeier 1996). This is not to suggest that the postcolonial Senegalese system under Senghor—centered on a secular state but with close ties between political and religious leaders—was not without its critics. In particular, a variety of “Islamist” groups, those that sought adoption of sharia and a more pronounced public role for Islam, emerged to challenge both the political authorities and their marabout allies. One early example is a movement led by Cheikh Touré, who actively promoted teaching of Arabic and Islam and founded in Dakar in 1953 the Union Culturelle Musulmane (Muslim Cultural Union, UCM), which had branches throughout French West Africa. Touré, unlike most of the marabouts, campaigned for Senegalese independence and later found a supporter in Prime Minister Dia, whose administration in 1961 began working on a new personal law code that would accord more closely with sharia. As noted above, however, Dia fell from power in 1962. Afterwards, Touré found himself marginalized, with the UCM taken over by state authorities (Loimeier 1996: 185–187). Another moment of tension concerned adoption of a new family code, which was completed in 1972. While one rationale for the new code was to unify different forms of the law, in its final form it largely strengthened the secularism by reaffirming principles of individual rights and equality of all citizens, including women.17 On account of the last element, the code was soon called Code de la femme. The proposed law did not sit well with many marabouts, who argued that its provisions did not accord with the Quran or the sunna and that if the government adopted “atheist” or “heathen” provi-

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sions, good Muslims would not be obligated to obey the government (Loimeier 1996: 187–188; Gellar 2005: 117–118). Despite these objections, the Senghor administration enacted the law, although implementation in rural areas and in the Mourides’ holy city of Touba was limited.18 As was the case in Mali and will be seen later in this chapter, efforts to change this code are one of the main rallying cries of Islamic-oriented actors in Senegal today. Finally, in the 1970s an economic crisis threatened the economic position of the marabouts and their disciples, who were the backbone of the country’s peanut production. In particular, the price for peanuts offered by the state marketing agency was deemed too low, prompting marabouts to call for a “peasant strike” from peanut production. The government ultimately yielded and agreed to price increases, but this episode, together with the aforementioned controversy over the family law code, led to rather lukewarm marabout support for Senghor in 1978 elections (Fatton 1987: 99–100). Abdou Diouf’s Presidency: From Quasi-Democracy to Democracy

Senghor resigned in 1980, handing the presidency to his protégé and prime minister, Abdou Diouf. Under Diouf, Senegal made progress toward what some have dubbed a “semi” or “quasi” democracy (Coulon 1988; Vengroff and Creevey 1997). Within months of assuming office, he changed rules governing political parties, allowing parties—provided they were not based on ethnicity, region, or religion—to form freely and compete for office. Fatton (1987: 1) suggests that in the 1980s Senegal had become a “full-fledged bourgeois liberal democracy.” This is a bit of a stretch, considering charges of election rigging and restrictions placed on media. As seen in Figure 8.1, throughout the 1980s and 1990s Senegal had only midrange scores on both the Polity and FH indexes. Diouf, affiliated with the Tijani order, made an effort to associate himself with Islamic causes. Shortly after taking power he made the pilgrimage to Mecca, where he proclaimed Senegal’s identity as an Islamic country. He courted political and financial support from the Arab world, which was important not only for economic development but also for expanding education in Arabic and scholarships for study in the Middle East. In 1989 he banned Salman Rushdie’s Satanic Verses from entering the country, and, in 1991, Senegal became the first sub-Saharan African country to host the Organization of the Islamic Conference. He supported the educational and social activities of various Islamic organizations—not just the old, mostly rural marabout-centered institutions, but also more “reformist,” urban-centered ones. He continued pragmatic cooperation with both the

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Tijani and Mouride orders in return for electoral backing, offering economic support while keeping the government out of internal religious matters (Loimeier 1996: 193–195; Clark 1999). The marabouts, for their part, supported Diouf; in some cases, as noted below, even “ordering” their disciples to vote for him. This support, however, was grounded not only in “Islamic religiosity” but also a faith in Diouf’s capacity to “deliver the material resources so badly needed in the rural countryside” (Fatton 1987: 101). At the same time, however, new developments emerged with respect to political Islam in the 1980s and 1990s (Gellar 2005: 119–120; Villalón 2004, 2007). New, more overtly “Islamic” groups, inspired by the Iranian Revolution, began to emerge in Senegal. Many were active in the universities and therefore not tied to the marabout system, but some also emerged in the countryside, as younger marabouts, bypassed for supreme leadership positions, founded their own, alternative organizations. One of the most visible was led by Moustapha Sy from the Tijani order, who began to organize activities to promote adoption of Islamic values among youth and expose corruption allegedly brought on by adoption of Western mores. Sy openly criticized Diouf (as well as several of his uncles) in the 1993 presidential campaign, and his followers rioted in the wake of Diouf’s (disputed) victory, prompting the government to jail Sy and ban his movement’s activities. Prior to 1996 local elections, Cheikh Abdoulaye Dièye became the first marabout to establish a political party (Gellar 2005: 119). Sy did the same prior to the 2000 elections, and two marabouts ran for the presidency in 2000, although neither garnered over 1 percent of the vote. Overall, however, one should not exaggerate “Islamization” in Senegal under Diouf. Like Senghor, he framed laicité as demanding respect and tolerance for religion, and he did not bow to pressure to revise the family code—it was even amended in 1989 in ways that generally strengthened women’s rights19—or reform core elements of the secular state. Many of the new Islamic groups were co-opted in the Senegalese jeu politique, at times suspending activities that might be deemed challenging to the state once they had secured state resources or appointments (Loimeier 1996: 195). The more radical clerics and groups advocating an end to the secular state attracted only small followings. The more traditional Sufi orders, for their part, began adapting to urbanization and emergence of an informal economy, becoming, in Jean Copans’s words, “Mourides des champs, mourides des villes, mourides du téléphone portable et de l’internet” (quoted in Osei 2012: 204). Assessing developments through the end of the 1980s, Villalón (1995: 232) suggests that any “threat” that new Islamic groups posed to Senegal or to the Sufi orders had “receded” or been “overstated.” Writing toward the end of Diouf’s time in office, Clark (1999: 149) suggests that “pragmatism” continued to inform the interactions between

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the government and the larger turuq, resulting “in a balance between the secular political systems and a nonmilitant Islamic society.” The larger development under Diouf, particularly in the 1990s, was movement away from the earlier elite-centered “passive revolution” (Fatton 1987) of limited democratization to a more active push “from below” for civil and political freedoms. In the early 1990s, there were large protests over electoral fraud, corruption, and mounting economic problems caused by currency devaluation in 1994. Recognizing the need to preserve social peace as well as adopt difficult economic reforms, in 1991 and in 1995 Diouf invited members of the political opposition to form a national unity government. The government also adopted a new electoral code and decentralized the political system, giving the opposition a greater chance to contend for power. The government’s human rights record also came under increasing international criticism. While external factors—including democratization in Benin and Mali—contributed to pressure for political change, most of the pressure for political change was internal, with large segments of the population, particularly urban residents, demanding sopi (change) from decades of rule by the PSS (Gellar 1995; Vengroff and Creevey 1997). While it is true that political liberalization in the 1990s and expectations for change in 2000 elections coincided with the emergence of new Islamic groups—some of which explicitly challenged the secular nature of the state—the “Islamic factor” was not central in the push for or against democratization (Clark 1999; Villalón 2004, 2007). Although Islamic reformers were involved in protests, most protesters had no religious agenda. Sopi was framed around issues of the economy and corruption and a general sense that something new was needed. Indeed, what changed in the 1990s and for the 2000 election was the relative silence of the marabouts with respect to the protests and growing demands for change. While many were reluctant to criticize the state, they were also conscious of their inability to dictate to urban youth. Furthermore, years of support to an increasingly discredited PSS may have undermined their own authority and generated reticence toward more explicit political engagement (Cruise O’Brien 2003). While rural support was central in Diouf’s 1993 presidential victory, it was far less certain as 2000 elections approached. Galvan (2001: 59) suggests that the PSS, “without the critical backing of the marabouts had become vulnerable, especially given the pent-up desire for sopi.” Senegalese Democracy and Islam Under Wade

Presidential elections in 2000 provided the real breakthrough for Senegalese democracy, as Diouf, despite gaining support from some prominent Tijani marabouts, lost runoff elections to Abdoulaye Wade, the longtime

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leader of the PDS. While Wade himself “flirted with religious themes” (Villalón 2007: 172) and openly embraced his affiliation with the Mouride order, he was not, by any means, an “Islamist” candidate.20 On the contrary, Wade’s victory rested on a large coalition of various groups that opposed continued rule of the PSS. In the 2000s, as seen in Figure 8.1, Senegal made real democratic gains, although problems such as nepotism and corruption, postponed elections and electoral boycotts, violations of civil liberties, arrests of opposition figures, and weak legislative institutions have remained areas of concern (Gellar 2005: 156–160; Kelly 2012). Wade was easily reelected in 2007, but by the early 2010s, some singled out Wade as the main problem, in particular as he tried to claim, amid widespread dissent, that he was constitutionally allowed to run for a third term of office in 2012.21 Wade’s rule has witnessed shifts in discussions about the role of Islam in Senegal, with lines increasingly blurred between the old traditional Suficentered system and various Islamic “reform” groups. Some are fearful of a pronounced role for a more overtly politicized Islam (Villalón 2004, 2007). Wade himself has contributed to this phenomenon in various ways, including dropping reference to Senegal as a secular state in a draft version of a new 2001 constitution, although it was reinserted in the final document after public outcry. In 2002, the government passed a law to mandate religious education in public schools. This move was widely denounced by the secular elite, although it made clear that instruction could be either about Islam or Christianity. The main complaint against Wade, however, was that he portrayed himself as a “Mouride” president, thereby violating the traditional practice of the state’s “equidistance” from the various religious institutions in Senegal (Smith 2013). On election day in 2000 he publicly prostrated himself before the Mouride Khalife Générale; in 2001 he took all members of his government to be blessed by the Khalife prior to legislative elections; and he used rumors and semiofficial channels to suggest that major policy decisions were made in consultation with the Mouride leader (Babou 2013: 136). Wade’s perceived favoritism toward the Mourides led to tensions with the Tijanis, which was only exacerbated after Wade fired Idrissa Seck, the Tijani prime minister, in 2004. Mansour Sy Djamil, a leader in the Tijani order, argued that Wade’s apparent favoritism to one Sufi order was “an assault on Senegalese exceptionality,” which was based on reciprocal respect of different confessions.22 Dahou and Foucher (2004) push the argument further, suggesting that in dealing with his opponents and trying to bolster his support, Wade, more so than his predecessors, has shown a willingness to play the religious card. In 2009 he even controversially suggested that Christians pray to someone who is not God,23 and in 2012 he openly sought an electoral endorsement from the Mouride Khalife Générale, which, in the end, he did not receive.

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Beyond the issue of Wade’s orientation, other observers have also pointed to the emergence of new political parties that are explicitly Islamic in orientation, prompting in 2004 one Senegalese weekly to run a cover story on the “Islamist danger” (Villalón 2007: 175). In terms of public policy, the most significant and controversial development was the foundation in 2003 of the Comite Islamique pour la Reforme du Code de la Famille au Senegal, which, like earlier Islamic groups, pushed for reforms to bring the Family Code into line with Islamic precepts, including restrictions on female inheritance, requirements that women seek male family members’ permission to marry, and divorce by repudiation.24 This issue, which touches most explicitly on issues of gender, is discussed in more detail later. What Role Does Islam Play in Senegal’s Democracy? The preceding sections help establish the fact that democracy in Senegal has evolved over time and that there have been, since colonial times, important relationships between mostly secular political authorities and Muslim religious leaders. In terms of the five factors elucidated in Chapter 1—syncretic beliefs, decentralization, secularism, incorporation, and democratization prior to mobilization—all are present in Senegal. Indeed, of all countries in this volume, it is perhaps the model case, the “best fit.” Does this finding allow one to claim that Islam, as manifested in Senegal, contributed, at least in part, to felicitous political outcomes? Many would suggest so. Alfred Stepan (2012), invoking both colonial and postcolonial history, makes a strong case that the relationship between temporal and religious authority in Senegal led to a variety of positive political and social outcomes. Invoking the work of Dankwart Rustow on prerequisites of democracy, he notes that the French (and later, Francophone, Westernized political elites) made a “Rustovian” bargain of necessity with religious leaders in the name of civic peace. Although the two sides initially viewed each other with suspicion and it clearly began as a relationship of convenience, he maintains that the resulting social peace led to a culture of tolerance and respect, which is well-engrained in Senegal, existing both across sectarian divides (e.g., between Catholics and Muslims or between the turuq) and between the state and religious society. Sufism helped bridge divisions based on ethnic identity, allowing Senegal, he claims, to avoid problems of “stateness”25 found elsewhere in Africa and, eventually, promote a climate conducive to democratization. To put the issue in terms of what was discussed in Chapter 1, religious authorities in Senegal—at least in the last century—did not contend directly for political power and have not questioned the rights of the political authorities to claim political sovereignty. Roman Loimeier (1996: 183) explicitly notes

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that democracy is fully accepted by the main Islamic organizations in Senegal. In part, of course, they were able to come to terms with this because the French and the postcolonial state gave them autonomy to pursue their spiritual and worldly tasks (e.g., peanut farming). Furthermore, major Islamic actors in Senegal did not make their peace with just any state; they did so with an explicitly secular state. True, as Stepan (2012) argues and as is developed earlier in this chapter, Senegalese laicité is not the anticlerical version found in France or in Turkey. It is, in the terms of Ahmet Kuru and Stepan (2012a), a type of ecumenical “support all, respect all” system. While it has been challenged from time to time by more Islamist groups, they have made little political headway. Hill (2013: 100) suggests that the main Sufi orders in Senegal do look to the sharia and classic Islamic texts to guide worship and social behavior, but they do not consider all past prescriptions relevant to today and have been willing to be more flexible in interpreting what Islam demands. Furthermore, one might add both that there is no single voice or actor that can speak for all Senegalese Muslims and advocate for a particular form of sharia and that, at least among the main Sufi orders, there is no desire to create or impose one. Instead, the heart of the Sufi tradition is centered on the individual relationship between the learned marabout and his—almost always his26—disciple (taalibe), and a recognition that there are different paths to God. For example, Stepan (2012: 384) notes that “exit” from religion is tolerated and that condemnations for apostasy are not theologically accepted. Furthermore, he cites interviews with religious leaders in Senegal that often included Quranic injunctions supporting diversity, tolerance, and no compulsion in religion. The overall finding is that many of the possible conflicts cited in Chapter 1 between Islam and democracy, including concerns about religious minorities, do not manifest themselves in Senegal. Two sets of questions flow from this analysis. The first one is causal, asking what lies behind the form of Islam found in Senegal and its relationship with the state. Some suggest that there is something inherent in local Sufi traditions or what has also been called “African Islam” that is more accommodating and flexible (Rosander 1997; Gellar 2005), even “pluralistic” (Hill 2013). Historically, even the French recognized (and then tried to cultivate) what they saw as the politically benign aspects of Islam noir (Harrison 1988). Fatwas and dogmatic interpretations of Islam, particularly those touching on political life, have been exceptional. Indeed, it is notable that in a letter composed by leading marabouts objecting to the aforementioned Family Code, a letter cited as an example of Islamic opposition to the secular state, the marabouts affirm that “Islam includes recommendations which can be modified in different circumstances depending on the place.”27 Moreover, many Sufi orders embrace pacifism and disengagement from political life, with focus on the “inner jihad” of temptation and sin and

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less on the “outer jihad” of trying to impose a particular order on society. The Senegalese philosopher and historian of Islam Souleymane Bachir Diagne asserts that Sufism teaches that God is in every human being and that all spiritual paths are a quest for the same divine reality. In this respect, tolerance is prescribed, and violence against others because of religious differences is condemned.28 Notably, survey evidence also suggests a high degree of religious tolerance in Senegal.29 Stepan (2012) and Villalón (2013), however, make the valid point that this was not always so—the jihadi revolts of Umar Tal in the midnineteenth century are the clearest case in point. Interestingly, this example was cited in 2003 by a prominent media figure in Senegal who began his career as a sympathizer of the Iranian Revolution, suggesting that one could, conceivably, identify something akin to “Islamism” in the Senegalese Sufi tradition (Villalón 2007: 177–178). Thus, rather than being rooted in some inherent element in Sufism, it makes more sense to link the peaceful and more democratically accommodating aspects of Islam in Senegal to historical contingency and their particular institutional forms, which are grounded in the aforementioned relationships between temporal and religious authorities. Rather than becoming opponents of the state, Islamic actors were incorporated into the clientelistic system of political economy. Thus, as Kuru and Stepan (2012a: 102) argue, one factor that accounts for the system one sees in Senegal today is that the secular postcolonial government did not have to worry about an Islamist challenge emanating from the ancien régime and found it expedient to maintain many elements of the relationship between political and religious authorities. However, without employing arguments about the theological or political essence of Senegalese Sufism, one can still maintain that Sufism supported or at least facilitated democratization. Diouf (2013) makes the potentially provocative institutional argument that Sufism—as a form of accomodationist “good Islam”—occupied space in Senegal that served as an “antidote” to “bad Islam” (e.g., Islamist movements that would seek to impose sharia). In this sense, state-marabout relationships served to ward off greater “Islamization” that would be a clear break from modern Senegalese traditions (Rosander 1997: 6). For example, with respect to women, Callaway and Creevey (1994: 47) argue that the Sufi brotherhoods in Senegal have been more liberal and accommodating “by deemphasizing the strict code of orthodox or classical Islam.” Villalón (1995: 15) makes a somewhat similar—if less provocative—point, suggesting that “religious structures and ideology have facilitated and encouraged a system of social organization outside the state and a range of possible responses to the actions of that state which served as an effective counterbalance to its weight.” In other words, Islam was a basis for Senegalese civil society, which, pace claims of Gellner in Chapter 1, was far from totalizing or anti-

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democratic in its nature. Rather, Islamic organizations (dahiras) in Senegal, which link followers of various orders to each other through ceremonies and pilgrimages and are both diverse and autonomous, have helped society avoid being totally dominated by the state.30 In this respect, even absent an explicitly prodemocratic program or orientation, Islamic actors have facilitated democracy. The second set of questions flows from these explanations: How unique is the Senegalese experience? Clark (1999) and Villalón (2013) try, to varying degrees, to argue against “Senegalese exceptionalism” and put the country’s experience in a broader regional context, in terms of both the dominance of Sufi Islam and democratizing pressures in the 1990s. Indeed, one can find some similarities with, for example, Mali, discussed in Chapter 6. This is particularly true with respect to how mounting economic difficulties in the 1980s and 1990s put pressure on the regimes to liberalize. However, in line with the points raised above by Kuru and Stepan (2012a), the deeply rooted institutional arrangements between the state and the Sufi orders—not just Sufism itself—as well as longer historical experience with democratic institutions, dating back, uniquely for Africa, to the colonial period, stand out, creating the basis for greater social harmony and relatively peaceful democratization, and, looking at the coup in Mali in 2012, perhaps a more strongly consolidated democratic system. Villalón (1999: 130), in an earlier work, aligns himself more with arguments of “Senegalese exceptionalism,” making the case that Senegal’s “peculiar sociopolitical system in which Islamic institutions have been central” helps define its “singular political system.” Stepan (2013: 227) makes an even stronger case for uniqueness, asserting that “Senegal is possibly the only country in the world where Sufis are not only the overwhelming majority of the population but have never been systematically repressed, marginalized, or controlled by state authorities.” Again, this line of argument avoids making any claims about the theological nature of Senegalese Sufism compared to, say, Islamic practices and institutions in the Arab world or South Asia, but it does help explain why there has not been in Senegal a campaign by religious leaders or organizations to engage in violence or, for the most part, challenge the authority of the state. This connects to the inclusion-moderation hypothesis noted in Chapter 1, insofar as the main Islamic actors in postcolonial Senegal were linked to state elites in a system that remained at least formally democratic (as well as secular) and later democratized over time. Islam was employed to argue neither (from the state’s perspective) for authoritarianism nor (from the opposition’s perspective) for violence and exclusionary policies. Furthermore, as argued about initial Turkish democratization in Chapter 2, democratic practices, as well as secularism, were entrenched before Islam became overtly politicized. With respect to Senegal, this means that the

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Islamic groups that have emerged in recent decades are compelled to compete for political power with the rules of a democratizing and/or democratic system. Indeed, as developed more later in this chapter, they can be understood on some level as a manifestation of democratization itself. In such a circumstance, it makes it difficult for explicitly antidemocratic interpretations of Islam to take hold. This is not to say, however, that Senegalese Islam has been unequivocally prodemocratic—indeed Villalón (2013: 242), pace Stepan, argues that because democracy only really emerged in Senegal in the 1990s one cannot really discuss a relationship between democracy and Islam prior to that period. Previously, of course, marabouts proved more than willing to cooperate with the de facto one-party state under Senghor and mostly supported Diouf despite problems such as corruption and electoral fraud. The pattern until the 1990s was for marabouts to “intervene in the political process [e.g., by exerting pressure on the selection of candidates, by endorsing political leaders, by dissenting from policies they find objectionable] to protect or augment their own fortunes” (Schaffer 1998: 107). They did not, in other words, lend their voices for greater political liberalization and, even in the early 1990s when there was a concerted push from a variety of social actors for greater democracy, the rhetoric of religion was largely absent and most of the leading marabouts chose to stay away from the struggle (Villalón 1995: 262). Taking it a bit further, one might suggest that it was not an act of commission by Islamic actors that actively facilitated democratization as much as an act of omission, withdrawing their support from the PSS and thereby making sopi possible (Galvan 2001). Building upon this perspective, one could indict the state-marabout relationship as simply an example of Senegal’s “clientelist democracy” (Beck 2008) or, even more strongly, as “decentralized despotism” (Beck 2001: 602), as religious leaders “rely on their social status and access to patronage resources from the state to reproduce their socio-political authority, and, thereby, the political tenure of the ruling class.” The result, according to Dennis Galvan, lends the liberal, secular façade of Senegalese politics “an air of surrealism” (2001: 57). Not only does this have a political component, one in which “informal Islamic governance” (Hill 2013: 101) often supersedes the nominal authority of the state in rural areas, but also an economic and religious one.31 Particularly in terms of the power marabouts have had over peanut production, including organizing labor and exacting taxes on their followers for use of their fields, one can indict Islamic leaders for using “sacred dominance” over peasant disciples to extract “economic surplus that reinforces further its position of power” (Fatton 1987: 3). The maraboutic system in recent decades has broken down for many reasons, among them, according to some, the possibility that peasants are more aware of “the ugly reality of subordination and

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injustices that these relationships entailed” (Fatton 1987: 101). In terms of religion, Mansour Sall, the leader of a well-known Tijani family, criticizes the state-marabout relationship on multiple grounds, not only for supporting misguided or incorrect Sufi interpretations, but also for closing off space for a freer religious debate to be able to challenge the state.32 In this interpretation, Sufism is less “good Islam” than one element of a corrupt status quo that impedes the emergence of alternative discourses and social mobilization. Is this entirely fair? Cruise O’Brien, the premier Western expert on the Mouride order in Senegal, would disagree with these interpretations. While he acknowledges that marabouts and Islamic organizations pursue an economic agenda—he has written that the Mourides, well-known for cultivation of a work ethic, are becoming “Africa’s first independent peasant trade union” (2003: 37–38)—and that they operate within the clan and clientelistic networks of Senegalese politics, he also suggests that they serve the interests of their rural, peasant followers well. “Without religious leadership and organization,” he writes, “peasants in all likelihood would simply be helpless victims of government exactions.” Leaving politics to their marabouts thus becomes a “rational decision” (1975: 177). In a more general sense, what one is describing is simply the self-interested behavior of any interest group. While no doubt this behavior can lead to abuses—and some marabouts have become spectacularly rich—it would be hard to argue that this is a manifestation of Islam per se or that Islamic organizations in Senegal are somehow unique or more corrupt than other actors in the country. Beck (2008), in particular, makes the case that Senegalese “clientelist democracy,” in which the Mourides are “influential brokers,” provides important means for communication, mobilization, construction of trust and social capital, and accountability. However, the clientelistic networks of religious leaders co-exist, even in rural Senegal, with a diverse set of other actors in civil society (e.g., women’s associations, youth groups, economic interest groups) and the marabouts’ ability to control their flocks is limited, as she documents in the case of a tax revolt against the local government and Mouride leadership in Touba itself (Beck 2001). As for the notion that the Sufi maraboutic system stifles the emergence of alternatives, Villalón (2004, 2007) has documented how new actors with various “Islamic” orientations have emerged in the 1990s and 2000s, blurring the lines between traditional marabouts and orthodox Islamists. A more serious concern—and one that does touch upon the religious element directly—has been political use of the ndigal, a practice tied to the Mouride order, which is the second-largest tariqa in the country but arguably the one with the greatest political (and economic) importance. Ndigal can be translated as “advice” or “order,” and it is a manifestation of the “total personal obedience” given by a taalibe to his/her spiritual mas-

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ter (Cruise O’Brien 1971: 86). A ndigal can cover a variety of issues, many of which would be of a personal nature. However, in the 1980s it was given a political manifestation when the Mouride Khalife Générale issued a ndigal ordering the two million members of the brotherhood to vote for the incumbent president, Abdou Diouf. Any other choice, he suggested, would betray Amadou Bamba, the founder of the order and source of divine grace. With their place in paradise potentially at stake, many members followed the ndigal, while acknowledging that their own preference was to vote for another candidate. While other religious leaders—including Catholic bishops—offered public backing of Diouf as well,33 the authority of the ndigal among the Mourides raised concern about the extent of this form of political intervention, which served to strip members of the brotherhood of any autonomous political will (Schaffer 1998: 109–110). The result, one might argue, is something analogous to the Iranian system, one in which religious leaders know best and average citizens are de facto disenfranchised.34 Senegal retains a democratic façade, but one in which the true meaning of democracy is undermined. How serious is this problem? First, one should emphasize that the ndigal as a holy instruction is unique to the Mourides, meaning that most citizens in Senegal are not called to obey it, although they may receive some instruction on voting from an individual religious leader. However, survey responses from the 2005 Afrobarometer reveal that the strong majority of respondents (78 percent) say religious leaders have no influence on their choice of candidate,35 although in the department of Mbacké, in which the Mouride capital Touba is the largest city, a majority (61 percent) claimed religious leaders did have a lot of influence on their voting (Osei 2012: 205). Secondly, as Frederic Schaffer (1998: 110–111) documents in his field work, some Mouride voters disregarded the 1988 ndigal, meaning one would have difficulty quantifying how decisive or influential political ndigals really are.36 Third, the leader of the Mouride order has not issued a formal ndigal with respect to voting since 1988, although the close ties between him and Wade—based in part on extensive government support for infrastructure projects in and around Touba—led some to suggest an “indirect” ndigal was in place in Wade’s reelection victory in 2007 (Osei 2012: 205).37 Notably, however, in 2012 he refused to issue one, despite Wade’s appeal for him to do so.38 Fourth, as Donal Cruise O’Brien notes, while the ndigal is a foundation for the Mouride, submission to a marabout remains voluntary in the sense that an individual can leave the order or a particular marabout at any time and a marabout has no authority to deliver earthly punishments to a wayward follower (1971: 87–88). Lastly, as Schaffer (1998) suggests, even if political use of the ndigal is inconsistent with Western understandings of democracy—although to be fair there is no shortage of priests and rabbis in the West who, implicitly and explicitly,

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instruct their flocks how to vote—it is part of the Senegalese understanding of the Wolof term demokarassi, which stresses community, interdependence, and solidarity. Still, use of ndigals or similar instruments for political causes would lead one to, at minimum, question how some Islamic leaders in Senegal conceptualize democracy and whether they truly believe that the people, free to make their own choices, are sovereign. As noted in Chapter 1, this issue comes up in various guises as a source of conflict between democracy and some interpretations of Islam. However, beyond electoral politics, one might ask how such a hierarchical, largely hereditary system present in many Senegalese Sufi orders39—which is hypothesized to be rooted in precolonial Wolof society and pre-Islamic beliefs and institutions (Cruise O’Brien 1971: 84; Schaffer 1998: 38–39) and requires the individual (taalibe) to formally announce his submission to another (the marabout), with whom this person entrusts his or her eternal life—serves a democratic function. The French governorgeneral in 1915 found the Mouride practices “a resurrection of slavery” in a religious domain.40 No doubt most Senegalese would disagree, and given the religious marketplace of several brotherhoods and numerous individual marabouts as well as the freedom to choose one’s own spiritual leader, it is clear that a Sufi taalibe retains, in the end, a good measure of autonomy, not unlike that of a churchgoer in the West.41 Cruise O’Brien, updating some of his earlier work, makes the case that the Mouride order, in adapting to modern life, has both become more “associational” and “democratic” (2003: 208), particularly in towns and cities where being a Mouride has become part—but not the totality—of one’s identity, and become more flexible, in the sense that a marabout may reach a “tacit doctrinal understanding with his disciples” that would sacrifice demands of Islamic purity to “requirements of acceptable tutelage” as defined by the disciples (2003: 181). Beck (2001: 613) notes various ways Mouride taalibes—particularly wealthier merchants—have challenged the traditional marabouts, so that under a more “modern” form of Mouridism the marabouts’ authority is restricted to issues of religion and social mores, “leaving their disciples at liberty to make their own political choices.” Buggenhagen (2013) makes a similar claim, focusing more on increasing literacy and formation of urban youth and women’s groups, as well as Mouride migrants living in the West, all of which have transformed traditional relationships within the order, disempowering much of the old elite. Cheikh Anta Babou (2013) concludes that these transformations should force observers to reevaluate a social contract approach that emphasizes the authority of the religious leadership and the passivity of the average Muslim believer. Xavier Audrain (2004: 100) links this to the development of democracy, arguing that given economic and social modernization in Senegal, the taalibe across various brotherhoods has been transformed into a “real citizen” (véritable citoyen), capa-

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ble of differentiating the political and the religious spheres and embracing a form of “secularist democratization” (démocratisation laïcisante). What of the status of women, an issue raised in Chapter 1 and one that we have seen in many previous chapters as an area of concern? Senegal scores in the middle of the pack in terms of gender equality—it is ranked 67 (out of 136 ranked countries) in the world on the World Economic Forum’s 2013 Gender Gap index,42 which is better than all the other countries in this volume as well as Italy (71), Greece (81), Chile (91), and Japan (105), all of which are wealthier, non-Muslim democracies. Senegalese women received the right to vote in 1946, the same time French women did, and their right to participate in politics has never been questioned. Since the 1970s, the government has made greater participation by women in political and social life a national goal, which has included expanded education, rules requiring female representation on local councils, and government support for women’s associations (Gellar 2005: 121–122). A number of “feminist” groups are active in campaigning for greater women’s rights, including the end to polygamy. Since 2010, gender parity on candidate lists for public office is required, and after 2012 parliamentary elections Senegal had 64 female representatives in its 150-seat National Assembly—an impressive figure. Public opinion surveys reveal what could be called mixed attitudes on the status of women. For example, an Afrobarometer survey in Senegal in 2005 found that 72 percent of all respondents (and 66 percent of men) agreed with a statement that women should have the same chance at being elected to political office as men. However, only 56 percent of all respondents (and only 48 percent of men) tended to agree that women should have equal rights and receive the same treatment as men. In contrast, 33 percent of women and 48 percent of men thought women should be subject to traditional laws and customs.43 With respect to Islamic groups, the traditional marabouts have been accepting of women. Callaway and Creevey (1994: 183) report that “the marabouts are, and have been, quite comfortable with the open public economic and political activities of women. . . . They are more tolerant, and that is the main reason Islam has not been effectively used as a weapon to stop the advance of women.” Even though women technically cannot be members of a brotherhood, this rule is rarely enforced in practice. Surveys report that women identify themselves as members of the brotherhoods, and they participate in all the “common activities that dominate the adult taalibe-marabout relationship” (Callaway and Creevey 1994: 47). They can receive religious education, and many have assumed leadership positions in the Islamic dahiras, a result, in part, of urbanization and the emergence of the service economy that have allowed women, particularly urban women, to break out of more circumscribed roles in the village. Even in rural areas, however, women’s associations are active. In some cases, religious leaders

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have also made common cause with women’s groups to advance women’s rights. For example, Stepan (2012) reports that Islamic religious leaders have worked with the government and women’s groups to combat female genital mutilation, invoking arguments from within Islam to condemn this practice and assert a moral obligation to bring it to a halt. A law banning the practice was passed in 1999, and the number of women in Senegal who have had this procedure (estimated to be 28 percent) is significantly lower than in neighboring Muslim countries such as Mali, Guinea, and Mauritania. While there is little doubt that men are still politically, economically, socially, and religiously dominant, the more active participation of women in Senegalese Islam, as suggested above, is but one way—albeit an important one—that it is more “flexible” or “tolerant” than interpretations that would limit the participation of women in both religious and broader social life. One issue that deserves fuller discussion, however, is the Family Code, an important statement of women’s status under the law and one that, as noted, has provoked opposition over several decades from both Sufi marabouts and more “orthodox” Islamists. This issue merits emphasis because it is the only one in Senegal in which, loosely speaking, Islamic theological concerns and invocations of sharia have assumed a prominent place in political discourse. Indeed, the complete quotation of the aforementioned declaration from the marabouts, the one in which they admit to the possibility of adapting Islamic recommendations to context, suggests that family law is one of the “imperative and unchangeable prescriptions, which never, for any reason whatsoever, can be modified” (Callaway and Creevey 1994: 177). Prominent issues in these debates have been divorce, inheritance, residence, work, legal requirements for a polygamous marriage, as well as the symbolism of explicitly recognizing Islamic precepts as a basis for law. However, Islamic opposition neither prevented the original law from being adopted, nor has it resulted in changes in a more “Islamic” direction under Diouf or Wade. Indeed, when Islamic opponents unified in 2003 to push for changes in the law, Wade was steadfast in opposing them, maintaining he would never accept changes in the Family Code as that would cast doubts on Senegalese democracy that was predicated on religious tolerance and advocacy of women’s rights. He also suggested—in line with a more “flexible” approach to Islam—that many practices in the Quran (e.g., cutting off the hands of thieves) had been abandoned, and thus there was no compelling rationale to bring Senegalese law into accordance with everything contained in Islamic texts (Gellar 2005: 164). In the end, the law was not changed, although enforcement, particularly in rural areas, remains inconsistent, so that for many Senegalese, the code is “simply irrelevant” (Villalón 2013: 254). While the debate over the Family Code in the early 2000s was significant, it would be

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an exaggeration to assert that it posed a major threat to Senegal’s democracy. As Villalón (2011: 10) argues, tensions over the Family Code “resemble comparable debates on social issues regarding sexuality and the family in other democratic systems, including the United States. And it bears noting that all significant Senegalese religious actors on these issues fully buy into the concept of pursuing their preferences via democratic means—by which they are in fact most likely to win.” How Secure Is Democracy? Senegalese democracy passed another “test” in 2012, as various groups mobilized against what they viewed as an illegitimate effort by Wade to extend his rule and helped elect Macky Sall as the country’s fourth president.44 Sall had been prime minister under Wade (2004–2007) and director of Wade’s reelection campaign in 2007, but after a falling-out with the president, left the PDS and formed his own party. Although Wade openly courted the endorsement of religious leaders, most largely stayed clear of the 2012 election campaign, merely urging tolerance and restraint during the tense electoral period. Sall, who was originally a Tijani but affiliated himself with the Mouride order in the 2000s, pointedly did not play the religion card, opting to portray himself as a “new type of Senegalese,” a term coined by a hip-hop youth movement.45 He speaks positively of “the Senegalese Islamic model, a model of tolerance and cohabitation,” affirming that the state has a duty to protect people of all religions and that freedom of belief is “a fundamental element of our constitution.”46 Interestingly, he provoked an outcry among the Mourides in 2013 for the arrest of a prominent Mouride shaikh and youth leader after the death of two men at one of the shaikh’s houses. The shaikh, Bethio Thioune, had called on his followers to vote for Wade in 2012, and his arrest prompted street violence and increased tensions between Sall and the opposition PDS.47 While the outcome of the vote and the peaceful change in leadership in 2012 correspond with what Villalón envisioned in 2011 as a “best-case scenario” (2011: 14), the country remains plagued by various problems: corruption, separatist violence in the Casamance region, poverty, and unemployment.48 As for Islam, it is fair to conclude that it is unlikely to be a major source of instability (Villalón 2011: 6). Indeed, surveys reveal that Senegalese worry much less about interreligious conflict than they do crime and corruption and that few are concerned with religious extremism.49 This is not to mean Islam is or will be socially or politically irrelevant. Indeed, as has been pointed out several times in this chapter, since the 1980s there has been something of an Islamic resurgence in Senegal. This observation is supported by survey evidence conducted by the Pew Forum

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on Religion and Public Life in 2009, in which the overwhelming majority of Muslim respondents (89 percent) thought that Muslims are increasing their influence on the life of the country. However, this development is viewed positively by most (86 percent) Senegalese Muslims. It bears repeating that “fundamentalist” groups have failed to gain traction and the country faces no prospect of “Islamization.”50 While the 2012 parliamentary elections resulted in four marabouts joining the National Assembly, their election, in part, may be due to a religious affiliation signaling “clean hands.” In any event, they are not pursuing a “radical” or even an “Islamic” agenda (Gierczynski-Bocandé 2012). Rather than viewing the proliferation of Islamic organizations and debates over the role of Islam in society as a threat to democracy, a fairer conclusion is that these phenomena are an outgrowth of democratization itself. In other words, given the range of problems and issues in the country, together with the fact that it is overwhelmingly Muslim, it should not be surprising that political liberalization results in political actors trying to use Islam to frame issues or win votes. However, as seen in recent elections, the days of a “top-down” political Islam, in which religious leaders were willing and able to order their followers to vote a certain way, appear to be over. What will matter more is what the people want and whether they believe “Islam,” in some sense or the other, is an answer for a particular problem. Rather than being a major cause for concern, this is in some ways a manifestation of democracy, the result of a natural questioning about what it means to be Muslim in the modern world. Villalón (2013: 259) concludes that democratization inevitably will move the political regime closer to the values of the people, which might mean that it will be more religiously oriented than some secularists would like. However, Senegal is hardly unique in this respect, and debates over the role of religion in public policy feature in many democracies—that of the United States perhaps the most prominent one. One way to conclude our discussion of Senegal, therefore, is to explore what citizens want in terms of the relationship between religion and politics and how tolerant or “liberal” attitudes are. The aforementioned 2009 Pew survey provides some answers.51 The results, presented in the chapter on Mali (see Table 6.1), are a bit ambiguous, lending credence to the view that questions of the relationship between religion and politics in Senegal are not definitively settled. To elaborate, for example, Senegalese respondents are strongly inclined (90 percent) to agree that it is very important that national leaders have strong religious beliefs. At the same time, however, they are relatively split as to whether religious leaders should keep out of politics (51 percent) or express their political views (49 percent).52 While a majority (58 percent) would support stoning for adultery, and homosexuality is condemned by both Senegalese Muslims and Christians—the fact

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that the latter is illegal leads Cesari (2014: 269), who otherwise praises Senegal, to label it an “unsecular democracy”53—Senegalese Muslims are the most “liberal” among all African respondents in the nineteen-country survey on the question of veiling, with a majority (58 percent) saying it is a woman’s right to decide if she wishes to wear the veil. Most Senegalese Muslims (55 percent) favor adoption of sharia—a position that has been rejected by leading political parties in the country— and 63 percent favor giving Muslim religious leaders and judges power to decide property and family disputes (see Table 1.5), an issue that clearly touches upon debates on the Family Code. This position is significantly more favored by men (77 percent). Interestingly, on the question of adoption of sharia—which the survey, it should be noted, does not define or explore what it would entail—while there is (as one might expect) a statistically significant relationship (p < .01) with education (the better educated are less likely to support sharia), there is no statistically significant relationship with gender, income, or rural residence. However, there is a significant correlation (p < .05) with age, with older respondents more likely to favor sharia, and one’s personal economic situation, in which (similar to Mali) those who are more satisfied with their personal economic situation are more likely to favor sharia. There is also a weaker (p = .135) but positive statistical relationship between support for democracy over a strong leader and support for sharia. As was the conclusion with respect to Mali, it would therefore be hard to argue that support for sharia is inherently tied to antidemocratic or antisystemic beliefs. Additionally, Senegalese Muslims were split on the idea that there is only one way to interpret Islam, with a slight majority (51 percent) saying there is only one way and 45 percent believing there are multiple interpretations, results that actually reflect more tolerance than, for example, those found among Christians in South Africa, Nigeria, Liberia, or Ghana.54 This finding, together with the rather decentralized nature of Senegalese Islam and well-entrenched practices of tolerance and respect, suggests that it would be difficult for one group or interpretation of “Islam” to take hold in the legal or political arena. Indeed, while there is little doubt that there is still room for Islam to grow in the public sphere, the survey results largely confirm the view that an Islamic state is not a likely or preferred outcome. In sum, there is sound reason to be optimistic about Senegal, with respect to both democratization and the role of religion in politics. The 2012 elections were an important milestone, representing a change in leadership but also rejecting the idea that the president could redefine constitutional provisions to extend his term of office. While the country had deep economic and social problems, Islamic groups did not emerge as prominent political actors, let alone galvanize those who would reject democratic norms and practices. The election of the more ecumenical Sall also shows

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the limits of playing a “religious card.” While Islam may be employed in debates on policy issues, it does so within a well-defined democratic framework. Democracy and Islam seem perfectly compatible in Senegal. The larger question, which was touched upon a bit in this chapter, is what the experience of Senegal might say about prospects for democratization elsewhere. We shall return to this issue in the final chapter. Notes 1. Le Vine (2004: 359) reports that 38 percent of Senegalese are Wolof, 22 percent Fulani, 19 percent Serer, with the remainder belonging to smaller tribal and ethnic groups. 2. One issue that is an occasional source of violence is the secessionist campaign in the Casamance region of southern Senegal, which is dominated by the minority Jola ethnic group and is cut off from most of the country by Gambia. This issue is not addressed in this chapter. 3. In the 2011 Human Development Report, for example, Senegal was ranked 155 out of 187 countries and territories (Mali is 175). Senegal’s per capita income is $1,708, adult literacy is 49.7 percent, and life expectancy is 59.1 years. Data available at UN Development Programme Human Development Reports, http://hdr .undp.org/en/media/HDR_2011_EN_Tables.pdf, accessed 1 August 2013. 4. An Afrobarometer survey from 2008 found that 70 percent of Senegalese thought that democracy was preferable to any form of government, with only small percentages saying that in some circumstances democracy might not be preferable (6 percent) or that it did not matter to them (3 percent). A January 2009 survey conducted by the Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life found that 79 percent of respondents in Senegal favored democracy over the option of a strong leader to solve the country’s problems. Online data from www.afrobarometer.org and Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life 2013. 5. There are no precise membership figures, but most reports suggest the largest group is the Tijani, followed by the Mourides and then smaller groups such as Qadriyya and the Layenne. See Villalón 1995: 71–72. In the aforementioned 2009 Pew Survey, 51 percent of respondents in a representative sample were Tijani and 34 percent were Mouride. 6. The aforementioned Afrobarometer survey from 2008 found that 95 percent of Senegalese said religion was “very important” to them. In the 2009 Pew Survey, 98 percent of Muslims said the same thing. 7. The early part of this section borrows heavily from Gellar (1995, 2005). 8. The local honorific is shaikh; I employ the term marabout as it is widely used in the secondary literature on Senegal. 9. Gamble 1967: 70–71. He argues as well that a “deeper layer of pagan belief” can be found among the Wolof people as of the mid-twentieth century. 10. French scholar of Islam Robert Arnaud, writing in 1912, quoted in Cruise O’Brien 1975: 101–102. 11. Islam noir was contrasted with the more orthodox and potentially threatening Islam maure, associated with Moorish populations in the Sahara. In Senegal, the Tijani order, because of its association with Umar Tal, was, at least in the first few decades of French rule, treated with great suspicion. See Robinson 2000: chapter 7.

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12. The most explicit use of this term can be found in Cruise O’Brien 1992. For critical and contemporary reflections, see Diouf 2013 and Babou 2013, who prefers the idea of a modus vivendi imposed by necessity. 13. Additional sources include Cruise O’Brien 1971, 1975; Clark 1999; and Robinson 2000. The premier French language source is Coulon 1981. 14. The best source for these early brotherhoods is Robinson 2000. See also Harrison 1988 and Cruise O’Brien 1971 for definitive work on the Mouride order. 15. The three acceptable ideological perspectives were liberalism, democratic socialism, and Marxism. No provision was made for an “Islamist” party. For more, see Fatton 1987: 7–8. 16. Léopold Senghor, Liberté 1: Négritude et Humanisme (Paris: Seuil, 1964), quoted in Stepan 2012: 387. Under his government, for example, religious programming was permitted on government radio and television. 17. In particular, the law made polygamous marriage subject to the woman’s approval, made it easier for women to divorce their husbands, and forced husbands to pay child support. However, it also established the husband as the head of the family (Article 152) and that women could work for pay only with the permission of their husbands (Article 154). See Callaway and Creevey 1994: 176–179. 18. Abdou Mbacke, the Khalife Générale of the Mourides, proclaimed that outside their own compounds, which were governed by their own teachings, “we see nothing but Satan and all his works.” Quoted in Fatton 1987: 100. 19. Callaway and Creevey (1994: 181) note that amendments allowed women to work without their husbands’ permission and for wives to make their own legal residence. 20. Like Diouf and Senghor, Wade’s wife is Catholic. She is also French. 21. Good sources that provide context and detail on the 2011–2012 crisis include Villalón 2011; Gierczynski-Bocandé 2012; and Kelly 2012. 22. Cited in Diouf 2013: 20. 23. “Senegal’s President Apologizes for Insult to Christians,” Voice of America News, 31 December 2009, available at http://tinyurl.com/kxvuk47, accessed 3 August 2013. 24. These requirements would only apply to Muslims, a point that some Muslim leaders used to emphasize that in a democratic state Muslims should be able to request governance by religious law. For more on this issue, see Brossier 2004. 25. Cruise O’Brien (1975: 177) claims that the patronage politics between state leaders and religious authorities provided the basis for a “viable polity.” 26. Callaway and Creevey (1994: 51) note that some daughters of prominent marabouts have exercised religious authority, including gathering their own disciples. 27. Quoted in Callaway and Creevey 1994: 177. 28. Quoted in Stepan 2013: 219. 29. Stepan (2013: 220) cites a 2005 Pew Survey of religious leaders and the general public in which 92 percent of the former and 78 percent of the latter profess tolerance for people of other religious groups. In the aforementioned 2009 Pew Survey, 59 percent of Muslim Senegalese respondents said they trusted people of a different religion (see Table 6.1), and 64 percent of Senegalese Muslim respondents thought it was acceptable for national leaders to profess a different religion. Both of these rank among the highest for Muslims in the nineteen countries surveyed. 30. Diouf (2013: 9–10) makes a similar point, noting that marabouts served as “vital intermediaries” with the colonial and later postcolonial state, but that they

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were not agents of the state. The result was that the state was not able to achieve total control of the public sphere. 31. Beck (2001) documents how the city of Touba is run by the Mouride Khalife Générale, who selects all the candidates for the local governing council. Touba is often upheld as a “state within a state,” where, among other things, alcohol and smoking are banned. 32. Discussed in Villalón (2013: 248–249). The title of Sall’s book is Le Soufisme: Avantages et Inconvénients (Sufism: Advantages and Disadvantages), which reflects his ambivalence about the religious establishment. 33. Schaffer (1998: 42–43) notes that the great marabout of the Lebou community linked voting for the president to serving God’s will. Not coincidentally, perhaps, President Diouf helped secure the appointment of this individual to his position. 34. Schaffer (1998: 111) finds that some voters support use of the ndigal, because the average person lacks the “vision” or “wisdom” of the leader, who knows what is “right.” 35. The number that said religious leaders had a lot of influence was 15 percent, with rural respondents (18 percent) twice as likely as urban respondents (9 percent) to give that answer. 36. Beck (2001: 612) reports 96 percent of voters in Touba opted for Diouf in 1988, although she also notes many voters protested the use of the ndigal. 37. Galvan (2001: 59) had earlier somewhat optimistically suggested that the pullback from the state in the economy meant the end of the “highways-for-ndigal” model. 38. See “Senegal President Visits Powerful Muslim Leaders,” Africa Review, 8 April 2012, http://tinyurl.com/my2yrq7, accessed 27 February 2015. 39. Descendants of the founders of the orders are assumed to possess some of the baraka (grace) of the latter, hence authority has traditionally passed from father to son. 40. Quoted in Cruise O’Brien 1971: 84. 41. Diouf (2013: 13) argues that because loyalty to the marabout is conditional, the taalibe “is not a passive actor but rather a very active agent in the brotherhood sphere.” 42. Senegal was ranked 102 in 2009, but improved significantly with respect to women in political office (e.g., 43 percent of parliamentarians in 2012 were female). There are still problems with respect to illiteracy (39 percent for women, 62 percent for men) and a .57 earnings ratio. See World Economic Forum, The Global Gender Gap Report 2013 (Geneva: World Economic Forum). 43. Online analysis available at Afrobarometer, www.afrobarometer.org. 44. Good sources on these elections are Kelly 2012 and Gierczynski-Bocandé 2012. The latter suggests that “Senegal is back on course to become one of the more stable democracies of the continent” (105). It is also worth mentioning that Senegal’s FH score for political rights improved from a 3 to a 2 in 2012, pushing the country into the “Free” category. See the 2012 Freedom House report at www .freedomhouse.org/report/freedom-world/2013/senegal, accessed 21 July 2013. 45. Nick Loomis, “Senegal Election: President Abdoulaye Wade Looks to Marabouts,” Global Post, 24 March 2012, available at http://tinyurl.com/lzerxp, accessed 13 July 2013. 46. Interview with Macky Sall by World News de Harouna, 23 June 2013, available at http://tinyurl.com/kx6jfpr, and interview with Foreign Affairs, “Africa’s

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Turn,” 26 June 2013, available at http://tinyurl.com/lmc4b37, both accessed 27 February 2015. 47. Alex Thurston, “Senegal: A Cabinet Reshuffle and the Continuing ‘Bethio Affair,’” 1 November 2012, posted to http://sahelblog.wordpress.com/tag/macky -sall, accessed 31 July 2013. 48. See, for example, the previously cited FH report as well as GierczynskiBocandé 2012. 49. In the 2009 Pew survey (Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life 2013), for example, only 22.8 percent of Muslim respondents (and 25.2 percent of Christians) thought conflict among religious groups was a “big problem.” Pluralities of both groups (47 percent of Muslims, 30 percent of Christians) thought it was not a problem at all. Overall, only 11 percent of Senegalese are “very concerned” about religious extremists, the lowest figure among nineteen sub-Saharan African countries in the survey. Most (54 percent) are not concerned at all. 50. Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life 2013. Interestingly, only 46 percent of Christian respondents thought Muslim influence was increasing. 51. The sample size was 1,000, 90 percent of whom were Muslims. Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life 2013. 52. In both cases, there was no appreciable difference between Muslim and Christian respondents. 53. In no African country in the survey do more than 11 percent of respondents think homosexuality can be acceptable, indicating that this is not an issue unique to Islam. Senegal is one of thirty-eight African countries to criminalize homosexual conduct, and there have been both media and physical attacks on those suspected of being gay. For more see Adam Nossiter, “Senegal Cheers Its President for Standing Up to Obama on Same-Sex Marriage,” New York Times, 29 June 2013. 54. As one might expect, a statistically significant correlation was found with gender, income, and education on this question, with women and the wealthier and more educated more “open-minded.” In South Africa, 52 percent of Christian respondents believe there is only one way to interpret the faith. Respective figures for Christians in Liberia and Nigeria are 66 percent, with 69 percent expressing this view in Ghana.

9 The Arab Spring and Muslim Democracy: Looking Back, Looking Forward

The preceding chapters have documented great diversity with respect to what might be called “political Islam” and interpretations about the relationship between Islam and democracy. Given the focus on relatively successful Muslim-majority democracies, we have encountered many examples of Islamic-oriented actors supporting democratization. This does not mean, of course, that all manifestations of political Islam are democratically oriented. Indeed, even within the “success stories,” we have seen some actors who reject aspects of democracy or do not behave in a democratic manner. Furthermore, even in more successful democracies such as Mali and Turkey, the future of democracy is somewhat clouded. This concluding chapter is composed of three parts. First, it “looks back” to review the main findings of this study with respect to the factors and conditions that are most supportive of the emergence of a more democratically oriented Islam. Secondly, it “looks forward” by using elements of this study to shed light on developments and prospects for democratization in other Muslim-majority states, specifically post–Arab Spring Tunisia and Egypt, where well-entrenched authoritarian rulers were ousted in 2011 and replaced by elected governments. The hopes engendered by the Arab Spring, of course, fizzled out in many countries, including Egypt. However, as we shall see, there is substantial reason to remain optimistic about Tunisia, and it would be interesting to compare Tunisia’s nascent democratization and the role of political Islam in that country with patterns seen in the more successful cases in this volume. Finally, it takes up an important and potentially controversial question, one that has lingered on the sidelines of several of the case studies; namely, given the features of democracy in much of the Muslim world, in particular how some contravene established

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Western or liberal democratic norms, can one speak of a distinctive “Muslim democracy”? What Promotes Democracy in the Muslim World? Why democracy arises in a given country at a given time is, of course, a complex question. Many variables (economic, cultural, institutional, ideological, international) may bear on this issue. This study has focused on the political role of Islam in democratic environments. It assumes that Islam can play an important role, but it acknowledges that Islam may not be the central or most decisive factor promoting or inhibiting democracy. That being said, comparative analysis of Muslim-majority democracies allows one to identify common factors with respect to Islam that contribute to the emergence of democracy. These were advanced in the opening chapter and have been touched upon in the case studies. This concluding chapter will discuss each more systematically based upon the evidence presented in this volume. Syncretic, “National” Islam

The first factor is historical-cultural and concerns the predominant nature of Islam in a given country. In short, “Islam” varies across the Muslim world; there are various “zones of Islam” that reflect history and local conditions (Yavuz 2004). All successful Muslim-majority democracies lie on the periphery of the Muslim world, where Islam came relatively later, often blended in with existing local traditions to become more syncretic in nature, and often was influenced by Sufism. It was typically not imposed by force or backed, at least initially, with substantial military power. Under these conditions, one sees the rise of a “local” Islam that emphasizes flexibility, adaptation, and inclusion. Often, this type of Islam is fused with nationalism, and it is contrasted with “Arab,” “Wahhabi,” or “Iranian” Islam, which is deemed as a “foreign” import and incompatible with local traditions. One sees aspects of this throughout this study, particularly in the more successful democratic states. In Mali, for example, mainstream manifestations of Islam are nested within local traditions of multiculturalism and tolerance. Political figures invoke the experience of the Malian Empire as the basis for contemporary democracy. True, this is manufactured and perhaps a selective reading of history, but it empowers prodemocratic voices. Thus, one sees figures such as the popular preacher Shaikh Cherif Haidara dismiss groups backing sharia or employing violence as foreigners espousing a form of Islam that “we do not know” (Peterson 2012). Similarly in Sene-

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gal, leaders of various Sufi orders, to which most Senegalese Muslims belong, delegitimize those endorsing rigid, dogmatic interpretations of Islam as outside the Senegalese tradition. Instead, they emphasize that Islam should support diversity, tolerance, and free choice (Stepan 2012). In both of these states, “local” Islam or Islam noir was encouraged by French colonial powers, and Islamic-oriented actors made their peace with the secular state and eschewed radicalism. In Turkey, “Turkish Islam,” drawing upon Sufism and multicultural Ottoman-Turkish traditions, developed as a means to reconcile Islam with modernity and democracy. Although there are many strands of Turkish Islam, those thinkers that have been most influential, including Said Nursi and Fethullah Gülen, reject focus on creating an Islamic state and dogmatic interpretations that insist there is only one way to be Muslim (Yavuz 2004). In Southeast Asia, political figures such as Abdurrahman Wahid in Indonesia and Anwar Ibrahim in Malaysia, both of whom led Islamic-oriented organizations, rejected the politicization of Islam as well as a purely scriptural approach that seeks to create a monocultural environment. Such an Islam, they argue, is not appropriate given their countries’ history and multiculturalism. Decentralized, Nonhierarchical Religious Institutions

The second factor is less ideational and concerns the institutional form Islam takes. This can be hierarchical, best exemplified in the modern world in Iran, in which the Shia clergy have claimed a right to rule and Ayatollah Khomeini advanced the theory of the velayat-e faqih, justifying the supreme spiritual and temporal rule of the most learned in order to create a truly Islamic state. This, however, need not be the manner in which religious authority is organized or how it relates to state power. A good example would be the Sufi orders in Senegal, which were supported both by French colonial authorities and by the postcolonial Senegalese state as a form of “good Islam” that would serve as an “antidote” to “bad Islam” that might more directly challenge the state (Diouf 2013). Although each individual Sufi order may be hierarchically structured, insofar as a disciple pledges allegiance to a marabout, there are many such orders and no national-level office that controls them. Indeed, the Sufi orders have resisted such an institution, leaving Islam in Senegal quite decentralized. Another interesting contrast is between Indonesia, a more successful case of democratization, and Malaysia, a relatively less successful one that has seen significant state-sponsored Islamization. In the former case, there is no strong central institution that can “speak” for Islam. Instead, there are two large mass organizations, NU and Muhammadiyah, which represent different approaches to Islam but are neither part of the state nor empowered to define Islam for Indonesian Muslims. In Malaysia, however, the British

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gave local sultans sole control over religious affairs—including the power to issue legally binding fatwas—and this practice carried over once Malaysia became independent. One consequence is that the Malaysian state has taken advantage of the fact that there are designated individuals to speak for Islam to use Islam to further a statist and often less-thandemocratic agenda. In Turkey, under the Ottomans there was a centralized religious authority—the sultan served as both the temporal leader and the caliph—and under Atatürk the republican state created a directorate of religious affairs. However, the latter was designed to propagate a version of Islam compatible with Atatürk’s priorities of secularism and Westernization. It does not issue fatwas or empower ulama to “speak” for Islam. Furthermore, like the centralized Ottoman structure centered on the imperial court, it coexists (at times uneasily) with a host of other religious or religiously inspired groups and movements (e.g., Sufi orders, Gülen’s Hizmet movement). In short, in all of the more successful cases of democracy in the Muslim world, one does not see the state-ulama alliance that has featured elsewhere, especially in the Middle East, a coupling that gives greater potential for centralization of political power and/or the ability to use religion to augment state authority. Secularism

The third factor concerns the strength of secularism, particularly as it applies to the legal and political system. As noted in the opening chapter, all of the “most successful” Muslim-majority democracies are secular (meaning Islam is not the basis for law and Islam is not recognized as the sole official religion), and in three—Turkey, Senegal, and Mali—the French laicité model, a more “assertive” form of secularism, prevails. True, even in these countries governments have used Islam as a cultural reference and (at times) as a means to gain support, and secularism has “mellowed” over time, meaning there is now greater public space for religion and movement toward more “passive secularism” (e.g., Turkey now allows female students and state employees to wear the Islamic headscarf). In part, this is a reaction to democratization, as Islamic-oriented actors have pushed for measures that allow them to express their piousness in the public sphere and, in some cases, employ religion as a means to lobby for changes in legislation, (e.g., in Mali in debates over family law). However, certain things—formation of explicitly religious-oriented parties or adoption of sharia—remain off the table.1 The point is that secularism in these states has compelled Islamic-oriented actors to temper their demands, legitimizing those arguing for a limited role for Islam in politics and delegitimizing those pushing for more complete Islamization. For example, one observer suggested that in

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Senegal the secular state is “the Sufis’ secret love” insofar as it is a buttress against the rise of other manifestations of Islam that might challenge them (Cruise O’Brien 2003: 63). Lack of secularism, however, both with respect to how adherents of nonrecognized faiths will be treated and potential adoption of sharia as a source of law, can be a real problem for democracy. With respect to the latter, the issue is not only the content of the law itself, which can be (it does not have to be) discriminatory toward women and used to repress those who subscribe to a different version of Islam, as seen in Pakistan, Malaysia, and in the Indonesian province of Aceh. It is also the fact that use of sharia can take the power to make laws away from democratically elected bodies and empower others—often unelected religious scholars—to specify what sharia requires, as in “semidemocratic” Malaysia, where religious authorities can issue fatwas with the force of law to uphold their interpretation of sharia. This surely compromises democracy if democracy is understood to mean the people (or their elected representatives) are the source of authority. Furthermore, if Islam is an official religion, Islamist groups are much freer to organize and campaign for doctrinaire versions of Islamic law and can challenge state authority on the grounds that Islam is not sufficiently being protected. This has been the case in Indonesia, where the question of the relationship between Islam and Pancasila has been periodically revisited, and in Bangladesh, which since 2010 has restored secularism as a principle of governance but also acknowledges Islam as the state religion. Matters have gone even further in Malaysia and Pakistan, where one response has been for the state to “out-Islam” its opponents and adopt its own Islamization policies (Nasr 2001). Secularism features prominently throughout the case studies, and it may be tempting to view secularism as a prerequisite or necessary condition for democracy. This overlooks the fact that there are established churches in many Western democratic countries (e.g., Norway, Great Britain), as well as the fact that secularism can also acquire an authoritarian bent, as seen in Turkey (as well as in other secular Muslim countries such as prerevolutionary Iran, Uzbekistan, and Turkmenistan). The point therefore may be less secularism versus nonsecularism per se than the nature of both (Hashemi 2009). With respect to nonsecular Islamic countries, Malaysia has always had Islam as the state religion, but in its first decade of independence its leaders did not push Islam very forcefully into the political sphere; not coincidentally, perhaps, this ranks as the most democratic period in the country’s history. Similarly, in Bangladesh Islam is recognized as the state religion, but this does not mean that government has consistently pushed an Islamic-oriented agenda that might compromise democracy. However, if an interpretation of Islam gains sway that asserts

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it represents the Truth (e.g., not subject to individuals’ use of ijtihad) or requires state power to create a just and proper “Islamic” order (most clearly seen in the 1980s in Pakistan among cases in this volume), democratic principles can be easily compromised. Democracy First, Islam Later

The fourth factor is one of timing, namely that successful democratization is more likely if democratization precedes significant Islamic-oriented popular mobilization. This is confirmed in our cases. Turkey has the Muslim world’s longest experience with democracy. While there was Islamicoriented mobilization in the 1920s, this was forcibly repressed, and its democratic opening in the 1940s (and its redemocratization in 1961) was not accompanied by Islamic-oriented mobilization. One also does not see extensive political activity by Islamic-oriented groups prior to democratization in Senegal and Mali. True, there was some Islamic mobilization, but this became more pronounced after democratization as a result of expanded political freedoms. Turkey witnessed the same, and by the time political Islam really emerged in the 1970s, its leaders had, in a sense, “grown up” with democracy and recognized that they needed to engage in democratic politics rather than work against the system. In contrast, both Pakistan and Bangladesh, which are relatively less successful in terms of democracy, have longer histories of Islamic-oriented mobilization. Democratic institutions, once they were established, were weak, and the military stepped in on multiple occasions to restore order because of political instability and extremism. The case of Malaysia is also instructive, as arguably its most democratic period—its first decade of independence—was one in which there was comparatively little Islamicoriented mobilization, allowing more secular-oriented elites to manage a multiethnic and multicultural consociational system. Malaysia’s subsequent transition into a semidemocracy has coincided with policies to promote ethnic Malays and Islam, although many of the country’s shortcomings (e.g., lack of free press, restrictions on political opposition) are arguably grounded more in a concern for order than Islamic tenets. Indonesia is a bit of an outlier here, as it has a long history of massbased Islamic-oriented organizations. They challenged for power in the 1940s and 1950s and, if left unchecked, might have tried to establish an Islamic state. However, their influence was later constrained by an authoritarian system. By the 1990s, several Islamic-oriented groups, including NU and Muhammadiyah, became important actors in the democratization movement, although by then leading figures in these movements had moderated their positions (e.g., they no longer advocated an Islamic state) and they cooperated extensively with secular organizations.

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Finally, one can consider how extensively Islamic-oriented actors are incorporated into the political system, the so-called moderation-inclusion hypothesis. This argues that incorporating Islamic-oriented actors into governance or giving Islamist-oriented actors a chance to participate in politics tends to moderate their ideology or behavior by giving them a stake in the system, a chance to pursue their goals through peaceful means, and an opportunity to work with other political actors and broaden their constituencies. In other words, inclusion becomes the means to foster a “moderate” Islam that is more amenable to democracy. As noted in Chapter 1, while this theory has been examined in a host of countries, it has not been universally confirmed, and the posited causes of moderation vary from case to case (Schwedler 2011b). In this study, while there is no doubt that “moderate” Islamic-oriented actors, meaning those who eschew violence, are tolerant of diverse points of view, and are willing to abide by democratic procedures and principles, are important—indeed, they are the ones that make a “democratic Islam” possible—one also finds that they “moderate” through different means and that inclusion does not always moderate those who challenge democratic norms. In other words, “moderate Islam” does not emerge in all countries in the same manner. Senegal remains the most modular case with respect to all the posited factors. Here, one finds Sufi orders incorporated into the political economy by virtue of their land holdings and they also developed ties to individual politicians, including Léopold Senghor, a Catholic and the country’s first president (1960–1980). Later, as other Islamic-oriented groups emerged, especially in urban areas, they too were incorporated into the Senegalese “jeu politique” (Loimeier 1996: 195), at times suspending activities that might be deemed challenging to the state once they had secured state resources or appointments. In Mali, Islamic-oriented actors were given seats and participated actively at the National Conference in 1991 that established the bases of Mali’s democracy, although they found little support for proposals such as ending secularism or allowing religious-based political parties. Nonetheless, in democratic Mali most Islamic-oriented groups have respected democratic norms and procedures and have been involved in policy debates, including successfully changing Malian family law to incorporate some of their concerns (e.g., state recognition of religious marriages). The moderation-inclusion hypothesis has been extensively examined with respect to several Islamic-oriented parties in Turkey, although some of the ostensible “learning” and subsequent development and moderation of the currently ruling AKP occurred not via inclusion but after its Islamist predecessors were repressed by the government and it realized it needed to

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change course (e.g., emphasizing its “conservative democratic” as opposed to its “Islamic” nature) to do better at the polls. In Indonesia, President Suharto (1966–1998), although no democrat, reached out to various Muslim intellectuals and organizations, including patronizing exponents of more moderate Islam such as the scholar Nurcholish Madjid. However, not all of these Islamic-oriented figures moderated or became prodemocratic; some defended Suharto as his regime began to weaken and attacked moderates such as Madjid and Wahid, both of whom by the mid-1990s had become critical of the regime. Similarly in Malaysia, PAS was incorporated into the government in the early 1970s, but split with the ruling party and became more radical in the early 1980s. Its subsequent moderation came when it was in the political opposition and realized that it needed to broaden its base and work with non-Islamic parties in order to have political influence. Like the AKP, PAS’s ostensible moderation is thus connected to a desire to improve its electoral fortunes, but also to an electorate that has repeatedly demonstrated a limited appetite for Islamist positions, a feature that may not be found universally. As for Pakistan and Bangladesh, there have been intermittent efforts to incorporate Islamic-oriented actors into the state and, in Pakistan under General Zia, the government oversaw an extensive Islamization program. Islamist parties such as the JI (present in both countries) have “moderated” to the extent that they participate in democratic politics and respect electoral outcomes and, in opposition to authoritarian regimes, have campaigned for greater democracy. However, there is little to suggest they have “moderated” with respect to their preferred final goal—an Islamic state— and abandoned “unsecular politics.” This concern, one might add, is also present in more “successful” cases such as Turkey and Indonesia, raising questions about the nature and limitations of what some have dubbed “Muslim democracy” (Cesari 2014). We shall return to this issue at the end of this chapter. Prospects for Democracy in Contemporary Tunisia and Egypt First, however, we shall attempt to draw upon the above framework to shed light on developments in the post–Arab Spring Middle East. Of course, any comparison is fraught with numerous difficulties, including that each country has its own unique circumstances and a given case may emerge as an outlier from the general pattern. However, it is worth noting that some actors in the Middle East look to countries such as Turkey and Indonesia as models in building their own democratic systems. Prior to the Arab Spring, of course, this seemed to be a remote possibility. After 2011, the calculus

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changed, at least in some countries, where competitive politics was introduced. Furthermore, while many variables will affect democracy’s prospects in the Middle East, it is clear from developments across the region that political Islam will play an important, perhaps even central, role in states’ futures. Thus, a potentially productive line of inquiry is whether those factors that appear to facilitate state-religious relationships more supportive of democracy are present in the post–Arab Spring environment. Let us first confess that four years after the beginning of the Arab Spring, it is admittedly hard to be optimistic about democracy’s prospects in the region. Authoritarian rulers retain control in most states. “Openings” in countries such as Jordan and Morocco have been modest. The ouster of dictators in Libya and Yemen has not produced a capable state, let alone a democratic one. Syria is engulfed in civil war; Iraq has elections but lacks a government that can establish rule over the country. And, in Egypt, where elections in 2012 did offer some hope for democracy, the military ousted the elected government and ruthlessly suppressed its opponents. As seen in Figure 9.1, the “bump” in Egypt’s FH score was modest and temporary. Only Tunisia, which adopted a new constitution and held free and competitive legislative and presidential elections in 2014, can be claimed as a democratic success. Indeed, as seen in the figure, its FH score has progressively increased since 2011, so that by 2014, its overall FH score is as high as any country covered in this volume.2 Given this result, one could therefore ask if the factors employed in the other case studies in this volume have some explanatory power with respect Figure 9.1 Democratic Development in Post–Arab Spring Tunisia and Egypt (inverted Freedom House scores) 7

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to these cases. For simplicity’s sake, we shall restrict the comparison to Tunisia and Egypt, the latter of which, arguably more so than the other Arab states, had more potential to democratize successfully. Indeed, given the victory of the Muslim Brotherhood (MB) in 2012 elections, Egypt could have blazed a new trail in the sense that an Islamist party gained power and, rhetorically at any rate, committed itself to democracy.3 Had Egypt successfully democratized, it truly would have been something new. Alas, this did not occur; the MB’s commitment to democracy in practice remained suspect and, more seriously, the brief democratic experiment was ended by a military coup in July 2013. Let’s start our comparison, therefore, with Egypt. Egypt has a rich, multicultural history that actors could draw upon to advance democracy. However, arguments of this sort have not featured prominently in contemporary political discourse, particularly with respect to Islam. “Liberal” or “modern” Islam is often associated, locally and globally, with the work of Egyptian scholar Muhammad Abduh (1849–1905). Abduh, while a critic of the West, struggled with the issue of reconciling Islam with modernity. The answer, he believed, was to detach Islam from harmful traditions it had accumulated over time and return, with fresh eyes, to the basic texts and fundamental principles by applying principles of ijtihad (Haddad 2005). This was, at the time, controversial and progressive, and Abduh inspired a host of Muslims to seek renewal (islah), both in Egypt (including the leaders of the MB, founded in 1928) and abroad, including, as we have seen in this volume, in many of today’s Muslimmajority democracies. Abduh, however, left a complex legacy. Indeed, aspects of his thought (particularly the emphasis on the foundational texts and principles and the belief that the Quran should serve as the source of legislation) would inspire some Islamists, especially in the Middle East, that had little interest in being “liberal” or “modern.”4 Even though Abduh was influenced by Sufi orders, these espoused a “reform Sufism” that was critical of “popular religion” and argued for closer adherence of teachings and practices of the earliest Muslim communities (Cornell 2013: 108). It was thus not “syncretic” in the same way as Sufi-based Islam in Senegal or Bangladesh. Abduh’s impact on the Egyptian MB was filtered through his Syrian follower Rashid Rida (1865–1935), who, while critical of the ulama and of blind imitation of tradition (taqlid), staunchly advocated adoption of sharia and creation of an Islamic state, views that were largely supported by the religious authorities. The jurist Ali Abd Al-Raziq (1888–1966), who could be said to have carried on a more “liberal” tradition and was cited as an influence on Wahid in Indonesia, expressed a contrary view to what became the orthodoxy among state actors, the MB, and the religious authorities. He and his allies

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represent, in Binder’s (1988) words, a “rejected alternative,” one condemned and subject to sanction. Furthermore, although various exponents of “liberal Islam” in Egypt could be described as Egyptian nationalists insofar as they campaigned against Western domination and influence (Sullivan and Abed-Kotob 1999: 10–11), they did not fashion a uniquely “Egyptian Islam” that drew upon the country’s rich history. Faraj Fuda (1946–1992), a thinker who tried to do so by calling for a separation of religion and politics and Muslim-Coptic unity—a perspective that would be rather uncontroversial in democratic Senegal, Mali, or Indonesia—was labeled an apostate by the religious authorities and assassinated by extremists (Hatina 2007). This was indicative of what Bayat (2007: 174, 178) calls the “stagnation of socioreligious thought” in Egypt, in which the impact of liberals and modernists “remained negligible” and “textualist dogma” prevailed over the reformist inclinations of Abduh. Hassan Hanafi (1935–), an Egyptian scholar associated with the idea of an “Islamic left,” pessimistically contended that the dominant “Arab-Islamic heritage” (turath) had been ossified, impervious to diverse interpretations amenable to free thought and democratization (Kurzman 1998b: 12). With respect to the organization of Islam, there was more centralization and state control in Egypt than in most of the other cases in this volume. When Egypt was part of the Ottoman Empire, the state formed an alliance with Sunni ulama to maintain stability and combat threatening or “deviant” interpretations of the faith. Al-Azhar mosque became the center of religious scholarship—both for Egyptians and beyond—and its Grand Mufti was more empowered than perhaps anyone (save the Ottoman caliph himself) to “speak” for Islam. This could, in theory, have offered “Islam” a means to assert itself against the state and, again potentially at least, advance a more liberal agenda. However, the general trend with respect to al-Azhar was that it became, over time, increasingly subject to state control as a result of various moves to strip it of autonomy over finances and personnel decisions. In the late twentieth century, Egyptian leaders relied upon it to issue fatwas to legitimate their policies and delegitimize more “radical” Islamic elements, thereby “virtually incorporating it as an arm of the state” (Moustafa 2000: 9). While al-Azhar did challenge the state in the 1990s on policies such as birth control, it did so from a more conservative perspective and did not agitate for political change. However, “official Islam” is but one of many “Islams” in Egypt, which includes the MB, which has often participated in the political system, and jihadist groups who employ violence (Sullivan and Abed-Kotob 1999; Bayat 2007). The MB, of course, has a long and complicated history: it has been officially banned since 1948 but, at times, tolerated by and even cooperating with the state, whereas at other times it worked with secularoriented groups against the regime. However, this by itself does not mean

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that it has played, with respect to democracy, a constructive role in civil society, as, for example, Muhammadiyah in Indonesia or Sufi orders in Senegal. Writing in the 1990s, Wickham (1994: 508) noted that the issue is not only the autonomy but the agenda of these actors, which, in the case of the MB, was often not to “establish a civil sphere separate from and coexistent with the secular state, but gradually to extend the Islamic domain until it encompasses the state itself.” After 2012, when it gained power, critics suggested that the MB in fact was far more interested in “state capture” and strengthening centralized Islam, such as empowering al-Azhar to give its imprimatur to legislation to ensure compliance with sharia, than in dismantling the state apparatus (Kandil 2014). Egypt does not have strong traditions of secularism similar to Turkey, Senegal, or Mali. Although Islam took a backseat to Arab nationalism and socialism under Gamal Abdel Nasser (1956–1970), Nasser instrumentally employed religion to help legitimize and secure his role. Islamization went much further under his successors. Anwar Sadat (1970–1981) changed the constitution in 1980 to establish sharia as the source for law, and Hosni Mubarak (1981–2011) enhanced the role of ulama from al-Azhar in cultural politics and public morality, expanded funding and personnel for the Ministry of Religious Endowments, and allowed conservative clergy to play a prominent role in the judiciary, education, and the media. The result was “Islamic penetration of the state apparatus,” albeit in a form that ensured that proregime elements were promoted and more autonomous or threatening groups, such as the MB, were excluded (Wickham 2002: 211–212). The mufti of al-Azhar even declared in 2001 that “Egypt has an Islamic state” (Bayat 2007: 167). While the role of religion in post-Mubarak Egypt was debated, it was unlikely that it would become a secular state. The MB refused to endorse this option, and after winning elections in 2012 it faced no political imperative to make such a move. Indeed, since the status quo already mentioned sharia as a source of law, the debate revolved around finding a mechanism that could best ensure, perhaps in a manner akin to the Council of Guardians in Iran, that all laws and actions were sufficiently “Islamic.” In the end, the MB-dominated Constituent Assembly stipulated that scholars from al-Azhar were to be consulted on matters pertaining to sharia. Though knowing what this would have meant in practice was prevented by the 2013 coup, one could easily see how such a system could have been employed to limit both popular sovereignty and minority rights. A clear difference between Egypt and the more successful cases of democratization in this volume concerns timing, as Egypt was largely a police state and lacked meaningful experience with democracy. It had to democratize from scratch amid mobilization from numerous political groups. This is not akin to the gradual or elite-led democratization that

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occurred in Turkey, Mali, or Senegal. This is not to say that countries cannot democratize under these conditions—Poland, Lithuania, the Czech Republic, and Estonia did so after the collapse of communism. However, in all of these countries there was a strong consensus about the country’s future course and new authorities moved quickly to dismantle the previous system. Both were lacking in Egypt, where there was no consensus or trust among important political actors, and elements of the old guard retained positions of power (Landolt and Kubicek 2014). The results—street violence between supporters of various camps, polarization that hampered the drafting of a constitution, weak institutions that could not fulfill popular demands, and military interference in politics, culminating in the 2013 coup that had substantial popular support—were all deleterious with respect to democracy. Finally, regarding the inclusion-moderation hypothesis, Egypt presents a mixed (and still hotly debated) picture. The MB has long been the most significant Islamic-oriented actor, and, as noted, had a varied relationship with the state. It was, at times, tolerated by the government in the 1980s and 1990s, several times fielding “independent” candidates for elections, thus allowing it to emerge in the 2000s as the strongest “opposition party.” It was also active in the media and in Egyptian professional associations, maintaining a much more active and visible presence in society (Wickham 2002). However, the question of the MB’s moderation remained unsettled prior to Mubarak’s fall. While there were some positive signs—the MB renounced violence (in contrast to more extreme groups in Egypt); adopted idioms of democracy, rights, and civil society; and some from the MB cooperated with leftists and secularists—the MB did not fully “moderate” in the sense of moving away from Islamism. Wickham (2002: xi), for example, in a study that is, in many ways, sympathetic to the MB, notes in the early 2000s that its members had “yet to reconcile their call for Islamic law with the full commitment to democracy and political pluralism.” Gumuşcu (2010), comparing the MB to Turkey’s AKP, notes that while the latter included the rising Anatolian bourgeoisie, the former’s primary constituency was the “losers” of the government’s economic reforms, and their class position entrenched more hard-line Islamist positions and worked against moderation and pragmatism. Bayat (2007: 177) pointedly does not label the MB as “post-Islamist,” noting that its leadership remained committed to sharia over democracy and to establishing religious authority as a check over the will of the people. Bokhari and Senzai (2013) label the MB as “participatory Islamist,” suggesting it was willing to play democratic politics while keeping its core agenda. However, after contesting elections and coming to power, the MB displayed little of the moderation of the AKP or, as we shall see, Ennahda, the main Islamic-oriented party in Tunisia: it deployed armed supporters to monitor public morality and break

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up protests; it derided its critics as enemies of Islam; its backers mounted demonstrations praising al-Qaeda; and it pointedly excluded secular and liberal representatives from the process of drafting the constitution, which, as noted, ultimately contained provisions to strengthen the role of Islam in Egyptian politics (Kandil 2014). In Hamid’s (2014) terms, it succumbed to the “temptations of power,” pursuing policies that belied its rhetorical commitment to democracy. Compared with coverage of other countries, the above is admittedly a cursory discussion, and it downplays or excludes other factors (e.g., international influences, the military, institutional factors) that also clearly played a role in the return of authoritarian rule in Egypt (Landolt and Kubicek 2014). Writing at this time, it is all too easy to be pessimistic about Egypt, which shows all the signs of becoming a praetorian regime (Cesari 2014: 274). It bears mentioning, however, that its current (post–2013 coup) lack of democracy has far more to do with the actions of the army than the MB and other Islamist groups, who are now the target of reprisals. What of Tunisia, which, as noted, in 2015 achieved the best FH score ever for political rights for any Muslim-majority country? Assuming that Tunisian democracy is able to survive—a result that is far from guaranteed but seems promising given that the country navigated significant difficulties during the transition to democracy—it would be a signal achievement, arguably the first Arab-Muslim democracy in the modern world, thereby undermining the argument that there may be some sort of “democracy gap” unique to Arab countries (Stepan and Robertson 2003).5 One might therefore ask whether it has charted its own unique path, or are the same variables identified in other Muslim-majority democracies present in Tunisia? Let us first take up the question of a heritage of syncretic or “liberal” Islam. Again, like Egypt, one can point to a complex history that included a strong Sufi presence. However, in the twentieth century prior to independence in 1956, the influence of “liberal Islam” was modest (Dalacoura 2007: 155–160), and its most significant postindependence Islamic-oriented movement—formed first as the Harakat al-Ittijah al-Islami (Islamic Tendency Movement) in 1981 and in 1989 renamed Harakat En-Nahda (Renaissance Movement, hereafter Ennahda)—was inspired by the Islamist Egyptian MB and has traditionally appealed more to the general ArabIslamic heritage of the people than anything specifically “Tunisian” (Torelli 2012). Cavatorta (2015) argues that the positive example of the MB meant that Tunisian Islamists, including those in Ennahda, focused more on the transnational project geared toward the broader Islamic umma and accepted the idea that nation-states are historical contingencies that would one day give way to a pan-Islamic state. Most interestingly, however, this has changed since the overthrow of Zine Ben Ali in 2011 and Ennahda’s (re)emergence as a political force,

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winning the most votes (37 percent) for a Constituent Assembly in 2011. Cavatorta (2015) documents how the party has strived to develop a “postIslamist” orientation, including not only moderating its previous Islamist orientation (developed more below) but also embracing Tunisian reformism, evidenced most clearly in the (re)discovery of the works of Muhammed Tahar Ben Achour (1879–1973), who argued that Islamic law needs to move away from a rigid emphasis on literalism (arguably what Abduh’s contention that Islam needed to return to its primary sources devolved into) and instead adopt a more flexible understanding that would uphold broad principles such as justice and liberty. Islamic-oriented thinkers in Tunisia are thus explicitly opening a historical discussion with the aim, as one acknowledged, of an “Islamic reformation.” Whether or not this is the “true” Islam or something genuinely “Tunisian” is beside the point. What is relevant—and what ties most clearly with the analysis presented in this volume—is that such (re)imagining, tied to particular traditions or histories, opens up space for more “liberal” or “moderate” interpretations to emerge and legitimate themselves. In the Tunisian context specifically, it allows would-be Islamic democrats to claim that they can adhere to a particular path amenable to democracy without surrendering their Islamic credentials. This has far-reaching importance, including undermining traditions of religious hierarchy and centralization that, in the past at least, often worked against liberalization. In the Tunisian case, Islamic learning was centered on the Zaytuna mosque, which, like al-Azhar, had its own mufti who could “speak” for Islam. Although this usually produced conservative outcomes that upheld orthodoxy and the status quo, there were efforts to reform the system. The most notable preindependence one was under Vizier Khayr alDin al-Tunsi (1873–1877), who advocated ideas such as a legislative council to fulfill the Islamic requirement of shura, but also relied upon the ulama to ensure the Islamic character of the state and created a centralized Habus Council (El-Mesawi 2008). Both the French—who formally took control of Tunisia in 1881—and its postindependence government kept this structure, which in 1956 was renamed the Ministry of Religious Affairs. Similar to the Diyanet in Turkey, this body oversaw mosques and hired and licensed all prayer leaders. Unlike in Turkey, however, the president also appointed a Grand Mufti, who was empowered to issue fatwas (legally nonbinding). The overall impact of this system, however, was not to empower Islam, but, as in Turkey, subordinate it to the state and inhibit it from playing an independent role in civil society (Hamdi 2000). In the post–Arab Spring environment, this structure could be redirected to play a stronger role, potentially allying with the state or Islamist parties and advancing a singular interpretation of Islam. However, in the abovementioned interpretation of Islam that Ennahda and other Islamic-oriented

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actors are (re)constructing, there is more emphasis placed on individual freedom and rationality (aql) than obedience to age-old rulings by Islamic jurists (naql). This is an explicit critique of previous traditions that had “suffocated” reformist thought (Cavatorta 2015). Although many Tunisians, to be sure, continue to rely upon Zaytuna to offer advice and direction on what Islam prescribes, at present it does not seem to have enough power to be a major political player. This is true not only because of recent actions and statements by Islamic-oriented thinkers, but also because Tunisia, perhaps more so than any other Arab state, has strong secular traditions. True, Tunisia did not go as far as Turkey or Senegal, in that its 1959 constitution specified Islam as the state religion. However, in terms of government practices, Tunisia, influenced by the French laicité tradition, has been far more secularoriented. Its founding president, Habib Bourguiba (1957–1987), like Atatürk in Turkey, favored cultural Westernization. He abolished sharia courts, pushed through a Personal Status Law that banned polygamy and gave women rights of divorce, closed religious endowments, restricted wearing of the headscarf, and “debilitated the ulama” by placing them under state control (Esposito and Voll 2001: 92). Islam remained a cultural marker and, under both Bourguiba and his successor, Ben Ali (1987–2011), it was occasionally employed by the state to bolster its legitimacy. However, during this time it remained too secular and insufficiently Islamic for opponents such as Ennahda. For example, the Rashid Ghannoushi, the latter’s leader, declared in 1988 that the Tunisian Constitution had two main defects: no statement that laws must be compatible with sharia and no Islamic Council to ensure said compatibility (Hamdi 2000: 126). The question of secularism has been revisited since 2011. However, the outcome is quite different compared with Egypt. This is evidenced, inter alia, in the fact that in October 2011 elections for a Constituent Assembly Ennahda received only 37 percent of the vote—a plurality, but not the majority received in 2012 by Islamist parties in Egypt. While the declaration of Islam as a state religion (kept in Article 1 of the constitution approved by the Constituent Assembly in 2014) potentially gives some room for Islamist actors to push for measures such as sharia—Ghannoushi himself suggested in October 2011 that a “mild form” of sharia was desirable (Torelli 2012: 76)—he and other Ennahda leaders backed away from this as it proved polarizing and unpopular. Draft versions of the constitution that included sharia were dropped, and the document approved in 2014 largely retained the status quo with respect to Islam, although provisions in Article 6, in which the state pledges both to spread “values of moderation and tolerance” as well as “protect religion” and “to prevent the sacred from being attacked” could be used to limit freedom of expression. Cesari (2014: 243–252) catalogs the various debates over the role of Islam in politics and

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suggests that because there is no sizable non-Muslim minority, it is a virtual given that Islam will establish itself as the “hegemonic religion” and that Tunisia is poised to become, at best, an “unsecular democracy,” one in which the state will be able, if it desires, to insert religion into the public sphere, including limiting certain forms of expression and behavior. Certainly there have been cases of this—in May 2012, for example, the owner of a private television station was fined for showing the animated film Persepolis, which allegedly undermined “proper morals”6—but there have also been countervailing trends, including, most significantly, victory in 2014 elections by more secular-oriented parties, which may temper the state’s desire to intervene in matters to “defend” Islam. There is no denying that Tunisia, like Egypt, has had to build democracy largely from scratch and that Islamic-oriented mobilization is concurrent with democratization. As in Egypt, there is distrust among political actors—including Ennahda, whose true intentions are subject to debate. The country has also witnessed political violence, including assassinations of political figures from the more secularist camp. That said, Tunisia also has had certain advantages, a prime one being that no group has been able to claim a majority and thus fall prey, as arguably the MB did, to the “temptations of power” and short-circuit democracy (Landolt and Kubicek 2014). Tunisian political parties have had to work together on difficult projects such as crafting a new constitution. True, there was no guarantee that they would be able to work together. However, they did so, evidenced most clearly in passage of a democratic-oriented constitution and holding of competitive, free and fair elections in 2014 whose results were respected by all parties. One key to this success, as has been suggested at various places in the narrative, has been the moderation of Ennahda, allowing it to present itself as a democratic-oriented, “post-Islamist” party that has jettisoned much of its previous agenda and is committed to working with other groups and establishing democratic institutions. From where this moderation comes, however, can be debated. Some might contend that this is the result of its post-2011 inclusion into the political process, in which it was given a chance to compete for power through democratic means and then found it had to moderate because it lacked a majority to impose its agenda on Tunisia. In other words, inclusion led to moderation. However, Ennahda’s leaders were rethinking their positions well before 2011, at a time when they (and most other opposition groups) were excluded from the political process. Indeed, with a brief exception in the late 1980s, Islamic-oriented actors were suppressed. Candidates from Ennahda did compete in elections in 1988, but afterwards the movement was banned and many of its leaders, including Ghannoushi, were driven into exile. As early as 1993, Ghannoushi suggested that if democracy

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means free elections, alternation of different groups in power, and respect for freedom and human rights, then “Muslims will find nothing in their religion to oppose democracy” (quoted in Esposito and Voll 2001: 114). While he did endorse sharia as an institution that “transcends all [human] laws,” he also maintained that Islamic-oriented actors could work with secular groups on common goals (e.g., removing a dictator) (Ghannouchi 2007). One writer opined that Ennahda’s leaders had become “democrats within Islamism” (Tamimi 2001). In 2005, Ennahda, still banned, joined forces with secular dissidents in the prodemocratic 18 October (2005) Collectif. In the run-up to the 2011 elections, Ennahda backed away from insisting on adoption of sharia, and Ghannoushi has spoken favorably of the “Turkish model,” upheld women’s rights and keeping Tunisia’s Personal Status Laws, and claimed that “democracy is the only way to reach power and to stay in power.”7 In this formulation, it was exclusion, as well as recognition that Islamism had limited appeal—in both cases similar to Turkey’s AKP— that produced moderation. Regardless of the reasons, there is widespread recognition that Ennahda has significantly “moderated” itself, abandoning past positions that were similar to the MB’s. The question, however—one that will be significant in terms of Tunisia’s future development—is how sincere and lasting this conversion is. Francesco Cavatorta (2015), who has conducted interviews with many leaders of Ennahda, suggests that the party’s “postIslamist turn” is not a pragmatic, tactical move; it is the “product of a longer-running engagement with the ideological underpinnings of a renewed Islamism” that is rooted in the Tunisian context. For him, Ghannoushi’s claim that Tunisia is an Islamic state because it guarantees liberty and justice is less a “rhetorical device” and more a “product of an important evolution that has taken place through the rethinking of religious categories.” Not all observers are convinced. Critics accuse Ennahda of conducting a “double discourse” and cite examples such as calls for jihad and a “new caliphate” from some Ennahda officials and a leaked videotape in which Ghannoushi gives advice to Salafist activists and appears to endorse gradual creation of an Islamic state (Göksel 2014). Unlike in Senegal or Turkey, openly Islamist parties will likely compete for the votes of pious Muslims, and their commitment to democracy may be far more questionable. Ennahda may not want to lose votes on this flank and could be tempted to try to play the religion card more aggressively in future elections. Alternatively, it could also find working in a coalition with Islamist parties an attractive option. To date, however, this has not occurred. To the contrary, in 2014 legislative elections, the secular coalition Nidaa Tounes (Tunisian Call) prevailed with a plurality (37.6 percent) of the vote, defeating Ennahda, which

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garnered only 27.8 percent. Analysts blamed Ennahda’s defeat on its inability to solve the country’s economic problems and the perception that it was more lax with respect to violent extremists. Ennahda, however, accepted defeat, and Ghannoushi even conceded that time out of power could be “salutary.”8 It would be hard to believe that it would find an advantage in returning to a more rigid “Islamist” position. Furthermore, Ennahda honored its pledge not to run a candidate in presidential elections, which were won by Beji Caid Essebsi, who served as foreign minister under Ben Ali and was a founder of Nidaa Tounes. While there are still numerous problems in the country, including economic difficulties, corruption, and some radical, violent groups, one can remain guardedly optimistic about Tunisia. Democracy, Liberal Democracy, or “Muslim Democracy”? Throughout this work, democracy has been generally employed in a minimalist, electoral sense. Countries that have free elections, in which there is a sufficient degree of respect for political rights and civil liberties to allow opponents of the government to mount meaningful political competition, have been considered democratic. As we have seen, some of the cases in this volume might be considered seriously flawed or limited democracies, as they are beset by numerous problems (e.g., corruption and lack of rule of law, weak parties and political institutions, instability and violence). Notwithstanding the “perfect” democracy (e.g., a 10 on Polity) or freedom (a 1 on FH) scores garnered by some countries in the world (e.g., Canada, Costa Rica, Australia, Norway), there is no such thing as a “perfect” democracy. All will, for example, fall short on maximalist goals or definitions that suggest democratic governments perfectly represent what the people in a given polity prefer. That said, one can talk about various subtypes of democracy, including majoritarian, deliberative, consensus, and liberal varieties. While there may be overlap between some of these, the predominant form in many Western countries—and often the “ideal form” that is advocated by both elites and voters—is a liberal variety that limits government power and tries to maximize individual freedom (Hashemi 2009). Of course, this too is an ideal type, and one can mention numerous ways (e.g., government spying on citizens, state economic policies, treatment of minorities and immigrants) that may limit individual freedoms and/or foster “big government” that intrudes on people’s lives. In some cases, government policy, even in ostensibly secular countries, may also have an implicit religious basis (e.g., restrictions on abortion, bans on gay marriage or homosexual activity, “blue laws” to restrict sales of alcohol on Sundays). However, the norm and consequently the standard for what is judged to be democratic in Western coun-

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tries is oriented toward liberal democracy, including respect for minority and women’s rights and a general assumption that the government should guarantee religious freedom but not base its policies on religious norms or law.9 Such concerns, for example, figure prominently in FH’s rubric. As we have seen, many of our “Muslim-majority democracies” have rather unimpressive FH scores. One might therefore call them electoral or even illiberal democracies. However, in addition to some of the problems listed above (e.g., rule of law) that have no clear link to Islam, we have encountered shortcomings with respect to liberal standards that do have a much clearer Islamic character. These include blasphemy laws, bans on homosexuality, treatment of women, and restrictions on activities of religious minorities. While these actions may not be enough to disqualify them as democracies, particularly in Polity’s formulation, they often, in Cesari’s (2014: 264) terms, violate “freedom of self” and offer a different “paradigm” of democracy than the Western, liberal standard. She consequently labels this as “Muslim” or “unsecular” democracy, and presents it, in comparison with the Western form, as a more limited or restricted form of democracy.10 Not all, however, are so critical of Muslim democracy, at least in how it could potentially take shape. Feldman (2003), for example, argues that since Muslims remain (compared to most nominal Christians in the West) religious and Islam has been politicized and is concerned with many social and political issues, it is natural that in democratic Muslim-majority countries Islam will play a role in the political realm. He suggests, however, that an “Islamic democracy” (his term) can emerge in which the preferences of the majority are taken into account (including that sharia can be utilized as a basis for law) but that minority rights are protected (e.g., non-Muslims would not be subject to all elements of sharia) and institutions are flexible enough to allow for changes if demanded by the public (e.g., sharia is in a sense subject to ijtihad and the vote). Hashemi (2009), while observing that some form of secularism is necessary for liberal democracy and that Western-style secularism often has a negative connotation in Muslim societies, holds out hope that Muslims can develop an indigenous form of secularism and use this as a basis to support democracy. Whereas Feldman’s and Hashemi’s presentations are, in many respects, more thought experiments than a thorough examination of on-the-ground developments (Hashemi [2009] devotes some attention to Turkey and Indonesia, which are presented as evolving models), Nasr (2005) is more explicit and optimistic about “Muslim democracy,” which he sees taking shape in several countries, including Turkey, Malaysia, Indonesia, and Pakistan (prior to the 1999 coup). Similar to Bayat’s (2007, 2013a) “postIslamists,” he notes that “Muslim democrats” deemphasize sharia as the primary basis for law and instead focus on practical concerns such as build-

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ing electoral coalitions to win office.11 By the same token, they are not wholly secular or even, for that matter, liberal; indeed, he suggests that emergence of “liberal Islam” is a “phantom hope” (Nasr 2005: 13). A more likely model, in his view, is Turkey’s AKP, a “conservative democratic” party whose success is grounded more in its economic policies than its embrace of an Islamic agenda, but finds use of “traditional values” useful in distinguishing itself from its more secular-oriented rivals. Nasr acknowledges that “Muslim democracy” does not rest on a coherent ideology and is still a new phenomenon, but he sees some parallels with the early period of “Christian democracy” in Western Europe. In this respect, he is fundamentally optimistic, suggesting that “it is the imperative of competition inherent in democracy that will transform the unsecular tendencies of Muslim Democracy into long-term commitment to democratic values” (2005: 15). Writing nearly a decade later, Cesari (2014) takes up this same topic but, as suggested, with decidedly less optimism. She has yet to see this transformation, as “unsecular politics” has taken hold, in her view, in a number of ostensibly “successful” democratic states such as Indonesia, where the government has been pressured to restrict the rights and activities of religious minorities and sharia law in Aceh has created problems for women. While she acknowledges that “Muslim democrats” may embrace electoral competition and may even eschew adoption of sharia, this does not mean that religion has been exorcised from the political arena or that it will not be utilized to limit “freedom of self.” The result is “unsecular democracy”—a phenomenon not limited to Muslim countries—in which “individual freedoms are limited on religious grounds” (2014: 240). Taking these perspectives into account with respect to this broadly comparative study, two questions emerge. First, can we, like Nasr (2005), identify “Muslim democracy”? Second, if so, are we more inclined to celebrate it or to see it as a limited, if not deformed, subspecies of democracy? With respect to the first question, one can point to both similarities and differences among the seven primary countries studied in this volume. With respect to the former, one can agree with Nasr that there often is emphasis on moral/political issues by governing parties, which tend to have a centerright orientation12 and explicitly (e.g., in Malaysia or Pakistan) or implicitly (e.g., in Turkey) employ Islamic rhetoric and symbols. Most commonly, these issues concern education and family law, the latter of which is a welldeveloped area of fiqh and, judging from data in Table 1.5, is an area that many Muslims agree should be administered by religious authorities. Moreover, as we have seen, Islamic-oriented actors have often benefited from democratization, meaning that they are advancing positions that do enjoy wide support in a broad sector of society. Given this connection between democratization and success of Islamic-oriented actors—and, moreover, the latter’s embrace of a majoritarian notion of democracy, well-captured by

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Erdoğan’s statement at the opening of this volume—one can understand how “Muslim democracy” might be seen both as, in Nasr’s words, a real “trend” (2005: 17) and as something distinct from liberal conceptions of democracy. While we can agree with the point that these “Muslim democracies” are, in some ways, not liberal, do they stand as a distinct category on their own? One point worth (re)making is that use of religious rhetoric or principles in policy debates or even in law is by no means confined to Muslimmajority states—thereby raising the issue of what is uniquely “Muslim” about “Muslim democracy.” It is also important to recognize that the effort to put all of our cases in the same category glosses over significant differences. Indeed, while it is always useful to look for similarities—and throughout the case studies we have made appropriate comparisons—it is clear that there are wide discrepancies in how Islam is interpreted and deployed politically across our cases. In some, it plays a very explicit role (e.g., Pakistan and Malaysia), in others it emerges as a counterdiscourse to the dominant secular paradigm (e.g., Indonesia and Turkey), and in others it plays only a modest role or manifests itself only on some issues (e.g., Senegal and Mali). Much of this is conditioned by local cultural and institutional factors. In short, just as this volume rejects defining “Islam” in one particular way, it is skeptical of efforts to create a definitive concept of “Muslim democracy” that holds across a wide range of cases. What can be said, however, is that the role of Islam in Muslimmajority democracies, to return to my own preferred term, is variable and contested. We have seen how many thinkers and political actors have argued that Islam can be understood as supportive of most (if not all) features of modern democracy. Many of these ideas have taken hold in the political realm and animate democratic institutions. Few, for example, dispute the principle of democracy as bestowing legitimacy upon government. Iranian-style institutions giving clergy the right to veto insufficiently “Islamic” legislation or candidates have not been copied elsewhere. Public opinion surveys show Muslims want democracy (Pew Forum 2013). Constitutions, even those that declare Islam the state religion, generally uphold support for non-Muslim and women’s rights, although in practice, to be sure, these areas remain problematic even in democratic states. While on the one hand this evidence might be used to blame “Islam” for these shortcomings, it is also worth noting that many within Islam, such as SIS in Malaysia or various “post-Islamist” figures in Pakistan, are campaigning for a more democratic manifestation of Islam based on a rereading or reinterpretation of Islamic texts and traditions. On this point, one can perhaps agree with Nasr (2005) that since the emergence of democracy in Muslim societies is a relatively new phenomenon, the role that Islam should play is subject to contestation. We see this

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throughout our cases, which on the one hand gives hope (e.g., Muslim countries can be democratic) but also generates worries that over the longer term the emergence of more political Islam, particularly as it gains power, will invariably compromise democracy. This is a widespread concern, as many if not all of the Muslim-majority democracies examined in this volume remain “works in progress”—perhaps Indonesian and Senegalese democracy can be considered closest to being consolidated. However, while the headlines that capture attention—the forceful response to the Gezi Park protests in Turkey; sectarian violence in Indonesia, Pakistan, and Bangladesh; the coup in Mali; and transition of post–Arab Spring Egypt into a police state—certainly can give one cause for pessimism, closer examination of these countries also reveals many Islamic-oriented parties and individuals committed to democracy (as well as secular-oriented actors who are not).13 Unabashed Islamists show little sign of making an electoral breakthrough in most countries in this volume; Pakistan may be the greatest exception. Each can draw upon more pluralistic and tolerant traditions, lack centralized religious hierarchies, and/or possess significant secular belief patterns and structures to limit Islam’s appeal and scope. This does not mean religion will be politically irrelevant, only that it will be one factor, among many, in a country’s political life. The same, of course, holds true for many countries in the world, suggesting that if Muslim countries are somehow fated to develop “unsecular democracies,” they are hardly alone.14 This type of discussion, however, if one is not careful, can quickly degenerate into one that focuses on what is “wrong” with Islam or, perhaps, religion in general. This is, as stated at the outset, not the point of this study. Thus, to conclude on a generally positive note, one can note that democracy is not foreign to the Muslim world or inherently incompatible with Islam. In many Muslim countries, democracy as a goal has widespread legitimacy and support, commanding lip service if not genuine commitment to its principles. While there are important setbacks (e.g., Egypt), more countries are being added to the list of Muslim-majority democracies. Within a decade, an updated version of this study might include Sierra Leone, Burkina Faso, Niger, Kyrgyzstan, and Lebanon. They may draw on different traditions or factors to help “make” Islam and democracy compatible. The larger point, however, is that Islam can and is being utilized in such a way, giving one hope that if today’s Muslim-majority democracies succeed, more will indeed follow in their path. Notes 1. Some groups do campaign for this, sometimes using cloaked language to avoid sanctions, but they have not won substantial support.

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2. It earned a 1, the highest possible score (and the only Muslim country to ever receive a 1 on either of FH’s indexes) for political rights, and a 3, for civil liberties, yielding an overall score of 2, equaled only by Mali (2003–2006) and Senegal (2013–2014). See FH, “Freedom in the World 2015,” at https://freedom house.org/sites/default/files/01152015_FIW_2015_final.pdf, accessed 27 February 2015. Tunisia was still deemed too much in transition in 2013 to have a Polity score. 3. In no other country examined in this volume has an Islamist party taken the lead with respect to democratization. The closest case, perhaps, is the AKP in Turkey, which does not characterize itself as Islamist and has certainly not backed policies that are the hallmark of Islamists (e.g., adoption of sharia) but, at the same time, is also accused of consolidating and abusing its power in a manner detrimental to democracy. 4. This includes figures such as Sayyid Qutb (1906–1966) in the MB and contemporary Salafi groups, although his connection with the latter is much more dubious (Lauziere 2010). 5. Lebanon was rated “free” by FH from 1972 to 1974, but because of dated census data, during this period it cannot be labeled officially a Muslim-majority country. Since 2005, it has garnered a 6, the lowest score to qualify as a democracy under Polity’s rubric, but its FH scores (5/4 as of 2013) remain low. 6. “Tunisian TV Chief Fined for Airing ‘Persepolis,’” France 24, 3 May 2012, available at http://tinyurl.com/mqyssvu, accessed 27 February 2015. 7. See Lynch 2011; Torelli 2012; and Göksel 2014. 8. “Islamist Party in Tunisia Concedes to Secularists,” New York Times, 27 October 2014, and “The Secularists Have It,” The Economist, 1 November 2014. 9. I realize some might think this too rosy a picture, and I am fully aware of political leaders and parties in some countries (particularly, but not only, the United States) that embrace a religious agenda. I am also aware that different parties have different prescriptions for how to best address minority or women’s rights. 10. Hashemi (2009) presents an alternative interpretation, focusing on secularization in Turkey and Indonesia and offering hope that Muslims can develop their own form of secularism. 11. In Pakistan and Malaysia, of course, sharia is a basis for law and some of Nasr’s “Muslim democrats” do embrace this. 12. Left-wing parties, as we have seen, are more the exception, and many of them (e.g., the PPP in Pakistan, the AL in Bangladesh) have been compelled to accept at least some features of politicized Islam. 13. Hashemi (2009: x) thus makes the important point that the equations “secularists-equals-good guys” and “Islamists-equals-bad-guys” are “simplistic and distorting.” 14. One is reminded of Gandhi’s quote: “Those who thought that religion could be separate from politics understand neither religion nor politics.”

Acronyms

ABIM ADEMA

AKP AL AMUPI

ANAP AP AQIM BA BKA BN BNP CHP CIA CII DP EU FH FP FPI GDP HCIM ICMI

ICT IJI JI JIB JIL MB MG

Angkatan Belia Islam Malaysia (Malaysian Islamic Youth Movement) Alliance pour la Démocratie au Mali (Alliance for Democracy in Mali) Adalet ve Kalkınma Partisi (Justice and Development Party) Awami League L’association Malienne pour L’Unité et le Progress de l’Islam (Malian Association for Unity and the Progress of Islam) Anavatan Partisi (Motherland Party) Adalet Partisi (Justice Party) al-Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb Barisan Alteranif (Alternative Front) Bangladesh Khilafat Andolon (Bangladesh Caliphate Movement) Barisan Nasional (National Front) Bangladeshi National Party Cumhuriyet Halk Partisi (Republican People’s Party) Central Intelligence Agency Council of Islamic Ideology Demokrat Partisi (Democratic Party) European Union Freedom House Fazilet Partisi (Virtue Party) Front Pembela Islam (Islamic Defenders Front) gross domestic product Haut Conseil Islamique du Mali (High Islamic Council of Mali) Ikatan Cendekiawan Muslim Se-Indonesia (Indonesian Association of Muslim Intellectuals) International Crimes Tribunal Islami Jomhuri Ittihad (Islamic Democratic Alliance) Jamaat-e Islami Jamaat-e Islami Bangladesh Jaringan Islam Liberal (Liberal Islam Network) Muslim Brotherhood Milli Görüş (National View) 299

300

Acronyms

MHP ML MMA MMI MNP MSP MUI NEP NGO NU NWFP PAN PAS PBB PD PDI PDI-P

PDS PKB PKK PKS PMI PML PML-N PNI PPP PPP

PPP PR PSS RP SIS TIS UCM UDPM

UK UMNO UN UPS US-RDA

VA

Milliyetçi Hareket Partisi (Nationalist Action Party) Muslim League Mutahida Majlis e Ama (United Council for Action) Majelis Mujahidin Indonesia (Council of Indonesian Mujahidin) Milli Nizam Partisi (National Order Party) Milli Selamet Partisi (National Salvation Party) Majelis Ulama Indonesia (Council of Indonesian Religious Scholars) New Economic Policy nongovernmental organization Nahdlatul Ulama (Revival of Religious Scholars) Northwest Frontier Province Partai Amanat Nasional (National Mandate Party) Parti Islam Se-Malaya (Pan-Malayan Islamic Party) Partai Bulan Bintang (Crescent Moon and Star Party) Partai Demokrasi (Democratic Party) Partai Demokrasi Indonesia (Indonesian Democratic Party) Partai Demokrasi Indonesia–Perjuangan (Indonesian Democratic Party–Struggle) Parti Démocratique Sénégalais (Senegalese Democratic Party) Partai Kebangkitan Bangsa (Party of National Renaissance) Partiya Karkerên Kurdistani (Kurdistan Workers’ Party) Partai Keadilan Sejahtera (Prosperity and Justice Party) Partai Muslimin Indonesia (Indonesian Muslim Party) Pakistan Muslim League Pakistan Muslim League–Nawaz Partai Nasional Indonesia (Indonesian Nationalist Party) Pakistan People’s Party Partai Persatuan dan Pembangunan (United Development Party [Indonesia]) purchasing power parity Pakatan Rakyat (People’s Alliance) Parti Socialiste du Sénégal (Socialist Party of Senegal) Refah Partisi (Welfare Party) Sisters in Islam Türk-İslam Sentezi (Turkish-Islamic Synthesis) Union Culturelle Musulmane (Muslim Cultural Union) Union Démocratique du Peuple Malien (Democratic Union of the Malian People) United Kingdom United Malays National Organization United Nations Union Progressiste Sénégalaise (Sengalese Progressive Union) Union Soudanaise du Rassemblement Démocratique Afrique (Sudanese Union–African Democratic Rally) Voice and Accountability Index (World Bank)

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Index

Abassid Empire, 119 Abduh, Muhammad, 209–210 Abdülhamid II, 37 Abdullah Badawi, 110–111 Abortion ban, 75–76, 293–294 Aceh province (Indonesia), 212, 237–238, 242(n9) Adat (local customs and rules), 208–209, 242(n10) Adultery, penalty for: Bangladesh, 177(n35); evidence of liberal Islam in Turkey, Indonesia, and Senegal, 39(table); liberal Islam in Pakistan, Bangladesh, Indonesia and Malaysia, 144(table); Pakistan, 131, 138, 147(n27); Quranic interpretation, 24; Turkey’s political reforms, 67. See also Hudud (punishment) laws; Moral behavior al-Afghani, Jamal ad-Din, 209–210 Afghanistan, 117, 132 African Islam: Muslim-majority democracies, 3; Senegal’s Islamic-state cooperation, 258–259 African socialism, 251 Afrobarometer survey: Malian Islam, 191, 203(n34); religious leaders influencing Senegal’s elections, 263; Senegalese support for democratization, 270(n4) Ahl-i-Hadith movement, 121, 125 Ahmadi faith: Bangladeshi violence against, 173; creation of Pakistan, 123; in democratic Indonesia, 233–234; founding, 145(n12); Indonesian

discrimination against, 232; Munir Report, 145(n16); Pakistani discrimination against, 129, 131, 134, 140–141, 147(n48) Akbar (emperor), 119 Albania: Freedom House and Polity measures, 6(table); Islam-democracy connection, 32–33(n16) Alcohol consumption, 24, 57, 131, 200, 236, 272(n31), 293 Alevis, 62–63, 73, 78(n6), 79(nn19,23), 80(n56); Turkey, 53 Ali, Mukti, 220 Ali, Syed Ameer, 154 Aligarh movement (Pakistan), 120–121, 125, 137, 154 Alliance for Democracy in Mali (ADEMA), 189 Al-Qaeda: Mali, 199 Al-Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb (AQIM), 189 Alternative Front (BA, Malaysia), 110 Anatolian tigers, 55 Anatolianism, 49 Ancar Dine organization, 186, 202(n18) Anglo-Dutch Treaty (1824), 86 Anticommunist sentiment, 49; Indonesia under Suharto, 214–218; Indonesia under Sukarno, 213–214; Turkey, 51 Anti-Semitism, 49 Anwar Ibrahim, 98–99, 102, 106–107, 110, 277 Arab Human Development Report, 27

327

328

Index

Arab Islam, 276; compatibility with democracy, 2; Pakistan’s conquest, 118–119 Arab Spring: hopes for democratization, 275–276; issues arising from, 31; postprotest democratic outlook, 3; Turkey as democratic model, 1 Arınç Bülent, 68, 70 Arvasi, Ahmet, 50 Ashraf (Bengali elites), 153, 155 Asian financial crisis (1997–1998), 104 The Asian Renaissance (Anwar), 102 Asian tigers, Malaysia as, 96 Asian values, 102–103, 107 Asri Muda, 98–99 Assassination: Bangladesh’s Mujib, 157, 159; Bangladesh’s Zia, 159; Benazir Bhutto, 137, 140 Atatürk, Mustafa Kemal: centralized religious authority, 278; foundations of secularism, 37–40; Sufi support during the war of independence, 45; Sukarno’s secularist vision, 211; Turkish Islamization after the death of, 43 Atrap (lower Bengali classes), 153 Aurangzeb (Mughal ruler), 119 Authoritarianism: Bangladesh as hybrid regime, 152; Indonesia under Sukarno and Suharto, 205; Indonesians’ resistance to Pancasila, 216–217; Islam’s incompatibility with, 22; Malaysia, 83–84; Malaysia’s National Front, 95; Mali under Keita and Traoré, 184–186; Pakistan under Musharraf, 136–139; Pakistan under Zia, 131; Pakistani Islamist groups advocating democratization, 124; postcolonial Mali, 192–193; Senegal under Senghor, 251; Turkey, 39–40; Turkey’s Gezi Park protests, 72; Turkish secularism, 279 al-Awa, Muhammed Salim, 23–24 Awami League (AL, Pakistan), 128, 156, 160–163, 163(table), 165, 172, 174, 176(n15) Awami Muslim League, 156 Azad, Abul-Kalam, 121 Azam, Golam, 166–167, 177(n39) Bali, democratic Indonesian legislation, 232 Bamba, Amadou, 246, 263

Bangladesh: commitment to secularism and democracy, 157–158; comparison of Muslim-majority democracies, 7(table); creation of, 128; democratic development, 152(fig.); democratic shortcomings, 170–175; Freedom House and Polity measures, 6(table); human development, 175(n3); initial secularism under Mujib, 158–159; Islam and state policy, 165–167; Islamist challenge to secularism, 167– 170; Islamist groups challenging state authority, 279; military rule and Islamization, 159–163; political history, 30, 151–157; profiles of Muslim-majority democracies, 16(table); secession from Pakistan, 117; secular-religious coexistence, 279–280; support by Muslims for sharia and powers for religious judges, 23(table); year of first sustained democratic experience, 29(table). See also Secularism (Bangladesh) Bangladesh Caliphate Movement (BKA), 161–162 Bangladeshi National Party (BNP), 159– 163, 163(table), 165, 167, 169–171, 174 Barelvi movement (Pakistan), 125, 145(n15) Bayar, Celal, 41 Ben Achour, Muhammed Tahar, 289 Ben Ali, Zine, 288–290 Bengal, 153–156, 162, 175(n4). See also Bangladesh Bengali Islam, 153, 162 Bengali Language Movement, 156 Benin, 201(n4) Bhashani, Maulana, 156 Bhutto, Benazir, 132–135, 137, 140, 146(n21), 147(nn34,36) Bhutto, Zulfikar, 128–130, 156 Bibi, Asia, 141 Birth control policy, 162, 216–217, 285 Black Turks, 71 Blasphemy laws, 294; after Arab Spring, 1, 131; Bangladesh, 165, 168, 173; Indonesia, 232; Pakistan, 131, 134, 138, 141, 143 Book bans, 24 Bourguiba, Habib, 290 Britain: centralizing religious institutions, 277–278; colonial control of Bengal,

Index

153–154; indirect rule in Malaysia, 86, 114(n5); Malay Union, 88; Malaysia’s independence from, 30; Pakistan’s vice-regal system, 127; partition of Bengal, 154–156; replacing the Mughal Empire in Pakistan, 120. See also Colonialism Bulaç, Ali, 58–59 Burkina Faso, 6(table) Business sector: Turkey’s Islamic-oriented ventures, 55 Büyük Doğu (Great Orient) journal, 49

Caliphate, restoration of, 229 Caretaker government (Bangladesh), 163, 170–171, 174 Caste systems: precolonial Senegal, 247– 248 Catholicism, 11, 232, 241, 246, 249, 252, 263, 281 Censorship, 24, 103, 106 Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), 214 Centralized religious institutions: decentralized, nonhierarchical institutions, 277–278; factor in democratization, 11–12; Indonesia’s debate over decentralization, 230–231; inhibiting Pakistan’s democratization, 121; Malaysia’s Islamization, 100– 104; Senegal’s democratization, 257; Tunisia, 289 Chemical weapons, 81(n63) Child marriage, 108 Chinese population: Indonesia’s antiChinese riots, 225; Malaysia, 89, 91, 102–103, 110. See also Minorities, non-Muslim Christian democracy, 295 Christian liberation theology, 224 Christian population: Indonesia’s Jakarta Charter angering, 211–212; Senegal under Wade, 256 Civil Islam: Turkey, 59–63, 71 Civil service: Malaysia, 87, 91 Civil society: Bangladesh’s secularists, 166–167; concerns over Malaysia’s Islamization, 107; empowering Indonesia’s, 222; Indonesians united against the New Order, 217–218; Malian family law reform, 297–298; ousting Bangladesh’s Ershad, 165; Pakistan’s militant Islamization, 139; Senegal’s Islamic base for, 259–260;

329

Senegal’s Mourides, 262–265; strength of Indonesia’s, 242(n28); Turkey’s civil Islam, 62–63; Turkey’s political reforms, 66, 68 Class divisions: Bengali identity, 155; Turkey’s Welfare Party connecting to the underclass, 56 Clientelism: Bangladesh’s democracy, 164; Senegal, 251–252, 259, 261–262 Clinton, Hillary, 206 Coalition governments: Malaysia, 90, 90(table), 95; Tunisia, 292–293; Turkey, 51, 56–57 Coercive consociationalism, 95 Cold War: Turkey’s modernization, 41 Colonialism: Bangladesh and Pakistan, 151; Bengal, 175(n4); decline of Malaysian democracy, 83–84; Dutch colonialism in Indonesia, 208–209; introduction of secularism, 12–13; Islam and colonial rule in Senegal, 247–250; Pakistan’s anticolonial cause, 122; profiles of Muslimmajority democracies, 16(table); Senegal’s readiness for democracy, 245; Wahhabi Islam, 183–184. See also Britain Communism, 33(n16); Malaysia’s communist insurgency, 88–89; Turkey’s modernization under CHP, 41–42 Comoros, 6(table) Compatibility of democracy and Islam, 9– 10; Arab Islam, 2; gender roles and gender equality, 27; interpretations of Islam and conceptualizations of democracy, 18–19; negative correlation of, 4; popular sovereignty and, 20–22; presumption of incompatibility, 1–3; questioning Turkey’s AKP’s commitment to democracy, 30; sharia and political freedoms, 22–24 Competitive authoritarian states: Malaysia, 83–84 Consensus democracy, 293 Consociational democracy, Malaysia, 89– 93, 95 Constitution of Medina, 220 Constitutions: Islamization of Bangladesh’s, 160; Jakarta Charter, 211–212; Pakistan’s competing visions of Islam and diversity, 124; Pakistan’s

330

Index

military government, 126; Turkey’s reforms, 53–54 Conversion to Islam: Bengal, 153; as a duty to Malians, 194; Indonesia’s history, 207; Malaysia’s early experiences, 85–86; Malaysia’s suppression of minorities, 111; Mughal Empire, 119; Pakistan’s religious history, 119; Senegal, 247–249 Corruption: Bangladesh under Ershad, 162–163; Bangladesh under Mujib, 159; Bangladeshi Islamization, 171; Bangladesh’s democracy, 164; concerns over Malaysia’s Islamization, 106; implicating Turkey’s Erdoğan, 73–74; Malaysia under Abdullah, 111; Malaysia’s consociational democracy, 92; Mali, 185–186, 189; Nursi’s view of Islamic political thought, 47; Pakistan, 127, 136, 140; Senegal, 255– 256; Turkey, 1, 76 Cosmetic democracy: Bangladesh, 152 Council of Indonesian Religious Scholars (MU), 216–217, 232–233 Council of Islamic Ideology (CII), 137– 138 Coups d’état and countercoups: Bangladesh, 30, 151, 157, 159; Egypt in 2013, 287; Indonesia, 205, 214; Mali, 179–181, 185–186, 189, 199– 200; ousting Pakistan’s Sharif, 136; Pakistan’s military rule, 126, 129–132; Pakistan’s Musharraf, 136–139; Turkey, 50, 53–54 Creationism, 55 Creeping Islamism, 69 Crescent Moon and Star Party (PBB, Indonesia), 229–230, 238 Cronyism: Indonesia’s Suharto, 221–222, 225; Pakistan, 134 Cultural Islam: Bengal, 154 Customary law: Pakistan’s history, 120 Czech Republic, 287

Dakwah (call to action) organizations: Malaysia, 96–97, 100 Darul Arqam (House of Arqam, Malaysia), 97, 101, 115(n18) Darul Uloom Deoband school (Pakistan), 120–121 Data sets, 4–7, 32(nn9,11) Death penalty: Bangladesh’s war crimes tribunal, 173, 175(n11); for blasphemy, 33(n25), 131; evidence of liberal Islam

in Turkey, Indonesia, and Senegal, 39(table) Debansaan (nationalism), 210 Decentralized despotism: Senegal, 261 Delhi, Sultanate of, 119 Deliberative democracy, 293 Democracy: Bangladesh’s antireligious secularism, 158–159; consociational democracy in Malaysia, 90–93; decentralized, nonhierarchical religious institutions, 277–278; defining, 18; deterioration of Bangladesh’s, 174; factors in the rise of, 276; French rule in Senegal, 249– 250; Indonesia’s Amien Rais and Muhammadiyah advocating for, 221– 222; Indonesia’s Wahid advocating for Muslim liberal democracy, 222–224; Islamic reentry into Turkish democracy, 29–30; Islamic role in, 134, 257–267, 296–297; Malaysians advocating a more democratic Islam, 105–107; Malians’ preference for, 201(n6); Mali’s family law reform, 198; national Islam developing as response to, 277; Pakistan under Bhutto, 128–129; Pakistan’s Islamic modernism, 125–127; popular sovereignty and, 20–22; postindependence Senegal, 250–257; reconstructing to adapt to Islam, 19; role of secularism, 278–280; Senegal under Diouf, 253–255; Senegal under Wade, 255–257; Senegal’s Afrobarometer survey data, 270(n4); subtypes of, 293–297; syncretic, “national” Islam promoting, 276–277. See also Compatibility of democracy and Islam; Islamic role in democracy; Prerequisites for democracy Democracy Forum (Indonesia), 223 Democratic Action Party (Malaysia), 110– 111 Democratic deficit, 4–7, 5(table) Democratic development: Bangladesh, 152(fig.); Indonesia, 205–207, 206(fig.); Malaysia, 84(fig.); Mali, 180(fig.); Pakistan, 118(fig.); Senegal, 246(fig.); Turkey, 36(fig.) Democratic institutions: Islam’s role in, 296; Mali’s democratic success, 190– 191; Pakistan’s institutional decay after Zia, 133 Democratic Party (DP, Indonesia), 240

Index

Democratic Party (DP, Turkey), 35, 41– 45, 47, 50 Democratic Union of the Malian People (UDPM), 185–186 Democratization: Bangladesh, 163–170; British rule threatening Malaysia’s, 86–87; emergence of Turkey’s MSP, 53; evolution of Muslim democracies, 294–295; evolution of Turkey’s multiparty system, 41; Malaysia’s Islamization, 102–103; Malaysia’s potential for, 110–113; Mali, 186–189; Pakistan’s democratic opening after Zia, 132–136; political incorporation of Islamic-oriented actors, 281–282; preceding Islamic popular mobilization, 280. See also Prerequisites for democracy Deobandi movement (Pakistan), 120–122, 125, 130, 137, 145(n15) Development, economic and social: Dutch spreading Islam through Indonesia, 208–209; emergence of Turkey’s MSP, 53; link to democracy, 15, 17, 32(n12); Malaysia’s Islamization as tool for, 102; Malaysia’s New Economic Policy, 96; profiles of Muslim-majority democracies, 16(table) Devlet baba (father-state), 38, 66 Dia, Mamadou, 251–252 Diagne, Blaise, 250–251 Diagne, Souleymane Bachir, 259 Dicko, Mahmadou, 192, 197–198, 200 Din-i-Ilahi faith, 119 Diouf, Abdou, 253–255, 261, 263, 266 Discrimination. See Minorities, nonMuslim; Women’s rights Dissent. See Political dissent Diversity. See Ethnic diversity; Religious diversity Divorce law: family law in democratic Indonesia, 235–236. See also Family law; Marriage law Djibouti, 6(table) Djolof Empire, 247 Domestic violence, 75–76 Dress codes: Bangladesh, 162, 166, 172; Pakistan under military rule, 131; Pakistan under Zia, 131; Pakistani women’s political participation, 126. See also Headscarf issue Dutch colonialism in Indonesia, 208–209, 212, 215

331

Early democratizers, 28–29, 35 East Pakistan, 128–129 East Timor, 237 Economic crisis: Indonesia, 205; Senegal under Senghor, 253 Economic policy: Islamic banking in Turkey, 55; Malaysia’s NEP, 93–96; Turkey under the MG, 52; Turkey’s liberal AKP, 63; Turkey’s political reforms, 67–68 Education: Bangladesh’s anti-religious secularism, 158–159; Bangladesh’s gender equality, 166; French colonial Senegal, 249; identifying Muslim democracies, 295–296; Malaysia’s economic development, 96; Pakistan under Zia, 131; Pakistani parliamentary candidates, 148(n60); Pakistan’s Deobandi movement, 120– 121; Senegalese women’s rights, 265; Senegal’s mandatory religious instruction under Wade, 256; Turkey’s AKP discriminating against girls, 76; Turkey’s coed housing ban, 1; Turkey’s traditionalist policy, 52; Turkey’s voluntary and mandatory religious instruction, 42–43, 54 Egypt: moderation-inclusion hypothesis, 287–288; support by Muslims for sharia and powers for religious judges, 23(table) Elections: Bangladesh’s democratization, 163; Bengali identity and, 155; cloaking Malaysia’s authoritarian rule, 84; defining democracy, 18; education requirements for Pakistani candidates, 148(n60); French rule in Senegal, 249– 250; Indonesia’s Islamic parties’ lack of success, 238–241; Indonesia’s Islamization, 212–213, 215–216; Malaysia’s election results, 1959– 2013, 90(table); Malaysia’s predictable outcomes, 95; Mourides controlling Senegal’s, 263–264; Musharraf manipulating Pakistan’s, 137; orchestration of Bangladesh’s, 159– 160; Pakistan, 117; Pakistan’s democratic opening after Zia, 132– 133; Pakistan’s postponements under Zia, 131–132; Pakistan’s progress after Musharraf, 140; Pakistan’s restoring civilian rule, 136; results for IslamicOriented parties, 227(table); results of Bangladesh’s, 163(table); rigging

332

Index

Pakistan’s, 127; Senegal’s gender equality, 265; Senegal’s Wade challenging electoral code, 267; Suharto’s fall from power, 226–227; Tunisia’s Ennahda, 290; Turkey’s social media bans, 74; United Malays National Organization, 89 Electoral democracy: Pakistan, 140 Electoral fraud: Pakistan under Bhutto, 128; Senegal, 255 Elite interests: Bengali Muslims, 153; elite bargaining in Malaysia’s early democracy, 91–92; imposing formal Islam on the masses, 10–11; Malaysia’s early democracy, 93; Pakistan under Bhutto, 129; Pakistan’s feudal culture, 127; Pakistan’s modernist, liberal Islam, 125 Enlightened moderation: Pakistan, 137– 139 Enlightenment values, 107 Ennahda (Tunisia), 288, 291–292 Erbakan, Necmettin, 45, 51–53, 55–58 Erdoğan, Tayyip Recep: admiration of Kısakürek, 49; AKP formation, 63; AKP political reforms, 66–67; AKP’s conservatism, 76–77; banishing sin, 21; corruption scandal, 73–74; Gezi Park protests, 80(n56); Gülen’s parallel state, 61; media suppression, 72; morality stance, 1; Nakşibendi movement, 45–46; rejecting politicization of Islam, 63–64; Turkey’s religious freedom, 60 Ergenekon trial (Turkey), 69, 72, 74, 80(n55) Ershad, Hussain Muhammad, 159–160, 162–163, 165, 174 Ethics: gender equality, 28 Ethnic diversity: Bangladesh, 175(n1); causing debates over Pakistan’s constitution, 124; Indonesia, 92, 241(n1); Malay Union restrictions on citizenship, 88; Malaysia, 113(n1); Malaysia’s consociational democracy, 90–93; Malaysia’s election divisions, 112; Malaysia’s mobilization against Westernization, 96–97; Malaysia’s New Economic Policy affecting, 94– 96; Mali, 179, 190, 192–193, 201(n2); Pakistan, 117, 145(n2); Senegal, 245, 247, 257–258, 270(nn1,2) Ethnic violence. See Sectarian and ethnic violence

European Union, 33(n16); Turkey’s entry into, 59, 61–63, 65–66, 80(n47) Exceptionalism, Senegalese, 260–261 Explorers: Europeans in Malaysia, 86; Senegalese trade, 247–248. See also Trade

Family law: in democratic Indonesia, 235; identifying Muslim democracies, 295– 296; Indonesia after Suharto, 230–231; Indonesia under Suharto, 216; Mali, 191, 196–199; Pakistan’s modernists, 126; Senegal, 252–254, 257–259, 266– 267, 269 Faraizi movement (Bengal), 154 Fatwas, 289; Bangladesh banishing, 172; in democratic Indonesia, 232–233; Indonesian political Islam under Suharto, 216–217; Indonesia’s coup and countercoup, 214; Malaysia’s Islamist agenda, 100; Pakistan’s military rule, 126 Felicity Party (Turkey), 79(n34) Female genital mutilation, 235, 266 Feminist groups: Malaysia’s moderate Islamization, 102, 107–109. See also Women’s rights Feudal culture: Malaysia, 86; Pakistan, 120, 122–123, 127, 133, 140 Financial crisis, Asian (1997–1998), 104 Fiqh (jurisprudence): elevation of Indonesia’s religious court, 218; family law, 295; Indonesia’s Wahid advocating reforms, 223–224; Islamic modernism in Pakistan, 125; origins of, 22; Pakistan’s Ghamidi rejecting, 137–138 Fitnah (chaos, discord), 24, 27 Fornication laws, 101, 131, 134, 147(n41) France: colonial rule in Senegal, 248–249; control of the Malian Empire, 181– 184; Islam noir, 277; Mouride practices in Senegal, 264; prerequisites for Senegal’s democratic evolution, 257–258; Senegal’s independence, 250–251; Tunisia’s Islamic reformation, 289–290 Free Aceh Movement, 237 Freedom House scores: Bangladesh, 151– 152; comparison of Muslim-majority democracies, 7(table); defining democracy, 32(n15); defining “Free,” 32(n13); delineating liberal democracy, 294; democratic deficit in the Muslim

Index

world, 5(table); democratic Indonesia, 228–229; “good governance” approach, 4; Malaysia, 83–84, 84(fig.); Mali’s coup, 200; Mali’s family law reform, 198; Muslim-majority democracies, 6(table); Muslimmajority states’ failure, 19–20; Pakistan, 117, 118(fig.), 141, 147(n46); Pakistan after Zia, 133; Polity, VA, and FH correlation, 32(n10); Senegal, 245, 246(fig.), 272(n44); Senegal under Senghor, 253; thresholds for VA, Polity and, 32(n11); Tunisia, 283, 298(n2); Turkey’s declining score, 72–73; Western bias, 33(n23) French Sudan, 182–184

Gambia: Freedom House and Polity measures, 6, 6(table); Islamdemocracy connection, 32–33(n16) Gandhi, Mohandas “Mahatma,” 155, 298(n14) Gender equality, 26–28, 33(n23), 166, 177(n38), 265 Gender Gap Index. See World Economic Forum Gender Gap index Genocide: Bangladesh, 172–173 Gerrymandering: Malaysia’s early democracy, 91 Gezi Park protests (Turkey), 72–73, 75, 80(n56), 297 Ghamidi, Javed Ahmad, 137–138 al-Ghannoushi, Rashid, 290–292 Gilani, Yousef, 140 Gökalp, Ziya, 38, 63–64 Golkar (Indonesian political organization), 215 Grameen Bank, 164, 166, 174, 178(n59) Grands empires, 181, 192 Guided Democracy, Indonesia’s, 213–214 Guinea: female genital mutilation, 266 Gül, Abdullah, 63, 67 Gülen, Fethullah, 46, 60–63, 73–74, 80(n55), 277 Habibie, B. J., 217, 226 Haidara, Cherif, 186, 199–201, 276 Haidara, Ousmane Madani, 186 Hak (true, sacred), 57–58 Halal products, 100 Harakat al-Ittijah al-Islami (Islamic Tendency Movement). See Ennahda Hareket (Action) journal, 49

333

Harkat-ul-Jihad-al Islami (Bangladesh), 170 Hasina, 163, 163(table), 170 Hassan, Muhammad, 220 Headscarf issue: Bangladesh’s liberal codes, 172; Malaysian women, 108; Tunisia’s reformation, 290; Turkey’s political tensions over, 67–70, 278 Hefazad-e Islam (Bangladesh), 173 Hegemonic consociationalism, 95 Hegemonic Islam: Bangladesh, 161–162; Indonesia, 242(n15) al-Helmy, Burhanuddin, 114(n13) Hierarchical religious institutions: decentralized, nonhierarchical, 277– 278; Malaysian feminists’ critique of, 108–109; Turkish secularism, 38 High Islamic Council of Mali (HCIM), 192, 197–198 Hindu nationalism, Pakistan uniting against, 121–122 Hindu-Buddhist kingdoms, 85, 207 Hinduism: Bengal, 153–154; Pakistan, 119 Hizbul Muslimin (Malaysia), 88 Hizbut Tahrir (Liberation Party), 229 Hizmet movement (Turkey), 46–48, 64, 80(n39) Hizra, Iskandar, 126 Homeland of Muslims, Pakistan as, 121, 123–124 Homosexuality, 107, 115(n28), 237, 273(n53), 294 Honor killings, 135, 139, 142 Hudud (punishment) laws: Bangladesh, 169; Malaysian conservatives’ demand for, 109–110; Malaysian moderates’ concerns over, 106; Malaysian women’s criticism of, 108; Malaysia’s passage of, 101–102; Pakistan’s “enlightened moderation,” 138; Pakistan’s passage of, 131, 134 Human Development Index: Indonesia, 205 Human Development Report, 27, 270(n3) Human rights: rights of religious minorities, 25–26; rights promotion in Malaysia, 106; Senegal under Diouf, 255; Turkey’s civil Islam, 62–63; Turkey’s political reforms, 66 Huq, A. K. Fuzlul, 155 Hurgronje, Christaan Snouck, 242(n10) Hybrid regimes: Bangladesh, 152

334

Index

Ibn Taymiyya, 220 Idealists: Turkey, 53 Identity: Bengali identity precluding Islamization, 157; British policy in Pakistan and Malaysia, 120; creation of Indonesia, 209–210; cultural Islam in Bengal, 154; Malaysia’s “Asian values,” 102–103; Malaysia’s consociational government, 91; Malaysia’s Islamic identity, 87; secular Turkey, 38; Senegal’s Mourides, 264; Tuareg rebels in Mali, 200; Turkish nationalism, 38–39 Ijma (consensus), 23 Ijtihad (human reasoning): concerns over Malaysia’s Islamization, 107–108; disagreement over Islamic values, 9; Indonesia’s Majdid and renewal, 219– 220; Iran’s centralization of religious institutions, 11–12; Pakistan’s enlightened moderation, 137; Pakistan’s Iqbal advocating, 122; Said Nursi’s idea of political Islam, 46–47; Turkey’s argument for Islamic reform, 60; Wahid advocating dynamic, relevant Islam, 223 Ikhtilaf (permissible disagreement), 24 Imam-Hatip schools, 55, 70 The Imam’s Army (Şik), 73 Immigrants, Malaysia’s antipathy to, 87 Inclusion-moderation hypothesis, 281– 282; Egypt, 287–288; Malaysia, 102, 109–110; Senegal, 260–261; Turkey’s Welfare Party, 56–57 Incorporation, 257, 281–282 Independence: Bangladesh, 151, 156–157; Indonesia, 205, 211–212; Malaysia, 30, 89–90, 114(n9); Mali, 179, 184; Pakistan, 117; profiles of Muslimmajority democracies, 16(table); Sufi support of Turkey’s, 45 India: Bangladesh’s secular policy, 159; Bengali territory, 175(n4); Kashmir controversy, 145(n1); Pakistan uniting against Hindu nationalism, 121–122; Pakistan’s anticolonial cause, 122; partition of Bengal, 154–156 Indonesia: Abdurrahman Wahid and Muslim liberal democracy, 222–224; Amien Rais and Muhammadiyah advocating for democracy, 221–222; battles over Islamic law, 229–233; comparison of Muslim-majority

democracies, 7(table); decentralized, nonhierarchical religious institutions, 277; democratization preceding Islamic popular mobilization, 280; ethnic and religious diversity, 241(n2); evidence of liberal Islam in Turkey, Indonesia, and Senegal, 39(table); evolving Muslim democracies, 294– 295; exemplifying moderate Islam, 206; Freedom House and Polity measures, 6, 6(table); Islam and democratization, 224–228; Islam and the creation of, 209–213; Islamic parties’ lack of success, 238–241; Islamist groups challenging state authority, 279; Malaysia’s conflict with, 114(n13); Malaysia’s precolonial history, 85–86, 114(n4); minority and women’s rights, 233–236; Murcholish Majdid and Islamic renewal, 219–221; new Muslim intellectuals, 217–224; political and religious history, 31, 207– 209; profiles of Muslim-majority democracies, 16(table); regional and local Islamic law, 236–238; role of Islam in democratic Indonesia, 228– 241; secularism, 39; sharia law, 22; Suharto’s New Order, 214–218; Sukarno’s Guided Democracy, 213– 214; support by Muslims for sharia and powers for religious judges, 23(table); year of first sustained democratic experience, 29(table) Indonesian Association of Muslim Intellectuals (ICMI), 217, 220, 225– 226 Indonesian Democratic Party (PDI), 225 Indonesian Democratic Party–Struggle (PDI-P), 240 Indonesian Islam, 237 Indonesian Muslim Party (PMI), 215 Indonesian Nationalist Party (PNI), 210 Inequality, economic and social: Bangladesh, 164–165. See also Gender equality; Minorities, non-Muslim; Women’s rights Inheritance laws, 22, 27–28, 107–108, 112, 140, 197–198, 218, 235, 257, 266 Inner jihad, 258–259 Inönü, Ismet, 40 Institute for Islamic and Social Studies (LKiS, Indonesia), 225, 225, 243(n31)

Index

Institutions. See Centralized religious institutions; Democratic institutions; Hierarchical religious institutions Intellectuals, politics and: Indonesia under Suharto, 217–224; Turkey’s, 59–61 Internal Security Act (Malaysia), 111 International Crimes Tribunal (ICT, Bangladesh), 172–174 International variables in democratization, 17 Iqbal, Muhammad, 122, 145(n10) Iran: institutionalized Islam, 11–12, 277, 296; Islamist goals for governance, 20–22 Iranian Revolution: impact on Pakistan, 132; influencing Malaysian mobilization, 97; inspiring Senegalese Islamists, 254, 259; religion confronting modernity, 48 Islah (reform), 9 Islam noir (“local” Islam), 249, 251, 258– 259, 277 Islami Jomhuri Ittihad (Pakistan), 133 Islamic Defenders Front (FPI, Indonesia), 233 Islamic democracy: Mali’s family law reform, 198 Islamic heartland, 10 Islamic origins: Bangladesh, 153–157; Indonesia, 207–209; Malaysia, 85–89; Mali, 181–184; Pakistan, 118–123; Senegal, 247–250 Islamic reformation: Malaysia’s ABIM, 98; Senegal under Wade, 256; Senegal’s challenges to Diouf’s secularism, 255; Tunisia, 289–290 Islamic role in democracy, 296–297; Pakistan after Zia, 134; Senegal, 257– 267. See also Political role of Islam Islamic Tendency Movement. See Ennahda (Tunisia) Islamic Unity Front (Bangladesh), 169 Islamic-nationalism, 48 Islamic-oriented political mobilization, 280; Bangladesh, 152–153, 160, 165, 174–175; Indonesia as model of moderate Islam, 206; Indonesian intellectuals disavowing an Islamic state, 222–223; Islamization as effect of Turkish democratization, 42–43; justifying state violence, 139; Malaysia, 96–99; Malaysia’s early democracy, 93; Mali, 187–189, 191–

335

196; Malian family law reform, 297– 299; Mali’s history of diversity and tolerance, 192–193; Pakistan under Bhutto, 129; Pakistan’s military rule, 126; precipitating military rule in Pakistan, 129–130; prerequisites for democracy, 14–15; Senegal, 250; Senegal’s democratization, 257; Tunisia’s democratization, 291–292; Turkey, 44–50, 278; Turkey’s civil Islam, 61–63; Turkey’s political reforms, 66–67 Islamism and Islamization: Bangladesh, 159–163, 167–170; compatibility with democracy, 2; as effect of Turkish democratization, 42–43; failing to make electoral gains, 297; limited state change following, 135; as Malay state policy, 83; Malaysia, 93–104; Pakistan under Zia, 129–132, 134; Pakistan’s competing visions of Islam, 123–124; Pakistan’s election process, 142; Pakistan’s religious and political history, 118–123; restoration of Bangladesh’s secularism, 172; Senegal under Senghor, 251–252; Senegalese Sufism warding off, 259–260; Senegal’s resistance to, 268; state of the Malaysian Islamic state, 104–110; Tunisia’s Ennahda, 292; Turkey’s AKP, 69–71; Turkey’s political upheaval, 53–54

Jakarta Charter (1945), 211–212, 229–231 Jamaat-e Islami (JI, Pakistan), 20, 97, 122, 124, 127, 130, 132, 146(n23), 157 Jamaat-e Islami Bangladesh (JIB), 161– 162, 163(table), 165–171, 173–174 Jamiat-al-Ulama-i-Hind, 122 Jamiat-i Ulama-i Islam (Pakistan), 138– 139 Jamiat-i Ulama-i Pakistan, 135 Jammat-ul Mujahadeen Bangladesh, 170 Jatiya (National) Party (Bangladesh), 159– 161, 163(table), 174 Java, 208 Jemaah Islamiyah (Indonesia), 218, 233 Jihad: Ennahda officials calling for, 292; Malaysia’s call for jihad against the US, 109; multi-voiced Islam, 9; Pakistan’s religious history, 120; Senegal’s early movements, 248, 259; threatening Benazir Bhutto’s

336

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progressivism, 135; Tuareg rebels in Mali, 199; Turkey’s Kotku repudiating, 46 Jinnah, Fatima, 126 Jinnah, Muhammad Ali, 122–123, 145(n11) Jirga (tribal adjudicators), 139 Jizyah (tax on non-Muslims), 24, 26 Johari, Mohamad Khir, 91 Jordan, 6(table) Judicial reform: Turkey, 69 Jurisprudence, 22–25. See also Fiqh Justice and Development Party (AKP, Turkey): balancing democracy and religion, 72–77; challenging secularism, 29–30, 36; consolidation of power, 67–71; corruption scandal, 73–74; Ergenekon trial, 69, 72, 74, 80(n55); formation of, 63–64; Gezi Park protests, 72–73; moderationinclusion hypothesis, 281–282; political reforms, 65–67; reversing reformist ideals, 74–75; Syria attack, 81(n63) Justice Party (AP, Turkey), 50–51 Kafesoglu, Ibrahim, 50 Kalla, Jusuf, 239–240 Kanun (Sultan’s law), 78(n5) Kaplan, Robert, 206 Karaman, Hayrettin, 59–60, 62, 76–77, 81(n59) Kashmir, 145(n1) Kaum Muda (Young People), 87 Kazakhstan: gender equality, 26 Keadilan (People’s Justice Party, Malaysia), 106–107, 110–111 Kebangsaan (nationalism), 210–211 Keita, Ibrahim Boubacar, 191–192, 200 Keita, Modibo, 179, 184–185 Keita, Sundiata, 192–193 Kemalism. See Secularism (Turkey) Kemalo-Islamism, 75 Khaleda, 163, 163(table), 174 Khan, Ayub, 126, 128, 137–138, 146(n19), 156 Khan, Imran, 140 Khan, Sayyid Ahmed, 120 Khan, Siddiq Hasan, 121 Khan, Yahya, 128 Khayr al-Din al-Tunsi, 289 Khilafat movement, 155 Khomeini, Ruholla, 12, 20, 277

Kimbiri, Mohammed, 198 Kısakürek, Necip Fazıl, 49–50 Konaré, Alpha Oumar, 187, 189–190, 190, 202(n21) Kosovo, 6(table) Kotku, Mehmet Zahid, 45–46, 51–53 Kuntowijoyo, 238 Kurdish-Islamist rebellion (Turkey), 38 Kurdistan Workers’ Party (PKK), 70 Kurds, 53, 62–63, 78(n6) Kuwait, 6(table) Kyrgyzstan, 6(table)

Lady Gaga, 234 Lahore Declaration, 123 Laicité model, 37. See also Secularism Language: creating national boundaries for Indonesia, 209; partition of Bengal, 156; shaping Islamic voice and democracy, 11 Law, source of: Pakistan’s modernist, liberal Islam, 125. See also Fiqh; Sharia Lebanon, 6(table) Lee Kuan Yew, 102 Legal systems: Pakistan’s tribal jirgas, 139. See also Fiqh; Sharia Legitimacy, state, 296; Mali’s National Conference, 190–191; Pakistan under Zia, 130; Turkey’s AKP, 68 Liberal democracy: compatibility with Islam, 19–20; democracy subtypes, 293–294; democratic deficit of the Muslim world, 4–5; Indonesia’s Wahid advocating for Muslim liberal democracy, 222–224; Malaysia, 93; Polity, FH, and VA correlation, 32(n10) Liberal Islam: fluidity of democratic subtypes, 295; Indonesia’s Wahid advocating for Muslim liberal democracy, 222–224; losing ground in democratic Indonesia, 231; Pakistanis’ lack of support for, 144(table); Pakistan’s pluralistic history, 121; post-Arab Spring Tunisia, 288; Turkey, Indonesia, and Senegal, 39(table) Liberalization: Islamization as effect of Turkish democratization, 42–43; Turkey’s modernization under CHP, 41 Liberation, Islam as source of, 182 Liberation Party (Indonesia), 229

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Lifestyle choices: limits on political pluralism, 24 Literacy: Pakistan, 123, 145(n13) Lithuania, 287 Lobbo, Ahmad, 182 Locke, John, 107

Madjid, Nurcholish, 218–221 Mahathir bin Mohamad, 94, 100, 102– 107, 110 Mahendra, Yusril Ihza, 229–232 Majoritarian democracy, 293 Malacca, 85–86, 207 Malay Nationalist Party, 88 Malayan Chinese Association (MCA), 91 Malayan Indian Congress (MIC), 91 Malaysia: advocating a more democratic Islam, 105–107; British policy in Pakistan and, 120; centralized religious institutions, 277–278; comparison of Muslim-majority democracies, 7(table); consociational democracy, 89–93; decentralized, nonhierarchical religious institutions, 277; democratic development, 84(fig.); democratization preceding Islamic popular mobilization, 280; democratizing Islam, 296; evolving Muslim democracies, 294–295; Freedom House and Polity measures, 6(table); internal challenges to Islamization, 109–110; Islam, nationalism, and statehood, 85–89; Islam justifying state violence, 139; Islamic feminist critique, 107–109; Islamic-oriented social mobilization, 96–99; Islamization from above, 99–104; Malay and Islamic revival, 93–104; New Economic Policy, 93–96; Pakistan’s Islamization and, 131; potential for democratization, 110– 113; profiles of Muslim-majority democracies, 16(table); secularreligious democratization, 279; sharia law, 22; state of the Islamic state, 104– 110; Sukarno’s secularist vision, 211; support by Muslims for sharia and powers for religious judges, 23(table); year of first sustained democratic experience, 29(table) Malaysian Islamic Youth Movement (ABIM), 97–98, 130 Maldives, 6(table)

337

Mali: attitudes on religion, tolerance, and politics in West Africa, 194(table); authoritarian-democratic transition, 184–189; authoritarianism under Keita and Traoré, 184–186; challenges of democracy, 189–196; comparison of Muslim-majority democracies, 7(table); democratic development, 180(fig.); democratic transition, 186– 189; demographic information, 179; factors affecting support for sharia, 195(table); factors contributing to democracy, 190–191; family law and women’s rights, 196–199; female genital mutilation, 266; Freedom House and Polity measures, 6, 6(table); Freedom House scores, 298(n2); history of tolerance and diversity, 192– 196; Human Development Report, 270(n3); Islamic-oriented mobilization, 191–196; political incorporation of Islamic-oriented actors, 281; profiles of Muslimmajority democracies, 16(table); religious and political history, 181– 184; role of secularism in democratization, 278; Sufism in, 201(n12); support by Muslims for sharia and powers for religious judges, 23(table); sustaining democracy, 30– 31; syncretic Islam, 276–277; year of first sustained democratic experience, 29(table) Malian Association for Unity and the Progress of Islam (AMUPI), 186, 197 Malian Empire, 121, 181, 184, 247 Mansour Sy Djamil, 256 Marabouts (local religious leaders), 182, 186, 192, 247–252, 254, 258, 261–262, 265–266, 271(n30) Marja-e taqlid (source of emulation), 12 Marriage law: in democratic Indonesia, 231–232, 234–235; Indonesia, 216; Mali, 196–197. See also Family law Martial law: Bangladesh, 159; Turkey, 40, 42, 49. See also Military rule Marxism-Leninism: Mali, 184–185 Masud, Muhammad Khalid, 21, 137 Masyumi (Indonesia), 212, 213, 215, 227(table), 242(n18) Mauritania: female genital mutilation, 266 Mavlana Khalid al-Baghdadi, 45

338

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Mawdudi, Abu’l A’la, 20, 59, 122–124, 126, 130, 138, 210 Mazlum-Der (Turkey) organization, 62 Media: Malian Islam, 191 Media suppression: Islamization in Turkey, 43; Malaysia, 111; Senegal under Senghor, 253; Turkey’s corruption scandal, 73–74; Turkey’s Gezi Park protests, 72–73; Turkey’s modernization under CHP, 41–42; Turkey’s social media bans, 74, 76 Megawati Sukarnoputri, 225–228, 235 Mehmed II, 37 Menderes, Adnan, 41–43, 50 Merkel, Angela, 80(n47) Microcredit, 164 Military forces: Indonesian coup, 214; opposition to Suharto, 216; Turkey’s political struggles over Islamicoriented issues, 69 Military rule: Bangladesh, 157–160, 170– 171; concentration of religious power, 12; legitimization through Islamization, 161–162; Mali’s democratization from, 179–181, 185– 186; Pakistan, 117, 125–127, 129–132, 141; Pakistan after Zia, 133; Pakistan under Musharraf, 136–139; suppressing democratization in Egypt, 288; Turkey, 35, 53–54 Militias: Indonesia under Sukarno, 213– 214; Turkey’s political upheaval, 53–54 Milli Görüs (MG, Turkey) platform, 51– 53 Minorities, non-Muslim: Bangladesh forbidding discrimination against, 161–162; Bangladesh’s Islamist agenda, 168–169, 173; concerns over Malaysia’s Islamization, 106; in democratic Indonesia, 233–236; Malay Union restrictions on citizenship, 88; Malaysia’s Islamic state recognizing, 104–105; Malian attitudes, 194; Malian Sufism targeting, 182; oppression under Pakistan’s Musharraf, 138; Pakistan after Musharraf, 140–141; Pakistan limiting rights under Zia, 131; Pakistani violence against, 140–141, 147(n48); Pakistan’s Munir Report, 145(n16); rights and freedoms, 25–26; subtypes of democracy, 294; Tunisia’s unsecular

democracy, 291; Turkey’s diverse groups, 78(n6); Turkey’s political reforms, 66 Mission civlisatric, 185 Missionaries, 153, 247 Moderates: Malaysia’s Islamization, 102, 106, 111; methods of moderation, 14– 15; Pakistan’s “enlightened moderation,” 137–139; Turkey’s AKP, 63–64 Moderation-inclusion hypothesis. See Inclusion-moderation hypothesis Modernism: emergence of Turkey’s MSP, 53; Iranian Revolution, 48; Malaysia’s Abdullah advancing, 110; modernization under Turkish secularism, 37–39; national Islam developing as response to, 277; Pakistan’s Islamic modernism, 125– 127; Turkey reconciling faith with, 46–50; Turkey’s political-religious reconciliation, 61 Mohamad, Mahathir, 99 Molla, Abdul Quader, 173, 175(n11) Monoparty state, 40 Monotheism: Indonesia’s Jakarta Charter, 211–212, 229–231; popular sovereignty and, 20–22 Moral behavior: Islamic jurisprudence and political rights and freedoms, 23–24; Islamization of Malian media, 191; laws in democratic Indonesia, 231– 232; Malaysia’s hudud laws, 101–102, 106; Malaysia’s National Fatwa Council governing, 100–101; moral agenda of Turkey’s AKP, 60; Muslim Brotherhood monitoring, 287–288; Pakistan’s religious policing under Zia, 131; provincial Indonesia, 237; Suharto’s New Order, 215; Turkey’s AKP agenda, 73, 75–76; violence in democratic Indonesia, 233–234. See also Hudud (punishment) laws Morocco: Tijani order, 245–246 Motherland Party (ANAP, Turkey), 56 Mouride (Muridiyya) order, 246, 249, 251–254, 256, 262–265, 267, 272(n31) Mubarak, Hosni, 287 Mughal Empire, 119, 153 Muhajirs, 124 Muhammadiyah (Followers of Muhammad, Indonesia), 209–210,

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212–214, 218–219, 221–222, 234–235, 238–239, 242(n28), 280 Muhsin, Muhammad, 154 Multiculturalism: Mali’s syncretic Islam, 276–277 Munir, Muhammad, 132 Munir report, 145(n16) Musharraf, Pervez, 136–139 Muslim Brotherhood (Egypt): influencing Malaysian mobilization, 97 Muslim democracy, 20; defining and identifying, 294–296; Pakistan, 118; uniqueness of, 296–297 Muslim League (ML), 122–123, 155, 161 Muslim movement in British India, 121– 122 Muslim Women and the Challenge of Islamic Extremism (SIS), 108, 115(34) Muslim-majority democracies, 6(table); democratic deficit in the Muslim world, 5(table); examples of, 4–7; profiles of, 16(table); quantitative index comparison, 7(table); secularism among, 13 Muzaffar, Chandra, 105–106, 108–109 Mysticism, 45–46 Nahdlatul Ulama. See Revival of Religious Scholars Najib Razak, 111–113 Nakşibendi Sufi order, 43, 45, 48, 51, 55, 78(n7), 78(nn13,14,15) NASAKOM (Indonesian government of national unity), 213 Nasreen, Taslima, 166, 177(n40) National Awami Party (Pakistan), 128 National Conference (Mali), 187–188, 190 National Front (BN, Malaysia), 90, 95, 111 National Mandate Party (PAN, Indonesia), 227(table), 231, 240 National Order Party (MNP, Turkey), 51– 53 National Party (Jatiya, Bangladesh), 159– 161, 163(table), 174 National Party (Turkey), 43–44 National Salvation Party (MSP, Turkey), 51–53 National Union of Muslim Women, 197 National unity government: Senegal, 255 National View (Turkey), 63 Nationalism: Bangladesh under Mujib, 158–159; Bengali, 156; creating

339

national boundaries for Indonesia, 209; Islamic nationalism in Bengal, 154– 155; Malaysia, 87–88; Malaysia’s New Economic Policy affecting ethnic groups, 94–96; Malian, 185; Pakistan uniting against Hindu nationalism, 121–122; secular Turkey, 38; Sufi presence in Turkey, 45–46; Turkey’s political polarization, 52; Turkey’s religious political identity, 54; Turkey’s totalist ideology, 49; Turkishness versus universal Islam, 50; Turko-Ottoman, 61; Uzbek, 33(n17) Natsir, Mohammed, 210–211, 213, 215, 219 Nazimud-Din, Khvaja, 125 Ndigal (advice) practice, 262–265 Netherlands, 205 Neutrality, religious: Bangladesh, 158 New Economic Policy (NEP; Malaysia), 93–96 New Order, Suharto’s, 214–218 Nidaa Tounes (Tunisian Call), 292–293 Niger, 6(table) Nigeria: attitudes on religion, tolerance, and politics in West Africa, 194(table) 9/11, 136–137 Nizami, Moitur Rahman, 174 Nonhierarchical religious institutions, 277–278 Non-Muslims. See Minorities, nonMuslim Noor, Farish, 106, 108–109 Nursi, Said, 46–48, 60–61, 78(n16), 277

Objectives Resolution (Pakistan), 124 Oil, gas and mineral rents, 4–5, 15, 17, 27, 32(n12), 205 1Malaysia campaign, 111–112 One-party rule: Bangladesh under Mujib, 158–159; Mali, 185; Senegal, 245, 250–251; Turkey, 35 Onn Bin Ja’afor, 88 Ottoman Empire: centralized religious authority, 278; influence on Turkey’s Welfare Party, 57; Khilafat movement in Bengal, 155; treatment of minorities, 26 Özal, Turgut, 45, 49, 54–56 Padri movement, 208 Pakatan Rakyat (People’s Alliance, Malaysia), 111

340

Index

Pakistan: Bangladesh independence, 151, 156–157; Bangladesh’s human development and, 175(n3); civilian rule after Musharraf, 140–144; comparison of Muslim-majority democracies, 7(table); democratic opening after Zia, 132–136; democratic score, 5–6; democratization preceding Islamic popular mobilization, 280; “enlightened moderation,” 137–139; evolving Muslim democracies, 294–295; Freedom House and Polity measures, 6(table); Islamic modernism and military rule, 125–127; Islamism over secularism, 123–124; Islamization under military rule, 129–132; lack of support for liberal Islam, 144(table); Musharraf’s seizure of power, 136– 139; Muslim democratic model, 30; partition of Bengal, 155–156; post9/11 potential for democracy, 136–144; prerequisites for democratization, 15; profiles of Muslim-majority democracies, 16(table); religious history, 118–123; sharia law, 22; support by Muslims for sharia and powers for religious judges, 23(table); year of first sustained democratic experience, 29(table); under Zulfikar Bhutto, 128–129 Pakistan Muslim League (PML), 133, 138, 140 Pakistan Peoples’ Party (PPP), 128, 132– 134, 137, 140–141, 156 Pakistani democracy, 117 Pamuk, Orhan, 66, 80(n41) Pancasila (Indonesian ideology), 13, 205, 211–212, 216, 221, 223, 236–237, 240–241, 242(n13) Pan-Islamic state, 11–12, 288 Pan-Malay ideology, 114(n13) Pan-Malayan Islamic Party (PAS), 97–99, 101–104, 106, 109–112 Parallel state, 61, 74 Paramadina foundation (Indonesia), 220 Participatory Islam: Egypt’s Muslim Brotherhood, 287–288 Party of National Renaissance (PKB, Indonesia), 226, 227(table), 240 Passive revolution, Senegal’s, 255 Passive secularism, 278 Patience, politics of, 67, 70

Patrimonial bureaucratic systems: Mughal Empire, 119 Patronage system: Malaysia’s New Economic Policy, 95; Pakistan after Zia, 134; Pakistan under Bhutto, 128; Senegal, 261, 271(n25) People’s Alliance (PR, Malaysia), 112 Perda (morality laws), 236–238 Persepolis (film), 291 Persian culture: compatibility with democracy, 2 Personal rights. See Political rights and freedoms Pluralism: Indonesia and Majdid’s Islamic renewal, 219–220; Indonesia’s Wahid advocating, 224; Islamic defense of, 23–24; Malaysia’s ABIM striving for, 98; Malaysia’s New Economic Policy curtailing, 94–96; Mali’s syncretic Islam, 181; Senegal’s Islamic-state cooperation, 258–259; syncretic Islam contributing to, 11; Turkey under DP, 44–45; Turkey’s Welfare Party promising, 56–57 Poland, 287 Polarization, political, 50–53, 164, 167– 170 Police participation in violence: democratic Indonesia, 234 Political culture as variable in democratization, 17–18 Political dissent, 23–24; political and religious factors in unrest, 297; Turkey’s defense of secularism, 68; Turkey’s Gezi Park protests, 72–73, 75, 80(n56), 297 Political participation: expansion of Malay parties, 88–89; Malaysia’s ABIM cultivating Muslim engagement, 98– 99; Pakistani women’s public role in, 126; political incorporation of Islamicoriented actors, 281–282; women’s empowerment in democratic Indonesia, 235 Political reform. See Reforms Political rights and freedoms, 21; criticism of Malaysia’s Islamization, 106, 111; defining democracy, 18; defining subtypes of democracy, 293–294; in democratic Indonesia, 231–232; gender equality, 26–28; Indonesia’s Rais advocating for Islamic democracy, 221–222; religious

Index

tolerance, 19; Senegal under Wade, 256; sharia and restrictions on, 22–25. See also Women’s rights Political role of Islam: compromising democracy, 297; early Malaysian democracy, 92–93; emergence within a given polity, 10–11; factors in the rise of democracy, 276; Indonesia under Suharto, 214–218; initial failure in Bangladesh, 157–158; Malaysia, 30; Malaysia’s declining democracy, 84– 85; Malaysia’s religious diversity, 83; Pakistan’s Deobandi movement, 120– 121; Senegal under Diouf, 254; Senegal’s secularism, 246; Suharto’s New Order, 214–218; Turkey’s political reforms, 66–67 Political stability: Malaysia’s Islamization, 103; Senegal, 245, 270(n2) Politicization of Islam: identifying unsecular democracy, 294–296; Turkey’s AKP rejecting, 63 Polity IV score: Bangladesh, 152; comparison of Muslim-majority democracies, 7(table); defining democracy, 4, 32(n15); democratic deficit in the Muslim world, 5(table); early Malaysian democracy, 91; Islamic influences on democracy, 294; Malaysia, 83–84, 84(fig.); measurement criteria, 32(n9); Muslimmajority democracies, 6(table); Pakistan, 117, 118(fig.); Pakistan after Zia, 133; Pakistan under Bhutto, 128; Polity, FH, and VA correlation, 32(n10); Senegal, 245, 246(fig.); Senegal under Diouf and Senghor, 253; thresholds for, 32(n11) Polygamy: Indonesia, 216; Malaysian Islamization, 108; Mali, 197; Pakistan’s family law, 126; Senegal, 271(n17); Tunisia’s ban, 290; women’s rights in democratic Indonesia, 235 Popular Islam: Pakistan under Bhutto, 129 Popular sovereignty, 20–22 Pornography laws, 232 Postcolonialism: authoritarian Malian leaders, 192–193; Bangladesh and Pakistan, 151; Pakistan’s founding as a Muslim country, 117; Senegal’s political-religious cooperation, 259 Post-Islamism: compatibility with democracy, 2; difficulty in

341

implementing, 135; Islamism and, 32(n6); Tunisia’s Ennahda, 291; Turkey, 36 Post-secularism, 71 Power-sharing: Bhutto and Musharraf, 137 Praetorian regimes: Egypt, 288; Pakistan, 133, 147(n37) Prayer economy, 186 Pre-Islamic traditions, 10 Prerequisites for democracy: Bangladesh’s potential for liberal democracy, 174– 175; Indonesia’s lack of, 92; Malaysia, 84–85; role of historical and institutional variables, 10–18; Senegal, 245, 257–258; zones of Islam, 10–11, 276. See also Centralized religious institutions; Inclusion-moderation hypothesis; Islamic-oriented political mobilization; Political role of Islam; Secularism Proportional representation, 91, 190 Prosperity and Justice Party (PKS, Indonesia), 230, 238, 240 Protests. See Political dissent Punjab, 122–123, 127, 147(n43) Purdah: Bangladesh, 166; Pakistan under Zia, 131; Pakistani women’s political participation, 126 Qadiri order, 182 Quasi-democracy: Senegal, 250–251, 253–255

Radicalism: Bangladesh suppressing, 158; Bangladesh’s Islamist agenda, 168– 170; Duth colonists cracking down on Indonesia’s, 208–209; Malaysia’s PAS, 109; Pakistani measures against, 141– 142 Rahman, Fazlur, 125, 135, 137–138, 146(n17), 146(n22), 147(n35), 219– 220 Rahman, Mujibur, 156–159, 163 Rahman, Ziaur, 159–162, 171, 178(n58) Rais, Amien, 218, 221–222, 226–227, 231, 238, 242(n27) Rape, 131, 134, 138, 143, 147(nn41,43), 162 Rationality and science, 38 Rawa, Yusof, 99 Razak, Tun Abdul, 94–95 Raziq, Ali Abdel, 222

342

Index

Red Mosque attack (Pakistan), 137 Redemocratization: Mali, 30–31 Reforms: feminists’ skepticism over Malaysia’s, 109; Indonesia’s Islamic development, 209–210; Islamic diversity, 9; Malayan Islam, 87; Mali, 189; Tunisia, 289; Turkey under the AKP, 65–67, 70–71; Turkish intellectuals’ support for political and religious reform, 60 Regional democracy: Mali, 190 Rehman, Fazlur, 135 Religious diversity: attitudes on religion, tolerance, and politics in West Africa, 194(table); Bangladesh, 175(n1); compatibility of Islam and democracy, 2; Indonesia, 12–13, 205, 207–208, 241(n1); within Islam, 2; Malaysia, 83, 113(n1); Mali, 192–193; Pakistan, 119; Senegal’s clerics’ support for, 258 Religious freedom: in democratic Indonesia, 232; Islamic law in Indonesia’s local and regional levels, 236–238; Malaysia’s Islamization, 103; subtypes of democracy, 294; Turkey’s civil Islam, 61–62; Turkey’s Welfare Party, 60 Religious history. See Islamic origins Religious institutions. See Centralized religious institutions; Hierarchical religious institutions Religious life: under Turkish secularism, 37–40 Religious revival: Turkey, 42–43 Religious role in politics: centralization of religious institutions, 11–12; Malaysia’s Islamization, 101; Malaysia’s New Economic Policy and limits on democracy, 95–96; Mali, 191–196; Pakistan’s Deobandi movement, 120–121; Pakistan’s Islamic development, 121–122; Senegal, 257–270, 273(n49); the strength of secularism, 278; subtypes of democracy, 293–294; Tunisia’s Islamic reformation, 289–290. See also Centralized religious institutions; Political role of Islam Renewalism, 47; Indonesia’s democratization, 224–228; Indonesia’s Murcholish Majdid, 219–221 Reporters Without Borders, 72 Republican People’s Party (CHP, Turkey), 35, 40–44, 51

Resurgence, Islamic: Senegal, 267–268 Revival of Religious Scholars (NU, Indonesia), 210, 213–215, 222–223, 227(table), 234–235, 238–239, 280 Richardson, Bill, 151 Rights and freedoms. See Political rights and freedoms Rushdie, Salman, 217, 253

SABATI 2012, 200 Sall, Macky, 267, 269–270 Sareket Islam, 209–210 Sarkozy, Nicolas, 80(n47) The Satanic Verses (Rushdie), 217, 253 Sayyid Ahmed Shahid, 120 Secessionist movements: Indonesia, 205; Senegal, 270(n2) Seck, Idrissa, 256 Sectarian and ethnic violence: Bangladesh, 151, 175(n1); Indonesia’s religious history, 208; Mali, 179; Pakistan after Zia, 133–134, 136; Pakistan’s Sindhi and Muhajirs, 146(n32); Pakistan’s vigilante Islamism, 139 Secular liberalism, 220 Secularism: compatibility with Islam, 13, 19–20; gender equality, 26; as ideal type, 33(n19); Islam as antithesis to Western democracy, 20–21; Malaysia’s moderate Islamization, 104; Mali, 185, 192; Malian family law and women’s rights in, 196–199; Muslim democracy as counterdiscourse to, 296; as prerequisite for democracy, 279; secularization and, 219–220; Tunisia’s reformation, 290–291 Secularism (Bangladesh): founding of Bangladesh, 151; government commitment to, 157–159; Islamism replacing, 160, 167–170; restoration of, 171–172 Secularism (Indonesia): Islamic parties’ lack of success, 238–241; Nurcholish’s secularization, 219; Rais advocating for Islamic democracy, 221–222; state ideology, 205, 241(n4); Sukarno’s political and ideological basis, 210– 211 Secularism (Pakistan): competing visions of Islam, 123–124; military rule, 126; Zia’s coup, 130 Secularism (Senegal), 246; under Diouf, 254; Islamic actors’ support for, 258;

Index

post-independence Senegal, 250–251; Senegal’s democratization, 257; under Senghor, 251–253; under Wade, 256 Secularism (Turkey): AKP platform, 63– 65, 74–75; Alevis, 78(n6); centralized religious authority, 278; as democratic model, 35; passive secularism, 278; political defense of, 68–71; questioning, 77(n1); rise of nationalistconservative activists, 48–49; Sufi opposition to, 45; TIS linking religion and nationalism, 54; Turkey’s political development, 37–40; Welfare Party challenging, 56–58 Sedition laws: Malaysia, 102–103 Segregation, gender: Malaysia, 103 Semidemocracies: Malaysia, 30, 83–84, 113 Senegal: Abdou Diouf presidency, 253– 255; attitudes on religion, tolerance, and politics in West Africa, 194(table); comparison of Muslim-majority democracies, 7(table); decentralized religious institutions, 277; democracy and Islam under Wade, 255–257; democratic development, 246(fig.); democratic security, 267–270; evidence of liberal Islam in Turkey, Indonesia, and Senegal, 39(table); as exception to democratization, 260– 261; foundation of Islam and colonial rule, 247–250; Freedom House and Polity measures, 6, 6(table), 298(n2); gender equality, 26, 265–267, 272(n42); political history, 31; political incorporation of Islamic-oriented actors, 281–282; post-independence move towards democracy, 250–257; profiles of Muslim-majority democracies, 16(table); role of secularism in democratization, 39, 278–279; Senghor’s presidency, 251– 253; support by Muslims for sharia and powers for religious judges, 23(table); year of first sustained democratic experience, 29(table) Senegalese Democratic Party (PDS), 245, 256 Senegalese Islam, 249 Senegambia, 247–248 Senghor, Léopold, 184, 246, 251–253, 261, 271(n16) Separatism: Indonesian movements, 212, 237; Muslim movement in British

343

India, 121–122; Tuaregs in Mali, 199 Shahbag movement (Bangladesh), 173 Sharia: absence in Mali, 192; Bangladesh’s parties campaigning for, 161–162; communist threat in Turkey, 48–49; factors affecting support for sharia in Mali, 195(table); family law in democratic Indonesia, 235–236; floggings and stonings, 146(n27); Indonesia’s debate over institutionalization of, 229–233; Indonesia’s local and regional levels, 236–238; Islamic actors’ support for secularism, 258; kanun (Sultan’s law) and, 78(n6); local customs and rules shaping Indonesia’s Islamic practices, 208; Malaysia’s colonial history, 86– 87; Malaysia’s expansion of sharia law, 101; Malaysia’s PAS embracing, 109; Mughal Empire, 119; Muslim democrats de-emphasizing, 294–295; Nursi’s support for individual obedience to, 47; Pakistan under Sharif, 135–136; Pakistani oppression under Zia, 131–132; Pancasila’s theological principles, 211–212; secularism excluding, 278; Senegal’s adoption of, 269; Senegal’s Family Code, 266–267; serving the social good, 22–23; Sufi presence in Turkey, 45–46; support by Muslims, 23(table); Tunisia’s abolition of, 290; Tunisia’s democratization, 292; Turkey’s civil Islam, 61–62; Turkey’s secularism eschewing, 37; women’s service in democratic Indonesia, 235 Shariatullah, Haji, 154 Sharif, Nawaz, 133–135 Shehadeh, Lamia, 27 Shia Islam: Pakistani state violence against, 141; Pakistan’s imposition of Sunni law, 131; Pakistan’s militant Islamization, 139; Pakistan’s religious history, 119; Turkey’s Alevis, 78(n6) Shura (consultation), 22–23, 45, 109, 126, 132, 138, 289 Sierra Leone, 6(table) Şik, Ahmet, 73 Singapore, 114(n9) Sirhindi, Ahmed, 78(n13) Sisters in Islam (SIS), 102, 107–109, 296 Sjadzali, Munawir, 218 Social democrats: Turkey, 51

344

Index

Social justice: feminist critique of Malaysian Islamization, 107–109; Indonesia’s Wahid advocating judicial reforms, 223–224; Malaysian youth, 98; Malaysia’s potential for a more democratic Islam, 105–106; Turkey’s civil Islam, 62–63; Turkey’s politicalreligious reconciliation, 61–62; Turkey’s restoration, 52; Turkey’s Welfare Party, 56 Social media: Turkey, 72, 76 Socialism: Pakistan’s Awami League, 156 Socialist Party of Senegal (PSS), 245, 255, 261 Sodomy conviction, 107, 115(n28) Soft authoritarian states: Malaysia, 83–84 Somalia, 6(table) Songhay Empire, 181 Sovereignty: Dutch refusal to recognize Indonesia’s, 212; popular, 20–22; Senegal’s religious and political authorities, 257–258; Turkish secularism, 37–39 Special Powers Act (1973, Bangladesh), 158 Spiritual paths: religion as a private matter, 105–106; Sufi teachings, 259 State governments, Malaysia’s Islamization spreading to, 101, 110 State of emergency: Bangladesh, 158, 170–171 State religion, Islam as, 279; Bangladesh’s constitutional amendment, 151, 172; Indonesia’s debate over, 229–233; Malaysia, 83, 93; Tunisia, 290 State weakness: Malaysia’s consociational democracy, 92 Statehood: Malaysia, 85–89 Stateness: Senegal, 257 Stoning, 39(table), 101–102, 131, 139, 146(n27). See also Hudud (punishment) laws Strong democracy: Bangladesh, 151–152 Student organizations: Indonesian opposition to Suharto, 224–226; Malaysian Islamic youth, 97–98; Turkey’s political polarization, 51 Subversion, Malaysia’s activism against, 92, 101 Sudan, 6(table) Sudanese Union–African Democratic Rally (US-RDA), 184–185

Suffrage: defining democracy, 18; Senegal, 250, 265. See also Elections Sufism, 51; Bangladesh’s Islamist agenda, 169; Bangladesh’s Islamization, 162– 163; challenging Senegal’s state-marabout relationship, 261–262; controlling Senegal’s elections, 262– 264; Indonesia’s Muhammadiyah rejecting, 210; Islamic political thought in Turkey, 45–46; Malaysia’s religious history, 85; Mali’s political and religious history, 182; missionaries and traders in Bengal, 153; Pakistan under Bhutto, 129; Pakistani state violence against, 141; Pakistan’s religious diversity, 119; political incorporation in Senegal, 281; prerequisites for Senegal’s democratic evolution, 257–259; Senegal, 248–250; Senegal under Diouf, 254; Senegal under Senghor, 251; Senegal’s decentralized religious institutions, 277; Senegal’s Family Code, 266–267; Senegal’s Sufi brotherhoods, 245–246; syncretic national Islam, 276–277; Turkey under the DP, 43; Turkey’s democratic restoration, 50–51. See also Mouride (Muridiyya) order; Nakşibendi Sufi order; Tijani (Tijaniyya) order Suharto, 206, 214, 221–223, 225–226 Sukarno, 92, 205, 210–214 Süleymanli community (Turkey), 45 Sunni Islam: Pakistan’s militant Islamization, 131, 139; Turkey’s military coup, 54; Turkish secularism, 37–38 Sy, Moustapha, 254 Syed Muhammad Naquib al-Attas, 103 Syihab, Habib Rizieq, 230 Syncretic Islam, 276–277; Bengal, 153– 154; Malay resistance to, 87; Mali, 181, 192; Pakistan’s religious diversity, 119; post-Arab Spring Tunisia, 288; Senegal’s democratization, 257; shaping democracy, 10–11; shaping democratic forms, 11 Syria, 6(table), 81(n63) Tajdid (renewal), 9, 47, 219–220 Takiyye (masking political intentions), 68 Taliban, 135–137, 139, 141–142, 147(n36), 169

Index

Tamerlane, cult of, 33(n17) Taseer, Salman, 147(n48) Tawhid (unity of God), 219 Tax policy: Turkish discriminative policies, 40 Tekrur kingdom, 247–248 Terrorism: Mali’s Tuareg rebellion, 199– 201; Turkey’s political struggles over Islamic-oriented issues, 69 Theo-democracy: Pakistan, 124; Turkey’s Islamic political thought, 46 Tijani (Tijaniyya) order, 43, 201(n12), 245–246, 248, 252–254, 256 Timing of democratization. See Islamicoriented political mobilization Tolerance: attitudes on religion, tolerance, and politics in West Africa, 194(table); Bangladesh’s state policy, 166; conflict between Malaysia’s Anwar and Chandra, 106; Islam’s compatibility of, 23–24; Mali’s decentralized government contributing to, 192; Mali’s syncretic Islam, 181, 276–277; Pakistan’s pluralistic history, 121; Pew Survey of Senegal, 268–269, 271(n29); as political right, 19; Senegal’s clerical support for, 258– 259, 269; syncretic Islam contributing to, 11 Touré, Amadou Toumani, 187, 189, 190– 192, 198–200 Touré, Cheikh, 251–252 Touré, Samory, 182 Trade: Dutch colonialism in Indonesia, 208–209; Indonesia’s religious history, 207; Malaysia’s precolonial history, 85–86; Mali’s religious and political history, 181; Senegal, 247–248; through Bengal, 153 Trade union: Senegal’s Mourides, 262 Traditional customs, 208–209 Traditional Islam, 11, 219–220. See also Sufism Traoré, Moussa, 179, 184–186 Tribal law: Pakistan’s history, 120 True Path Party (Turkey), 56 Tsunami, Indonesian, 237 Tuareg rebels (Mali), 179–180, 189, 189– 190, 199–200, 201(n2) Tunisia: Islamic reformation, 289–291; optimism for democratization, 3; postArab Spring democratic development, 288–293; support by Muslims for

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sharia and powers for religious judges, 23(table) Tunisian Islam, 289 Tunku Abdul Rahman, 92 Turkey: AKP consolidation of power, 67– 71; AKP political reforms, 65–67; Atatürk and the rise of secularism, 37– 40; civil Islam, 59–63; comparison of Muslim-majority democracies, 7(table); democratic development, 36(fig.); democratization preceding Islamic popular mobilization, 280; early democratization, 28–30; evidence of liberal Islam in Turkey, Indonesia, and Senegal, 39(table); evolving Muslim democracies, 294–295; Freedom House and Polity measures, 6, 6(table); Gezi Park protests, 72–73, 75, 80(n56), 297; Islamic-oriented political thought, 44–50; military intervention, 53–54; moderationinclusion hypothesis, 281–282; political polarization, 50–53; possible threats to democracy, 72–77; prioritizing democracy, 62–63; profiles of Muslim-majority democracies, 16(table); reconciling Islamic law with democracy and pluralism, 287; reentry of Islamic into democracy, 29–30; religio-political identity, 78(n7); rise of multipartyism, 40–44; role of secularism in democratization, 278; secularism preceding politicized Islam, 260–261; support by Muslims for sharia and powers for religious judges, 23(table); syncretic “national” Islam, 277; TIS and Turgut Özal, 54–55; Welfare Party, 55–58; year of first sustained democratic experience, 29(table). See also Justice and Development Party Turkish Islam, 38, 54–55, 61, 63, 277 Turkish-Islamic Ideal (Arvasi), 50 Turkish-Islamic Synthesis (TIS), 49–50, 54–55, 61, 78(n7) Turko-Ottoman nationalism, 61 Two-nation theory, 121–123 Ulama Council (Malaysia), 99 Umar Tal, 182 Umayyad Empire, 119 UN Convention to Eliminate All Forms of Discrimination Against Women, 134

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Index

UN Development Programme, 27 Underclass, Turkey’s, 56 Union Culturelle Musulmane (Mali), 183– 185 United Arab Emirates: gender equality, 26 United Council for Action (MMA, Pakistan), 138–139 United Development Party (PPP, Indonesia), 215–216, 227(table), 240 United Malays National Organization (UMNO), 88, 90–92, 99–105, 112 United States: aid to Zia’s Pakistan, 132 Universal Islamic Declaration of Human Rights, 25–26 Unsecular democracy, 24–25; defining and identifying, 294–296; Pakistan, 147(n37); Senegal as, 268–269 Uzbekistan, 33(n17)

Velayat-e faqih (rule of the supreme jurist), 12, 277 Violence: antisystem groups in Indonesia, 218; Bangladesh independence, 156– 157; Indonesia’s coup and countercoup, 214, 242(n20); against Indonesia’s religious minorities, 233– 234; Pakistan’s religious-oriented hostilities, 140–141, 147(n44) Virtue Party (FP, Turkey), 62–63 Voice and Accountability Index (VA, World Bank), 32(nn10,11); comparison of Muslim-majority democracies, 7(table); democratic deficit in the Muslim world, 5(table); longevity of, 32(n14) Vollenhoven, Cornelius van, 242(n10) Voter registration: Indonesia, 240

Wade, Abdoulaye, 255–257, 266–267 Wahda (unity), 23 Wahhabi Islam, 184, 194 Wahid, Abdurrahman, 216, 218–219, 222– 225, 227, 230–231, 277 Wahid, Nuriyah, 234–235 Wan Azizah, 107 War crimes: Bangladesh, 167, 172–173 War Jabi, 247 War on terror, 137 Welfare Party (RP, Turkey), 55–58, 61, 63, 67 Western democracies and ideologies: Indonesia’s Wahid advocating liberalization, 224; Islam as antithesis

to, 20–21; Malaysia’s “Asian values” countering, 102–103; Malaysia’s mobilization against, 96; secularism as prerequisite for democracy, 279; Turkey’s modernization under multipartyism, 41; Turkish nationalism modeling, 38. See also Secularism Widodo, Joko, 241 Wikileaks, 80(n55) Wiranto, 239 Wolof kingdoms, 247–248, 264 Women’s rights: Bangladesh’s Islamist agenda, 168–169, 176(n22); in democratic Indonesia, 233–236; Indonesia’s Wahid advocating judicial reforms, 223–224; Malaysia’s Islamization, 103; Mali, 196–199, 202(n28); Pakistan after Musharraf, 140, 142; Pakistan fornication laws, 147(n41); Pakistan under Benazhir Bhutto, 134; Pakistan under Bhutto, 128; Pakistan under Sharif, 135–136; Pakistan under Zia, 131; Pakistan’s conservatism under Musharraf, 138; Pakistan’s family law, 126; Pakistan’s progressive measures, 140; political activism in Senegal, 250; Senegal, 265–267, 271(nn17,19), 272(nn42); Senegal under Senghor, 252–253; Senegalese Sufism, 259–260; Senegal’s marabouts, 258, 271(n26); subtypes of democracy, 294; Tunisia’s reformation, 290. See also Feminist groups World Bank. See Voice and Accountability Index World Economic Forum Gender Gap index: Bangladesh, 166; creation and use of, 26; Indonesia, 235; Mali, 202(n28); Pakistan, 142; Senegal, 265, 272(n42); Turkey’s low scores, 76 World Values Survey, 33(n16), 148(n50), 164 World War II: Indonesian independence, 211–212; Japanese occupation of Malaya, 87; partition of Pakistan and India, 123; political rights for French colonies, 184; Turkey’s absence from, 40 Yoga, Malaysian fatwas against, 103 Young Ottomans, 45 Young Turks, 38

Index

Youth organizations: Indonesia’s emergent militias, 213–214; Malaysia, 97–98. See also Student organizations Yudhoyono, Bambang Susilo, 240 Yunus, Muhammad, 164, 174, 178(n59) Zakat tax, 9, 131, 230

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Zardari, Asif Ali, 137, 140 Zaytuna mosque (Tunisia), 289 Zia, Khaleda. See Khaleda Zia-ul-Haq, Muhammad, 130–132, 134 Zina (anti-fornication) ordinances, 134. See also Fornication laws Zoroastrians, 25, 123

About the Book

In the denouement of the Arab Spring, skepticism about the hopes for new democracies in the Muslim world is understandable. Belying assertions of the incompatibility of Islam and democracy, however, many Muslim-majority countries are now or have been democratic. Paul Kubicek draws on the experiences of seven of those countries to explore the relationship between political manifestations of Islam and democratic politics. Kubicek’s comparative analysis allows him to highlight the common features that create conditions amenable to democratic development in Muslim-majority countries—and to show how actors in Muslim democracies in fact draw on concepts within Islam to contribute to democratization. Paul Kubicek is professor of political science and director of international studies at Oakland University. He has published extensively on issues of democratization, and he is also editor of the journal Turkish Studies.

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