Sufis and Salafis in the Contemporary Age 9781472523877, 9781474219334, 9781472532237

Table of contents :
Cover
Half-title
Title
Copyright
Contents
Contributor List
Introduction
1. Modernity from Within: Islamic Fundamentalism and Sufism
2. Egyptian Sufism Under the Hammer: A Preliminary Investigation into the Anti-Sufi Polemics of ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil (1913–70)
3. Mapping Modern Turkish Sufism and Anti-Sufism
4. The Shrines of Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Jilani in Baghdadand his Son in ‘Aqra: Current Challenges in FacingSalafism
5. The Political Participation of Sufi and Salafi Movements in Modern Morocco: Between the ‘2003 Casablanca Terrorist Attack’ and the ‘Moroccan Spring’
6. Sufis as ‘Good Muslims’: Sufism in the Battle against Jihadi Salafism
7. Mystical Traditions and Voices of Dissent: Experiences from Bengal
8. Representing the Detractors of Sufism in Twentieth-Century Hyderabad, India
9. Barelwis: Developments and Dynamics of Conflict with Deobandis
10. The Contested Milieu of Deoband: ‘Salafis’ or ‘Sufis’?
Notes
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

Sufis and Salafis in the Contemporary Age

Also available from Bloomsbury Sufism in Britain, Edited by Ron Geaves and Theodore Gabriel South Asian Sufis, Edited by Clinton Bennett and Charles M. Ramsay The Bloomsbury Companion to Islamic Studies, Edited by Clinton Bennett Sufism, Mahdism and Nationalism, by Douglas H. Thomas

Sufis and Salafis in the Contemporary Age Edited by Lloyd Ridgeon

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

50 Bedford Square London WC1B 3DP UK

1385 Broadway New York NY 10018 USA

www.bloomsbury.com BLOOMSBURY and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published 2015 Paperback edition first published 2016 © Lloyd Ridgeon and Contributors, 2015 Lloyd Ridgeon has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Editor of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. No responsibility for loss caused to any individual or organization acting on or refraining from action as a result of the material in this publication can be accepted by Bloomsbury or the editor. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.



ISBN: HB: 978-1-4725-2387-7 PB: 978-1-3500-1238-7 ePDF: 978-1-4725-3223-7 ePub: 978-1-4725-2919-0 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Sufis and salafis in the contemporary age / edited by Lloyd Ridgeon. pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-4725-2387-7 (hardback) 1. Sufism. 2. Salafiyah. 3. Mysticism–Islam. 4. Islamic fundamentalism. 5. Islamic sects. I. Ridgeon, Lloyd V. J. BP189.2.S785 2015 297.4–dc23 2014046377 Typeset by Deanta Global Publishing Services, Chennai, India

Contents Contributor List Introduction  Lloyd Ridgeon

1 2

3 4

5

6 7 8

Modernity from Within: Islamic Fundamentalism and Sufism  Itzchak Weismann

vii 1

9

Egyptian Sufism Under the Hammer: A Preliminary Investigation into the Anti-Sufi Polemics of ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil (1913–70)  Richard Gauvain

33

Mapping Modern Turkish Sufism and Anti-Sufism  Alberto Fabio Ambrosio

59

The Shrines of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani in Baghdad and his Son in ʿAqra: Current Challenges in Facing Salafism  Noorah Al-Gailani

71

The Political Participation of Sufi and Salafi Movements in Modern Morocco: Between the ‘2003 Casablanca Terrorist Attack’ and the ‘Moroccan Spring’  Aziz el Kobaiti Idrissi

91

Sufis as ‘Good Muslims’: Sufism in the Battle against Jihadi Salafism  Mark Sedgwick

105

Mystical Traditions and Voices of Dissent: Experiences from Bengal  Kashshaf Ghani

119

Representing the Detractors of Sufism in Twentieth-Century Hyderabad, India  Mauro Valdinoci

147

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Contents

  9 Barelwis: Developments and Dynamics of Conflict with Deobandis  Thomas K. Gugler

171

10 The Contested Milieu of Deoband: ‘Salafis’ or ‘Sufis’?  Ron Geaves

191

Notes Bibliography Index

275

217 299

Contributor List Alberto Fabio Ambrosio, adjunct at the Université de Lorraine (Metz) and CETOBAC/EHESS Associate Researcher, was born in Fano (Italy) in 1971. Having read philosophy and theology in Bologna, he then undertook Turkish in Strasbourg. In 2007 he finished his doctoral studies in modern history at the University of Paris (Sorbonne) on the history of the Whirling Dervishes. Then, he received the Habilitation to teach theology in 2013 at the University of Metz. He is currently pursuing his research on Turkish Islam. His publications include Vie d’un Derviche Tourneur: Doctrine et Rituels du Soufisme au XVIIe siècle (2010); Soufisme et Christianisme: Entre Histoire et Mystique (2013); Soufis à Istanbul: Hier, Aujourd’hui (2014). Noorah Al-Gailani is a final-year postgraduate research student at the University of Glasgow, studying the material culture of two Sufi Qadiri shrines in Iraq – in Baghdad and in ʿAqra. Her thesis is on the changing identities of Iraqi Sufism with special focus on the Qadiriyya in Baghdad and ʿAqra. She is also the curator of Islamic Civilisations at Glasgow Museums, based at The Burrell Collection. In addition to Islamic art, Noorah’s interests also include intercultural and interfaith encounters and their evidence in material culture. Richard Gauvain has lived in the Middle East since 2002. He taught comparative religions at the American University in Cairo; helped set up a Middle East Studies  Program at the American University in Dubai; and is currently associate  dean of  Arts and Sciences at the American University in Ras al-Khaimah. In the widest sense, his research focuses on the creative intersections between culture and religion in concrete settings within the region. He is the author of  Salafi Ritual Purity: In the Presence of God,  a monograph on modern Egyptian Salafi attitudes to, and regulations surrounding, the rituallegal theme of purity; and has written articles on various aspects of Muslim life in the Middle East. His current research explores the wide range of relationships, formal and informal,  between  Muslims and Christians in the United Arab Emirates.

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Ron Geaves is currently visiting professor in the Department of History, Archaeology and Religion, based in the Centre of the Study of Muslims in Britain at Cardiff University and visiting professor of Muslim Culture and Enterprise at University College Suffolk, previously holding Chairs in Religious Studies at the University of Chester (2001–7) and in the Comparative Study of Religion at Liverpool Hope University (2007–13). Professor Geaves remains active in research. Usually, his research is contemporary in focus and involves ethnographic study, although recently he has embarked on the historical study of the Muslim presence in Britain. He has written and edited nineteen books and contributed to around twenty-five edited collections and numerous journal articles. He is the founding editor of the journal Fieldwork in Religion. His works include Sectarian Influences in Islam in Britain (1994), Sufis in Britain (2000), Islam and the West Post 9/11 (2004), Aspects of Islam (2005), Islam Today (2010), Islam in Victorian Britain: The Life and Times of Abdullah Quilliam (2010), Sufis of Britain (2014). He is currently working on the history of Islam in Britain in the Edwardian era, the Deobandi movement, and an edited collection of Abdullah Quilliam’s writings. Kashshaf Ghani is an assistant professor at the School of Historical Studies, Nalanda University. He obtained his PhD in history from the University of Calcutta (2011) with a dissertation on Sufi rituals and practices across orders in South Asia. His fields of interest include Sufism, Islam in South Asia and Muslim societies, with a focus on pre-modern India (1000–1800). He has held research positions at the Asiatic Society, Kolkata as the inaugural Sir Amir Ali Fellow; at the University of Sorbonne Nouvelle, Paris as the inaugural Perso-Indica fellow and also at the Zentrum Moderner Orient,  Berlin. His postdoctoral interests include colonial South Asia, where he explores Indo-Persian cultures along with transcultural and transregional networks in Muslim communities across South and West Asia. Thomas K. Gugler graduated in South Asian studies, religious studies and psychology from Ludwig Maximilian University in Munich and did his PhD in Islamic studies at the University of Erfurt. He has been working as a research fellow at the Zentrum Moderner Orient in Berlin and the Department for Near Eastern Studies, University of Vienna. He is currently working on ‘Plurality and Culture in Contemporary South Asia’ at the Centre for Islamic Theology, University of Muenster. He has published Ozeanisches Gefühl der Unsterblichkeit (2009) and Mission Medina: Da’wat-e Islami und Tablighi Jama’at (2011).

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Aziz EL Kobaiti Idrissi is the current president of the International Academic Center for Sufi and aesthetic Studies (IACSAS) in Fez. He is also professor of arabic language and Sufi literature at the Moroccan Ministry of National Education. His publications include Islamic Sufism in the West, (trans. Aisha Bewley 2012),  and several works in Arabic including  Tasawwuf al-Islami fi al-Wilayat al-Muttahidah al-Amrikiyah: Mazahir hudur al-Tasawwuf al-Maghribi wa-ta’thiratuh (2013) and The Influence of Moroccan Sufism on American Modern Poetry, (2013) (English/Arabic). Lloyd Ridgeon is Reader in Islamic studies at the University of Glasgow. His main area of research is medieval Persian Sufism, but he also engages in studies of modern Iranian society and culture. In 2014 he was chosen to be the editor of the British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies. His books include Jawanmardi: A Sufi Code of Honour (2011), Morals and Mysticism in Persian Sufism: A History of Futuwwat in Iran (2010), Sufi Castigator: Ahmad Kasravi and the Iranian Sufi Tradition (2008), Persian Metaphysics and Mysticism (2002) and Aziz Nasafi (1998). He has also edited a four-volume collection of essays in Routledgeʼs Critical Concepts Series entitled Sufism (2008), and has edited a number of works including Islamic Interpretations of Christianity (2011), Religion and Politics in Modern Iran (2005), Iranian Intellectuals (1997–2007) (2008) and Shiʿ-i Islam and Identity (2012). Most recently he has edited The Cambridge Companion to Sufism (2015). Mark Sedgwick is a professor of Arab and Islamic studies at Aarhus University in Denmark. He is a historian by training, and previously taught for many years at the American University in Cairo. His work focuses on modern and transregional Islam and especially on Sufism and on Traditionalism. He also works on terrorism and on Islamic modernism. His books include Muhammad Abduh: A Biography (2009), Saints and Sons: The Making and Remaking of the Rashidi Ahmadi Sufi Order, 1799–2000 (2005) and Against the Modern World: Traditionalism and the Secret Intellectual History of the Twentieth Century (2004). His latest book is an edited collection:  Making European Muslims: Religious Socialization among Young Muslims in Scandinavia and Western Europe (2014). Mauro Valdinoci received his PhD in anthropology from the Department of Sciences of Language and Culture at the University of Modena and Reggio Emilia in 2012. Having carried out fieldwork in Hyderabad, India, for several months in 2006 and in the period 2008–10, he wrote a dissertation which focuses on two

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branches of the Qadiriyya Sufis in nineteenth-century Hyderabad, to discuss the ways in which Indian Sufis have responded to modernization processes and the growth of Islamic reformist movements. He is currently involved in the preparation of his first monograph based on his dissertation. He has authored articles in Archiv Orientalni, Oriente Moderno, Journal of Deccan Studies and chapters in edited volumes. His research interests include anthropology of Islam, Muslim cultures and societies in South Asia, Sufism, Islam and modernity, Islamic reformism, transmission of knowledge, and ritual. During the academic year 2013/14 he was a postdoctoral fellow at the Oriental Institute of the Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic in Prague. He is currently an independent researcher. Itzchak Weismann is an associate professor of Islamic studies and until recently director of the Jewish-Arab Center at Haifa University. His research interests focus on the Salafiyya, Islamic movements in the Middle East and South Asia, Sufism, modern Islamic thought and Interfaith dialogue. His books include Taste of Modernity: Sufism, Salafiyya, and Arabism in Late Ottoman Damascus (2001); The Naqshbandiyya: Orthodoxy and Activism in a Worldwide Sufi Tradition (2007); Ottoman Reform and Islamic Regeneration (co-editor, 2005); Islamic Myths and Memories: Mediators of Globalization (co-editor, 2014); and Islam: Conversion, Sufism, Revival and Reform: Essays in Memory of Nehemia Levtzion (co-editor, in Hebrew, 2012). He is the editor of the Sahar (Crescent) series of translations of major Islamic texts.

Introduction Lloyd Ridgeon

For nearly twenty years now students have been coming to me at Glasgow University and asking how to approach essays or assignments. My response is usually the same: ‘Look at the question, identify the key terms and attempt to define and explain what they mean, and then address the specific question.’ Writing an introduction to the present volume, I have wondered how it would be possible to provide something coherent and meaningful when the two key terms, Sufism and Salafism, are so broad as to make definitions almost redundant. Sufism is perhaps the most difficult of the terms to define, simply because it has a history of over one thousand years, and perhaps inevitably, it has thrown up so many manifestations that it is often difficult to witness a core that runs through them all. Elsewhere I have argued that it is not entirely accurate to define or call Sufism ‘Islamic mysticism’, as not all who have followed the Sufi path have had experiences that may be termed ‘mystical’.1 It is perhaps more instructive to regard Sufism as a form of intense piety and obedience to God or for others, a form of yearning for God within the Islamic tradition that is epitomized by the hadith of Gabriel in which Islam is divided into submission (islam), faith (iman) and excellence or doing what is beautiful (ihsan).2 In other words, Sufism is an orientation towards God that builds upon and excels in practice and faith. Yet even in the early centuries of Sufi history there were elements of belief and practice that aroused controversy on issues including the nature of Sufi claims of ‘mystical’ experience. Was the Sufi God? Did the Sufi actually witness God? Did the Sufi share God’s essence or attributes? There were also many questions about the nature of Sufi rituals, including those involving intercession between an aspiring Sufi and a guide (the shaykh, or pir), the visitation of tombs where intercession could take place, and the ‘veneration’ of such individuals. These issues were debated by the Sufis themselves, and treatises were written on all of these topics, some in defence and others rejecting such beliefs and practices. The Sufi tradition has accommodated a wide range of ideas and values; some Sufis have embraced the speculative worldview of Ibn ʿArabi (d. 1240), which has been

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Sufis and Salafis in the Contemporary Age

termed by modern scholars ‘pantheist’, ‘monist’ and ‘theo-monist’: other Sufis, such as Abu Hamid al-Ghazali (d. 1111), have emphasized a form of Sufi ethics that is personified by the hadith of Gabriel.3 And there have been Sufis who have rejected the imperialism associated with modern Western colonial power, and have actively engaged in the performance of jihad. Yet despite some Sufis taking up arms against Western powers, it is with the onset of the modern period, when the Islamic world was challenged in scientific, political and military ways, that Sufism faced its sternest challenges. Not only were the ‘superstitions’ and ‘backwardness’ of Sufis rejected by Westerners and Westernized Muslims, but also the tradition was now opposed by a number of Muslims who have been termed Salafis. Salafism is derived from salaf, or more specifically the salaf al-salih who were the Muslim community that succeeded Muhammad. Due to their historical proximity to the Prophet, it is thought that the faith and practice of the al-salaf al-salih was exemplary, and it is this that the modern Salafis seek to capture in their own lives. Salafis attempt to recreate a ‘golden age’, and discover a pristine version of Islam, stripped of all later accretions, including the four schools of Sunni law, kalam (or systematic theology), fiqh (jurisprudence) and Sufism. The emergence of Salafism coincided with both the emergence of colonial Western powers in many regions of the Islamic world and a trend within the Sufi movement for reform. These reforms between the eighteenth and the twentieth centuries included a return to sacred scripture, a tightening of institutional organization and jihad against the colonial power4; these three elements reflect much of the modern Salafi enterprise, as Weismann states in the first chapter of this book, ‘the Salafi discourse and popular socioreligious movements such as the Muslim Brothers appear as modern transformations rather than negations of Sufism’ (p. 9). Weismann also categorizes the development of what he calls ‘Islamic fundamentalism’ (i.e. Salafism) into three stages. The first stage emerged in the later part of the nineteenth century, and includes the intellectuals of the Ahl-i Hadith movement in India and the Arab Salafis. The latter are of particular interest because in spite of their heterodox ideas they are often regarded as forefathers of modern-day Salafism. For example, the Pan-Islamicist Jamal al-Din Afghani (d. 1897) is famous in the West for his tract in response to Ernst Renan (d. 1892), the celebrated French philosopher, in which he defended the Arabs and Islam against the Aryan supremacy that was prevalent in much of Europe. Significantly Afghani had little that was positive to say about Islam as a religion: ‘In truth the Muslim religion has tried to stifle science and stop

Introduction

3

its progress.’5 However, he has emerged as a Salafi hero largely on the basis of his anti-imperialist perspective. Likewise, another early ‘Salafi’ was Muhammad ʿAbduh (d. 1905), a disciple of Afghani, whose rationalist writings included distinct Sufi and Mutazili sympathies (which are antithetical to modern Salafis).6 Both Afghani and ʿAbduh are exemplars of what is known as ‘al-Salafiyya al-tanwiriyya’, or enlightened Salafism. The second stage of Salafism emerged after the First World War, and was championed by a student of ʿAbduh named Rashid Rida (d. 1935), as well as by a number of similar-minded individuals across the Islamic world, including Hassan al-Banna (d. 1949) in Egypt and Mawdudi (d. 1979) in India.7 Such Salafis favoured a far more literal understanding of scripture rather than the allegorical readings of Afghani and ʿAbduh. The resistance and hostility to Western imperialism and Western metanarratives was one element that the new Salafis had in common with their forebears. The third stage of Salafism emerged in the post-independence era after the end of the Second World War. It is epitomized by the writings of the Egyptian Sayyid Qutb (d. 1966), at least in his later, more radical phase.8 However, to regard modern Salafism as an endorsement of Qutb would be inaccurate, as modern Salafism reveals great diversity, at least in how it responds to the changing contexts in which it finds itself. The common creed of the Salafis is based upon following the guidance found in the Qurʾan and hadith, and while this is common for all Muslim groups, the Salafis are distinct from more traditional Muslims in denying any validity to other sources for knowledge. Thus the Sufi reliance on the knowledge derived from shaykhs or pirs through intercession is rejected outright. Likewise, the exercise of reason and interpretation of scripture is believed to be wrong, as Salafis hold that there are self-evident truths to be found in the Qurʾan and hadith. One of these truths is tawhid, or the unity of God who is supreme and entirely unique. This view of God is perhaps best rendered by the Arabic term tanzih, that is to say, God’s incomparability, which stands in contrast to the Sufi view of God, which posits a deity that balances incomparability with closeness and similarity (tashbih). In fact this similarity takes precedence over incomparability to the extent that is best typified in the Persian expression ‘Hama ust’ (Everything is He) and the Arabic ‘wahdat al-wujud’ (unity of existence). These kinds of views and expressions are viewed by Salafis as an innovation (bid‘a) of the original message of tawhid, and are therefore rejected. The desire to act out an original form of Islam that negates any ‘innovation’ reaches a point that Salafis deny the legitimacy of any form of ‘excessive’ worship. Deviancy can ‘result from good

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intentions. Muslims who pray more than the proscribed five times a day, for example, are likely to be motivated by love for God. They are, however, still engaged in innovation because they are inventing new practices to fulfil a human desire.’9 The emphasis on the Qurʾan and hadith, with the rejection of the larger Islamic tradition, whether it is Sufi, or Mutazilite, or representative of the law schools (Hanafi, Maliki, Shafiʿi and Hanbali) sets Salafism at odds with many Muslims. However there are affinities between the Salafis and Wahhabis. The difference between the two is that the Wahhabis have a close affinity with the Hanbali school of law, and follow the rulings of major Hanbali scholars. This stands at odds with the Salafis who reject following the teachings of scholars in the centuries after the pious ancestors (al-salaf al-salih). Even so, Salafis respect the views of Ibn Taymiyya (d. 1263), a famous Hanbali scholar who sought a return to pristine Islam, and rejected the excesses of Sufism and was hostile to the views of non-Muslims. The rejection of hundreds of years of tradition, along with the same basic creed (aqida) are the distinctive features of all Salafis. Yet it should not be supposed that Salafis are the same everywhere, as there exist a number of distinctive groups that oppose one another, especially on the issue of how to respond to the challenges of the modern age. Wiktorowicz has made a simple threefold classification of Salafis: purists, politicos and jihadis. Individuals of the first group, the purists, are concerned primarily with the creed, and educating Muslims about this, engaging in daʿwa and religious education. The aim is to perfect religion, and until this is complete any political activity will be doomed to failure. Purists consider that the present context facing Muslims is analogous to the Meccan phase of Muhammad’s prophetic career, when he was simply a warner and was not involved in the creation of an Islamic state, and so purists hold that Muslims should imitate this model in the present context. It is for this reason that purists such as Muhammad Nasir al-Din al-Albani (d. 1999) advised Palestinians to leave the occupied territories rather than fight within the borders of Israel.10 The second group, the politicos, gained strength from the 1960s, when Saudi Arabia embraced a number of Muslim Brothers, fleeing from Nasser’s Egypt. These Muslim Brothers argue that they were more aware than the purists of the context of the times, and as a result they promoted a more political agenda. While giving due attention to the Salafi creed, the politicos became increasingly vocal following the invasion of Iraq by Saddam Hussein and the arrival of American troops in the region in 1991. The third group is the jihadis, who sanction violence in order to achieve its political agenda. It is this

Introduction

5

last group that has achieved notoriety in the West, and is associated with Osama bin Laden, Abu Hamza (‘the Hook’)11 and the Jordanian Abu Qatada who was finally deported from the United Kingdom in July 2013. Wiktorowicz’s categorization of Salafism within three groups has been further refined by Thomas Hegghammer, who favours a fivefold explanation of Militant Islamism, based upon their ‘rationale’, or mid-term political aims and strategy. The five are groups that are state oriented, nation oriented, umma oriented, morality oriented and sectarian.12 This is not the place to explain any further about the various ways to define Salafism, yet the attempts of Wiktorowic and Hegghammer demonstrate that Salafism is indeed a complex phenomenon. For our purposes, recent events have demonstrated that some Salafi groups are actively hostile to forms of Sufism. In recent years there have been attacks upon Sufi shrines (the perpetrators of which are often unknown – but many of these violent acts have been attributed to Salafi-inspired groups or individuals).13 Noorah al-Gailani opens Chapter 4 of the present volume with an account on the bomb explosion at the shrine complex of ʿAbd al-Qadir Jilani in Baghdad in 2007. Since then Salafist groups have destroyed a number of mosques and shrines associated with Sufism and ‘saint-veneration’: in 2014, groups of ISIS supporters demolished some twenty establishments.14 Similar events have occurred in a number of regions within the Middle East, Africa and Asia. In Egypt, for example, before the fall of Mubarak in 2011, Salafi inroads within Egypt had reached the extent that in April 2010 the Ministry of Religious Endowments banned all Sufi groups from holding gatherings for the performance of dhikr,15 and ‘at least 25 Sufi shrines have been attacked or ransacked since the end of President Hosni Mubarak’s regime’.16 In Libya, Salafis were also responsible for the demolition of the Sufi shrines of fifteenth-century scholar Abdel Salam al-Asmar in Zlitan17 and of Shaab al-Dahmani in Tripoli in August 2012, resulting in the resignation of the Interior Minister.18 In Mali, the tomb of Sidi Mahmud Ben Amar (1463– 1548) was attacked on 5 May 2012, when the Salafist Ansar al-Din, who had occupied Timbuktu, ‘prevented worshippers from approaching the tomb before tearing off its doors, breaking windows and setting flammable portions on fire’.19 In Lahore in Pakistan, the shrine complex of Hujwiri, the famous eleventh-century Sufi, was the target of suicide bombers in 2010, which killed forty-two.20 A similar attack occurred in the Sakhi Sarwar shrine in 2011 in the Punjab, killing at least forty-one people.21 It is not difficult to see a trend, and a quick search on the internet provides numerous examples of such violence and Salafi antipathy against Sufism. Salafi opposition to Sufism is also non-violent at

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times, such as the recent serious suggestion offered by some Wahhabi scholars in Saudi Arabia that the Prophet’s physical remains in the al-Masjid al-nabawi in Medina be re-buried in a cemetery nearby.22 It is not difficult to understand this would upset many Sufis (among other Muslims) who believe in the efficacy of visiting graves. Such violence against Sufism is most often neglected in the Western media, and even in academic circles.23 This is not surprising in light of recent developments, such as the emergence of ISIS or ISIL, the shooting in a Jewish museum in Brussels in May 2015 or the beheading of Western journalists by members of this organization in 2014. The present work attempts to address this lacuna by presenting ten articles that highlight the various kinds of tensions that exist between Sufis and Salafis, and indeed, within the problems that academics face when using terms such as Sufi and Salafi. The articles are framed by articles that foreground this difficulty. In the first chapter, Weismann shows how Sufism and Salafism are intimately linked, in the respect that Salafism is a modern transformation of Sufism, while in the last chapter Geaves demonstrates that Deobandi clerics in India (often perceived as ‘Wahhabis’ or ‘Salafis’) consider themselves Sufis, and understand the essence of the tradition as one of good intention and achieving the level ihsan. While some Deobandis engage in traditional Sufi activities, such as the dhikr, there does seem to be substantial difference with other Sufi(esque) groups (such as the Barelvis), including the Deobandi rejection of excessive reliance on intercession at the tombs of dead Sufis and ontological issues. The significance of these two chapters lies in the fact that Sufism and Salafism should not be regarded as antagonistic everywhere, at all times, on all issues. It would seem that the key to understand the relationship between the two lies in the immediate context, just as Thomas Hegghammer advised in relation to the differences in Jihadi-Salafism. Between these two chapters, a number of case studies from various locations are presented that demonstrate the tensions between Salafism and Sufism. Chapters 2 and 3 examine the cases of two prominent ‘Salafis’ from Egypt and Turkey who promoted forms of Salafi thought just prior to the awakening of the Western world to the Salafi phenomenon. The arguments of the ʿAbd al-Rahman al-Wakil (1913–70), the Egyptian ‘Hammer of Deviations’, is regarded by the Salafi group Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya ‘to have done most to inflict defeat upon the Sufis’ (Gauvain, p. 34) within the region. His criticisms of the role of the Sufi Shaykh, excessive ritual practices among Sufis (which do not reflect the ‘pristine’ version of Islam), and his criticisms of the ideas of Ibn ʿArabi

Introduction

7

are strikingly similar to the reasons that Ercümend Özkan (d. 1995) offered in Turkey for the rejection of the Sufi tradition. Sufi responses to the Salafi challenge have varied. In Chapter 4, Noorah al-Gailani demonstrates how the Sufis have been careful not to antagonize the Salafis in polemical language. Rather their attempt has been to legitimize Sufi ritual practice (such as the dhikr, the celebration of the Prophet’s birthday and visit to the saintʼs shrine) with reference to sacred scripture. Morocco has also been subject to Salafi violence, and here the Sufi response has been interesting, as is shown in Chapter 5. On the one hand, some Sufis have allied themselves with the state in attempting to resist the new challenge, while other Sufi groups have distanced themselves from the state and even adopted elements that are more usually associated with Salafism. This is a trend that, as has already been noted, has been manifested by Deobandis in India, thus making the dichotomy between Salafism and Sufism problematic. Chapter 5 also demonstrates that Salafism in Morocco is not homogenous, as there are differences between groups that endorse the state and those that reject it. In Chapter 6, attempts by four nation-states to use Sufism as a counter-balance to Salafism is examined. Mark Sedgwick argues that as the rise of Salafism is political, it is political answers that need to be provided. This helps to explain why the attempt to appropriate Sufism in the West (in the United States and the United Kingdom) has failed, and in Islamic regions (Morocco and Egypt) it has been only partially successful. As Sedgwick observes, ‘Sufism may be the natural enemy of Salafism, but this does not mean that Sufism is the natural ally of those who are opposing Salafism, especially when they are opposing Salafism for their own reasons’ (Sedgwick, p. 117). The last four chapters of this book are devoted to Sufism in the Indian subcontinent, and depict various manifestations of the tradition and how these have responded to the Salafi challenge. In Chapter 7, Kashshaf Ghani outlines the beliefs and practices of an ‘unorthodox’ group in Bengal, known as Fakirs, who are associated with the Sufi tradition. Representatives of the more ‘orthodox’ variety of Sufism have had to defend the Fakirs from accusations of promoting a non-shariʿa lifestyle (an accusation all too readily levelled by Salafis at Sufis), and yet they have also given guarded warnings to Fakirs that their intentions in pursuing such a path must be pure. In Chapter 8, another variety of Sufism is depicted by Mauro Valdinoci, who examines the works of Hyderabadi Sufis, who address Salafi criticisms without having recourse to vitriolic language or words that would inflame relations between Sufis and Salafis. As Valdinoci observes,

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Sufis and Salafis in the Contemporary Age

this type of non-personalized argumentation differentiates the Hyderabadi Sufis from Barelvi Sufis, who frequently identify specific individuals in their Sufi responses to critics. Chapter 9 focuses upon the Barelvi movement, and serves to highlight the main areas of belief and practice to which some Salafis object. The last chapter problematizes the binary division between Sufism and Salafism, and will force scholars to devise new paradigms by which it is possible to think of the nature of contemporary Islam, and how (and indeed whether) Muslims should be categorized with such labels. I would like to thank the AHRC whose research networking programme financed two conferences on the theme of contemporary Sufism. The research from the first conference, held at Liverpool Hope University is included in the Bloomsbury publication, Sufism in Britain, edited by Ron Geaves and Theodore Gabriel. The research of the second conference, held at Glasgow University, is contained herein.

1

Modernity from Within: Islamic Fundamentalism and Sufism* Itzchak Weismann

Islamic fundamentalism is a product of modernity. Its constitution as the hegemonic discourse of modern Islam was accomplished in the course of the twentieth century over against two Others: the external Other of the West and the internal Other of tradition, especially its mystical aspect – Sufism. The article claims, however, that the fundamentalists’ critique of Sufism as backward, superstitious and apolitical involved the collective forgetting of the leading role that Sufi reformist brotherhoods had filled in pre-modern Islam and in their own upbringing. In this light, the Salafi discourse and popular socio-religious movements such as the Muslim Brothers appear as modern transformations rather than negations of Sufism. On the other hand, contemporary Sufism has constituted itself as the modern Other of the hegemonic Islamic fundamentalism. The fundamentalist estrangement from Sufism, and Islamic tradition at large, engendered a dialectics of unenlightenment culminating in the present radicalization of Islam. Entering the mosque you’ll see large masses and hear tumult and uproar. You’ll see people who put chains and iron collars on their necks. Some of them naked and some wear tatters and rags. Filth and dirt fill them. Their braided hair is so stuck that water cannot wash it. Vermin graze in their bodies. … Then they rise up to what they call dhikr, ‘as stricken with madness by Satan.’ Their recollection is nothing but growling and mumbling, neighing and grumbling, mixed with cries and faint noises, groans and sighs … women and men, old and young, take part in all this. This is the party of the recollecting awliya – ‘the friends of God.’1 * This article was first published as “Modernity from within: Islamic Fundamentalism and Sufism,” which appeared in Der Islam, vol. 86 (2011), pp. 142–170. The article is republished with permission from De Gruyter.

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Sufis and Salafis in the Contemporary Age

Going back to and interpreting afresh the fundamentals of religion – the Qur’an, the Prophet’s Sunna and the politico-religious model of the ancestors, al-salaf al-salih or the imams – lies at the heart of Islamic intellectuals’ response of the past century and a half to challenge modernity. The Sunni and Shiʿi ‘fundamentalist’ discourse of authentication has been accompanied by a critical re-evaluation of the religious doctrines and practices of the intervening centuries, now lumped together and essentialized under the newly constructed rubric of tradition. Drawing on previous strands of opposition to mystical conceptions of Islam, most forcefully articulated in the writings of the medieval theologians Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya, and uncompromisingly enacted by the pre-modern Wahhabi movement, it was particularly ‘Sufism’ that came under fire. Sufis are habitually denounced today as deviators from the true path of Islam, held responsible for its so-called decline, and depicted as a major impediment to its adaptation to the conditions and needs of the modern era. The animosity shown by successive generations of Islamic fundamentalists towards Sufism has long been noted and amply documented. In the past, scholars who worked within the Orientalist paradigm understood such animosity in linear terms, as part of the progressive, though never completed, substitution of a modernizing Islam for backward superstitious beliefs and rituals that had become obsolete.2 More recent studies have demonstrated that reality is more complex. It is now evident that in pre-modern times sharia-minded Sufism was a major factor in the efforts at renewal and reform of Islam,3 and that subsequently Sufism itself has in many ways actively modernized itself.4 Capitalizing on this ongoing research, and within the framework of the general dismantling of the Orientalist paradigm, this chapter seeks to develop a new model for analysing fundamentalist–Sufi relations.5 I argue that Islamic fundamentalism and contemporary Sufism have helped construct as well as conceal each other as modern subjects, that along with the bitter polemics and confrontations a measure of discursive and institutional continuities exists between them, and that their mutual estrangement facilitates the present radicalization within Islam. This dialectics of rejection and acceptance is in my view an important key to understanding the inner evolution of modern Islam, a corollary to its similarly dialectical attraction–repulsion attitude towards the West. My conceptualization of the complex interaction between Islamic fundamentalism and Sufism in the modern era is threefold. First, there is a need to define what the concept of Islamic fundamentalism actually refers

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11

to. This will serve as the point of departure for exploring the fundamentalist critique of Sufism. In the second part of this chapter I ground the discussion in a general theory of modernity. This entails, on the one hand, a deconstruction of the prevailing notion of ‘the Sufi tradition’, and on the other hand, a review of the conditions that led to its substitution by Islamic fundamentalism. The last part of the chapter is an analysis of the dialectical relationships characterizing the modern Sufi–fundamentalist interaction. Here I excavate the Sufi roots of Islamic fundamentalism, identify paradigmatic moments in the separation of the two trends, uncover the fundamentalists’ collective forgetting of the Sufi legacy, and last but not least, explore the Sufis own strategies of modernization. The interactive relationship between Islamic fundamentalism and Sufism is tested against some of the major religious intellectuals and movements on both sides of their dividing line. Focusing geographically on the Middle East and South Asia, two of the major centres of Islamic reform in the modern era, I examine in the fundamentalist side the Ahl- and Salafi trends, the Muslim Brothers and Jamaʿat-i Islami movements and some Jihadi groups. On the Sufi side my examples are mostly taken from the Naqshbandiyya, arguably the most orthodox and activist Sufi brotherhood in Islamic history.6

Part 1: The fundamentalist phenomenon A new trend The concept of Islamic fundamentalism has recently come under increasing criticism owing to its Western Christian origins and because of the negative connotations it acquired in the mass media and public opinion. There is also much confusion as to the nature of the phenomenon, the temporal and spatial territories it covers, and which of the multitude of religious thinkers and movements should actually be included in it. Is Islam essentially fundamentalist, as some diehard Orientalists and zealot Islamists would imply?7 Or shall we restrict the application of fundamentalism, as many tend to do, to the present militant wave of Islamic resurgence, the followers of Qutb, Khomeini and Osama b. Ladin?8 In between, to what juncture in the trajectory of contemporary Islam shall we trace the beginnings of Islamic fundamentalism: the eighteenthcentury ultra-orthodox Wahhabiyya?9 The late-nineteenth-century Modernism of Afghani and ʿAbduh?10 The post-First World War Salafi trend of Rida?11 Or

12

Sufis and Salafis in the Contemporary Age

perhaps the mass politico-religious movement of the Muslim Brothers of the 1930s and 1940s?12 Such criticisms notwithstanding, the concept of Islamic fundamentalism seems to be useful as a comparative device and, more importantly for our context, it evokes the literal meaning of the phenomenon at hand. A notable example of the advantages as well as hazards of the latter approach is provided by Euben. According to her, ‘Fundamentalism refers to contemporary religiopolitical movements that attempt to return to the scriptural foundations of the community, excavating and reinterpreting these foundations for application to the contemporary social and political world.’ She further clarifies that her definition is meant to emphasize fundamentalism’s political nature, limit its application to scriptural religious traditions and characterize it as a modern response to modernity.13 Yet Euben’s definition suffers from serious lacuna. It overlooks the long period, eventually the greater part of Islamic history, that passed between the contemporary modern world and the era of the scriptural foundations of Islam. This neglect, which is largely due to her focus on the external relationship between Islamic fundamentalism and modern Western rationalism, leads her to uncritically accept the basically fundamentalist ideology that depicts Sufism, and latter-day Islam in general, as its non-political ‘other-worldly’ antithesis. It is precisely this dichotomous view that the present chapter seeks to challenge. I argue that Sufism has always had a political ‘this-worldly’ dimension, and that any understanding of Islamic fundamentalism must take into account its inner relationship with Sufism and the Muslim tradition at large. My working definition is accordingly as follows: ‘Islamic fundamentalism’ refers to the contemporary religio-political discourse of return to the scriptural foundations of the religion as developed by Muslim scholars, mystics and, increasingly, lay persons and movements, which reinterpret these foundations on the basis of their living traditions for application to the socio-political and cultural realities of the modern world. This definition shows that fundamentalism has become the hegemonic religious discourse in the contemporary Muslim world, shared by practically all elements in the Islamic arena. After all, few Muslims would deny either the obligation to adhere to the scriptures or the need to adjust to modern realities. ‘Fundamentalism’ in this respect is the Islamic form of modernity. This definition also helps us fix the temporal trajectory of Islamic fundamentalism, which on the basis of socio-religious criteria may be divided

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13

into three to four phases. The first, which by reference to nationalist theory I call proto-fundamentalism, emerged in the later part of the nineteenth century, in the wake of the consolidation of the Western colonialist onslaught. Its main representatives were the ‘ulama’-cum-religious intellectuals of the Ahl-i Hadith movement in India14 and of the Arab Salafi trend.15 These were divided into reformists, who kept to scriptural religious discourse, and modernists, who were ready to adopt outright Western ideas and institutions.16 Rashid Rida, who is habitually described as the founder of the Salafiyya, actually marks its transition to the second phase of Islamic fundamentalism. His principal contributions to the fundamentalist cause were the religious journal he founded and edited for thirty-five years and the innovative political ideal of the Islamic state he formulated in the aftermath of the First World War and the abolition of the Ottoman Caliphate.17 The major fundamentalist factor from the interwar period on, however, was the popular movements of the Muslim Brothers in the Middle East and Jamaʿat-i Islami in South Asia. The Brothers incorporated the Salafi message into their more comprehensive self-definition,18 while the Jamaʿat envisioned an all-out battle against both Western influence and traditional culture.19 The combination of religion and politics offered by these movements forms the backbone of Islamic fundamentalism in its stricter sense. The next phase refers to the post-independence era, during which Islamic fundamentalists were often persecuted by authoritarian regimes and as a result were partly radicalized. The radical new teaching is epitomized in Sayyid Qutb’s concept of the return of the jahiliyya (pre-Islamic barbarity).20 Under his spell a wealth of vanguard groups sprang up which turned to violence and terror in their struggle against ‘unbelieving’ regimes.21 In Iran, the radical Shiʿa combination of Imam Khomeini’s novel doctrine of wilayat-i faqih (rule of the jurist) and ʿAli Shariʿati’s modernist social reinterpretation of the Qur’an underlie the Islamic revolution.22 Today scholars usually apply the term fundamentalism to these militant vanguards, though it is more accurate to describe them as its radical offshoots. Osama b. Ladin and Al-Qaʾida belong to an incipient fourth phase of Salafi-jihadism, which since the turn of the twenty-first century strives to move the battle against infidelity to the global arena.23 Finally, a word is due on the Arabian Wahhabiyya. As a pre-modern phenomenon, the original movement of Ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhab should not be counted as part of Islamic fundamentalism as here defined. Still, one cannot overlook the considerable influence the Wahhabi doctrine has exerted on the

14

Sufis and Salafis in the Contemporary Age

formation and evolution of the fundamentalists. The Wahhabis were rehabilitated as true believers by the leaders of the present Saudi state.24 In the heyday of Arab authoritarianism, the Saudis gave shelter to persecuted Muslim Brothers in the common struggle against unbelief, and subsequently, as the term Wahhabi itself became contested, both the Wahhabi establishment and the sahwa (Islamic awakening) opposition laid claim to the title of Salafi-Wahhabism.25

Against the Sufis Islamic fundamentalism’s attitude towards Sufism reflects the existential gap it imagines between the divine origins of the religion and its latter-day degeneration. Opposition to Sufism has been a constant feature of the Islamic arena almost from the beginning. Various strands throughout Islamic history – the rationalist Muʾtazila, traditionalist Hanbalits, the puritan Almohad, Kadizadeli and Wahhabi movements, jurists, and occasionally rulers – contested one or another of the Sufi spiritual beliefs, rituals and organizations.26 Their censure could at times be harsher than any shown by their modern counterparts. Still, past challenges to the mystical aspect of Islam were usually confined to movements on the fringes of the Islamic consensus or related to particular historical circumstances. With the rise of the modern fundamentalist trend they moved to centre stage. The present challenge is unprecedented in both its scope and duration. Emanating from the hegemonic religious discourse of modern Islam, it threatens to marginalize Sufism as such.27 Fundamentalists of practically all phases and shades have shared an aversion to the prevailing forms of Sufism, though they differ as to the extent to which Sufism as such should be condemned. While some are willing to reject it in toto, most others make a distinction between ‘true’ Sufism, which abides by the scriptures and the model of the ancestors, and ‘false’ Sufism, which is replete with unlawful innovations. The latter further disagree as to where exactly the fault line should be drawn: the early ascetic recluses, the speculative mystics culminating in Ibn ʿArabi, the mythic founders of the Sufi brotherhoods, or perhaps their unruly followers? Rather than a mere linear ascent, it is affinity to either the Wahhabi ultra-orthodoxy or Jihadi-Salafi radicalism that has determined the measure of animosity shown towards Sufism by each fundamentalist thinker or group. Let us explore some principal expressions of the anti-Sufi feelings as they appear in the literature. My survey is consciously biased towards the ‘big men’, the

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15

founders of the various fundamentalist trends and movements, those who set the tone for others to follow. Aversion to popular practices associated with Sufism was apparent from the very beginning of Islamic fundamentalism. The Indian Ahl-i Hadith trend, though denying any Wahhabi influence, shared its general orientation. Siddiq Hasan Khan and others of its leaders claimed to respect the great saints, but were utterly opposed to the popular celebrations in the shrines and prohibited pilgrimage even to the Prophet’s tomb in Medina. They generally discouraged the institutional forms of Sufism, rejected speculations about God’s existence and relegated Sufism to the realm of the private.28 In the Arab world the Salafi attitude to Sufism was generally more tolerant.29 The trend was set in Baghdad, where Nuʾman al-Alusi enlisted the authority of Ibn Taymiyya to condemn popular Sufi practices associated with tomb visits and making saints intermediaries (wasila) between man and God. Alusi pointed out, however, that the celebrated theologian did not condemn Sufism as such but only beliefs and practices that contravened the Qur’an and the Sunna.30 ʿAbd al-Rahman al-Kawakibi of Aleppo featured one of the participants in the imaginary Islamic conference he convenes in Mecca as a Naqshbandi Sufi master. Stirred by the criticism that his colleagues direct against the Sufi rituals, al-Shaykh al-Sindhi vows to abandon his tariqa (the Sufi way and by extension brotherhood). Another participant, the Najdi scholar, a thin disguise for the Wahhabis, lashes out against ‘people who hang on the walls of their houses and even their mosques tablets naming their venerated one, which resemble the tablets for icons among Christians and idolaters, and invoke them for blessing, remembrance, and supplication’.31 Kawakibi suggests imposing on each brotherhood a special social task in place of their current practices – taking care of orphans, assisting the poor, calling people to prayer or combating intoxicating drinks.32 For the contemporary Islamic modernists, who were ready to adopt Western rationalist-scientific criteria, the question of miracles occupied centre stage. For Sayyid Ahmad Khan, leader of the trend in India, acceptance of the Western point of view was so complete that Sufism became almost irrelevant. The law of nature left no room for miracles (karamat), and those mentioned in the Qur’an (muʾjizat) were actually dreams.33 His Egyptian counterpart Muhammad ʿAbduh, who retained his love for ‘true’ Sufism, was more circumspect. Rather than total denial of miracles, he left them to the discretion of the believer: It must be noted that Sunnis and others are agreed that it is not necessary to believe in the occurrence of any particular miracle (karama) at the hand of any

16

Sufis and Salafis in the Contemporary Age particular saint after the emergence of Islam. So, according to the consensus of the community (ijma), any Muslim may deny the occurrence of any miracle at all and, by denying it, he will not be acting contrary to any principles of the faith or deviating from a sound sunna or departing from the straight path.34

Similar censures against tomb visits, popular practices, brotherhoods, miracles and mystical speculations intersperse the work of Rashid Rida. Gradually, however, as Hourani’s masterful analysis demonstrates, Rida’s critique of Sufism seemed to exceed that of his fellow Salafis. He called into question the advanced stages of the spiritual path beyond trust in God (tawakkul); rejected the necessity of the relationship between the spiritual guide (murshid) and his disciple (murid), as well as one of the chain of transmission (silsila) on which it is built; and last but not least, pointed to the political damage caused by the quietism and divisiveness that the Sufi teachings and organization encouraged.35 It was particularly the latter politically oriented criticism that the Society of Muslim Brothers was designed to address. Mitchell in his seminal work demonstrates that Hasan al-Banna, more than any of his Salafi predecessors, accepted the dhikr (the rite of God’s recollection), asceticism and the mystical perception of God as part of ‘the core and essence of Islam’. He claimed, however, that from the second century on Sufism was harmed by foreign teachings and philosophies that sowed corruption and factionalism in the ranks of the community. Banna’s followers in Egypt, Syria and elsewhere blamed the Sufi shaykhs for encouraging innovations, superstitions, saint worship and witchcraft, and for unscrupulously ‘drugging the masses’ and leading them to withdraw from life and resign themselves to their fate.36 The South Asian Jamaʿat-i Islami followed a somewhat reverse trajectory. Abu Aʿla al-Mawdudi’s initial judgement of Sufism was extremely harsh. He held it accountable for the decline of Islam throughout history, and ultimately for the failure of the Mughal Emperors to convert India to Islam. However, under the pressure of rival ʿUlamaʾ groupings and the general public in Pakistan, Mawdudi was forced to retreat. Still averse to popular rituals and festivals in the Chishti and Qadiri shrines, he now professed to accept Sufism as moral truth.37 The attitude to Sufism of his Indian counterpart, Abu ʾl-Hasan ʿAli al-Nadwi, was more genuine. Nadwi, the head of Nadwat al-ʿUlamaʾ in Lucknow, subscribed to the Muslim Brothers’ and Jamaʿat-i Islami’s condemnation of the speculative mysticism of Ibn ‘Arabi, and of the whole gamut of popular Sufi practices.38 But he never tired of reminding his readers of the central role played by Sufis in the conversion of South Asia to Islam and in the battle against Islam’s enemies worldwide.39

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17

Sayyid Qutb, the martyred prophet of Sunni radical fundamentalism, bore clear mystical inclinations. In his quest to contact his Lord and devote himself totally to Him, in the true meaning of the term servitude (ubudiyya), Qutb highlighted the love between man and God, claimed to follow ‘God’s friends’ in abandoning worldly pleasures and discerned an essential harmony between the soul and the universe. This, however, had nothing to do with the historical manifestations of Sufism or with the varied Sufi techniques to attain the goal, which he practically ignored.40 Few members in the proliferation of local and global militant groupings that set out to realize Qutb’s radical teachings possess such an authentic inner life. These are usually concerned with more practical matters. Abdallah Azzam, the spiritual mentor of Osama b. Ladin in Afghanistan and a major figure in the development of contemporary global Jihad, attacked the Sufi brotherhoods for devoting themselves to al-Jihad al-Akbar, the struggle against the soul, at the expense of al-Jihad al-Ashgar, the actual fighting against infidels. For him there was only one kind of Jihad, which is incumbent on each and every Muslim.41 Abu Muhammad al-Maqdisi, one of the most articulate ideologues of the JihadiSalafi trend living today,42 displays in this matter a clear Wahhabi disposition. He defines the calling for saints’ help and circumambulating their tombs as the greatest shirk (breach of God’s unity), which excludes their perpetrators from the fold of Islam. The controversial Ahbash brotherhood of Lebanon represents in his eyes infidelity for both worshipping dead saints and collaborating with unbelieving regimes.43 Shiʿi fundamentalist attitudes towards Sufism have not been much different from those of their Sunni counterparts. As Knysh has demonstrated, Khomeini subscribed to the Iranian tradition of Islamic esotericism (‘irfan) and kept a lifelong interest in the teachings of Ibn ʿArabi. Even when he became preoccupied with political activity he continued to insist that to be Islamically valid and effective, politics must always be joined to moral purification and spiritual advancement.44 ʿAli Shariʿati, not unlike Qutb, recognized the need for spirituality in the modern world and acknowledged Jalal al-Din Rumi as a great mystic poet, Mulla Sadra as an authentic philosopher of ʿirfan and amir ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jazaʾiri as a spiritual mujtahid. This, however, did not prevent them from displaying the usual fundamentalist aversion to contemporary forms of Sufism. For Shari’ati, Sufism was associated with the obscurantist religion of the clerics and with the failure to act responsibly in the world.45 Khomeini’s government demanded the allegiance of the alreadyweakened Sufi brotherhoods after the Islamic revolution and did not hesitate to clamp down on the recalcitrant.46

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Part 2: Islam and modernity The pre-modern legacy The fundamentalist attack on Sufism has aimed at current beliefs and rituals that seem to contravene God’s unity as understood and practised by the Prophet and the ancestors, and on the other hand to be inadequate for the realities of the modern age. The main targets have been the veneration of Sufi masters, unscriptural popular practices at saints’ tombs and unwarranted metaphysical speculations. Already for Ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhab and his followers, such censures became part of a general moral attack against the religious status quo prevailing in the Islamic societies of the day.47 Fundamentalists went a step further by reconstructing latter-day Sufism as part of a rigid reactionary tradition that needed to be superseded by a modern concept of religiosity. Thereby they also magnified their own contribution, as new religious intellectuals, to the modern renaissance of Islam. Only gradually, as part of the general dismantling of the Orientalist–fundamentalist paradigm, have historians begun to realize that along with the Hanbali-Wahhabi legacy, Islamic fundamentalism has roots in the Sufi tradition too. The lasting vitality of the Sufi aspect of Islam in the pre-modern era is widely recognized today. Many a scholar moreover observes a revival on the brotherhoods’ activity in the ‘long eighteenth century’. Voll scrutinized the contemporary biographical dictionaries to map out the Islam-wide web of revivalist movements of the time, thereby demonstrating that the Wahhabi anti-Sufi position was the exception rather than the rule, and that most other movements were actually Sufi.48 The Sufi-dominated renewal and reform was a two-pronged project: inner critique of ‘unlawful’ Sufi beliefs and rituals, which continued to prevail in most places and settings; and increased involvement in the affairs of society and state. Far from being an integral project, the plethora of individuals and movements that took part in this far-ranging movement differed widely as to the Islamic resources to be employed to generate the desired reforms and the ways in which they might be realized. Nevertheless, three partly overlapping prototypical methods of Sufi reform can be observed in them, each accentuating a particular tenet of the tradition in anticipation of some important aspect in the politico-religious programme of modern fundamentalism. One prototype, represented by the towering figures of the Indian Shah Waliullah (1702–62) and the Moroccan itinerant Ahmad ibn Idris (1750–1837), was a return to the scriptures. The two Sufi scholars combined an unequivocal

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19

commitment to Sufism in general and the teachings of Ibn ʿArabi in particular, with direct reliance on the Qur’an and Sunna, opposition to the prevalent practice of blind imitation of previous authorities (taqlid) and support of consultation of the original sources (ijtihad). These exoteric teachings made Shah Waliullah, the muhaddith of Delhi, defend Ibn Taymiyya,49 while Ibn Idris earned the respect of the ferocious Wahhabis under whose rule he thrived in Mecca.50 Walliullah’s legacy was later appropriated by most reform trends in modern South Asia, while Ibn Idris’ disciples founded the Sanusi and Mirghani Sufi brotherhoods that engaged in spreading Islam on the periphery, in the Arabian and Sahara deserts and in the Sudan.51 Another prototypical reform method, embodied particularly in shariʿaminded brotherhoods such as the Khalwatiyya, Shadhiliyya and Naqshbandiyya, involved a reorganization of the tariqa framework. These brotherhoods employed various mystical means to consolidate and expand their structures, along with the demand to subject Sufism to the precepts of the shariʿa. Mustafa al-Bakri (1688–1749) and his deputies, who spread the Khalwatiyya in Egypt and North Africa, popularized their brotherhood through exclusive affiliation and mass dhikr ceremonies.52 Ahmad al-Arabi al-Darqawi (1760–1823) revived the tradition of wandering mendicants to renew and spread the Shadhiliyya from Morocco.53 Shaykh Khalid (1776–1827), whose offshoot of the Naqshbandiyya spread widely among Turks and Kurds, concentrated authority in his hands through innovative use of the mystical practices of rabita (binding the heart to the image of the master) and khalwa (seclusion).54 These reform methods were paralleled in the Shi’a case by the Akhbari and Shaykhi schools. Muhammad al-Astarabadi (d. 1624) and Muhsin al-Fayd al-Kashani (d. 1680), leaders of the Akhbariyya, combined adherence to the mystical philosophy of Mulla Sadra with a renewed stress on the hadith of the Imams as the source for infallible guidance to the community. Although losing out to the rival Usuli school, which claimed the authority of each generation to form its own ijtihad, their call to return to the pristine community had a decisive influence on the future course of Shiʿi reformist thought.55 Ahmad Ahsaʾi (1753– 1826), the founder of the Shaykhiyya, propagated its teaching among the political and religious elites in Qajar Iran as one of the perfect Shiʿa, the elect who are spiritually initiated by the Imams, and like them possess infallible knowledge. The persecution of the Shaykhis by the religious establishment paved the way for the arrival of the more radical dissent movements of the Babis and Bahaʾi’s, who ultimately left the pale of Islam.56

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The strengthening of the tariqa structures was designed to allow Sufi brotherhoods to cope with the social and political degeneration that affected most Muslim politics of the eighteenth century.57 The various offshoots of the North African Khalwatiyya sought to cater to the needs of the urban classes and the masses alike in the face of oppressive Mamluk regimes, the Shadhiliyya was implicated in revolts against the Mulay of Morocco and the Deys of Algeria. Most important in the political sphere was undoubtedly the Naqshbandiyya, which focused its efforts on the centres of the Muslim world. Its leaders in Delhi sought to fortify the Muslim community in the fact of the rapid disintegration of the Mughal Empire, while in Istanbul at the beginning of the nineteenth century deputies of Shaykh Khalid supported the Ottoman sultan’s quest to set the empire on the path of modernization. A third prototype of reform, Jihad against non-Muslims, gained particular force later in the nineteenth century, following the onslaught of European colonialism. Sufi brotherhoods provided the matrix as well as the leadership for resistance to foreign rule where the state failed to do so or was completely absent. In British India, the Jihad declared by Ahmad Barelvi in the 1820s against the Sikhs was defined as tariqa muhammadiyya (way of the Prophet), a brotherhood that combined and transcended the existing ones. It was designed to carve out a territory for a new Muslim state.58 In Algeria a decade later, resistance to the French occupation was conducted by ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jazaʾiri on the basis of his family branch of the Qadiriyya and some local offshoots of the Khalwatiyya. The independent state he led for fifteen years in the interior of the country strictly enforced the shariʿa.59 At that time Imam Shamil mobilized the mountaineers for a thirty-year struggle against the Russian encroachment to the north Caucasus through the activist orthodox principles of the Naqshbandiyya-Khalidiyya.60 In the early twentieth century, the struggle against the Italian invasion of Libya was undertaken by the Sanusiyya after the Ottoman withdrawal. Its head was subsequently crowned king of independent Libya.61 As European political and cultural influence in the Muslim world waxed, the militant drive of such Sufi reformist brotherhoods could at times turn against their own Westernized Muslim governments. Muhammad Ahmad, who in 1881 proclaimed himself the Mahdi and drove the Egyptians out of Sudan, was an adept of a local offshoot of the Khalwatiyya. His messianic pretensions entailed the abolition of all Sufi brotherhoods, as well as the four schools of Law.62 Shaykh Said of Palu, leader of the shattered Kurdish uprising against the fledgling secular Turkish government of Ankara in 1925, belonged to the Khalidi branch of the

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Naqshbandiyya. This revolt involved a mixture of Orthodox Islam and Kurdish Nationalism.63

The modern conditioning Western modernity was imposed on the Muslim world in the course of the nineteenth century by colonial domination. The forced awareness to the alien conqueror’s look resulted in the objectification of the Islamic self as against two Others – the external Other of the modern West and the internal Other of ‘traditional religion’ and especially its mystical aspect. The Islamic fundamentalist ideological project has accordingly been conducted along two complementary lines. One is to ‘prove’ the compatibility of Islam and modernity through the appropriation and reinterpretation of the legacy of the Prophet and the ancestors in the light of present realities; the other is to ‘expose’ those responsible for Islam’s failure to modernize, which amounts to scapegoating Sufism as the cause of Muslims’ deviations and decline. Sufis who allow pre-modern reformist trends readily share the fundamentalist quest for modernity, but are adamant to frame it within their own mystical traditions. The colonial and post-colonial impact of the West has been exercised through political control, capitalistic enterprise and the media. Fundamentlists enthusiastically joined the nationalist struggle against Western imperialism between the two and are today the most vociferous opponents of its cultural invasion. Still, they not only approve the instrumental use of advanced technology produced in the West, but also often incorporate into their discourse elements of its rational-scientific worldview and the ideals of liberty and progress. Hence their apologetic endeavours to provide ‘proofs’ of the existence and unity of God64 and their resorts to ijtihad, now reinterpreted as individual reasoning.65 In this light the Sufis have been portrayed as speculators, miracle mongering, superstitious and backward. Internally, the unfinished project of Islamic modernity has been played out at the interface between two major, though unequal, socio-political and cultural processes. The dominant one was the emergence of the centralized bureaucratic state, which through the idiom of development purported to catch up with the West. Islamic fundamentalists were among the first as well as most persistent in denouncing the authoritarian inclinations that have characterized most Muslim regimes in the past century and a half.66 On the other hand, while never renouncing

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the caliphate as such, they defined a new political goal in the establishment of an Islamic state,67 in which control would be subjected to the precepts of the shariʿa. From here comes the re-imagining of the Prophet as a successful statesman and the reconstruction of al-salaf al-silah – the pious ancestors – in the Sunni case,68 and of Imam Husayn’s martyrdom in the Shiʿa case,69 as the respective models for the propagation of Islam and their unflinching dedication to its case. Sufis, by contrast, have come to represent in the eyes of the fundamentalists submissive cooperation with foreign colonial governments or indigenous iniquitous rulers. The other internal process of modernization, the formation of a vibrant and free public sphere, which played such a prominent role in the constitutions of Western civil society and democracy, it still an ideal to be realized in most of the Muslim world. The fundamentalists are usually no less authoritarian and accord the last say in the Islamic state to the men of religion: the Supreme Leader and the Council of Guardians in the Iranian case,70 the amirs among the Sunni socio-religious movements.71 Concomitantly they express commitment to the shura – consultation between rulers and ruled, which is increasingly understood in terms of parliaments, elections and the political participation of the masses.72 Islamic fundamentalists have also never hesitated to make ample use of the mass media – from the printing press to the internet – to advance their ideologies on the national and global public arenas both as opposition movements and in cases when they have taken the helm.73 From this perspective it seems only natural that popular saint worship and the unconditional surrender demanded of disciples to their master in the Sufi brotherhoods would come under fire.

Part 3: Dialectics of unenlightenment Roots of fundamentalism Islamic fundamentalisms ‘othering’ of Sufism, and tradition religion in general, was instrumental in the constitution of its own Self as a modern subject. Presenting ‘Sufism’ as irrational, apolitical and submissive allowed the fundamentalists to introduce in its stead a rationalist form of ijtihad, the ideal of an Islamic state, and the principles of social justice and participation. This dichotomous construction necessitated concealing the Sufi roots of Islamic fundamentalism in general, and the ability of the pre-modern reformist tradition to modernize in particular, on the other hand, the subjection to Islamic fundamentalism’s view compelled

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contemporary Sufism to constitute its Self as the modern Islamic Other. The fundamentalists’ animosity prevented the Sufis from recognizing it as its own progeny and from acknowledging its self-assumed role as the representative of modern Islam. Modernization has thus resulted in the splitting of Islam between two mutually hostile camps, whereas the progressive abandonment of the moderating force of shariʿa-bound Sufism paved the way for the drift of the fundamentalists’ radical wing to terror and violence. Their increasingly emphatic denials notwithstanding, Islamic fundamentalists were habitually brought up on the pre-modern Sufi reformist tradition. Among the first-phase Indian reformers of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, Ahmad Khan spent his early life in the major Naqshbandi khanaqah (Sufi hospice) of Delhi,74 and many Ahl-i Hadith leaders, as already noted, likewise claimed a Naqshbandi affiliation. Their Salafi counterparts in the Arab provinces of the Ottoman Empire – the Alusis of Baghdad75 and their comrades in the various Syrian cities – came from families associated with Shaykh Khalid and his Naqshbandi offshoot. Those in Damascus subsequently formed the closed circle of ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jazaʾiri, who following defeat made the city his home and promoted an experiential adaptation of Ibn ʿArabi’s teaching to modern realities.76 ʿAbduh was drawn to religious studies by an uncle who was affiliated to a Darqawi branch of the Shadhiliyya, and later on transferred his allegiance to his new master, Jamal al-Din al-Afghani.77 Rida too was attracted to a Naqshbandi master in his youth in Tripoli, Lebanon, before his move to Egypt. Second-phase fundamentalists of the interwar period showed a similar debt to Sufism. Banna, the founder of the Muslim Brothers, was active in his youth in the Hasafuyya brotherhood, another offshoot of the Shadhiliyya. He enthusiastically joined its work to uphold Islamic morality against Christian missionary.78 Mawdudi, his counterpart at the head of Jamaʿat-i Islami, was born into a family that traced its origins to the Chishtiyya, the earliest and most widespread brotherhood in the subcontinent. He was much influenced by the mystical piety of his father, but then opted for a career of journalism and politics.79 Nadwi came from a family that was affiliated with the Naqshbandiyya and was especially attached to Ahmed Barelvi’s legacy; he actively followed the path under two Naqshbandi masters, and had no difficulty combining Sufism with collaboration with the Wahhabis and the Muslim Brothers.80 Only with the third phase of radical Islamists was the fundamentalist– Sufi connection practically severed. Recruited largely from the science and engineering faculties at secular universities, leaders of the contemporary Islamic

24

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revival have had little opportunity to become acquainted with Sufism or, for that matter, with the learned Islamic tradition at large. Before joining the Islamist camp, Qutb was a literary critic and an employee in the Egyptian Ministry of Education81; ʿAzzam specialized in agriculture in a West Bank college82; Maqdisi enrolled in the University of Mosul.83 Reports differ about Osama b. Ladin, who grew up as a pious Wahhabi but then graduated from an elite school in Beirut in either economics or business administration, or civil engineering.84 Khomeini’s education was of course religious, but Shari’ati earned his master’s degree in foreign languages from the University of Mashhad, and then pursued his doctorate in sociology and Islamic studies in Paris.85

Moments of transformation The phases of the discursive transition from Sufi reformist praxis to the Islamic fundamentalist ideology have been determined by the changing socio-political and cultural configuration of the three engines of modernization: Western penetration, state consolidation and the struggle for a public sphere. The period up to the First World War was dominated by the direct and indirect control of the Western powers, countered by Sultan Abdulhamid II’s (1876–1909) PanIslamic policy, as well as by the introduction of print culture and the emergence of a new class of lay intellectuals. The interwar period saw the climax of colonial domination, along with the formation of nationalist movements of liberation and a vibrant public debate. In the post-independence era indigenous governments adopted Western-inspired modernization projects while subjecting public spheres to their authoritarian rule. Their hold over society has hardly begun to weaken with the onset of globalization. To illustrate the intricate dialectics involved in the modern transformation of Islam I focus on three emblematic moments, each epitomizing one stage in the evolution of fundamentalist–Sufi relations. The first is a question addressed in 1881 by Nu’man al-Alusi, the Iraqi founder of the modern Salafiyya, to Siddiq Hasan Khan, his counterpart in the Indian Ahl-i Hadith, concerning the mystical practice of rabita. Rabita, it will be recalled, was employed by Shaykh Khalid in an innovative way to consolidate his tariqa behind the modernizing project of the Ottoman Empire. He demanded that all disciples in his offshoot of the Naqshbandiyya, even those who had never met him, bind their hearts directly to him rather than to their actual masters. For Hasan Khan and Alusi this novelty

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was nothing but bidʾa (reproachable deviation), with no basis in the Qurʾan and Sunna, amounting to a kind of idolatry or misguidance.86 Shaykh Khalid’s innovative use of rabita represents the acme as well as the limits of the pre-modern Sufi reformist tradition. Masterfully handling the mystical resources at hand, Khalid managed to turn the highly charged murshid– murid relationship into the basis of an effective socio-religious movement that in the early part of the nineteenth century influenced the policy of the strongest Muslim state of the day. For the Ahl-i Hadith and Salafis towards the end of that century this was no longer enough. Intersubjective relationships proved inadequate to cope with the new challenges emanating from the West and from the state. Making full use of the properties of print culture, the protofundamentalists sought to transcend rather than further extend the Sufi reformist bond by introducing the principle of impersonal objective relationship. This was provided by the idea of a return to the scriptures, especially as developed in the teachings of the Ibn Taymiyya school.87 Thus, from one angle, the critique or the rabita marks the onset of the contemporary confrontation between Islamic fundamentalism and Sufism. From another angle, the alternative return to the Qurʾan and Sunna may be seen as the continuation of the Sufi quest to modernize Islam by other means. Our second moment revolves around the essay written by Hasan al-Banna in completion of his studies at Dar al-Ulum in Cairo in 1927 concerning his plans after graduation and the means to realize them. Banna asserted that there were two ways to help others and counsel them on the path of God: the easier and safer way of true Sufism, which in essence means sincerity, worship and directing the heart solely towards God, and the worthier way ordained by the Qurʾan and the Prophet of education and guidance, which adds to the first involvement with the people. Believing that under the impact of westernization Muslims became estranged from their religion and forgot their glorious ancestors, Banna chose the second way: teaching children in the mornings and providing religious instruction to their fathers in the evenings.88 With this choice, the autobiographical narrative implies, were laid the seeds of the Muslim Brothers Society and of its mission to preach Islam (daʿwa) to the people. Hasan al-Banna’s weighing towards the education epitomizes the desire to transcend but also preserve Sufism within modern Islam. Intuitively realizing that in the twentieth century the Sufi tariqa could no longer serve as the vehicle of reform, Banna was looking for new forms of organization and mobilization better suited to contribute to the nationalist struggle and thereby secure

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the Islamic character of the future independent state. The expanding public schooling, literacy and communication would soon lead him to adopt the social movement model with its ordered structures, elaborate regulations, fixed criteria for membership and ideological propagation through public lectures and magazines. The reduction of Sufism to mere spirituality thus epitomizes the next stage in Islamic fundamentalism’s confrontations with Sufism. Still, as a pietistic organization, the Islamic movements may also be regarded as the modern embodiment of the reformist Sufi tariqa. The Muslim Brothers in particular, under the leadership of its al-murshid al-amm (the Supreme Guide), may well be construed as a Sufi brotherhood transformed. The final moment concerns the reports that began to pour in during the summer of 2002 from Iraq, following the invasion of the country by the United States and its allies. According to these reports, the radical Islamic group of Ansar al-Islam, an affiliate of al-Qaiʾda that infiltrated Iraq in the wake of the fall of the Saddam Hussein regime, desecrated tombs and destroyed shrines of the Naqshbandi Sufi brotherhood in southern Kurdistan. Subsequently they drove out populations of towns where, according to the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan, democratic government and religious pluralism were established.89 In the eyes of Ansar al-Islam and its al-Qaʾida sponsors there was no real difference between the coalition-forced indigenous authoritarian governments and the Sufis. The defilement of the Naqshbandi graves in Kurdistan thus encapsulates the radicals’ endeavour to sever the tie between Islamic fundamentalism and Sufism as part of their global struggle against un-Islam.

The forgetting of tradition The constitution of fundamentalism as the hegemonic discourse of modern Islam depended on the marginalization of its Sufi Other. From this perspective direct reference to the scriptures and the example of the early community was merely designed to bypass latter-day reformist Sufism, while its equation with current popular manifestations was meant to exclude it from the orthodox fold. Both strategies amount to concealing the fundamentalists’ debt to their Sufi predecessors. Through a half-conscious exercise of collective amnesia, the founders of the various fundamentalist trends, and still more their less perceptible followers, practically forgot the prominent role that Sufi masters and brotherhoods filled in the pre-modern efforts at the renewal and revival of Islam. Concomitantly, they also deemphasized their own personal roots in the Sufi tradition.

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27

Islamic fundamentalists normally overlook in their talks and writings the wide-ranging Sufi reformist tradition that preceded them. Mustafa al-Bakri, Ahmad al-Darqawi, Shaykh Khalid or Ahmad Ahsaʾi are barely known today to the respective Sunni or Shiʿi fundamentalist-dominated general public, despite the important religious and political role that their Sufi movements played in their societies. Scripturalist Sufis such as Ahmad Ibn Idris, Shah Waliullah and the Akhbaris are remembered primarily for their exoteric teachings, while the Jihadi Sufis ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jazaʾiri, Imam Shamil and Muhammad Ahmad the Mahdi are evoked for their heroic exploits against foreign intruders and indigenous unbelievers. When referring to their own Sufi upbringing, fundamentalists often give the impression that this is something they have left behind. Undoubtedly, some Islamic fundamentalists kept their affiliation to the Sufi aspect of Islam. This is the case with Nadwi, who along with his close connections with the Saudi-Wahhabi establishment and with the Society of the Muslim Brothers also functioned as a Naqshbandi Sufi master. Another prominent Sufioriented fundamentalist was Saʿid Hawwa, spokesman of the Syrian Muslim Brothers, who was associated with the Khalidi offshoot of the Naqshbandiyya. Hawwa undertook to acquaint the Islamic movement with the spiritual aspect of Islam,90 and proffered the loose networking of the Sufi brotherhoods as a model for the reorganization of its Syrian branches in the face of the oppressive Baʿth regime.91 These, however, are exceptions that only prove the rule. Yusuf al-Qaradawi, one of the most visible Islamic thinkers on the contemporary global scene, is willing to give Sufism a place in the constitution of the Muslim personality. He immediately clarifies, though, that his model is taken from the early ascetics, rather than the more recent mystic philosophers and brotherhood leaders. His is ultimately an ethical scriptural mysticism.92 The late Egyptian scholar Muhammad al-Ghazzali’s judgement is harsher, coming close to rejecting Sufism altogether. He blames Islamic mysticism for allowing foreign teachings to infiltrate Islam and spread false ideas among the masses that encourage them to renounce the self and the world. It thus generated fatalism, weakened Islam from within, and precipitated its surrender to the West.93 Islamic fundamentalists generally show a more positive attitude towards Sufi masters who influenced their own upbringing. Still, when describing these figures in their autobiographical sketches, our main sources of information on these early phases of their lives, they tend to present the Sufi legacy in a truncated way. The Sufi reformist traditions with which these preceptors were affiliated are often overlooked, as if they came out of the blue. Thus, ʿAbduh fails to specify to

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Sufis and Salafis in the Contemporary Age

which brotherhood belonged the uncle who taught him the reality of belief and returned him to the course of study94; Rida does not bother to mention who the Naqshbandi Shaykh was whose dhikr ceremonies he and his friends frequented in their youth in Tripoli95; Banna gives us no hint as to the identity of the local Hasafi brotherhood with which he was deeply engaged at the beginning of his career96; and Qutb’s early experience of ‘Sufism’ seems to have been limited to the holy man of his village and the folk religion surrounding him.97

The Sufi Other Although victimized, Sufism has refused to become the passive object of Islamic modernity. On the contrary, it countered the fundamentalists’ disavowal of their shared legacy by reconstituting them as (pre-modern) ‘Wahhabis’ and its Self as the modern Islamic Other. Contemporary Sufis share in the hegemonic discourse of return to the fundamentals, but differ in their quest to modernize by improving rather than transcending their living reformist tradition. This division has a clear social dimension. Sufis associated with the urban middle class and exposed to Western culture are prone to turn to the fundamentalist ideology and collective action, while those coming from the lower classes in the cities and villages are bent on keeping Islamic modernization within the bounds of Sufi praxis. As subalterns, to perpetuate their tradition and fend off radical aggression the latter often ally with one or another of the secular forces of modernity: the state, the public sphere and, with the onset of globalization, increasingly the West. The modernization of Sufism has taken many forms under the new hegemony of Islamic fundamentalism. To illustrate the paradoxes involved, I again present three emblematic cases, this time from the contemporary scene, each featuring one major Sufi strategy. All three concern the Khalidi branch of the Naqshbandi brotherhood, whose prominence in the Sufi reformist tradition should be apparent by now. The first case is that of the Syrian Shaykh Ahman Kuftaru (1912–2004), who opted for collaboration with the Baʿthist state in spite of its sectarian and secular character. Nominated Grand Mufti in 1964, shortly after the Baʾth officers’ takeover, Kuftaru was given in exchange for his loyalty free hand to develop his tariqa and build a nationwide network of religious colleges and schools. Promoting a learned and discrete form of Sufism, he embraced ijtihad, stressed the need to interpret Islam in the light of modern needs and engaged in interfaith dialogue. Kuftaru also sympathized with the Muslim

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Brothers movement, but was utterly opposed to the militant course adopted by its radical wing, which led to its demise in the Hamah debacle of 1982.98 Our second case revolves around the Iskenderpasa mosque in Istanbul, from where the Naqshbandi engaged the Turkish public sphere despite the official ban on Sufi activity. Following the relaxation of state control in the 1950s, Shaykh Zahid Kotku instituted there a religious ‘open university’ that attracted students from far and wide, among them prominent future politicians such as President Turgut Ozal and the Islamic Prime Ministers Necmettin Erbakan and Recep Tayyip Erdogan. His successor Shaykh Esad Cosan focused after 1980 on the development of a wide network of religious schools, economic enterprises run along business lines and several magazines and a radio station, through which he propagated a combined vision of Islamic and capitalism. Threatened by the secular state rather than by any Islamic fundamentalist movement, Kotku and Cosan used the Naqshbandi practice of subha (spiritual company) to reframe Sufism as an Islamic morality capable of securing private property while checking the excesses of the rapid capitalist development of the country.99 Our third and final case concerns the Haqqani offshoot of the Naqshbandiyya, which, notwithstanding the prevailing misgivings about Islam in the West, directs its operations to the global scene. Shaykh Nazim ‘Adil al-Haqqani, a Turkish Cypriot, established his first Western community in 1974 in London, and later extended his operations to other European countries and to North America. These are integrated with branches in the Middle East, South Asia and elsewhere into a transnational network of Sufi centres, each engaged in education, social work and preaching in accordance with local circumstances. Haqqani regards Western civilization as barbarous and longs to see the Ottoman Caliphate restored. Concomitantly, he shows unbridled animosity to ‘Wahhabism’, and in this spirit he directed his deputy in the Western hemisphere, Shaykh Hisham al-Kabbani, to testify before the US Congress on Muslim extremism in America. On the other hand, Haqqani is also engaged in the New Age culture and propagates a syncretistic apocalyptic vision employing Christian and universal symbols along with traditional Muslim eschatology.100

Conclusion Islamic fundamentalism and contemporary Sufism are both the products of modernity. Of course, each claims roots in previous strands of the living Islamic

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tradition. The fundamentalists purport to follow the teachings of the medieval theologians Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya and their pre-modern Wahhabi followers. Sufis draw on their rich legacy, from the early mystics through Ibn ʿArabi’s, or in the Shiʿa case Mulla Sadra’s, theosophical system to the wide variety of brotherhoods throughout the Muslim lands. Yet each of the two trends appropriates, reinterprets and follows its antecedents in light of the new realities of the modern world. Fundamentalists embrace the discourse of reason and progress, and organize within the public sphere in socio-religious movements in opposition to the colonial and post-colonial state. Sufis stress the need for spirituality and engage the public sphere through their brotherhoods in collaboration, according to circumstance, with the state, the middle class or the West. In the course of the past century and a half Islamic fundamentalism and Sufism have developed mutually hostile discourses and practices. Each came to regard the other as a deviation from ‘true’ Islam and a major impediment to its modernization. For the fundamentalists, who hold a hegemonic position in the contemporary Islamic arena, latter-day Sufism represents superstition, backwardness and submissive collaboration with infidels. For the Sufis, who are often in retreat, the radical brand of fundamentalism is tantamount to religious fanaticism and violence and the source of Islam’s bad name. Still, along with the virulent confrontations there is also a measure of continuity between the two trends. Islamic fundamentalism arose out of pre-modern Sufi reformist traditions, which espoused direct reliance on the scriptures and the ancestors’ model, consolidated their organizational structures and occasionally waged Jihad against colonial intruders and indigenous Westernized rulers. Sufism, for its part, has been affected by the fundamentalist discourse of return to the scriptures, its critique of popular practices and its quest to modernize. In their continuities as well as in their contradictions, Islamic fundamentalism and Sufism have helped construct each other as modern subjects. To be sure, each strives to conceal this mutual dependence. Fundamentalists have ‘forgotten’ the pre-modern Sufi reformist legacy and downplayed the role of its masters in their own upbringing. Sufis have associated radical fundamentalism with Wahhabism, the major pre-modern force hostile to the mystical aspect of Islam. From its beginnings in the late nineteenth century the inner modernization of Islam has been articulated through the expansion of the fundamentalist ideology at the expense of the Sufi experience. In view of the present wave of

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violence in the name of Islam, one can only wonder if ‘remembering’ Sufism and a more balanced development between the scriptural and spiritual aspects of Islam could have helped arrest the fundamentalist drift to the radical camp and thereby facilitated a more peaceful integration with the globalizing modern civilization.

2

Egyptian Sufism Under the Hammer: A Preliminary Investigation into the Anti-Sufi Polemics of ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil (1913–70) Richard Gauvain

God desired that the truth be known about Sufis from their own tongues. So they demonstrated in the name of 8 million Sufis. People thought that they were demonstrating in the name of 8 million Muslims!! But they refused the name with which God has called us. Perhaps they lost their path to it, as they set about composing their objections in the name of the dead, in the name of graves, and in the name of the sins that take place as the result of their falsehood, which they call ‘al-mawalid’!!1 As the nature of the relationship between Sufism and Salafism in any setting is likely to be complex, the temptation to present these ideologies as if they are irreconcilably opposed must, of course, be resisted.2 This initial caveat behind us, there would be little point in arguing that Egypt’s Salafis and Sufis – or indeed those in most other countries – do not disagree on many important issues of faith and practice.3 And the fact that certain members of Egypt’s wider Salafi community sought to capitalize on the chaos following Hosni Mubarak’s deposal by launching a flurry of attacks against Sufi targets has convinced observers that Egypt’s Salafi–Sufi divide is greater, and more acrimonious, than ever.4 What seems to have been forgotten – not only by some Western commentators, but also by many Egyptian Muslims themselves – is that, before the Revolution, Sufism was not considered by the vast majority of Egyptian Salafis to be an issue of pressing importance. This is not to say, of course, that the Salafis had not been vehemently criticizing Sufis past and present. Established many years ago, the

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modus operandi of Egyptian Salafism, particularly in the field of da‘wa, involves sustained diatribe against the Sufis, Shi‘is, Philosophers, Kharijis (and other individuals who, from the Salafi perspective, are mistaken in their claims to be Muslim). Notwithstanding the fact that it was (and presumably still is) quite common to hear Salafis describing ‘the majority of Egyptians [as] chained to Sufism through their ignorance and superstition’ (aghlabayat al-misriyyin lissa murtabita bi’l-tasawwuf, bisubub takhallafuhum wa khurafatuhum),5 the reason that Egypt’s Salafis were not, at least during the period in which I carried out the bulk of my fieldwork (2006–9), as interested in vilifying Sufis as they were in criticizing Israel (and ‘the Jews’), the West, Westernized Egyptians, the media, liberals, Christians, and often a mixture of all of these, was that this particular battle was thought to have been won some years beforehand.6 This chapter introduces ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil (1913–70), celebrated within Egyptian Salafi circles (and beyond) as ‘the Hammer of Deviations’ (al-hadim al-tawaghit), and the man believed by Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (Egypt’s earliest and historically most influential Salafi movement) to have done most to inflict defeat upon the Sufis.7

1  Attitudes of contemporary Egyptian Salafis regarding al-Wakil and his polemics Al-Wakil is virtually un-cited by Western sources and, on the few occasions he is mentioned, there seems to be little if any awareness of the esteem in which he continues to be held by Egypt’s Salafis. Only two Western scholars make any reference to al-Wakil’s polemical stances. Commenting on al-Wakil’s (‘pretentiously titled’) Masra‘ al-Tasawwuf, Alexander Knysh dismisses its author merely as another ‘anti-Sufi’, whose ‘personal abhorrence of Sufism’ prompts him to accuse Muslims of ‘fostering bygone superstitions and of contributing to the overall economic and cultural decline of Muslim societies’. For Knysh, al-Wakil’s attitudes are ‘typical of the Egyptian liberal intellectuals of the 1950s’.8 By contrast, in her inquiry into the treatment of Baha’is and Jehovah’s Witnesses in Egypt, Johanna Pink describes al-Wakil in passing simply as a ‘Wahhabi’.9 As we shall see, however, in his attitude to Sufism, al-Wakil is neither a typical liberal nor a Wahhabi. Notwithstanding his anonymity within Western academic circles, al-Wakil was Ansar al-Sunna’s third leader and, for over a decade, the editor of its main periodical, al-Hadi al-nabawi.10 Previously, Ansar al-Sunna had been led by

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its founder, Muhammad Hamid al-Fiqqi (or simply Hamid al-Fiqqi) and ‘Abd al-Razzaq al-‘Afifi. Each figure – al-Fiqqi, al-‘Afifi and al-Wakil – is attributed a paradigmatic role in the movement’s origin saga. Tirelessly bustling between Saudi Arabia and Egypt, al-Fiqqi emerges as its great proselytizer by setting up not one but two Salafi journals, both inspiring generations of significant recent scholars. Garnering praise from the most important Salafis of the modern generation – and notably from his Saudi Arabian students, Ibn Baz, al-Salah – al-‘Afifi is recognized as Ansar al-Sunna’s most influential scholar.11 Al-Wakil’s contributions to Ansar al-Sunna is, however, what here concerns us. As should be clear from his moniker, ‘the Hammer of Deviations’, al-Wakil was first and foremost a polemicist; and his attacks on Egypt’s communities of Baha’is, ‘philosophers’ (falasifa) and ‘heretics’ are still cited by Salafi aggressors.12 Without a doubt, however, in al-Wakil’s view, the worst of all Muslim deviants are the Sufis – not, we should add, just the monistic proponents of ‘drunk Sufism’, such as Mansur al-Hallaj (d. 922) or Muhyi al-Din Ibn al-‘Arabi (d. 1240), but all Sufis, past and present. Unlike other Ansar al-Sunna scholars, al-Wakil’s reputation, as ‘the Hammer of Deviations’, and arch anti-Sufi, extends beyond the relatively narrow confines of Ansar al-Sunna. The majority of my field research was carried out with individuals who, while often connected to Ansar al-Sunna (in that they prayed in its mosques and attended its classes), are not deeply affiliated with this movement. In fact, they are familiar with only a handful of the early Ansar al-Sunna scholars. To be specific, they know of al-Fiqqi (though few have read his works), al-‘Afifi, the learned hadith expert Ahmad Shakir, al-Wakil and no others.13 Presumably because of the emphasis on polemic within modern Egyptian Salafi circles, al-Wakil’s work seemed to be the best known of these early Ansar al-Sunna scholars.14 Indeed, his reputation extends beyond Egypt itself, and he continues to be mentioned respectfully by today’s Saudi Arabian elites. On the back cover of the Majmu‘at maqallat volumes (see immediately below), for instance, Salih bin Fawzan al-Fawzan (b. 1933), member of the Kingdom’s highly influential Permanent Committee and Council of Senior Scholars, observes that: ‘among the strongest answers [to the excesses of Sufism] are the books of Shaykh al-Islam, Ibn Taymiyya and his student, Ibn Qayyim, as well as [those works by] a group of contemporary scholars, such as ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil, in his work Masra‘ al-tasawwuf. From a modern Salafi’s perspective, this is high praise indeed. With perhaps three exceptions (Ibn Baz, al-‘Uthaymin and al-Albani), generalizing about the influence of individual scholars on the wider contemporary Salafi movement is problematic. In this chapter, my focus remains

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primarily with Ansar al-Sunna, al-Wakil’s own Salafi organization and among those who remember him best. The fact that al-Wakil’s struggle against Sufism is still considered important by Ansar al-Sunna is immediately clear from the way in which this movement continues to honour his legacy.15 In a recently published, lavishly bound two-volume compilation of his works, Majmu‘at maqallat al-‘allama ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil (2010), we find more than half the total number of al-Wakil’s articles were dedicated to criticizing Egypt’s most famous Sufis and/or to dispatching the country’s tariqas.16 Al-Wakil’s most famous monograph on the subject of Sufism, Hadhihi hiya al-Sufiyya (These are the Sufis), as well as his commentary to Ibn ‘Umar al-Biqa‘i’s Tanbih al-ghabi ila takfir Ibn ‘Arabi (A Warning to the Fool Regarding the Heresy of Ibn ‘Arabi), entitled Masra‘ al-tasawwuf (The Destruction of Sufism), are available to download from the movement’s website, where they are lauded enthusiastically.17 And we note that, to date, Ansar al-Sunna’s Heritage Department (Qism al-Turath) has dedicated festschriften only to its most significant scholars: al-Fiqqi, al-‘Afifi, the famous hadith scholar Ahmad al-Shakir, and ‘Abd al-Wakil alone have received this honour, the latter in a work entitled ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil wa qadiyyat al-tasawwuf (‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil, and the Matter of Sufism). This work is particularly important to the present chapter as it neatly organizes al-Wakil’s main arguments from his many publications into chapters, while simultaneously prioritizing the material Ansar al-Sunna now deems most important. As we shall see, throughout this festschrift, al-Wakil’s voice is quoted directly whenever expert knowledge is required, either to rebut the arguments of influential Sufi scholars, or to cast doubt on the Islamic credentials of specific Sufi beliefs and rituals. The highly personal nature of his attack on Sufism renders al-Wakil’s voice distinctive, as well as quintessentially Egyptian. In terms of content, however, the originality of his polemic is a matter for debate.18 Intriguingly, however, I never encountered anyone within Ansar al-Sunna circles (or for that matter within any Egyptian Salafi circles) who doubted al-Wakil’s success in thoroughly demolishing the main arguments of Sufism’s most significant scholars. So why, precisely, is al-Wakil considered such an impressive polemicist? Perhaps the passion, vitriol and fluency of his writing go some way towards answering this question. Today’s leaders of the Ansar al-Sunna movement, however, are more likely to attribute al-Wakil’s success to his status and performance as ‘a complete Salafi’ (‘salafi mutlaq’), one who is able to combine superior scholarship with tireless activism.19 In his record of the movement, for instance, Ahmad

Egyptian Sufism Under the Hammer

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al-Tahir’s notes that, in addition to publishing a remarkable quantity of valuable literature – in particular, Hadhihi hiyya al-Sufiyya, ‘one of the strongest rebuttals of the thought which underpins the Sufi manhaj’, and generously contributing forty-five articles entitled ‘views on Sufism’ (nazarat fi’l-tasawwuf) to al-Hadi al-nabawi20 – al-Wakil gave lectures across the towns and villages of Egypt. In addition to his impressive reserves of energy, the Salafi shaykh is recognized as possessing great courage. Al-Tahir relates how al-Wakil even went to court to defend a group of fellow Ansar al-Sunna scholars. Apparently a Sufi critic had ‘accused them of attacking the dignity (al-karama) of Sufism’. The outcome of this encounter is not mentioned, but al-Wakil is congratulated for his bravery and skill in providing ‘evidence and the proofs against their [the Sufis’] beliefs’.21 In personal interviews with rank and file members of Ansar al-Sunna and other Egyptian Salafis, the same reasons for al-Wakil’s success – his robust scholarship and energetic, brave proselytizing – were cited with frequency. In addition to these qualities, however, my respondents also spoke enthusiastically of al-Wakil’s other merits. Perhaps the claim most often expressed was that al-Wakil gained his unique insights into the heart of Sufism through his upbringing in a village community saturated with traditional Sufi ideas, symbols and practices. According to my respondents, it was this experience that allowed him ‘to see through’ (yiktishif) the pretences of Egypt’s Sufis. Having suffered at their hands, his mission was one of mercy: ‘it is very clear that al-Wakil really cared about ordinary Egyptians; he couldn’t abide for someone to hurt someone else in the name of religion!’ (‘wa bayn ’awi in al-Wakil kan biyafakkar fi’l-masriyin al-‘adiyyin ‘ashan huwa makansh biyistahmil had yizlim had bi-ism al-din’).22 Another often-repeated claim (not explicitly mentioned in the Ansar al-Sunna texts) is that al-Wakil was simply more thorough in his attacks on all branches and manifestations of Sufism than other Salafi critics. By contrast with other Egyptian Salafis (even his peers in Ansar al-Sunna), my respondents observed, al-Wakil understood the importance of the utter elimination of Sufism, ‘root and branch’ – so that no trace of it remained to poison Islam in the future. In this latter task, several individuals drew attention to the fact that al-Wakil chose to attack the most popular and historically embedded of Sunni Sufi scholars, Abu Hamid al-Ghazali (d. 1111).23 As noted, there is currently very little information available on Ansar al-Sunna’s variant of Egyptian Salafism (n. 7). Focusing on its most celebrated polemicist, ‘The Hammer of Deviations’, this chapter represents, I hope, a small step towards rectifying this lacuna. Its main aim is to delve into those aspects

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of al-Wakil’s personality and thought, which are believed by Egyptian Salafis, and particularly by members of Ansar al-Sunna, to have contributed most significantly to his success. To give a sense of his literary approach and style, al-Wakil is here quoted at length. In itself, this is quite unusual: with certain exceptions (of whom bin Laden is the most prominent), the voices of modern Salafis are normally only included in brief, sensational(ized) fragments (on jihad, women, Jews and so on). This chapter continues with al-Wakil’s description of his early days in Tanta, where his gradual ‘conversion’ from Sufism to Salafism took place (2.a). Next, it explores the nature of his polemic against the figure of the Sufi shaykh, specifically in light of his youthful experiences (2.b). Striving to reflect something of the thoroughness of these polemics, the third section begins by considering his vehement rejection of the Sufi concept of ‘asceticism’ (al-zuhd) (3.a); it then explores his criticisms, both intellectual and personal, of Abu Hamid al-Ghazali, which remain perhaps his most controversial statements (3.b). The chapter concludes by probing the reasons as to why al-Wakil’s key ideas continue to resonate so profoundly within contemporary Ansar al-Sunna (and wider Egyptian Salafi) settings, whereas some of his other ideas and attitudes – most specifically his apparent fondness for the research of ‘Orientalist’ scholars – no longer appeal to the modern Egyptian Salafi (4).

2  From Sufism to Salafism 2.a  Al-Wakil’s ‘Conversion’ Familiar with his autobiography, my respondents in Ansar al-Sunna agreed that al-Wakil truly understood Sufism because, as a youth, he had lived it.24 Indeed, two individuals separately noted how al-Wakil’s journey from a naïve child, eager to learn, yet brought up practising the rituals of Sufism, to a mature and pious scholar, who realizes that these rituals have nothing to do with Islam, mirrors the journey of Egypt’s Salafis themselves from the late nineteenth into the midtwentieth century, during which time they threw off the shackles of tradition and superstition so as to immerse themselves in the study of Qur’an and Sunna. The following characteristically colourful passage, from the introduction to Masra‘ al-tasawwuf – published in 1953, when al-Wakil was around forty years old – distils this journey, from Sufism to Salafism, for the reader.25 The passage begins with a young al-Wakil – referring to himself (in the third person) as ‘the

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youth’ (al-shab) – reflecting on the logical inconsistencies of the books presented to him by his professors at Tanta’s branch of the Azhar University, where he has recently arrived; it concludes with his revelation that Sufism is, in fact, the work of the devil: [Surely] If these books did not speak truthfully, they would not have been taught in al-Azhar University; they would not be taught by these ancient rabbis/priests (al-harimun min al-ahbar26); and they would not have been published. … No, he had come to Tanta to study religion under these scholars; and now he must study the law (fiqh al-din) from the shaykhs and from their books!! But Tanta is full of Sufi seekers (lit: ‘delegations,’ ‘wufud’); it is the grandest house of idolatry (taghut), to which everyone floods. And the youth sits in the Sufis’ study circles, where the name of God is invoked, as they [the Sufis] hawk through their noses (bikhannat al-unuf), shake their backsides (rajjat al-ardaf), and beat their pagan drums (wathaniyat al-dufuf). He listens to the Sufi singer (munshid) proclaiming loudly while dancing: ‘I have an idol (sanam) which I worship in the monastery.’ [In response to which] The voices of the darawish grow louder and the people say ‘yes, like that, apostasize, apostastize O’ teacher’ (‘aywa kida, ikfir, ikfir ya murrabi’); and, on the peoples’ faces, the youth sees the happiness, and the pagan joy (wathani raqis) which results from what they have heard from this idolatrous singer (al-munshid al-kafir). So, he [the youth] asks one of the shaykhs who comes from his village: ‘O master shaykh (ya sidi ya shaykh), what is this idol that is being worshipped?’ The shaykh tightens his lips, then bestows his answer upon the confused boy, ‘you’re still young’ (inta lissa sughiyyir). The youth becomes quiet for a short while. Yet, the level of atheism is unbearable (wa lakin al-kufr yudajja fi’l-na‘iq), and he hears the singer saying ‘I have journeyed in the monastery’s path in immortality (‘abadiyya); and the dog and the pig are nothing but our gods.’ Retreating into terror and wonder, the youth ponders: ‘What dog? What pig? What monastery?’ But what answer could he receive? For he was too afraid to ask one of the shaykhs [what was going on] because previously the reply had only been ‘you’re still so young.’ Then he sees some of these great shaykhs circumambulating their swamp (bi hadhihi hamat), while drinking cinnamon (al-qirfa), and congratulating the substitutes (al-abdal), the nobles (al-anjab) and the supports (al-awtad) on the festival (mawlid) of the highest ranking of their saints (al-qutb al-ghauth sayyidhum), Sayyid al-Badawi.27 Years of the youth’s life are buried before he becomes a student at the [Azhar’s] College of the Foundations of Religion (kulliyat usul al-din) where he studies the widest reaching books on monotheism (awsa‘ kutub al-tawhid) – as these are known [at the Azhar]. He understands everything in these, bar the actual truth of tawhid. [Indeed] Studying them only increases his gloomy

40

Sufis and Salafis in the Contemporary Age anxiety and [leaves him in a state of] pathetic confusion. One day, the youth and one of his friends sit down with an uneducated Sufi shaykh (shaykh sufi ummi). He (the Sufi shaykh) asks them (al-Wakil and his friend) about the meanings of some hallucinations (ba‘d tawhilat) of [the Egyptian Sufi] Ibn al-‘Ata’illah al-Sakandari [d. 1309]. ‘If, with God’s support, your will (iradatak) has been annihilated/stripped (al-tajrid) [in God], then this is a form of covert desire [al-shahwa al-khalifiyya] [and it is not acceptable]; [on the other hand], if your will is involved [in your actions], while you are in a state of transcendence [fi’l-tajrid], then this must be understood as a failure in your resolve [al-himma].’ [On hearing this] The two students are perplexed, unsure as to how to answer this uneducated man regarding his so-called ruling (hadhahi al-hukm al-ma‘zuma); though they understand that it aims to strengthen the myth that [for a Sufi] the legal obligations [made incumbent upon all Muslims through Shari‘a] are no longer necessary (ustura raf ‘ al-taklif). And they [the students] find themselves filled with grief having flunked this riddle of an exam (imtihan ‘aqda) by an ignorant Sufi. Time passes and he [the youth] becomes a student in the [Azhar’s] Department of Tawhid and Philosophy (fi’l-shu‘bat al-tawhid wa’l-falsifa). Here, he studies Sufism. And he encounters a book, written by one of his professors, in which he finds Ibn Taymiyya’s opinion regarding Ibn ‘Arabi, and [on reading this] the youth is calmed a little regarding Ibn Taymiyya, who he had previously seen as mistaken and misleading (kan qabl yarahuh dalla mudillan). This is [the Shafi‘i scholar, Ahmad] al-Dardir’s vicious, slanderous description of him!! (al-buhtan al-’athim na‘tuhu al-Dardir!!). He [the youth] has several of Ibn Taymiyya’s books. But he was scared to read them, worried lest he began to doubt the [Sufi pantheon of] Saints (yurtab fi’l’awliya), as some of his shaykhs had told him earlier [would happen]!! And he was frightened that he would slip into the same error as Ibn Taymiyya. But the youth reads and he immerses himself in reading. Then Fate (al-qadr) blesses this youth, as the shining light of dawn appears and pushes away [the darkness of] night. And in this happy time, he settles into Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya. It is as if he has found an ancient oasis of nectar, a remedy for the burning mid-day sun. The movement calls to him through the voice of its founder, our esteemed spiritual father Muhammad Hamid al-Fiqqi, to reflect upon the truth and the correct religion from the Book and the Sunna (al-haqq wa’l-hudan min al-kitab wa’l-sunna). The youth reads and reflects upon what he is reading. Little by little, the veil (al-ghishawa) lifts from his eyes, and heavenly light dazzles him, and the path of righteousness emanates light so that he sees its truths, and he understands its worth. And he appreciates the lightness in the light, the fidelity in faith, the truthfulness in truth and the error in straying from the

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path. [And he realizes that] Before, through the [seductive] magic of Sufism, he had mistaken everything he had seen for its opposite. He had been convinced that polytheism was monotheism, that disbelief was faith and that pure spirituality was gross materialism. Spiritually transfigured, the youth realized  – and he could not believe it – that Sufism is paganism (din wathaniyya), it is Magianism (majusiyya), it is the religion of the devil (iblis), and of the Pharaohs. … [And he realized that] Paganism is [nothing but] ignorance. And he saw that all these [religious deviations] are cursed by the Book of God.

Al-Wakil’s spiritual and intellectual journey falls neatly into four paragraphs, each of which deals with a different subject.28 In the first paragraph, as a young boy in Tanta, he finds himself on the defensive against an idol-worshipping munshid, patronizing shaykhs and cinnamon-drinking devotees of al-Sayyid al-Badawi (d. 1276). In the second paragraph, matters only get worse as he struggles to learn the principles of his religion, but fails a test set for him by an unlettered shaykh who implies that, for the gnostic, dedication to Shari‘a is unnecessary. Hope enters his life in the third paragraph through the works of Ibn Taymiyya, about whom he had previously been misled. And, in the fourth paragraph, al-Wakil speaks of his salvation – in what seems, at first glance, a ‘Damascene’ moment – through which his life is given meaning and purpose. Unlike the Apostle Paul, previously so unworthy of God’s grace, al-Wakil’s transformation from Sufi to Salafi arrives largely through his own efforts. From the very beginning, al-Wakil finds himself pondering the validity of the education he is receiving, even when doing so makes his life difficult. He is perplexed by the books he is told to read; he very sensibly fails to understand why people should be worshipping idols, pigs or dogs; he challenges his teachers (who, in response, purse their lips and pompously deflect his inquiries); and he chooses to read Ibn Taymiyya, despite being warned that this scholar is dangerous to a Muslim’s faith.29 According to his own autobiographical reminiscences, then, the youthful al-Wakil is a thinker and a rebel, as well as someone who has clearly grasped the truth of the Qur’anic reminder – a modern Salafi favourite – that ‘God will not change a people until they have changed what is in themselves’ (Q.  13:11). The works of Ibn Taymiyya, important though they are to him, provide the catalyst (and some of the tools) for this transformation – and Salafization – of his character. But, the process appears to be evolutionary, rather than ontological, in nature. Indeed, even God seems to play a negligible role in al-Wakil’s story. When describing the epiphanic moment itself, al-Wakil merely notes that ‘Fate (al-qadr) – rather than al-Qadir (one of God’s Names) – blesses the youth’ (yan‘im al-qadr ‘ala al-shabb). Though the rewards are suitably great,

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there is no hint of the physical and spiritual turmoil that often accompanies such moments. Rather, the scales are simply lifted from al-Wakil’s eyes over a gradual period of time as he diligently studies the works of Ibn Taymiyya and Hamid al-Fiqqi. For al-Wakil, spiritual transfiguration – the unlearning of everything he has so far been taught – arrives as the result of hard work and superior guidance. Given the modern Salafis’ general distrust of mystical experiences and their heavy reliance on (Salafi-approved) texts as the vehicle via which all forms of religious truths must be communicated, al-Wakil’s description of his conversion from Sufism to Salafism is in many senses not very surprising. The degree to which al-Wakil appeals to standard mystical language to describe certain aspects of his transformation is, however, interesting.30 Let us reflect further on the nature of al-Wakil’s description. His story has all the qualities of a fable: a child has been locked in a dark cave, the guardians of which use magic to keep him there. The child realizes something is wrong, but as he has only experienced life in the cave, he does not understand what it is. Grown to be a youth, he eventually finds his way out of the cave and emerges into a world of glorious sunshine, the world of ‘True Islam’. As the light shines, the trickery by which his erstwhile guardians have imprisoned him becomes obvious. In a neat play on the usual inversion trope so favoured by Sufis,31 he sees such trickery for what it truly is: Sufism – the power of the cave – is revealed as a Pagan, Magian, Pharaonic and ultimately Satanic illusion. The reader, presumably, infers that the keepers of the cave must also be the disciples of Satan. With parallels in all sorts of traditions (from Aristotle’s ‘allegory of the cave’ to the Wachowski’s Matrix trilogy) al-Wakil’s reputation as a man who fully understands, and wishes to combat, Sufism rests squarely, of course, upon the Salafis’ acknowledgement that, regardless (arguably because) of its fable-like qualities, al-Wakil’s biography is 100 per cent accurate. It is because al-Wakil is known to have been bullied, at first by the shaykhs in his village and then by those in Tanta, that his caricature of ‘the Sufi Shaykh’ – a swaggering individual who, while adept at Sufi ‘magic’, knows nothing of religion – is taken seriously. In putting his experiences of this shaykh down in writing, al-Wakil is understood to be setting the record straight.

2.b  The Sufi Shaykh Underpinning al-Wakil’s lengthy refutations of the Sufi scholars’ arguments is the principled objection that Sufi shaykhs are abusing their positions as leaders of their communities to exploit ordinary Egyptians and to maintain a hold on

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power. In its festschrift to al-Wakil, Ansar al-Sunna hones in upon precisely this objection in a chapter entitled ‘The Relationship between the Disciple and the Shaykh’ (‘Alaqat al-murid bi’l-shaykh). In summarizing al-Wakil’s arguments against this (caricature of a) Sufi shaykh, the author references a number of sources (most notably his articles in al-Hady al-nabawi, and Masra‘ al-tasawwuf).32 The main point of criticism, for al-Wakil and Ansar al-Sunna, is the Sufis’ apparent insistence that ‘everybody must be bound (yartabit bi) to a shaykh from [among] their shaykhs’, and that if someone does not create such an attachment – through a formal declaration of allegiance (bay‘ah) – his efforts amount to nothing. For, so the Sufis’ logic runs, ‘whoever does not have a shaykh, his shaykh is Satan’ (man la shaykh lahu fashaykhuh al-shaytan). Indeed, through the same logic, ‘even if the murid diligently obeys God’s orders, he must still bind himself to a Sufi shaykh’. Of course, in binding himself to his shaykh, the murid must simultaneously renounce his own personality. He is, according to al-Wakil, to be ‘skinned of his individual desires’ (yansalikh min iradat nafsuh), so that his identity dissolves (yufna’) in that of his shaykh’, and so that, with each breath he takes, the murid remembers that he is ‘between the arms of his shaykh’. According to al-Wakil, the murid continually finds himself at a disadvantage in his relationship with his shaykh, whose attitude is even believed to determine God’s own treatment of the student. This is duly shown by a reference to al-Risala, the work of the Persian Sufi ‘Abd al-Karim ibn Hawazim al-Qushayri (d. 1074), in which this scholar notes that: when the murid makes his shaykh happy, he will take no reward [from his shaykh during his lifetime] in case [in the future] the desire to glorify his shaykh leaves his [the murid’s] heart. If the shaykh dies, God will grant the reward [due to the murid] for having made his shaykh happy. However, if the [attitude of the] shaykh’s heart changes towards his murid, God will not punish him when the shaykh is alive lest the shaykh’s heart softens [once again] towards his murid [and allows the latter to escape punishment].33

Worse still, because the Sufi shaykhs are tyrants, it is forbidden (haram) for the murid to move from one Sufi branch (tariqa) to another – ‘if he is guilty of associating others with his shaykh then he associates others with God’ (fa-in ashrak ma‘a shaykhuh fa-huwa al-mushrik bi-allah).34 Ultimately, the disastrous consequences of such slavish devotion are spelt out: the murid must obey his shaykh ‘even when he is asked to commit a sin (ma‘siyya), such as breaking the fast or avoiding prayer’.35

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While the festschrift reassures us that al-Wakil staunchly ‘opposes all such erroneous beliefs through explanation, criticism and analysis’, it tends to cite al-Wakil explicitly only when his expertise is directly required, either to rebut the most famous Sufi scholars (often from their own sources) or to explain a technical aspect of Sufism. In this particular chapter, al-Wakil’s main grudge is shown to be with al-Qushayri. Indeed, al-Wakil’s displeasure at the disproportionate degree of influence exercised by the average Sufi shaykh over his student, and the consequences of the latter’s disobedience, is specifically framed in response to another of al-Qushayri’s comments. On this occasion, al-Wakil is particularly irritated by the fact that, rather than attributing al-Hallaj’s death to his blasphemous ‘resistance to the Qur’an’, al-Qushayri claims that the unfortunate gnostic met his end only as the result of his ‘shaykhs calling for his undoing’, and, worse still, that it was merely al-Hallaj’s disobedience to his shaykhs, rather than his heresies, that provoked God’s anger.36 Similarly, in refuting the claim that the murid’s sins may be forgiven only through his shaykh’s intercession, al-Wakil singles al-Qushayri again out for criticism: ‘Do you see how al-Qushayri makes it obligatory for the murid to repent when his heart merely murmurs an objection to his shaykh?’37 In Ansar al-Sunna’s festschrift, al-Wakil’s opinion is also quoted so as to undermine the legal validity of peculiarly Sufi ideas and acts. A brief description of the ‘khirqa’ – a cloak placed on the shoulders of the Sufi initiate by his shaykh which formalizes their relationship and symbolizes the trust between them – is here followed by al-Wakil’s curt refusal to accept that the same garment has a place in Islam: ‘where are these rituals and symbols (rusum) in the Book of God? What place do they have in the Life of the Prophet? Where was Abu Bakr’s khirqa? Or the khirqa of ‘Umar? Or the khirqa of ‘Uthman or ‘Ali?’38 And if the reader were to ask, who is al-Wakil to pose such questions? Ansar al-Sunna’s sources, in text and person, speak clearly. He was the victim of Sufism, who endured its abuses, came to understand its weakness and, at an early age, escaped its clutches. Thereafter, he became the enemy of Sufism, fighting to protect other, ordinary Muslims from suffering as he suffered – ‘al-Wakil really cared about ordinary Muslims, he couldn’t abide for someone to hurt someone else in the name of religion!’ Such concern for the psychological and social well-being of ordinary Egyptian Muslims is a hallmark of the country’s Salafi discourse. Indeed, it even explains the phrasing of the title of this chapter of the festschrift – ‘The Relationship between the Disciple and the Shaykh’ – according to which, in contrast to the Sufis’ idealized hierarchy, al-murid precedes al-shaykh. On a

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quite different level, al-Wakil’s resistance to the Sufi vision of the shaykh and his disciple rests on another foundational principle of Egyptian Salafism, important since the time of Muhammad ‘Abduh: the right of the Muslim to retain his sense of individuality, and to learn about religion – from the true sources (i.e. Qur’an and Sunna) – through his own intellectual gifts. This is, after all, how al-Wakil escaped from the cave.

3  Root and branch 3.a  Foul beginnings: Al-Zuhd As we have already seen, al-Wakil locates numerous foreign, non-Islamic influences within Sufism: it is ‘paganism (din wathaniyya), it is Magianism (majusiyya), it is the religion of the devil (Iblis), and of the Pharaohs’. Elsewhere, al-Wakil similarly bemoans the destructive influence of Christianity and Judaism on specific elements of Sufism.39 In al-Wakil’s view, however, the first Sufi contamination of Islam occurred when the concept of ‘al-zuhd’ (religiously inspired asceticism) and its attendant practices entered the Muslim Umma during the middle of the second century Hijra, ‘in response to the wave of dissolution (inhilal) that spread through the Islamic world at the beginning of the ‘Abbasid’s regime’.40 Recalling my respondents’ praise of al-Wakil’s thoroughness in striving to uproot all aspects of Sufism from Egyptian society, this section explores the nature of his attack on the origins of zuhd itself (asl al-zuhd). Once again, al-Wakil’s arguments will be considered through the lens of Ansar al-Sunna’s festschrift. Al-Wakil believes that the origins of zuhd lay not in Islam, but in Manichaeism, the philosophy of the Persian false prophet, Mani Ibn Fatik, who advised his followers to ‘be extreme ascetics, and not to marry, so that the world will end’.41 Al-Wakil judges such views to uphold the very opposite of Islam because, in contrast to his perception of the faith, they emphasise passivity and reclusiveness. Manichean ideas of zuhd should never have entered Islam because of their gradual, but ultimately cataclysmic effects on Muslim attitudes regarding, first, the figure of the warrior (and related notions of manliness) and, second, the institution of the family. Zuhd, al-Wakil tells us, ‘lessens people’s admiration of the military characteristics of Islam’s heroes and of the ancient martyrs, who were solely fighters’. Rather than seeking to emulate the heroic examples of the Prophet’s companions, Muslims began to fall under the spell of ‘seclusion’ (‘uzla),

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perceiving within it a kind of ‘magical charm’ (khilabat al-sihr) and ‘a sedition of desire’ (fitnat al-‘ishq), they retreated into their ‘monks’ cells and caves’.42 For al-Wakil, the arrival of zuhd even affected the healthy body image that had originally been promoted by the Prophet and his companions. Without their swords and strength, Muslims ultimately became ‘feeble-bodied worshippers’. Under its influence, they increasingly strove to resemble the image of the worldhating recluse: ‘in each cave we find a ghost (shabh), whose body is emaciated (damir al-jasad), whose eyes are listless (za‘igh al-‘ayinin), whose tongue lolls (mutahaddil al-lisan), and whose lips are messy with dust (wa shafatayn asha‘th aghbar). With gestures of his hand, he [the Sufi ghost] begs for a drink, or [even] a sip!!’43 Such men can never be of use when Islam is under attack. For al-Wakil, of course, Islam needs strong, committed men, not only for combat, but in all areas of life. In his view, zuhd is evil because it robs Muslims of the energy and initiative necessary to change themselves and their societies. Note how, in the following passage, al-Wakil lends nobility to the work of the humble peasant by comparing this to the achievements of the soldier: What about the self-sacrificing warrior (al-mujahid al-fida’i) who carries his sword and throws himself into battle in God’s Name? Is he not with God? And what about the peasant who carries his scythe (fahs), whose hot sweat pours from his brow as he strikes the ground with this mighty scythe, is he not … with God? … [Surely] God is the God of everybody. He is not the God of only one person [who wishes] to be with Him alone in isolation (khilwa). He is with those who are charitable (al-muhsin), pious (al-muttaqin), and patient (al-sabirin). He did not say that He is with the recluse. Rather He is God, the Merciful the Forgiving.44

In al-Wakil’s reading, both the warrior (with his sword) and the peasant (with his scythe) are unmanned by zuhd. Shielding the responsibilities of marriage and children is also, al-Wakil directly implies, a vital part of true Muslim notions of masculinity. Yet, by substituting the monk’s cell for the marriage bed – and, indeed, by slavishly following the Manicheans and forbidding marriage outright45 – the early champions of zuhd ‘aimed to finish Islam, its people and its protectors’. They issued a call that forbade marriage, and drove people to be ‘furious against the child and the family’. This is all the more remarkable, al-Wakil notes, because this call arrived in an era when ‘Muslim countries were plagued by insurrections and revolutions (fitan wa thawrat)’. Switching to the present tense so that his reader makes no mistake regarding its relevance to today, al-Wakil concludes

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that there is no doubt ‘that the same call greatly aids the revolution [against Islam], allowing it to achieve its victory much sooner’.46 Following its usual strategy, the festschrift attributes both the above criticisms – regarding zuhd’s threat to authentic Islamic notions of jihad/masculinity and family – to al-Wakil, but only quotes directly from the shaykh when his expertise is needed to deal with the original Sufi source material, and/or when a specific technical matter requires his elucidation. Tellingly, the discovery of a connection between zuhd and ‘the crimes of Sufi historians’ in obscuring the history of Islam’s early heroes and martyrs is attributed, by al-Wakil, to Ignaz Golziher (d. 1921), the Jewish Hungarian ‘Orientalist’ (mustashriq).47 Indeed, it is very likely that al-Wakil’s argument that a historical link existed between Manichaeism and Muslim notions of zuhd was also borrowed from Orientalism.48 The interesting nature of the relationship between al-Wakil (and Ansar al-Sunna) and Western scholarship on Islam is briefly discussed in the conclusion. From a technical perspective, al-Wakil’s help is sought to explain the precise meaning of specific Sufi-related terms. In addition to zuhd, he sheds some light on the etymology and historical origin of words such as ‘‘uzla’ (seclusion) ‘khilwa’ (isolation) and ‘fardiyya’ (individualism), which were made popular by the likes of Dhu’l-Nun Misri (d. 859), al-Junayd (d. 910) and other early important Sufi figures.49 Al-Wakil’s main theo-linguistic contribution to this chapter, however, is to explain the meaning of ‘piety’ (taqwa) – Islam’s pure, and indigenous, alternative to zuhd. Indeed, while he describes zuhd as the product of ‘atheist Manichaeism’ (manawiyya mulhida), al-Wakil argues that taqwa amounts to nothing less than ‘mighty Islam’ (‘al-Islam al-‘azim’) itself. For al-Wakil, the proof of taqwa’s superiority over zuhd is manifestly clear from the Qur’an and Sunna, where zuhd goes unmentioned, yet where many people – including king Sulayman and the rich companions of the Prophet who give so generously of their wealth – are described specifically as ‘pious’ (atqiya’).50 Reiterating al-Wakil’s arguments, the remainder of the chapter goes on to explain how, by exhorting Muslims to commit productively to their society, to enter battle courageously in its defence, and to marry and bear children so that this society continues to thrive, taqwa achieves precisely the opposite of zuhd. Concomitantly, al-Wakil directs his readers’ attention away from the unhealthy example of the cave-bound recluse to the infinitely more salubrious example of the Prophet, who avoided the pointless extravagance of asceticism so as to commit himself wholeheartedly to the improvement of his community.51 As part of his mission, he waged war against non-believers and hypocrites and married many times. Indeed, the Prophet married because God told him, and all other

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Muslims, to do so: ‘marry the unmarried among you and the righteous among your male slaves and female slaves’ (Q. 24:32).

3.b  Abu Hamid al-Ghazali: (Not) ‘The Proof of Islam’ To discuss al-Wakil’s views regarding al-Ghazali (d. 1111), we must leave Ansar al-Sunna’s festschrift, which perhaps significantly does not include a chapter on this subject, and return to al-Wakil’s own writings. Specifically, we shall look at his comments, first, in a series of articles entitled ‘Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali?!’(‘Have I accused al-Ghazali wrongly?!’), which were published originally in al-Hadi al-nabawi, and, second, in perhaps his best-known work, Hadhihi hiyya al-Sufiyya.52 Reference to his attack on al-Ghazali is included for the same reason that his attitude to zuhd has been discussed: both subjects are perceived as reflecting al-Wakil’s remarkable endeavour to separate Sufism from Islam, root and branch. In attacking zuhd, al-Wakil targets the early ascetics, whose influence he perceives as leading to the flowering of Sufism; in attacking al-Ghazali, however, al-Wakil wishes to inflict a serious wound upon the institution of Sufism itself. The fact that al-Wakil’s arguments against al-Ghazali were (and still are) extremely controversial ensures that this section is longer and slightly more detailed than previous ones. The vast majority of Sunni jurists have traditionally recognized al-Ghazali as the legally acceptable voice of Sufism.53 After all, it is precisely because of his ability to marry the forces of legalism and mysticism that al-Ghazali is described as ‘Hujjat al-Islam’ (‘Proof of Islam’). And this scholar’s vast treatise Ihya ‘ulum al-din (Revival of the Religious Sciences) has proven extraordinarily influential within Muslim legal tradition; as I have noted elsewhere, the same text continues to be taught in many Egyptian mosque circles, including certain Salafi ones.54 Indeed, al-Ghazali’s success in normalizing Sufi ideas within Sunni Islam’s legal circles doubtless explains much of al-Wakil’s animosity towards him. Beginning with the ‘Have I Accused al-Ghazali Wrongly?’ articles, the nature of al-Wakil’s criticisms, and the sources upon which these criticisms are based, shall now be explored. As his choice of title for the articles suggests, al-Wakil feels the need to defend himself against certain people’s reactions to his attacks on al-Ghazali. In fact, he lists four types of response from as many different groups; three of which have been negative. He tells the reader that the first two groups wish merely ‘to rebuke’ (‘atibun) him for his treatment of al-Ghazali. According to individuals

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in group number one, al-Ghazali should be awarded respect as an ‘independent [but flawed] jurist’ (mujtahid mukhti’) who, while making mistakes, has been persecuted by those around him. For members of group number two, regardless of his opinions, al-Ghazali is an imam and, as such, should not be criticized because to do so only risks aggravating other Muslims.55 Individuals belonging to group number three do not wish merely to reproach him; rather, they fully support al-Ghazali and are ‘furiously angry’ (haniq ghadib) with both al-Wakil and his publishers.56 In contrast to all three groups, however, are the opinions of group number four, which al-Wakil claims not to want to mention in case people think he has grown partial to flattery. Members of this group encourage al-Wakil to continue in his attacks on al-Ghazali and even ‘to write until all these deviations [of al-Ghazali] are smashed!’ (wa aktub hatta tattahattam hadhihi al-tawaghit!).57 Having acknowledged the controversial nature of his work, and promising to fulfil his scholarly duties by scrupulously citing the exact location of anything he quotes from al-Ghazali, al-Wakil presses on in a new section entitled ‘The reason for my criticisms of al-Ghazali’.58 His main point of criticism – in light of which the others may easily be understood – is that al-Ghazali in no way deserves the credit and prestige bestowed upon him by Muslim tradition. The fact that al-Ghazali seems almost universally to be known as ‘Proof of Islam’ (‘hujjat al-Islam’) – al-Wakil contemptuously notes that his moniker (laqab) is now more famous than his actual name – prompts the following warning: Al-Ghazali is dangerous [precisely] because he is [so often treated as] ‘Proof of Islam.’59 [That is to say] Many scholars interpret the Book of God in light of what he [al-Ghazali] has previously written and decided; not only this, but they fashion their corrupt interpretations of Qur’anic verses in such a way as to agree with what al-Ghazali states in his books. This is what makes al-Ghazali the most dangerous man in Islam and regarding Islam (akhtar rajul fi’l-Islam wa ‘ala al-Islam).60

Because of the dangers involved in listening to al-Ghazali, al-Wakil argues that it is now an obligation for all Muslims to flag up the errors they find in his works. By so doing, he believes that these Muslims will demonstrate to others that ‘al-Ghazali is not the Proof of Islam,’ ‘nor even similar to the Proof of Islam!’ Indeed, for al-Wakil, the idea that any man other than the Prophet should be regarded as ‘Proof of Islam’ is, in itself, preposterous: ‘there is no such thing as a Proof of Islam, aside from the Book of God and the sunna of the mighty Prophet (al-rasul al-‘azim)!’61

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Even now, however, al-Wakil is not quite finished mocking al-Ghazali for the label that others have given him. If one man was to be regarded as Proof of Islam, al-Wakil continues, he would have to be a superb scholar in the Qur’an and the Sunna. Yet, of course, al-Ghazali fails this test because rather than anchoring his arguments in the Qur’an, he locates them solely in ‘the books of the Sufiyya’, while his similarly weak command of the hadith sources is also well known.62 Ultimately, al-Wakil notes, the best that can be said of al-Ghazali’s scholarship is that ‘he is a Sufi in his way of thinking … and that he lacks vision (ghayr basir) when it comes to the Sunna’.63 Quite aside from doubting the merits of his scholarship, al-Wakil expresses something of a personal dislike for al-Ghazali. Once again, his criticisms are framed derisorily within the context of Sunni Islam’s exaggerated respect for the same scholar. Rather than taking al-Ghazali’s own account of his character at face value – a pious and humble believer who, in search for enlightenment, forsakes great wealth and power – as this emerges from his autobiography, The Deliverance from Error (al-Munqidh min al-dalal), al-Wakil turns the tables on al-Ghazali by asking what his autobiography actually tells us of the man: Let us follow the history of his [al-Ghazali’s] thought according to his own description in al-Munqidh min al-dalal. You will see that [in matters of theology] he was an asha‘ri because the sultan was also an ash‘ari and because he desired glory and renown (al-gah wa’l-sayt). Yet, in the end, he became a Sufi, and found the truth among the Sufiyya. No, al-Ghazali was not a legal scholar (mujtahid); rather, he was the worst kind of imitator (muqalliddan shar taqlid) because he imitated the Sufis. Then again, al-Ghazali said that he wanted [to find] truth in the science of philosophy (‘ilm al-kalam). But he could not find it in philosophy … [rather], in the end, he found it in Sufism. And al-Ghazali himself says that ‘I considered my motives for teaching (niyyati fi’l-tadris), and found that I was not teaching purely for the sake of God, but so as to achieve glory and for my renown to spread.64

Though al-Wakil is far from kind in his assessment of al-Ghazali’s motives, for the sceptical reader, he does have a point. Given that he admits to having once craved glory and renown, why should we now trust al-Ghazali simply because he claims to have undergone a spiritual transformation? For al-Wakil, the answer is simple: we should never trust al-Ghazali!65 After all, as he has already argued, al-Ghazali would only deserve our trust if, as the result of his transformational experience, he had become skilled and reliable in his interpretations of the Qur’an and his use of the Sunna. This would, in fact, constitute ‘the proof ’ that

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Muslims mistakenly associate with al-Ghazali. But, al-Wakil assures us, this did not happen. And here we may recall al-Wakil’s own transformation – from Sufism to Salafism – which lacks the narrative power of al-Ghazali’s ‘deliverance’, but through which, if we choose to believe him (and not al-Ghazali), al-Wakil successfully became an agent of ‘true religion’, dedicated to improving the conditions of the Umma through the use of Qur’an and Sunna. It is interesting that, in mounting such criticisms of al-Ghazali, al-Wakil seems generally content to reference the Qur’an and Sunna and cites very few other scholars.66 Not surprisingly, the one classical jurist whose arguments are incorporated into his attack is Ibn Taymiyya. In fact, in the resolutely Salafi figure of Ibn Taymiyya, al-Wakil finds the perfect foil through which to expound upon the crimes of al-Ghazali, the Sufi. Al-Wakil sets the stage for this comparison by noting that one ‘kind, sweet brother’ (akh tayyib karim) suggests that we should forgive the mistakes of al-Ghazali, as we have forgiven those of Ibn Taymiyya.67 With a certain degree of (probably unintentional) humour, al-Wakil protests that he wished he could: ‘I would love to do exactly that, my brother!’ Indeed, he proceeds, if al-Ghazali’s mistakes were only in ‘the branches’ (al-furu‘), or in the sources (al-usul) of Islam, such indulgence would be possible. However, as in reality al-Ghazali’s mistakes concern tawhid, ‘the most important foundation, upon which Islam itself is built’, while also incorporating ‘the excessive mistakes of the philosophers’, forgiveness remains, of course, impossible.68 So as to emphasize the pressing need for Muslims to reevaluate al-Ghazali’s contributions to Islam, al-Wakil points to the injustices in the contrasting historical treatment of these two figures: while Ibn Taymiyya languishes on the outskirts of Sunni jurisprudence (castigated by the ignorant as an ‘apostate [mulhid], turncoat [mariq] and atheist [zindiq]’) al-Ghazali is lauded as ‘Proof of Islam’ by the scholars of the Azhar University and has long been cherished at the heart of Sunni Islam. It is strongly inferred that one of the reasons for his ostracism is that (like al-Wakil himself) Ibn Taymiyya had the courage to speak out against al-Ghazali.69 The following criticisms are taken from the short section ‘Ibn Taymiyya’s Opinion of al-Ghazali’, which begins with the latter’s blunt assessment of al-Ghazali’s scholarly abilities: He [al-Ghazali] does not know what Ahmad [Ibn Hanbal] said, or indeed what was said by any of the pious predecessors (min al-salaf) in this chapter … or even what has been said in the Qur’an or hadith regarding this matter.70

It is of great importance, al-Wakil continues, that Ibn Taymiyya bases his refutation of al-Ghazali’s status as the Proof of Islam on the Sufi scholar’s poor

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knowledge of the Qur’an, hadith and of the maddhab al-salaf. He is similarly correct, according to al-Wakil, in his description of al-Ghazali’s works as the ‘isthmus’ (al-barzakh) by which Muslims remain connected to the heretical ideas of the ancient philosophers.71 Finally, in an observation made more interesting by the previous discussion, al-Wakil congratulates Ibn Taymiyya for noticing that al-Ghazali exaggerates the importance of zuhd.72 Fully comprehending the extent of al-Ghazali’s ignorance and mischief, Ibn Taymiyya possesses none of the Sufi’s flaws. Returning to the earlier comparison between these two figures, al-Wakil now suggests that the question of whether or not we should forgive al-Ghazali, as we have forgiven Ibn Taymiyya, is simply nonsensical: No, no, a thousand times no! For all the mistakes made by Ibn Taymiyya will not equate to the seriousness of one of al-Ghazali’s mistakes … [By contrast with al-Ghazali] Ibn Taymiyya did not commit errors in doctrine (al-‘aqida), or in religion (al-din); and Ibn Taymiyya never made mistakes in the source (al-asl) or [even] in the branches (al-fara‘) [of jurisprudence]. Rather, you will find that he [Ibn Taymiyya] made tiny mistakes in the sub-branches of the subbranches (al-furu‘ min al-furu‘); and were we to follow his mistakes, this would not damage our religion. …73 Come on brother (Ta‘l ya akhi), let us put all of Ibn Taymiyya’s mistakes into a single one of al-Ghazali’s mistakes. Namely [the latter’s claim] that, at the end of the Sufi’s journey (fi’l-salik al-sufi fi nihayyatuhu), the Sufi hears the Speech (khitab) [of God] as Musa heard it.74 And this is only the slightest of the mistakes committed by al-Ghazali.75

A great deal more could be said of al-Wakil’s criticisms of al-Ghazali in this series of articles. The main points, however, have been now covered; and it is time to consider his somewhat different polemic against al-Ghazali in Hadhihi hiyya al-Sufiyya. In this text, al-Wakil accuses al-Ghazali of smuggling al-Hallaj’s gnostic notions regarding ‘the oneness of existence’ (wahdat al-wujud) into Sunni Islam and, therefore, of fundamentally corrupting later Muslims’ understanding of tawhid.76 For al-Wakil, in their erroneous attitudes to tawhid, there is no substantive difference between the approaches of al-Hallaj, al-Ghazali and the thirteenth-century Andalusian scholar Ibn al-‘Arabi. Rather, in al-Wakil’s reading, each figure represents a stage – a sort of ‘anti-station’! – in Sufism’s trajectory away from God. Al-Wakil notes how, in describing the four levels (arba‘at maratib) of tawhid, al-Ghazali uses the human being as a metaphor: ‘The human being is many, if he considers his soul, his body, his extremities, his veins, his bones, his intestines;

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and yet, from another perspective (bi-i‘tibar akhar wa mushahadat ukhra), [the human being is] one.’77 In al-Wakil’s view, this is a typical strategy for al-Ghazali, who invariably masks his heresy through the use of beguiling imagery and language. And he feels that al-Ghazali’s decision to speak of wahdat al-shuhud (‘one-ness of witnessing’), rather than of the more controversial concept of wahdat al-wujud (‘one-ness of being’) reflects a similar desire to dupe Muslims.78 But, al-Wakil retorts, Muslims must not be deceived by al-Ghazali’s tricks: Do you not see that al-Ghazali [really] believes in the one-ness of existence? … [After all] At the level of disbelief (kufr), both these myths (wahdat al-shuhud and wahdat al-wujud) meet … both are Sufi innovations (bida‘ sufiyya). They have different names, but the One with true vision (al-Basir) will not be fooled by labeling honey as poison. Both of them [wahdat al-shuhud and wahdat al-wujud] are, in reality, spotted venom (za‘f al- raqta’); it is merely that one of them has been put in a vessel made of glass (fi ka’s min zujaj), while the other has been put in a vessel made of gold (fi ka’s min dhahab)!! Al-Ghazali’s secret was known as soon as he admitted to admiring the tawhid of al-Hallaj, and this alone is enough to accuse al-Ghazali of being a follower of al-Hallaj (wa hadha wahda kaf idanat al-Ghazali bi’l-Hallajiyya). And I know the truth of the matter!!79

After accusing al-Ghazali of covertly following al-Hallaj, al-Wakil begins a new section entitled ‘My Opinion on al-Ghazali’ (ra’yi fi’l-Ghazali). Here he mentions a number of authors who have influenced his opinion on this matter. Remarkably, the majority of these authors are Western. Al-Wakil begins by congratulating R. A. Nicholson, who ‘realizes the truth of al-Ghazali’, specifically that he is ‘the spittle’ (nafth) that ‘carries the germs of Sufism’!80 By which he understands the Cambridge professor to have meant that, were it not for al-Ghazali, the gates of Islam would never have opened for ‘the Sufis of wahdat al-wujud, such as Ibn al-‘Arabi’, to enter. Al-Wakil then turns (again) to Ignaz Goldziher, who, in his view, correctly asserts that: ‘al-Ghazali helped Sufism out of its isolation and prevented it from being separated from the official religion of Islam’. Finally, Carl Heinrich Becker is described as similarly astute for spotting the connection between al-Ghazali and ‘the spirit of Gnosticism’ (ruh al-ghunus), which would have been rejected as an innovation but – because of al-Ghazali, who made it seem ‘free of poison and acceptable to ahl al-sunna’ – eventually ‘spread among all the groups at the heart of Islam’. In Hadhihi hiyya al-Sufiyya, al-Wakil appeals to these three Orientalist scholars to defend his main accusation against al-Ghazali: were it not for him, the Orientalists are shown to agree, Sufism would never have been made palatable to Sunni Islam.

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The remainder of al-Wakil’s attack on al-Ghazali in Hadhihi hiyya al-Sufiyya includes several memorable phrases and insults.81 His argument, however, rests upon his absolute conviction – endorsed, in his mind, by these Orientalists – that there is irrefutable evidence in al-Ghazali’s opinions on tawhid that he (like al-Hallaj and Ibn al-‘Arabi) upholds a monistic and, therefore, fundamentally heretical understanding of the nature of reality. This section’s discussion of his arguments on zuhd and al-Ghazali has touched on themes that are of central importance to al-Wakil’s criticisms of Sufism. We note, in particular, how effectively he introduces oppositions into his attack. Zuhd is contrasted with taqwa: the former emasculates Muslim men, while the latter makes of them great warriors and productive family men; and al-Ghazali is contrasted with Ibn Taymiyya: the former is described as a deceitful human being and poor scholar, while the latter is remembered as a courageous and much maligned genius. Indeed, this constant juxtaposition of people and ideas that are either ‘correct’ or ‘in error’ characterizes much of his polemical writing; it also reminds us of the revelation that allowed him as a youth to emerge from his Sufi ‘cave’ in Tanta: ‘Before, through the magic of Sufism, he had mistaken everything he had seen for its opposite. He had been convinced that polytheism was monotheism, that disbelief was faith, and that pure spirituality was gross materialism.’ It is through this strategy – via which, Sufi practices and/or ideas, despite their traditional popularity, are described as achieving the polar opposite of their declared aims – that al-Wakil is able to generate an alternative, Salafized history of Islam, one that is uncorrupted by the Sufis and the members of other deviant sects.

4  Conclusion While his arguments doubtless reflect and incorporate aspects of both these anti-Sufi discourses, we risk oversimplifying matters considerably by classifying al-Wakil as either (just) a ‘Wahhabi’ (Pink) or (just) ‘a liberal intellectual’ (Knysh). To my knowledge, al-Wakil does not refer to Muhammad ‘Abd al-Wahhab (or any Wahhabi source) in his attacks on Sufis. Of course, by criticizing the veneration of saints or the worshipping of graves – though these are not major foci – his arguments certainly overlap with those of the Wahhabis (particularly in their mutual debt to Ibn Taymiyya). Wahhabis do not punctuate their arguments, however, with references to Ignaz Goldziher or R. A. Nicholson.82 Concomitantly, while al-Wakil would certainly have agreed with the country’s

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liberal intellectuals (of the 1950s and 1960s) regarding the stupefying effects of popular Sufism on the mind of the average Egyptian, these intellectuals would have been very unlikely to lambast such a well-respected and moderate figure as al-Ghazali. Given the strength of his reputation and the strikingly personal nature of his polemical writing, it makes sense that, with Ansar al-Sunna itself, we should treat al-Wakil as a distinctively powerful voice among modern Egyptian critics of Sufism. Let us conclude this chapter by briefly revisiting those aspects of his ideas and arguments which resonate most strongly among contemporary Egyptian Salafis; this will be followed by an even briefer consideration of those aspects which do not. As noted, within Ansar al-Sunna circles, respect for al-Wakil’s remarkable scholarship and courage is joined by an appreciation, first, for the wisdom he gained as a young boy growing up in an environment contaminated by Sufism and, second, for the enthusiasm with which he subsequently sought to uproot all manifestations of Sufism in Egyptian society. At a deeper level, it may also be said that al-Wakil’s fundamental perception of Muslim history, and his resulting worldview, has grown increasingly popular in contemporary Egyptian Salafism. Stripped to its basics, al-Wakil’s main charge against the Sufis is that they are not (and have never been) true Muslims, but that, to give the illusion of being Muslim, they have cunningly employed magic and double-speak. They have even re-invented Muslim history, so as to obfuscate the lessons of the Qur’an and Sunna and to glorify their own scholars (simultaneously marginalizing great minds and sincere believers, such as Ibn Taymiyya). Thanks to al-Wakil and his peers, so Ansar al-Sunna thinking goes, Egyptian Salafis today have less to fear from Sufis than before. Interestingly, contemporary Egyptian Salafis adopt very similar strategies to Wakil, in his battle with the Sufis, to wage war against today’s ‘enemies of Islam’. This being the case, the Egyptian media, its political liberals and even the Muslim Brotherhood are all accused by Salafis of bewitching society and of abusing the good, though credible nature of average Egyptians. And, just like al-Wakil, contemporary Salafi preachers tirelessly exhort their audiences to wake up to the evils that are now taking place in the country. Al-Wakil’s call for Muslims to join together, so as to undo – or hammer through – the spell that has been cast over them by heretical magicians claiming to be Muslim is still potent. His Egyptian-ness is also potent. While Ansar al-Sunna is often accused of betraying Egyptian tradition and culture (so as to substitute the tradition and culture of Saudi Arabia), reading al-Wakil, one is continually reminded that he is, first and foremost, an Egyptian.83 Indeed, so

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much of his attack on Sufism is framed in terms of his own experiences that we can never forget that al-Wakil was originally just a village boy. While often strikingly idiosyncratic pieces of writing, his attacks on the shaykhs of Tanta and on the concept of zuhd, in particular, must also be understood in light of the long battle between Egypt’s jurists and Sufis regarding both the validity of the practices of the Badawiyya, and of al-Sayyid al-Badawi’s own reputation as a zahid.84 Finally al-Wakil’s Egyptian-ness comes to the fore through his colourful descriptions of Egyptian life and in the frequent interruptions to his writing – composed in a dense classical style – by words borrowed from the lower reaches of Egypt’s colloquial dialect (‘amiyya misriyya). Having spent this long exploring the still persuasive appeal of al-Wakil’s arguments against Sufism and the Sufis, I wish to conclude this chapter, if only to better situate the man in his own time, by commenting on two aspects of al-Wakil’s thinking that would probably seem unusual within contemporary Egyptian Salafi settings. The first of these ideas is directly connected to his work on Sufism. We have seen how he not only cites, but also relies upon Western (Orientalist) scholarship – the ideas of Goldziher, Nicholson and Becker85 – to make his point against al-Ghazali. This is not to suggest that al-Wakil considers these scholars to be his peers in the study of Islam. Indeed, he clearly thinks of them as dangerous, and, in Hadhihi hiyya al-sufiyya, he vilifies the Sufis for providing the Orientalists with such sordid material with which to mock Islam.86 However, the reader will also find a genuine (albeit grudging) respect for their scholarship in al-Wakil’s work.87 By contrast, in my experience, contemporary Egyptian Salafis do not consult Western scholarship on Islam, regardless of whether or not they wish to disagree with it.88 Aware of the fact that al-Wakil incorporates Orientalist research into his work, the authors of Ansar al-Sunna’s festschrift to al-Wakil dedicate a chapter, entitled ‘Views of the Orientalists’ (Ara’ al-mustashriqin), to the contributions of Western scholarship on Islam. Remarkably, they do not provide a single link to al-Wakil. Rather, the entire chapter concerns the moral implications of the fact that, on many inconvenient occasions, Orientalist scholars sometimes get matters right.89 While not directly related to his work on Sufism, al-Wakil’s attitude to Gamal ‘Abd al-Nasser (d. 1970) is nevertheless illuminating if we wish to compare the realities of Egyptian Salafism in al-Wakil’s time with these realities today. In the years leading up to the revolution in 2011, Egyptian Salafi settings were riven with disagreements regarding the legitimacy of Hosni Mubarak’s Presidency.90 Many years before, in 1961, when the relationship between Salafis and Egypt’s

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government was probably less complicated, al-Wakil dedicated something of a paean to the virtues of Gamal ‘Abd al-Nasser.91 Congratulating him on showing ‘the kindness of a father’ and ‘the mercy of a brother’, al-Wakil pledges his allegiance to Nasser in no uncertain manner. Nasser’s achievement, it seems, lay in showing restraint towards those who had wronged him, and in not destroying ‘the evil, treacherous places (awkar al-khiyana)’ in which his enemies still lurked. The exact reason behind al-Wakil’s letter is not clear (by 1961, there were plenty of people in Egypt’s religious establishment who did not feel this way towards Nasser). It is, of course, possible (even probable) that his words were not heartfelt at all: we have already seen that al-Wakil felt the need for political protection.92 Regardless of his sincerity towards the political elites of his day, al-Wakil’s approach to Nasser represents a quite different understanding of the nature of the relationship between Muslim and political leader than the views I encountered during my research. Only a few years ago, there were, of course, many Salafis willing to defend Hosni Mubarak’s right to remain President. They tended, however, to focus on his legal right to rule from the perspective of theological principle (defended through the doctrine of la khuruj ‘ala al-hakim), rather than upon his personal qualities, which were theologically irrelevant (and, in any case, problematic).93 By contrast, the great Salafi polemicist, ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil argues, in very straightforward terms, that Nasser is the right Muslim to rule Egypt. Fast-forward fifty years and modern Egyptian Salafism knows nothing of contemporary Orientalist scholarship. It has also lost all faith in the political system.94 More positively, from the Salafis’ perspective, the Sufis no longer plague the country – for which they thank al-Wakil and others like him.

3

Mapping Modern Turkish Sufism and Anti-Sufism Alberto Fabio Ambrosio

The Turkish Republic founded by Atatürk in 1923 is constituted at the deepest level of identity by what official Turkish ideology, and then historians, have called ‘the six arrows’. Turkey was founded on the following principles: republicanism, secularism, nationalism, populism and reformism, and statism. These principles were fiercely defended politically by the new father of the nation, Mustafa Kemal (b. 1938), and testify without doubt to the beginning of a new culture and a new country that aimed to be independent of the past and of secular Ottoman tradition. The history of the Turkish revolution has been written more than once, and there is space here only to recall some fundamental moments in the relationship between Sufism and anti-Sufi movements within the Turkish experience.1 Even before addressing this question, it is necessary to refer to the ideological underpinnings within which the anti-Sufi question is posed in Turkey. This chapter aims therefore to evidence types of anti-Sufism within the Turkish Republic and to identify exactly which movements explicitly oppose the doctrinal teachings and practices of Sufism. This chapter also examines in some detail how a particular group clearly opposes Sufism, one headed by Ercümend Özkan and represented by the magazine İktibas, founded by him, as a prototype of Turkish anti-Sufism.

Historiography and republican policy In order to understand the subversive character of each action against Sufism and its practice, it is indispensable to revisit the phases of the Republican policy and that of the historiography of Sufism. The result will appear at best ambiguous

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and ambivalent and will also permit an exploration of the types of Turkish antiSufism. On the day after the creation of the Republic (preceded in 1922 by the abolition of the Caliphate), Mustafa Kemal had to face the rebellion led by the famous Shaykh Said, a Naqshbandi and Kurd, who demanded independence and freedom.2 These pushes for independence were harshly repressed and in 1925 led to the proclamation by the Great Assembly of Turkey of the law suppressing all Sufi Orders, all Sufi practices and all denominations related to individual Sufis (such as shaykh, murid, pir and so on). The speech in which Mustafa Kemal pushed for voting in favour of such a law was symptomatic of a mentality that had been in the making for several decades. In this parliamentary communication, he considered all the Sufi, Sufi orders and masters to be on a par with magicians and soothsayers in the country. With this first fundamental and initial act, the Republic made Sufism illegal in its various secular organizational forms, namely the Sufi Orders. This movement and anti-Sufi mentality did not spring from nowhere, as it was already present with the advent of positivist ideas among Ottoman intellectuals starting from the end of the nineteenth century.3 The accusation of Bektashi ‘illicit practices’, to cite one of several examples, is the key to all Ottoman anti-Sufism, filled as it is by the positivism of the Enlightenment. And yet the war of independence had seen the active participation of Sufi Orders, and in particular of Bektashis and Mevlevis, which was followed precisely only a few years before their closure. In the eyes of the founder of the Turkish Nation, Sufism and in particular the Sufi Orders were perceived with ambivalence. The Sufis and the Orders had supported independence and its founder, but even so Atatürk suppressed them in the years following the foundation of the Republic. The 1925 Law outlawed every Order and proclaimed the closure and confiscation of all Sufi lodges within Turkish territory. No other law could have been as drastic with regard to Sufism, given the enormous role that Sufism had within the development of Ottoman culture. The potential for subversion which these social groups represented allowed no exception to the law of suppression. From 1925 onwards, a new phase began in which reactions against the proclamation were put down with bloodshed. Until 1938, the year of Mustafa Kemal’s death, the Sufis suffered severe persecution because the law was scrupulously applied. This anti-Sufi violence did not stop Atatürk from allowing, in at least two cases, the reopening of two architectural structures (Sufi shrines) which housed the remains of two charismatic Sufis, those of Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi (d. 1273) and Hacci Bektash. In 1926 the convent and tomb of Rumi, at Konya, were re-opened to the public, but only as a museum (Muze-i atiki), and this was followed a short while after

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by the opening of the Hacci Bektash complex. This ‘cultural move’, permitting homage to be paid to Rumi and Hacci Bektas as two heroes of the Turkish nation, was a strictly political one. In fact, with this act, positivist–materialist anti-Sufism, the essential element of new revolutionary politics assisted in the formation of a nationalist ideology that established some Sufis, including Rumi, Hacci Bektash and Yunus Emre, as pillars of Turkish culture. In this first Republican phase, which documented the repression of every form of organized Sufism, a new Sufi culture was born that was more oriented to the values of the nation. Between 1925 and 1948, studies related to Sufism on the above Sufis were extremely rare. Often scholars and intellectuals themselves would receive commissions on religious questions from the government itself. Mehmet Fuat Köprülü (d. 1966) was certainly one of the first to work on the historiography of Turkish Sufism, which was enlarged and revised in numerous editions.4 Fuat Köprülü can be considered one of the official historiographers of the nation, and his Turkish-centred vision of Anatolic Sufism confirms the orientation towards the development of a Sufi historiography of a nationalist kind. Of a similar academic calibre, but with slightly different interests was Hilmi Ziya Ülken (d. 1974), who published two major works: one was a history of Turkish thought, and the other a critical introduction to Turkish mysticism, in which he tried to construct Turkish thought (basing himself on Sufi Turks, and including, perhaps surprisingly, Arab authors as part of the Turkish intellectual heritage).5 A second historian who follows a somewhat nationalist line, even though he has a slightly Shiʿite approach, is Abdülbaki Gölpınarlı (d. 1982), who dedicated all his energy to understanding Ottoman Sufism, with a particular attention to Rumi and the whirling dervishes. His work Mevlana’dan sonra Mevlevilik (Mevlevis after Mevlana) remains even today an absolute standard for the study and research of the history of the Sufi Order.6 Of the Melami, Caferi and Shiʿite tradition, Gölpınarlı is one of the creators of Turkish nationalist Sufism. The difficult question of the ethnic origin of Mevlana, Mevlana’dan sonra Mevlevilik is illustrated by the fact that he is considered to be Turkish by the Turks and Iranian by the Iranians. This illustrates nothing other than a superficial demonstration of the orientation towards the creation of a Turkish Mevlana, even though Rumi’s language is clearly Persian. Today, the question remains open in Turkey and in the other countries that contend Rumi’s identity. This debate, which might seem purely academic, is in fact a clear sign of an interpretation and probably a reinterpretation of Ottoman Sufi history in a nationalist key. There is a theory that regards the creation of the figure of Yunus Emre as a hero of the nation that also confirms this political interference in the nascent republican historiography.

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In this first period of historiography, we also note the emergence of a link between religious culture with older religious roots: Shamanism in particular.7 These elements of popular Shamanism, certainly real, were useful for Sufi historiography to demonstrate that Turkish Islam, influenced by Sufism, also had other roots. Turkish nationalism also took advantage of this in remodelling itself on religious cultural roots that diverged from those of ‘pure’ Arab Islam. These various roots, imagined or real, have led to the idea of a ‘purely’ Turkish Islam, where the Shamanic and Sufi elements are of primary importance. With the arrival of the Democratic Party in power, already in 1948, an experience which ended with a coup d’état in the 1960s, Islam managed to regain ground that had seemed lost forever. The Democratic Party, with liberal tendencies, allied itself to the religious question by embracing Islam. In this phase, the study of Islam in its Arab and Persian roots, and certainly studies on Ottoman and Turkish Sufism, began to see light. Even a quick analysis of the number of Turkish or Arab Sufi works published or translated in this period following political liberalization reveals a growing interest for the subject. However, the spectre of secularist politics and politics that penalized any attempt to reorganize associations still had an effect, albeit uneven. (After their suppression, the Sufi Orders had been able to flourish again as cultural associations.) The fear of repression of every activity was certainly permanent until the Justice and Development Party (AK Partisi) introduced a new political path.8 From the 1950s until the end of the 1990s, the positions relating to Sufism were consolidated. On the one hand, intransigent secularism denied any possibility of social visibility, and on the other, the affiliation to diverse groups and new communities (cemaat) led to a dialogue that was sometimes bitter on both sides. The result in chronological terms of this discussion was the so-called post-modern coup d’état of 28 February 1997, which reduced the economic power of every organization of an Islamic nature, including Sufi groups, which were considered too influential in terms of their social and political impact. The government proceeded to stop the economical growth of private and Islamicoriented companies. This bloodless coup d’état did not stop the Islamic forces of the country from reorganizing and grouping together to sustain another new phase of activity by the current majority party, the Adalet ve Kalkınma Partisi (AKP). It is not possible to detail the contemporary composition of the Islamic world in Turkey, which is a highly fragmented one. However, the Sufi element that supports a discourse in favour of associationism linked to the Sufi tradition is very important for concrete political ends. The 2000s, without a shadow of

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doubt, brought in a new era of religious and cultural politics based on Islam, Ottoman culture and thus also Sufi roots. In this political and social context there has been an immeasurable growth in studies, research and cultural events related to Ottoman Sufi culture and the first Republic. As far as the passion for the so-called whirling dervishes, I have heard from a fellow researcher about a new fashion for Mevlevism within Republican circles to increase the promotion of anything that helps to spread Rumiʼs mystical poetry and dervish culture. The prospective is thus exactly the opposite of what happened during the first phase of the Republic, where a Nationalist Sufi ideology was flanked by persecution. In the last phase of the current period there is a tenuous suspicion of the Orders and the new movements (cemaat) that oppose the revival of Ottoman and Turkish Sufi culture and its growing diffusion. The official political line now is to publicly support any initiative linked to Sufism, even though the Sufi Orders are still officially banned from society. During the last months in the Republican space, people are beginning to pose the question of reopening the Sufi lodges. The 1925 law, which was fundamental for the new historical path of Republican Anatolia, is likely to be completely turned around. Even if the Diyanet (the Ministry of Religious Affairs) has been unable to take a clear position on how to comprehend Sufism over the last few decades, today’s line is based not only on trying to give Sufism a ‘true’ Islamic interpretation and thus real legitimacy, but also on the essential role this has played in the Islamization of Turkish culture.9 In the Turkish Republic, Sufism in its doctrinal and historical elements appears an essential element in the ideal construction of the nationalist Turkish religion. In this context, which is apparently well disposed towards Sufism and the tradition of Sufi orders, one of the accusations made is that it gives an image of being a reactionary element of society. This representation is constructed precisely by the same national identity created and desired by the Republic of Turkey. The first kind of anti-Sufism is of a non-religious nature and is founded on nationalist, political and ideological motivations, as well as ultimately on a positivist philosophy, already in place at the end of the Ottoman Empire. What was, in other Muslim contexts, carried out by Wahhabism and Salafism, in Turkey, almost in a provocation, was caused by nationalist ideology of a positivist nature: that is, the suppression of the Sufi Orders, the closure and confiscation of all

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Sufi lodges, tombs and shrines and the total ban on using terminology related to ranks of religious authority (shaykhs, disciples, murid, etc.). It is this wave of hostility to the Sufi orders that has led in the twentieth century to the formation of a new group or association linked to Sufism. The movements born from Said Nursi, Nurcu or Fethullahçı (examples of this new turn of events) avoid ideological hostility with a new way of organizing themselves.10 Alongside anti-Sufi ideology typically sits an ideology that is anti-Islamic. Upon the emergence of legitimacy of Sufism as an element of the Turkish religious character, although this has always sat alongside an ideological diffidence that borders on anti-Sufi, there is also space for a typically religious and Islamic line of conflictuality in relation to this spiritual tradition.

An enemy of Sufism in Turkey? Ruşen Çakır published his book Ayet ve Slogan (Verse and Slogan) in 1990,11 and this work remains for many a piece of research that has not been superseded, because it covers fundamental themes and issues. He can be accredited with having provided a rather detailed description of Islamic groups in modern Turkey, as well as the Sufi orders that are still active. Ruşen Çakır seems to be one of the few people to focus on a strong persona of the second half of the twentieth century. The title of the present section of this chapter, ‘an enemy of Sufism’, is inspired by the title of a section of his book that relates to Ercümend Özkan (Bir tasavvuf düşmanı: Ercümend Özkan),12 who is significantly hostile to Sufi practices. It is interesting to observe that few people have written of this movement and its leader, and even fewer in international circles. And this is despite the fact that Ercümend Özkan, and above all, his magazine, continue to be widely known in Turkey. This absence is perhaps a further indicator of what has been said previously. The official line, or the ideologically official line by which Sufism is an essential element in Turkish religiosity, finds in this author an important obstacle. Ercümend Özkan was born on 23 January 1938 in the area of Mucur in the province of Kırşehir. His father, Ali Bey, was an employee of the Post and Telecommunications Office, and head of the Telegraph Department. After primary school in Mucur, he continued his studies at the boys’ secondary school in Kayseri. During the last year of school, he moved with the family to the provincial capital, Kırşehir. Versed in literature at only twenty-two years of age, in 1960 he founded the Information Agency, Basın Haber Ajansı (a press agency). This step was fundamental in his professional career because from that

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moment his mission became that of a writer. During the coup d’état of 1960, he was a law student at the Law faculty in the University of Ankara. After these events, he was sent as a teacher to the Military Academy of Uşak and later also to other schools. University life was important for Özkan because he met there Muslim friends as well as his future wife. In 1963, Özkan married Mukaddes Taner, a Turkish language student of the Faculty of Languages and Literature at the University of Ankara. In the 1960s a fundamental change occurred when he met the Hizbʾüt Tahrir Group, to which he adhered from an ideological viewpoint. His membership of this group and its Islamist propaganda led to his imprisonment on several occasions. He was first jailed in 1967, and for four years he was sent to the highsecurity prison in Ankara. He also spent time in jail in other cities in Anatolia, for example between 1967 and 1968, after supporting students demonstrating in favour of the veil, which caused him further problems during his trial. After the first years of imprisonment he created the first information group, and then in 1974 he established the press office ‘Interpress’, based in Istanbul. He began to write regularly on Qurʾanic subjects and its traditional interpretation, claiming that there were only two sources of revelation (the Qurʾan and Hadith). He moved thus towards a purist perspective, which tends to exclude any other type of interpretation that might be dynamic or evolve in a more traditional understanding of the Canonic law schools. According to his reading of the Qurʾan, Sufism is furthest from true Islam, from the true religion. Between 1974 and 1976, Ercümend met some important figures in the Turkish intellectual Muslim world, including İsmail Kazdal, Hamza Türkmen and the sociologist Ali Bulaç. The first published a work in which he introduced the ideas of the great figures of Salafi Muslim reform (including Mawdudi, al-Banna and Qutb). The second also worked to spread traditional Islamic thought. As for Ali Bulaç, still a notable figure today, he is a sociologist who works on understanding Islam in contemporary society from a traditional perspective. He has been criticized for his anti-democratic and anti-Republican positions, and some consider him one of the thinkers wishing to establish a more Islamic-oriented state. Among the other personalities involved in spreading radical Islamic thought, and resulting in a report which was turned into one of his books, Özkan met two other authors, A. Burak Bircan and M. Kürşad Atalar, who translated several Western authors from different fields, from economics to Turkish literature. The turning point for Ercümend Özkan came in 1981, with the creation of the magazine İktibas dergisi. From January 1981 until the present, this twice-monthly review has been published without interruption. The year after the introduction

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of the review, Özkan was put under house arrest to await a new trial, which was resolved in his favour. In the same year, together with other personalities of the Turkish Muslim world (e.g. M. Said Hatipoğlu, Süleyman Aslantaş, Esat Coşan, Cengiz Çandar, Abdurrahman Dilipak and İhsan Süreyya Sırma), he travelled to Iran, a country which offered inspiration for the establishment of a new political course in Turkey. Each of these people left an important mark in reflections related to reformed Islam in Turkey. From the account of his trip, it is possible to read the disappointments felt on that journey due to the lack of attention and the absence of translation for these Turkish VIPs. In 1985, Özkan was under house arrest again, and after his trial was sen­ tenced to maximum surveillance for three months of the year, over a period of six years. As the editor of the review, Ercümend managed to convert the sentence to a fine, and freed himself from this additional punishment. In that year, the review reached the landmark of having published hundred issues. Two years later, in 1987, Özkan suffered slight paralysis, forcing him to undergo rehabilitation. For this reason, the review was held up, and for two years the publication was suspended. In 1988, Özkan published the first of two volumes, İnanmak ve Yaşamak (Believing and Living), for the publishing house Yöneliş, and afterwards published with Anlam Yayınları (or Anlam Basın Yayınları). This publishing house is also the printing house of the İktibas Journal.13 In 1990, he had a heart attack, which did not stop him continuing his work in Turkey and abroad. In 1992, he took the initiative with Ömer Yorulmaz and Yılmaz Yalçıner to found a political party, even though he had always rejected the idea of a political formation representing Islam. In 1991, a second heart attack forced him to undergo a long period in hospital, which was repeated in 1994. He died on 24 January 1995, during a trip to Adana where he was to speak at a conference.

Özkan, the Liberation Party and the salvation of Islam In Turkey, Ercümend Özkan was one of the men to introduce the ideas and the movement of the Hizb’üt Tahrir, the Liberation Party, regarded by many in the West as a terrorist party.14 In the 1960s, during his years of study in the Technical University of the Middle East in Ankara (Orta-Dogu Teknik Üniversitesi), he associated with students of Jordanian origin who spread the movement with its subversive and anti-semitic ideas. Hizb’üt Tahrir was founded in 1953 in Jerusalem as an organ to spread Pan-Islamic Sunni ideas, inspired by Taquiddin al-Nabhani. In a few decades, the Liberation Party was formed in more than forty

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countries, including both Muslim and Western nations. They supported a return to the caliphate, and the creation of an Islamic state without the use of violence, where both Muslims and subjects belonging to other religions could find a place. The Liberation Party invited (dawa’) all the believers of other religions to convert, guaranteeing them however, the control and security afforded in the time of the Prophet. The use of violence for violence’s sake is condemned, and even in the decades before the attacks of 9/11 and those after, the spokesmen of the group have been able to condemn these tragic events. The group is, in fact, in favour of violence, but not ‘now’. Every member of the Party should be ready for jihad, to attack other fighters but not civilians. Anti-Zionism is another basic element of their preaching, although an anti-Semite position is not so explicit. These ideas could not leave Özkan indifferent while defending positions of return to a classical Islam, pure in its forms, even in a contemporary world. As he encountered members of this organization in the 1960s, Ercümend Özkan claimed an affiliation to the Liberation Party in 1967, and for this reason, he was jailed several times until the 1970s. From that time, Özkan denied his militant support for the Party and cut any direct implication with the group. Although his direct collaborators, Yılmaz Çelik and Süleyman Arslantaş, were involved in successive militant activity, Özkan definitively distanced himself from the group. Çelik was in charge of leading a group of young people who supported the Palestinian cause, while Arslantaş took part in an important conference in London in 1993 on the caliphate, organized by the Liberation Party, taking positions against the European mode of considering Muslim countries and their policy makers in particular against English business practices within Islamic countries. In his memoirs, reported in the form of interviews, Özkan recalled expressly how he was approached by a young Jordanian, a student of the University of Ankara, and how he got involved in militant activity with this group. The same Özkan affirmed, on the other hand, that at the time he did not know Arabic, and thus even the communication with this group was by no means easy. The fact that he could muster his forces for this cause, and that they had made him feel that he was the leader (reis) of this group in the whole of Turkey, pleased him to such an extent that he allowed himself to be entangled in an affair, the full consequences of which he was probably unable to imagine. In his thoughts, Özkan promoted an independent Islam. Until the years before his death, he refused to belong to a party and even criticized certain forms of politicized Islam, although he recognized the political effort made in favour of Islam. His criticism of democracy and of the separation of religion and politics

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leave no doubt that in some sense, his way of thinking made him unpopular to many. He became the symbol of anti-democracy and anti-liberalism and, finally, as a corollary that directly interests us, a fortress against Sufism. Özkan sat therefore within a movement that has dominated Arab Muslim countries for some time. In Turkey this movement has always existed, although in a lesser form.

Tasavvuf ve Islam: A message in a Sufi context In his book (published for the first time in 1993 and re-edited more than once, and which contains his articles and those of others)15 Özkan explicitly shows his anti-Sufi persuasions. The author explicitly affirms the difference between Sufism and Islam with the first article of the book, as it is entitled ‘Sufism or a separate religion’.16 All of his thought is included in only the first few pages of this chapter. His contribution can be considered programmatic and continuous, and affirms that Sufism was not born with the Prophet of Islam and even less with the latter’s first companions. Although academics and experts of the material date the emergence of Sufism between the eighth and ninth centuries, in reality, argues Özkan, this was not the case. This is because Sufism was neither born in that period nor linked directly either to the Qurʾan or to the Prophet’s life. The first break with Prophetic tradition (Sunna) is the taking of refuge in the historical falsehood that has been perpetuated by Sufism’s supporters. And Özkan stated this clearly: Even though we can identify elements in the practice of the Prophet’s companions which remind us of Sufim, notwithstanding the Prophet’s efforts to hinder these tendencies, we note that Sufism has nothing to do with Islam.17

If then, some of his companions, prolonged prayer, fasting and other practices, the Prophet himself reproached them to remind them that the message he had received had not required him to do more that what he actually practised. The model of the Prophet remains then absolute and nothing can be added or taken away. It is interesting to note that immediately in this chapter (as in the rest of the book, and as is common in all of Özkanʼs writings) direct reference to the Hadith is limited, whereas the Qurʾan is always quoted in Turkish. His mission seems to have a more and more dialectic slant, almost philosophical. In fact, after recalling the falsehood of the historical thesis that Sufism could be as old

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as Islam, he reaches a central issue: Sufism cannot be Islam, because the latter professes that there is no god but God, while Sufism proclaims that there is no being without God. If this axiom is true, typified in the case of the doctrine of the unity of existence (wahdat al-wujud), it is absolutely not so for all the historical movements in the history of Sufism.18 With this claim, Özkan underlines an important dialectic point. The ‘enemy of Sufism’ continues, referring to the Fusus al-Hikam of Ibn ʿArabi, where it is stated that there is only one being, with no difference between Creator and created, because the creature is none other than a simple manifestation of Being; just like Pharaoh, who is nothing but a simple manifestation of the divine. Özkan asks how such a doctrine can be admitted when it is clearly and manifestly different from the Islamic profession of faith. Sufism is thus another religion (din), founded on a different affirmation of faith. Özkan lists his reasons for this and states that the profession of faith is precisely different and founded on diametrically opposed principles. For Islam, God is the Creator with no equals, is eternal, nothing existed before Him and nothing will exist after Him, and the creation and the creatures are in no way similar to him. The metaphysical difference is absolute. He claims that in Sufism, the created being and God are a sole existence, the Creator and creatures can be identified in a single being. Özkan continues in his metaphysical critique of the concept of Being and of how this is fundamentally different in Islam and in Sufism; there is no analogy or similarity and even less an unicity of Being between the divine and the created, whereas according to Sufis the being of One and the other achieve unity. According to Özkan, this doctrinal framework is the evident fruit of Platonic influence and neo-Platonic philosophy on Anatolian religiosity. The Sufis and the theoreticians of Sufism have thus derived this theory of the unity of existence from these philosophies, which widened the gap with ‘original’ Islam. He claimed that the birth of Sufism was due to the proximity of Muslims to Christians who advised the Islamic faithful to retire to a convent to pray. From that moment, the Sufi convents (tekke, zaviye) appeared, whereas these institutions and the practices carried out within them were completely foreign to the Islamic revelation. All the practices and rites that Sufism transmits, cultivates and encourages are in fact due to the direct and explicit influence of Christians present in the region – and in particular, in what is now Jordan.19 Even the practice of celibacy and chastity, frequent among Buddhist and Christian monks, is never encouraged in the Qurʾan. On the contrary, the right to practice sexuality is explicitly written as founding moral principles of Islam. For

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Özkan, there is therefore a return to the traditional vision of Islam’s moral code which opposes the (Christian) monastic life,20 which has been inopportunely and illegitimately accepted into the heart of Sufism.21

Conclusion: Rationalist Turkish anti-Sufism Turkish anti-Sufism is more rationalistic than religious. In fact, Kemalist antiSufism was influenced mainly by positivistic enlightenment thought grounded in a radical rationalism. Özkan’s anti-Sufism is also the result of a rationalist way of thinking and interpretation of Islam. Turkish anti-Sufism seems to be more influenced by Enlightenment rationality, or the rational interpretation of Islam. This conclusion explains also why Salafi critics are not always welcome in the Islamic Turkish system. The Turkish character is more oriented to a rationalistic perception of religious reality or, at the opposite, to a mystical practice of the Islam. This could represent a way of answering the presence of both positions at the same time in the Republican era: Sufism and anti-Sufim. Özkan has given voice to one form of anti-Sufism, which is religious and rationalistic, in a country where the Sufi Orders were banned, but at the same time where Rumi and other Sufi heroes represented the case for a religious policy. This mix of reason in favour and against Sufism is also the real enemy of the practice of Sufism along the Ottoman and Turkish Republic history.

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The Shrines of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani in Baghdad and his Son in ʿAqra: Current Challenges in Facing Salafism Noorah Al-Gailani

Introduction Since the invasion of Iraq in 2003, the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani (1077–1166) in Baghdad has witnessed the upheaval of society. As a Sufi place of worship it has faced the dual challenges of rising sectarianism and the threats of modern Salafism. At the same time in the Kurdish region of Iraq, in the city of ʿAqra, the Qadiri takkia and Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz ibn ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani (1133–1206) has experienced the same. The interconnectedness of these two shrines, both belonging to the same religious endowments trust, has helped them steer their way through these unprecedented times.1

Jihadi Salafist agitation On the afternoon of Monday 28 May 2007 the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani,2 the patron saint of the Qadiriyya3 Sufi Order, received a direct hit – a huge car-bomb explosion – by its outer fence at the junction of Sharʿi al-Gailani and Sharʿi al-Kiffah.4 According to media reports at the time, the bomb was thought to have been the work of either a local al-Qa’ida-affiliated organization known as al-Qa’ida in Mesopotamia, or a similar Sunni Arab salafi takfiri group operating in Iraq. The bomb killed twenty-four passers-by and injured sixtyeight; some later reports noted that the injuries rose to ninety. The bomb caused serious damage to the recently built outer minaret of the Shrine, which is situated at the corner of the site and the junction of the two streets. The bomb also caused

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the Shrine’s windows to shatter and damaged the historical carved doors leading into Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir’s burial chamber.5 The news coverage, both national and international, puzzled about the motives behind such an attack, and quoted the condemnations issued by the political establishment in Baghdad. Locals’ reactions were recorded too, and included questions by devastated lovers of the Shrine, who tearfully wondered: ‘why would they target our Sheikh ʿAbdul-Qadir?’6 The senior imam of the Shrine was interviewed over the phone, and he condemned the act, stating that all ‘the takfiri terrorists’ have achieved is disrupting the Shrine’s charitable works and denying widows and orphans and the poor from benefiting from its soup kitchen.7 The newspapers also recorded protest announcements from President Jalal Talabani, his two deputies and Prime Minister Nouri al-Maliki, with the latter ordering that the damage be repaired immediately at the government’s expense and the security provision for the Shrine be increased.8 Sufi groups such as the Kurdish Qadiri Kasnazaniyya Sufi Order also issued condemnations, which they published in their periodical Al-Kasnazan.9 But despite the general reaction of outrage at the act, no militant group, Salafist or otherwise, officially claimed to have carried out the attack, nor was any justification for it put forward.

Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir’s resting place But before going any further in describing recent observations of how this shrine is facing the challenges and threats of rising Salafism in Iraq, let me introduce it to you. The site is that of the late-eleventh-century Hanbali theological school built for Abu Saʿid al-Mubarak al-Mukhrimi (1054–1119), who was a theologian and the judge of the Bab al-Azaj district in Baghdad, where the school lies. Al-Mukharimi was the tutor of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani, from whom he also received his Sufi khirqa – mantle or cloak.10 In 1128 the school was offered to Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir to run and teach in. It became his base in Baghdad, and subsequently his resting place upon his death in 1166, when he was buried in its riwaq (portico). After his death, his son ʿAbd al-Wahhab (d. 1196) succeeded to the position, and beyond that several others of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir’s descendants were associated with it – though, for a short time, responsibility for the school passed to their rival, the famous Hanbali jurist and historian Ibn al-Jawzi (d. 1200). This madrasa and its ribat-complex subsequently evolved into the Shrine we know today.11

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The Shrine and Mosque of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani is situated on the east side of the river Tigris, within the walls of the old city of Baghdad. The neighbourhood that surrounds it, historically known as Bab al-Azaj, is today known as Bab al-Shaykh, after him and his shrine. The multi-domed shrine complex comprises of the main burial chamber of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir, the burial chambers of two of his sons – ʿAbd al-Jabbar and Salih – and several other of his descendants. There are five prayer halls, two large accommodation quarters for Sufi lodgers and pilgrims, reception rooms, two kitchens (one of which serves daily the famous rice-and-lamb soup of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir), a sheep-pen, various facilities for ablutions, the administrative offices of al-Awqaf al-Qadiriyya (the endowments of the Shrine), a funerary parlour, Gailani family burial chambers and a walled graveyard. But that is not all; there are also the all-important three minarets, a clock tower and a public library that boasts some 86,000 printed volumes – excluding the periodicals and publications in foreign languages – and some 2,500 Arabic manuscripts, covering every field of knowledge. The Shrine’s users are from a variety of backgrounds. Local Shiʿa women are the most frequent on a daily basis; Sunnis, Sufi and non-Sufi, from all over Baghdad and other parts of the country; rich and poor; professionals, skilled and unskilled; and people of various political persuasions. Foreigners visiting the Shrine include a substantial majority of Asian Qadiris from the Indian subcontinent (India, Pakistan and Bangladesh), South East Asia, South Africa and from the United Kingdom.12 Their background varies too, from villagers to government ministers, and includes businessmen, professionals and Sufis. The Shrine has a local Qadiri Sufi circle – al-Halaqa al-Qadiriyya – which conducts its public dhikr on Friday afternoons. The mosque part of the Shrine also offers the five daily prayers and the Friday prayers and sermon. The soup kitchen feeds the locals on a daily basis – both the poor and those seeking baraka (blessings) through eating Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir’s soup. The Shrine complex is managed by the custodians of al-Awqaf al-Qadiriyya fi al-ʿIraq, the Qadiri endowments in Iraq.13 They head a large staffing structure that consists of some eighty-four permanent paid staff and a fluctuating number of casual workers. The permanent staff includes the main shrine’s caretaking team, the soup kitchen team, the library team and the administrative team. The latter cares for the endowments that consist of agricultural land, commercial buildings and various other assets. Three imams are appointed to the Shrine by Diwan al-Waqf al-Sunni, the governmental department responsible for overseeing Sunni religious affairs and endowments.14 Also, since the invasion

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of 2003, the Shrine has been allocated an armed security force by the central government. The custodians of the Shrine have traditionally been descendants of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir’s sons, ʿAbd al-Razzaq and ʿAbd al-ʿAziz; and since the first half of the nineteenth century, exclusively of ʿAbd al-ʿAziz’s line. At some point in their history, the Gailani family of Baghdad became Hanafis, probably under Ottoman influence. From 1534, the Ottomans bestowed upon them the Niqabat al-Ashraf of Baghdad – the marshalling or superintendence of those who claim to be descendants of Prophet Muhammad.15 The Niqabat al-Ashraf of Baghdad remained with the descendants of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir in Baghdad until its relegation to history in 1960, when the head of the newly established republican government refused to approve the appointment of a successor to the last Naqib upon his death.16 The then president, ʿAbd al-Karim Qasim, is said to have stated that there was no need for such a religious post, as all Iraqis are Ashraf.17 But the most probable reason for this snub is the flowering of nationalist and Marxist ideals that began to grow in the 1920s and flourished during the early republican period.18 Despite the marginalization of the Shrine’s role in religious public life in subsequent decades, Saddam Hussein took an interest in it in the 1990s, after visiting under disguise one evening in 1993 and finding the place overcrowded. Orders were issued to the architectural office at the Presidential Palace to expand the Shrine complex, without prior consultation with the custodians of the Shrine.19 The footprint of the Shrine increased more than fourfold and included the construction of the new minaret that was targeted in the 2007 bombing. According to the staff, this interest in the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir seems to have existed since at least the early 1990s, with several accounts of Saddam Hussein being spotted visiting the Shrine disguised as a taxi driver and dressed in Arab tribesman’s garb, or in the company of look-alikes. Except for one encounter in 1991, Saddam Hussein seems not to have revealed his identity to staff while at the Shrine.20 However it is worth noting that this interest in patronizing the Shrine’s expansion came at a time when Saddam and the Baʿth Party-led government had set up their Faith Campaign: al-Hamla al-Imaniyya.21 This was launched in 1993 and was overseen by Vice-President Izzat Ibrahim al-Duri, who had also become the political patron of some of the Sufi groups in Iraq, the QadiriKasnazaniyya and the Naqshbandiyya in particular.22 The Baʿth regime’s interest in manipulating religion is beyond the scope of this paper, but it must be noted that the regime’s u-turn on secularism during the 1980s served several of its

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agendas, one of which was to face and counteract the rise of Salafism in Iraq.23 This u-turn on behalf of the regime, and Saddam’s unwelcome attention towards the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani, has had a detrimental effect on both Sufism in general and the Shrine in particular. As regards Sufism, its association with the Baʿth Party, through Izzat Ibrahim’s patronage, led to its being dismissed for having compromised its spiritual integrity, while Saddam’s patronage of the Shrine led to the loss of a whole section of its historic architecture to make way for the expansion of the site.24 For fear of the wrath of the totalitarian regime, the custodians found themselves unable to oppose the government’s continued interference and its consequences, both on the fabric of the historical buildings of the Shrine and on the employment of its imams, which became the exclusive privilege of the government.25 The implications of having imams chosen and paid for by the central government opened the door for candidates whose loyalties – both religious and political – and the reasons for nominating them lay elsewhere. This trend eventually led in 2004 to the appointment of an imam with strong Salafist beliefs and sympathies.26

Facing Salafism on a daily basis Returning to the May 2007 car-bomb attack on the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir, this bombing came as part of the latest episode of upheaval in Iraq’s history, and at a time of reorientation in Iraqi politics along sectarian grounds, following the fall of the country in the 2003 invasion and the start of a new struggle for power and dominance in post-Saddam Iraq. Although the Shrine’s custodians are, and have been since the 1920s, traditionally apolitical, and have long lost their religious leadership position within the Sunni sect in Baghdad, the Shrine and its resident – Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani – is still seen as a Sunni bastion of faith, and one of Iraq’s symbols of non-Salafist traditional Hanafi Islam. In the absence of police investigation results concerning the 2007 bombing, conversations with staff and members of the Gailani family revealed a number of speculative explanations for the reasons behind the bombing. One explanation was that the bombing was a warning to the Shrine’s staff for having exposed to the authorities a stash of weapons and explosives that had been secretly stored in the adjacent Qadiriyya School. This theological high school is run by the governmental department of Diwan al-Waqf al-Sunni as a preparatory

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school for those wishing to study Islamic law and jurisprudence at university level. Fearing that the explosives might endanger the Shrine, the police were alerted to the presence of the stash. However, reviewing the news coverage for references to the story of the explosives at this school reveals that the incident – or a similar one – had happened a year earlier, in May 2006. As no insurgent group had claimed ownership of this stash of arms, coupled with no declared results for the authority’s investigation into the 2007 incident, it is not possible to independently verify the claims of association between them. As for the explanation behind the school’s name, al-Madrasa al-Qadiriyya, the original school of this name was once an integral part of the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir, where the custodians employed leading religious tutors and theologians to teach Qurʾan recitation and interpretation, Prophet Muhammad’s traditions and sayings, jurisprudence and Sufism.27 But with the nationalization of private educational institutions in the 1970s, this school was taken over by the then Ministry of Endowments and Religious Affairs.28 With this change the Qadiriyya School lost all association with the Shrine and with Sufism.29 The current building for this school was constructed during the final years of the Baʿth regime, as part of the development of the area, which was partly prompted by the decision to expand the Shrine. The school was completed after 2003.30 But the effects of Salafism on the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir are not limited to the 2007 bomb attack alone. Field research and interviews with the custodians of the Shrine and a number of personalities associated with it over the four-year period between November 2009 and February 2013 revealed the Shrine’s entanglement in a dual struggle to resist two types of extremism that have dominated the country since the 2003 invasion. On the one hand is the sweeping wave of Sunni Salafist Islam that is indifferent, if not hostile, to Sufism and its symbols in the country; on the other hand is the rise in Sunni/Shiʿi sectarianism in Baghdad in general and in Bab al-Shaykh and neighbouring districts in particular. With regard to facing Sunni extremism – be it labelled by ordinary people in Baghdad as Salafist, Wahhabist, Takfiri or Muslim Brotherhood-style fundamentalism – the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir seems to have started dealing with this extremism, even though at a much subtler level, in the decades prior to 2003. Books published by the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir in the 1970s and 1980s that deal with its history and its founder’s life and works contain apologetic sections defending the permissibility, from the Islamic shariʿa perspective, of honouring saintly figures such as Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir, and pointing out the duty of, and merits of, visiting the places associated with them.31

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On speaking to two religious figures at the Shrine, the local Shaykh of the Qadiriyya dhikr circle and the resident Qurʾanic studies tutor, about how they saw the criticisms thrown at them by anti-Sufis regarding their practices and beliefs, well thought and rehearsed answers were given. These answers used the same theological and historical sources that had been quoted at them by their adversaries – principally the Qurʾan, the prophetic Hadith collections and the early history of Islam. The use of these sources will be explored in detail below, but it is worth noting at this point that neither of the two figures mentioned here was tempted to use polemical material or counter attacks that discredited their adversaries outright as part of their response to the criticisms levelled against their Sufi beliefs and practices. They also seemed to have found no benefit in using other theological material in their defence, such as the pro-Sufism works by Abu Hamid al-Ghazali. Nor were they tempted to try to reinterpret, in a favourable manner, Ibn Taymiyya’s views regarding their practices, as other defenders of Sufism have done.

In defence of Sufi practices First, let us consider Shaykh al-Halaqa al-Qadiriyya – the Shaykh of the Qadiriyya dhikr circle – who has a BA in fiqh (jurisprudence) from the then Kuliat al-Shariʿa (College of Shariʿa) at the University of Baghdad (subsequently renamed Kuliat al-ʿUlum al-Islamiyya – the College of Islamic Sciences). In 1985 he succeeded his father as the head of the dhikr circle at the Shrine. In refuting the Salafist accusations against his Sufi practices, Shaykh al-Halaqa first acknowledged that some criticisms were fair, especially those concerning wrong practices within Sufism that stem from ignorance among some Sufis. He then stated that in life ahl al-jahal (the people of ignorance) overshadow ahl al-haqiqa (the people of the truth).32 He explained that in his experience not all those who were attracted to Sufism and wished to join a Sufi Order had come for the right reasons. When a seeker approaches his circle to join it, the Shaykh tells him that if he has come for the tambourine – to enjoy the chanting and the accompanying beating rhythms – this was not the place for him, but if he has come seeking la illah illa Allah (There is no God but Allah) this is the right place for him. But Shaykh al-Halaqa vehemently defended the legitimacy of holding halaqat al-dhikr (remembrance circles or gatherings) and the use of tambourines, which are the only instruments they use in his circle, and which he considered to be the closest of instruments to Prophet Muhammad – though he did not qualify this

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understanding with a prophetic tradition. However, Shaykh al-Halaqa quoted three Qurʾanic33 verses to illustrate the argument that dhikr was requested by God (the specific phrases he emphasized are in italics within each verse): Then do ye remember Me; I will remember you. Be grateful to Me, and reject no Faith (2.152); It is no crime in you if ye seek of the bounty of your Lord during pilgrimage. Then when ye pour down from Mount ʿArafat, celebrate the praises of Allah at the Sacred Monument, and celebrate His praises as He had directed you, even though, before this, ye went astray (2:198); O ye who believe, remember Allah with much remembrance (33.41).

Shaykh al-Halaqa then went on to explain and to reinforce with further evidence the centrality of the practice of dhikr to the believer’s life, starting with the role of remembrance in fortifying the believer’s faith as illustrated in the Qurʾanic verse 8:2.34 Dhikr also gave peace to the heart as stated in the verse 13:28.35 Dhikr inhibits the believer from wrongdoing, as stated in the verse 3:135.36 Dhikr effects success, as in the verse 62:10.37 Remembrance is a sign of those who endure hardship, as mentioned in the verse 22:35.38 God willed that remembrance accompanies other religious rituals, as stated in the verse 2:198 above, and in the verses 2:20039 and 4:103.40 Two Qurʾanic verses, those of 24:35-841 and 33:35,42 demonstrate God’s promise of great rewards to those engaged in his remembrance. Shaykh al-Halaqa also pointed out that God condemned those who abstain from remembrance with warnings of its consequences, as expressed in the two verses 2:11443 and 18:28.44 Prophet Muhammad also encouraged the practice of remembrance and celebrating the praises of God. Shaykh al-Halaqa quoted four prophetic Hadiths in which dhikr is praised and encouraged (the following are translations of the Hadiths as uttered by Shaykh al-Halaqa.)45: The Prophet said: ‘Indulge in the remembrance of Allah until they say he must be mad’. On the authority of ʿAbdallah ibn ʿAmru: I said ‘O Prophet of God what is the prize of remembrance assemblies?’ He said: ‘The prize of remembrance assemblies is the garden of heaven, the garden of heaven.’ Prophet Muhammad said: ‘If you passed by the gardens of heaven linger there.’ They said: ‘And what are the gardens of heaven?’ He said: ‘The circles of remembrance.’

The Shrines of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani in Baghdad and his Son in ʿAqra 79 Prophet Muhammad said: ‘God has roaming angels whose preference is to seek out remembrance assemblies.’

Shaykh al-Halaqa also explained that remembrance was conducted in a variety of ways, and for a variety of reasons, that have been sanctioned by God and his Prophet. These ahwal al-dhikr (ways or conditions of remembrance) are eight. He described them as follows: al-dhikr fi al-khafaʾ (discrete remembrance), which is conducted in secret, and is referred to in the Qurʾanic verse 7:205.46 Prophet Muhammad also instructed that believers raise their voices in remembrance – al-dhikr fi al-jahr (that which is proclaimed in public) – as exemplified by the Prophetic tradition: Gabriel came to me and said that Allah orders you to order your followers to raise their voices in responding to his invitation and in invoking his name.

Al-dhikr al-muqayyad (restricted or conditional remembrance) explained Shaykh al-Halaqa, is that which is restricted or specific to a place, such as that uttered when entering the mosque or when entering the home or the market; or that which is bound to a specific time, such as the dhikr uttered after the prayers; or which is uttered when seeing the new moon; or as a person breaks his fast; or that uttered as part of the morning and evening Qurʾanic recitations. Al-dhikr al-mutlaq (unrestricted remembrance) is the opposite of al-dhikr al-muqayyad and includes all manners of dhikr and for non-specific reasons. Then there is remembrance that is conducted when standing al-dhikr fi al-qiyyam and when sitting al-dhikr fi al-Quʿud. These position-related types of remembrance are recognized and praised by God in the Qurʾanic verse 3:191.47 The last two kinds of ahwal al-dhikr concern dhikr and motion haraka, and dhikr and stillness sukun. Shaykh al-Halaqa explained that motion – bodily motion – in dhikr assemblies arises from ʾinjdthab ʾila Allah (gravitation towards God). The Shaykh pointed out that whoever objected to this motion (the swaying from left to right or back to front as is done in his dhikr circle), he would answer him by saying that no nahi (prohibition), or karahiyya (odiousness) or tahrim (forbiddance) have been issued by God or his messenger against it. He further defends dhikr as being one of the ʿibadat (forms of worship) through which nearness to God can be achieved. He reasoned that, as all forms of worship in Islam have prescribed steps and rules, and have beginnings and ends, what valid objection can there be to dhikr assemblies having prescribed steps with regard to tartil – modulation of the chanting in praise of God, and showing reverence in standing and sitting, as is done in the other forms of worship? Shaykh al-Halaqa

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concluded his defence of Sufism by explaining that all Islamic Sufism and its various orders is built on the one main article of faith, which is La illah illa Allah (There is no God but Allah), and that the various shariʿa-compliant Sufi Orders that base their faith and practice on the Qurʾan and the Sunna of Prophet Muhammad differ only in the ʾawrad (the prescribed liturgies of each order) and the Sufi Shaykhs they choose to follow for their spiritual guides.

Mawlid festivities at the Shrine The second to defend Sufi practices in the Shrine is the resident Qurʾanic studies tutor Shaykh ʿAbd al-Wahhab al-Janabi.48 He was traditionally tutored at the hands of the mulali49 – the traditional ʿulamaʾ or religious scholars. In the 1960s he became a tutor in the Qadiriyya School at the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir,50 where he taught recitation and other related subjects until the school was taken over by the central government in the 1970s. After that he carried on teaching in the Shrine, running his own classes in a more personal and informal manner. After reaching the age of retirement, he was given a room in the Shrine to lodge in as a Sufi, while his family continued to reside elsewhere in the city. As a Sufi, Shaykh ʿAbd al-Wahhab came from a Rifaʿi family background, with both his father and grandfather having been Rifaʿi Sufis. He became a Qadiri after reading a book about Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilāni at the age of twentytwo. That reading prompted him to pay Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir a visit by partly walking and partly hitchhiking his way to the Shrine in Baghdad from the town of Musayyab in the mid-Euphrates region, some 85 km to the south-west. In defence of the Sufi practice of conducting the Mawlud al-Nabi celebrations – the annual festival commemorating the birth of Prophet Muhammad (mawlud is the Iraqi vernacular pronunciation for Mawlid; and al-Nabi (the Prophet) refers to Muhammad) – Shaykh ʿAbd al-Wahhab published a sixteen-page pamphlet defending the practice against Salafist criticisms. In it he focuses on arguing its legitimacy in accordance with the Shariʿa and prophetic traditions, and historic precedence.51 First he reminds his readers that the prophethood of Muhammad was God’s saving gift to the believers, which should be commemorated as a thanksgiving gesture. He then gives a brief history of public celebrations in Islamic history, starting with the earliest documented according to his sources, which were the Mawlid celebrations for Prophet Muhammad held at the beginning of the thirteenth century by al-Malik al-Mudhafar Abu Saʿid Gukburi bin Zain

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al-Dīn ʿAli bin Baktakin, the ruler of Irbil (Erbil in northern Iraq). Shaykh ʿAbd al-Wahhab describes the lavishness of these Mawlid celebrations in detail, footnoting the text with his sources. He then describes those held in Egypt during the Mamluk period (1250–1517). For these he highlights the celebration held by al-Malik al-Dhahir Barquq (d. 1399), where the custom of performing melodic recitations and chanting by the Sufi Orders and faqirs throughout the night until dawn was stupendously rewarded by the ruler, who distributed handfuls of gold upon each of the performers.52 Shaykh ʿAbd al-Wahhab then goes on to quote five traditions transmitted by Prophet Muhammad’s companions about their recollections of the miraculous things that happened on the night of the Prophet’s birth: from the appearance of a special star, to the emanation of light from earth, to the trembling of the throne of Persia. This is then followed by his argument for the importance of celebrating the Prophet’s birthday, stating that one of the main tenets of the Islamic faith is the love and glorification of the Prophet, which is a fard (an obligation), and for this he quotes the Qurʾanic verse 9:24 in which God states: Say: if it be that your fathers, your sons, your brothers, your mates, or your kindred: the wealth that ye have gained; the commerce in which ye fear a decline: or the dwellings in which ye delight – are dearer to you than Allah or His Messenger, or the striving in his cause; – then wait until Allah brings about His decision: and Allah guides not the rebellious.

This is followed by two prophetic Hadith traditions, two Qurʾanic verses (4:69 and 3:31) and an Arabic poetic verse to further illustrate the point and the rewards promised for those who love the Prophet. Shaykh ʿAbd al-Wahhab then moves on to argue that the Prophet deserves to be commemorated through the annual Mawlid, in thanks for all that he has done to teach the believers their faith and guide them to the path of righteousness. He praises the elements that make up the Mawlid celebrations: the gathering of people; the recitation of the Qurʾan; readings from the Prophet’s biography; eulogies extolling his character and ways; and recitations of prophetic praises and ascetical poems, which in his view serve to encourage listeners to do good deeds and remind them of the hereafter. Shaykh ʿAbd al-Wahhab then refutes the claim that showing excess in celebration, by doing good deeds, giving alms, fasting, feeding the public and expressing happiness and joy, is haram (forbidden) by shariʿa. He then goes on to answer those who attack the celebrations as being bidʿa (innovation), which is frowned upon in religious practice.53 He explains that not

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all innovations are bad, giving examples from both the Prophet’s life and from Caliph ʿUmar bin al-Khatab’s time,54 where they are personally quoted praising specific innovations that they acknowledged and adopted as being good and worthy of practising. The example he gives from the Prophet’s life concerns imitating the Jews of Medina in commemorating the day God saved them from Pharaoh when Moses led them across the Red Sea, which they celebrated by fasting on its anniversary. Prophet Muhammad is said to have found this a worthy celebration, as Moses was God’s prophet, and joined in the fasting. Shaykh ʿAbd al-Wahhab then clarifies the meaning of the much-discussed Prophetic saying ‘all innovation is deviation’ (kul bidʿa dhalala), and explains that the innovations of concern here are those that breach the teachings of the Qurʾan, the Sunna, and that which has been adopted by ijmaʿ (collective consensus). And for this, he reasons that if impermissible practices were to appear in the Mawlid celebrations, such as mixing of the sexes, indecent singing or the danger of sedition that disturbs the peace, then these celebrations are to be banned, but this ban is because of the particular impermissible practices and not because it is a Mawlid celebration. The pamphlet finally concludes with an eight-verse poem that praises the night of the Mawlid celebration. In the views of both Shaykh ʿAbd al-Wahhab al-Janabi and of Shaykh al-Halaqa al-Qadiriyya, celebrating the Mawlud of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir, a three-day festivity that starts on the night before the morning of eleventh Rabiʿ al-Thani, is only right and proper, and forms part of the thanksgiving offered to God by the believers for the legacy of good works by one of his awliyaʾ (the friends of God). Perhaps by restricting themselves to justifying their practices without counterattacking their adversaries, in the two examples above, the two Sufi Shaykhs showed their determination to avoid entering into arguments in religion? It is also interesting to note that Shaykh ʿAbd al-Wahhab avoided using historical events that would not be acknowledged as being of value by both Salafis and sectarian Sunnis. In this regard, most notable by its absence, is any reference to the Shiʿa Fatimids of Egypt and their celebrations of the Prophet’s Mawlid, which is the earliest written evidence of the custom in Islamic history.55 On asking the junior imam (the third of the three imams in the Shrine),56 who is also a Qadiri Sufi, about his understandings of Salafist logic and how to counter it, he pointed out that one of his Sufi masters, the illustrious Kurdish Qadiri Shaykh ʿAbd al-Karim al-Mudaris,57 used to impress upon him and fellow students not to engage in religious argumentation, advising them that al-tark ʾawla (abstinence is more becoming). This stance may well explain why neither

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Shaykh al-Halaqa nor Shaykh ʿAbd al-Wahhab al-Janabi used any polemical arguments in defending their beliefs and practices.

A daily tug-of-war The Shrine has also been under constant pressure to prove its conformity to what is perceived as Islamic orthodoxy in religious expression. Examples include the staff ’s close monitoring of the public and the prohibition of several contentious activities and practices. These prohibited practices include dharb al-dirbasha58 (self body piercing with sharp metal skewers and the like to illustrate strength of faith) by Sufi dervishes during religious festivals and Sufi ceremonies. As the Kasnazaniya Qadiri Sufi Order is especially known for this practice in Baghdad, its followers have been prohibited from entering with any devices that could be used to perform dharb al-dirbasha. But despite this, at each of the Mawlud celebrations I have observed, Kasnazani Qadiris have attempted, with varying degrees of success, to carry out dharb al-dirbasha and have been intercepted by staff and security guards, and their instruments confiscated. Other suppressions of unorthodox practices include exaggerated expressions of love for Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir by pilgrims in his burial chamber. These involve shaking the silver cage encasing his tomb; addressing him loudly and requesting help in such a manner that may seem to be committing shirk (polytheism) in public; tying pieces of cloth or strings or fastening locks onto the grills of the silver cage when requesting Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir’s intercession to fulfil their murad (wishes or desires); and inserting written messages and requests addressed to Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir into his cage. The attendants of the burial chamber were observed repeatedly explaining to such visitors that a silent prayer to God, in Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir’s presence, is enough to achieve the task of beseeching God in the name of his wali (friend). The burial chamber attendants were also observed waiting for offenders to leave the chamber before promptly removing the knotted strings or strips of cloth that had been tied to the silver cage. However, because the cage is not accessible for the removal of any inserted objects or papers through its grills, visitors who are caught in the act of trying to insert their material are intercepted and prevented from doing so in a more overt fashion. Over the years, the Shrine has also had to bow to pressures from various imams appointed to the mosque since the mid-1980s. One such example was the pressure to modify the traditional custom of reciting the tamjid (the exaltation

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of God, Prophet Muhammad and Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir) after each daily prayer, and an extended version of it that follows the afternoon prayer on a Thursday.59 This tamjid is the privilege of the main muʾadhin (muezzin) of the Shrine. The criticism was twofold. The first was an accusation that the tamjid was not a tradition of the Prophet’s time, and adding it to the end of the call to prayer or following the prayer was a bidʿa. The second criticism was levelled at the part of the tamjid that concerned the praises bestowed upon Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir, which was seen as unorthodox if not shirk. The current senior imam – who started his secondment to the Shrine in 2004 – in his attempt to ban the tamjid, has introduced a mawʿidha (exhortation) that immediately follows the Thursday afternoon prayer, leaving an inadequately short time gap for the tamjid before the ʿIshaʾ (night-time) prayer is due.60 The staff in the Shrine were aware of the senior imam’s views of the tamjid, and some expressed their indignation at this tactical move on his part.61 Since the senior imam’s arrival at the Shrine, a tug-of-war started between him and the deputy imam (who is his son)62 on the one side, and the Shrine’s custodians,63 staff and Sufi lodgers on the other side.64 The senior imam’s stance with regard to the Shrine’s life and activities are seen to be of a negative Salafist nature, and he is viewed as belonging to the Salafist movement.65 The imam is criticized for having shown little empathy for the life of the Shrine as a place of saint visitation and as a place where Sufis lodge. In his early days at the Shrine he had enquired about having the burial chamber of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir closed and visitations to it curtailed for being inappropriate. The senior imam unsuccessfully attempted to stop Kurdish Qadiri Sufis from lodging at the Shrine during the festive season of Mawlid Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir, and equally failed to ban them from holding their hadhra and associated dhikr in its courtyard.66 The senior imam and his deputy imam have also insisted, on theological grounds, on refusing to receive female worshippers seeking religious advice or fatwas if they are not accompanied by a mahram (a male next of kin who is either a husband or a person not eligible to marry the female he is accompanying). This strictness on behalf of the two imams forced the Shrine’s custodians in 2010 to accept the appointment of an additional imam to attend to such needs. This third imam is the junior imam referred to earlier. Needless to say, while the junior imam agreed to give me an interview, the two other imams have not been available so far. From my interviews and observations it became clear that the removal of the two imams with Salafist leanings – the senior and his deputy – would not be easy, as they seemed to be involved in the sectarian wranglings of the government and

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its various poles of power, as well as having the backing of the leaders of Diwan al-Waqf al-Sunni. The Shrine’s custodians expressed their concerns about the senior imam’s interests in politics and his engagements with various political groups on both sides of the sectarian divide. They feared for the Shrine being dragged into the country’s politico-sectarian struggle and its unpredictable consequences. Although the custodians defended their unwillingness as Sufis to play the current politico-sectarian game to remove the senior imam, they expressed their determination to carry on resisting the unreasonable Salafist demands he presented. But having said all that, and despite the senior imam’s disapprovals, the Shrine has managed to continue to permit several tabarruk (seeking blessings) practices which may be seen as unorthodox by Salafis. These include the touching and kissing of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir’s silver cage and, when opened on special occasions, also the draped wooden chest inside it, which covers the saint’s grave. On such occasions, pilgrims are permitted to place onto the grave both gifts to the Shrine – such as embroidered drapes – and objects brought for tabarruk but intended for taking away again with them. These objects include bottled water, rosary beads, embroidered textiles and other personal belongings. Visitors are also permitted to perfume the burial chamber, its thresholds and the draped chest covering the grave. Pilgrims, especially those from the Indian subcontinent and South East Asia, are also permitted to sing and chant within the burial chamber, but with no musical instruments.67 The distribution of sweets by seekers whose prayers have been answered is also permitted. Finally, a compromise was found to enable the staff to continue permitting Shiʿi women in mourning from neighbouring districts such as Abu Saifain to mark the completion of their mourning at the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir. These Shiʿi women mark the end of their mourning of a loved one by changing their black cloths for coloured ones at the Shrine.68 This ritual usually takes place in a mosque or a shrine of importance where the females come in with their coloured cloths packed in a bag and change into them at the holy place. In the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir this custom takes place in the females’ prayer hall adjacent to the saint’s burial chamber. The discarded black garments are gifted to the establishment or its staff or other female visitors present at the time as an act of zakat (thanksgiving) and accepted by the recipients for the same reason. Despite the discreetness of the ritual, the attendants in the Shrine are uneasy about it in fear of the senior imam’s condemnation of unorthodox practices. This led the staff overseeing the visitations and the prayer halls to take it upon themselves to find a compromise that averts the wrath of the imam

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while fulfilling the needs of the mourners. This compromise involved asking such females to modify the ritual through refraining from taking their black garments off, but wearing the coloured garments over them, so that they can leave the Shrine having ended their mourning, fulfilling the main purpose of the ritual. Of course this compromise has meant that the discarded black garments are not given out to other attendees at the moment of changing back to wearing coloured cloths, and therefore depriving both the givers and the receivers from the zakat element of the ritual. The staff ’s initiative at anticipating and finding a solution to avert a confrontation with the senior imam over the matter of a benign custom for ending a mourning period and discarding its garments at the Shrine, reveals the amount of tension that exists there on a daily basis, where people are constantly being judged over the legitimacy of their beliefs and worship practices. It stands as a microcosmic example of what is happening within the city and the country at large, both within each sect, and between the sects.

The Jilani in Kurdistan Three of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir’s sons’ burials are recognized by the Gailani family in Iraq. Two are within the precincts of the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir – those of his sons ʿAbd al-Jabbar and Salih, and the third is in Kurdistan, on the outskirts of the mountainous city of ʿAqra (also spelt ʿAqrah and Akre) an hour’s drive from the ancient city of Erbil, the capital of the Kurdish Regional Government in Iraq. This Jilani shrine houses the burial and takkia of Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz ibn Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani. Like its sister shrine in Baghdad, it forms part of the endowments managed by al-Awqaf al-Qadiriyya in Baghdad and is managed by their Qadiri agents in ʿAqra. This shrine and its caretakers have also experienced the pressures of the rising tide of Salafism in the region and beyond. Very little is known and written about ʿAbd al-Qadir’s son Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz (1137–1206), but he is mentioned by the contemporary historian Sharaf al-Din Abu al-Barakat Ibn al-Mustawfi al-Irbili (1167–1239), an influential native of the city of Erbil (ʾIrbil), who wrote a key work on its history and residents.69 In this book, al-Mustawfi describes Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz as having been one of those who had a zawiya, and who were withdrawn from life for spiritual reasons, but as having also been outwardly religious. Al-Mustawfi relates that Shaykh

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ʿAbd al-ʿAziz learnt and transmitted Hadith and was heard in Erbil, which he visited a number of times, as well as other cities in the region. Al-Mustawfi also states that Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz lived for a while on the outskirts of Sinjar, further west in Kurdistan and nearer to the Syrian border. He goes on to say that he himself had listened to Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz lecturing in Erbil. The twentieth-century Iraqi historian Ibrahim al-Durubi70 lists Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz’s tutors, who include his father Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir. Durubi also dates the year in which ʿAbd al-ʿAziz migrated to Hiyyal, a village in Sinjar, as being 1184; and states that ʿAbd al-ʿAziz participated in the campaigns against the Crusaders in the Levant, and also being present at the recapturing of ‘Asqalan (Ashqelon) in Palestine by Saladin’s army in 1187. Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz’s shrine is situated in one of ʿAqra’s mountain enclaves, which is named Galli ʿAbd al-ʿAziz after him. The site is topographically higher than the town and nestles at the top of the mountain just below its rim. It encompasses four sets of court-yarded buildings. They include the domed burial chamber of Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz, his cave and lodging rooms, Sufi takkia with its reception rooms, prayer hall, library and open courtyard, and a female reception building, which includes the kitchens and food stores and a private residence for the caretakers’ family. The site also has an orchard with a sheep pen and a chicken coop, a small burial ground and a number of small ancillary buildings for storage, ablution and electricity generating.71 The caretakers of the Shrine on behalf of al-Awqaf al-Qadiriyya in Baghdad are the leaders of the Qadiriyya-Wuliyaniyya Sufi Order, a Kurdish Order led by the al-Wuliyani family of the Barazancha tribe. The family’s base is in the village of Rovia a few miles south-east of ʿAqra, where they have a Qadiri takkia and the shrine of their ancestor Shaykh Ismaʿil al-Wuliyani (d. 1737), who was a Qadiri Sufi Shaykh and the founder of the Wuliyaniyya Sufi Order. Incidentally, or perhaps deliberately, the burial plot of Ismaʿil al-Wuliyani is adjacent to what is locally believed to be the grave of Muhammad al-Hattak, one of Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz al-Jilani’s sons, who is reputed to have died sometime in the second half of the thirteenth century.72 As for the history of the Shrine and takkia of Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz in ʿAqra, how it came to be there, and how it evolved into a place of pilgrimage, no written evidence or reference has yet been found. The fragmentary anecdotal information based on secondary sources, oral transmission and on collective memory is too basic to be adequate. Nevertheless, the site is indeed a very active Qadiri takkia, and receives visitations from across the western region of Iraqi Kurdistan.

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Preliminary findings revealed an interesting similarity in reverence and regard for the two shrines under the Wuliyans’ control by them and their followers, and an identity-based attachment to both the son and the grandson of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani, being the direct descendants of their patron wali. The territory of this branch of the Qadiriyya Sufi Order spreads over some eighty villages in the District of ʿAqra and the surrounding region. The Order also has takkias and followers in the cities of Erbil and Mosul, as well as two takkias in Istanbul in Turkey. The Order’s sphere of influence encompasses parts of the wider Kurdistan region and on both sides of the borders between Iraq and Syria and Turkey.73 Field observations revealed a gradual shift in importance taking place between these two shrines, from Rovia towards ʿAqra, with Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz’s shrine gradually becoming the Order’s spiritual headquarters, even though the current head of the Qadiriyya-Wuliyaniyya himself does not live there or in Rovia, but in Mosul. As for the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz’s encounter with Sunni fundamentalism and Salafism, the Wuliyanis also expressed well-formulated counter-arguments to the criticisms directed at Sufism, not dissimilar to those heard from their counterparts in Baghdad. The Wuliyanis pride themselves on having avoided entanglement in local rivalries for power within their part of the Kurdish region, and having shielded the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz from being competed for among the various Kurdish political factions throughout the past five decades.74 These decades included the period of the Iran–Iraq War in the 1980s and what it witnessed by way of forced relocations of Kurdish populations across the region, the Persian Gulf War of 1991 and the ten years of unofficial autonomy in the region that was aided by an internationally imposed no-fly zone to protect it from the Iraqi government. The caretakers believe that their consistent apolitical stand has earned them much respect and protection within Kurdistan, even though the Kurdish region within which they are situated has witnessed Salafi activity over the past two decades, with ʿAqra being known for its more religiously conservative culture in comparison to other cities within the region.75 The Wuliyanis’ Qadiri Sufi allegiances, and their Barzanchi tribal loyalties and alliances are closely intertwined, to the extent that, in a conversation in March 2011, the head of the Qadiriyya-Wuliyaniyya Order pointed out his ability to call upon the allegiance of 200,000 men if need be.76 The Qadiriyya-Wulianiyya Sufi Order’s relationship with the Qadiri endowments in Baghdad has not been restricted to the caretaking of the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz. The Wuliyaniyya have had an active presence in the

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Shrine in Baghdad for decades, and have named lodging rooms allocated to them. A large contingent of the Order travels down to Baghdad to participate in the seasonal religious festivities that mark the calendar of the Shrine. The loyalty of the Wuliyani Qadiri Order was called upon during the early days after the invasion of 2003, when they helped protect the Shrine from the lawlessness and widespread looting that spread across the city, and then again during the civil unrest between 2005 and 2007, with the eruption of sectarian violence in nearby neighbourhoods and across the city.77 But, because of their presence in the Shrine in Baghdad, the Wuliyanis and their Qadiri followers experienced the senior imam’s unease about their presence. They expressed their concern about the senior imam’s Salafist leanings, and his disapproval of their dhikr and hadhra, and of their lodging at the Shrine, which have already been mentioned above.

An incomplete story The findings presented here regarding the interaction between Sufism and Salafism in these two Qadiri shrines are very much from the Sufis point of view. To form a more complete picture of this interaction, the experiences of the senior imam and his deputy are needed. From published material on the internet, especially film clips of sermons posted on YouTube, and from the four Friday sermons attended during the field research period,78 all fail to reveal any connection to Sufism that distinguishes the post holders from other imams in other Sunnī mosques, despite the explicit reference to them being the imams of the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir. It was especially interesting to observe that no use was made in their discourses of the literary legacy of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir as a Hanbali theologian and preacher. Answers needed to complete the story include what the experience of the imams has been working in a mosque that forms part of an active Sufi shrine, and what are the challenges they face in accommodating what may be seen as unorthodox practices that take place in a religiously mixed neighbourhood, with a congregation that flocks from around the world. For according to the administration of the Shrine, the senior imam actively sought his appointment at this place of worship.79 This briefly shows a few aspects of a much more complicated scene, and draws attention to the need for research into the role of Diwan al-Waqf al-Sunni (and its predecessor the Ministry of Endowments and Religious Affairs) in the

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promotion of Salafist ideology in Iraq. This governmental body’s mandate is not only to monitor and oversee the administration of religious endowments, but also to actively propagate the faith through a variety of programmes, as well as the employment of imams and their allocation to Sunni mosques across the country.80 A critical examination of the role and syllabus of Sunni Islamic theological colleges and universities in the country is also needed. This is especially important because Sunni imams’ recruitment, being the monopoly of Diwan al-Waqf al-Sunni, depends largely on the pools of graduates from these colleges and universities. Also, an investigation is needed into the impact of regularly attending the hajj season in Mecca in Saudi Arabia by some Iraqi religious leaders and imams, especially with regard to influencing Sunni imams with Salafist ideas and understandings. Between 2009 and 2013, the senior imam at the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir attended at least three of the annual hajj seasons in Mecca: in 2010, 2011 and 2013, not as a pilgrim but as a leading Sunni cleric.81 And finally, to better understand the Sufi–Salafi struggle at the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir, it would be interesting to investigate how widespread the apathy towards Sufism is among graduate imams in Iraq, and to find out how common it is for these two groups, Sufis and Salafis, to be in such close engagement with each other on a daily basis, as is the case at the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani.

5

The Political Participation of Sufi and Salafi Movements in Modern Morocco: Between the ‘2003 Casablanca Terrorist Attack’ and the ‘Moroccan Spring’ Aziz el Kobaiti Idrissi

Introduction The 2003 Casablanca terrorist attacks together with the 2011 Arab Spring constitute very important stages in the history of the Moroccan state in the context of the impact of these events on various religious movements that influence the religious and political landscape in Morocco. These movements can be classified into four types. First are Sufi movements supportive of the Moroccan state’s political choices. One of the best examples of this type which will be examined in this chapter is the Qadiriya Boutchichiyya Sufi Order, which has chosen to support elements of Moroccan Islam as defined by the state as well as the Moroccan regime itself. Second are Sufi movements that oppose the state’s choices. The example that will be studied in this chapter is the Justice and Charity Organization (Jamaʿat al-ʿadl wʾal-ahsan) which since its inception has chosen to resist the directions of the state, and refuses to integrate into the political system without resorting to violence. Third are Salafi movements that support the Moroccan state’s political choices. The Justice and Development Party (PJD) is a good example of this type. PJD has benefited politically a lot from the Arab Spring, since it won the parliamentary elections of 2011 and formed the first government subsequent to the Moroccan Arab Spring. Fourth are Salafi movements that oppose the state’s choices. In this chapter, I will focus on a group of extreme Salafi sheikhs who have been implicated in Casa-2003 terrorist attacks, although they have begun to revise their ideological rhetoric

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and to decrease their high degree of hostility towards the Moroccan state and civil society after the Moroccan spring of 2011. In this chapter addressing Sufis and Salafis in Morocco, I will demonstrate through these examples that both Sufi and Salafi movements can provide a basis for either statist or oppositional stances regarding the Moroccan regime. I will also indicate how significant events, in this case the Casablanca terrorist attacks of 2003 and the Arab Spring of 2011, can initiate shifts within the positions taken by such movements, leading to important changes in the political landscape, in this case, Moroccan internal politics.

The 2003 Casablanca terrorist attacks and state policy of ‘Restructuring the religious field’ Over the course of the twentieth century, Morocco, like most other Muslim countries, experienced the rise of Salafi and Wahhabi doctrinal beliefs that were extremely critical of Sufism. During the first decade of the twenty-first century, however, a return to Sufism has become prominent in Morocco and perhaps other Muslim countries. In the case of Morocco, I will argue that this shift was prompted by the May 2003 terrorist attacks in Casablanca that killed forty-five people and shocked the nation. On 16 May 2003, Casablanca – Morocco’s economic capital – was hit by a series of suicide bombings, the first such type of terrorist attacks in the country’s history. The perpetrators of these attacks were young Moroccans from the shantytowns of Casablanca who claimed to belong to a secret group of the Salafiya Jihadiyya, a branch of al-Qaʾida. In response the Moroccan government immediately initiated a policy of ‘restructuring the religious field’ that involved placing particular emphasis upon Sufism. This policy has involved the implementation of a series of measures meant to reform, monopolize and control theology and the production and circulation of religious discourse within Morocco. This policy involves having the Ministry of Religious Affairs bring all places of worship in the country under its authority and having it implement a programme for training imams and preachers, thereby maintaining control over the Friday sermons. In 2006, the Ministry published a manual for imams1 stressing Moroccan religious authenticity and warning that failure to adhere to such authenticity would lead to religious fanaticism and terrorist violence:

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If … the preacher ignores that, then he deeply contradicts the civilizational uniqueness of Moroccan society, which has been shaped through the accumulation of deep historical strata. This is the ground for the failure of his religious discourse. He then creates pockets of pathology and closed-mindedness that lead to the tearing of Moroccan social fabric.2

The reform project also involved the reorganization of the Supreme Council of Ulama that for the first time appointed a woman among its members. The Council was authorized by and reports directly to King Mohamed VI. The Ministry has created councils of ʿulamaʾ in all municipalities that include a total of thirty-five women (ʿalimat) and has assigned to these bodies exclusive authority to issue fatwas or religious opinions. The role of the Council of the ʿUlamaʾ as defined by King Mohamed VI is to ‘contribute to strengthening the nation’s spiritual security, ensuring the preservation of its religious doctrine, which draws on tolerant Sunni Islam’.3 The project of restructuring the religious field, first announced in a royal speech in 30 April 2004, has involved a redefinition and re-articulation of Moroccan Islam. The four cornerstones of such Islam are Ashʿarite theological doctrine, Maliki religious law, positioning the king as the Amir al-Muminin (Commander of the Faithful) and, adding a new dimension, Sunni Sufism.4 The government manual explicitly recommends Sufism as an essential part of Moroccan religious identity.5 This addition of Sunni Sufism as a defining element of what is officially called ‘Moroccan Islam’ is certainly the most important innovation in this policy. This affiliation between the state and Sufi orders is also compatible with principles of the Qadiriyya Boutchichiyya, one of the most important and influential Moroccan Sufi Tariqas.

The Sufi Qadiriyya Boutschichiya and the state The Qadiriyya Boutchichiyya appeared in the early twentieth century in the village of Madagh, near the city of Berkane, in the north-east of Morocco.6 The jihad against colonial occupation led by the Boutchichi Shaykh Sidi Mukhtar Ben Hajj Mouhyi Eddine, gained the Order tremendous popularity among the local tribes of Beni Znassen. After the death of Shaykh Mukhtar in 1917, the leadership of the confraternity went to Sidi Bu Madyen (1873–1955), who is considered the real founder of the Boutchichiyya as a spiritual institution.7

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The subsequent national and international dissemination the Boutchichiyya achieved is due essentially to the innovative and reformist vision of Shaykh Hamza (b. 1922), who succeeded to the leadership of the Order in 1972. Sidi Hamza has anchored the order in the Qurʾan and the Sunna and shifted its focus from tabarruk (the Shaykh’s spiritual blessing and ecstatic ritual) to tarbiyya, spiritual education and moral edification. With this shift, the Boutchichiyya succeeded in expanding beyond its rural environment into the major Moroccan cities, among the bourgeoisie, scholarly circles, and the educated and French-speaking and Westernized elite. Among its prominent Moroccan intellectual recruits, mention can be made of Taha Abderrahman,8 Ahmed Toufiq,9 Faouzi Skali,10 and a great number of university teachers as well as attorneys, pharmacists, medical doctors, engineers and high officials. During the 1980s Sufism in Morocco was viewed with suspicion and held under very close surveillance by the State because radical Islamists either tried to conceal themselves among mystical brotherhoods or infiltrated them with the intention of co-opting the rhetoric of political and social justice and the ideology of jihad within Islamic Sufism. Hammoudi writes: the advocates of radical Islamic reform join either a brotherhood or a newstyle charismatic community headed by a venerated master. The phenomenal success of the brotherhood formula is perfectly illustrated by the Boutchishiya: in addition to its main lodge in the Oujda area, which is the residence of the paramount shaykh, it has branches scattered all over the country, particularly in Casablanca, Fez and Rabat. While the groups advocating government by God and scrupulous enforcement of the shariʿa are not necessarily constituted within the institutional structure chosen by the master of the Boutchishiya, their organizations invariably re-enact the potent paradigm of the prophet, with his guidance of devoted adepts. At any rate the master-disciple relationship articulates all power relations and tactics. The schemata of submission, ambivalence, rebellion and access to masterhood are enacted on a daily basis, in the present and historically all at once. Hence the special position of this living archaism, which operates at the heart of Moroccan authoritarianism11

Apart from the Kettaniyya, Rissouniyya and Shadhili Sufi orders which continued to believe in the political role of Sufism, all the other Sufi tariqas had explicitly distanced themselves from politics. The Boutchichiyya as well disassociated itself from political rivalries, focussing only on the action of tazkiyat al-nafs (purification of the soul) which helped in increasing its membership. While in the year 2000, the tariqa’s followers were estimated at about 25,000, by 2009 the number has risen to 100,000.12

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Sidi Mounir, Shaykh Hamza’s grandson, attributes the popularity of the brotherhood to its living Shaykh, Sidi Hamza … inaugurated a new era of Sufism based on flexibility, love and beauty. It is easier to follow now than before but this does not mean that it has lost its value. The addition of flexibility to spiritual education has attracted the hearts of disciples from all over the world. Today, Sufis are more integrated in their social lives. They can enjoy the Sufi experience without it affecting their social rhythm or losing their social identities. One aspect of the Tariqa Qadiriyya Boutchichiyya … is that the retreat of the Sufi is inside the heart, al-khalwat fi’lqalb. Sufis do not need to isolate themselves in order to find their way to God. On the contrary, they can participate in their social activities as much as they can without affecting their beautiful spiritual experience, providing they are ‘happy in their hearts.13

The Boutchichiyya is perceived as being a tariqa that promotes in its teachings the values of peace and tolerance. For Sidi Mounir, ‘Today, only Sufism is capable of holding the torch of the way of peace, the way of good character, and the way of balance and communication with everybody from all over the world.’14 The Boutchichiyya wishes to carve out for itself the role of equipping the fuqara (disciples) with a ‘spiritual security’ capable of keeping them from joining radical Islamist groups. In addition, the Boutchichiyya is presented as a tariqa which is open to Muslims and non-Muslims alike. Sidi Mounir says in this respect: ‘Sufism accepts without condition people with different levels of knowledge. Everybody, Muslim and non-Muslim, is welcome to the Sufi path, as long as they want to purify and enlighten their hearts and souls.’ Sidi Mounir goes on to quote a Sufi saying, ‘Do not hate a Jew or a Christian, but your own ego (an-nafs) that is between your sides.’15 Shaykh Sidi Hamza has changed the order’s dhikr and has endeavoured more particularly to cultivate followers among the educated elite. In this respect Sedgwick observes: By the year 2000, perhaps half of the order’s approximate membership of at least 25,000 was ‘educated’. Many of these were young men and women, sometimes school-leavers. Many came from the Islamic Studies departments that proliferated in Moroccan universities after 1979, and so were more from the educated than the Francophone classes, less elite but still modern.16

What also makes the Boutchichiyya order an ideal partner for the state is its adherence to the discourse of modernity, which coincides perfectly with the

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state’s cultural modernization policy as part of the project to reform theology. The Boutchichiyya order does not have strict codes regarding, for instance, female dress or beards for males. In an article titled ‘Sufism as Youth Culture in Morocco’, Mokhtar Ghambou writes: Sufis distance themselves from fundamentalists, whose vision of Islam is a strict and utopian emulation of the Prophet Muhammad and his companions, by placing great emphasis on the community’s adaptation to the concerns and priorities of modern times. Sufis neither condemn unveiled women nor censure modern means of entertainment. For them, the difference between virtue and vice is determined on the basis of intent, not appearances.17

Although Ghambou is speaking of Moroccan Sufism in general, his statement applies more accurately to the Boutchichiyya, which has being seen by the Moroccan state as the guarantor of the balance between Islamist movements inside Morocco, since the religious and political importance of this Sufi order comes from a wide membership (nationally and internationally), recruits from middle-class and high-profile intellectuals and social elites, enjoys influence in both rural and urban areas throughout the country, has a stricter adherence to the Shariʿa and Sunni Islam and has large and youthful members.18 The significant role of this order spurred King Mohammed VI to appoint Ahmed Taoufiq, a disciple of the Boutchichiyya, as Minister of Religious Affairs in 2002, thereby officially granting his patronage to this tariqa. From the perspective of the state the Boutchichiyya helps consolidate the monarchy, combat radical Islam and promote an image of Moroccan Islam abroad as moderate, pluralistic and peaceful. However, according to the strict teachings of Shaykh Sheikh Sidi Hamza, the Tariqa Boutchichiyya has no connection with political affairs since the main role of the tariqa is providing spiritual education to its disciples. He always reminds his followers: ‘We are not the seekers of the wooden chairs (this means ‘political positions’) but we seek the best ranks of Paradise.’19 Even while the Boutchichiyya order distances itself from direct involvement in political affairs, most of time it finds itself practising politics. Once Shaykh Hamza said, ‘We could intervene in Moroccan politics only in three cases: when the Islamic religion, Moroccan territory, or the king, are threatened.’20 The Boutchichiyya is a tariqa that insists on loyalty and obedience to the king/sovereign. This loyalty is based on the Boutchichiyya’s religious view which sees the king as the commander of faithful/believers who took the bayʿa (the act of allegiance) from the population of Morocco. This bayʿa makes obedience of the king a necessary act for Muslims within Morocco. Hence, The Boutchichis

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poured into the street in thousands on three occasions: in February 2006 to denounce the Danish cartoons degrading the Prophet Muhammad; in January 2009 to support Palestinians in Gaza against the Israeli attack; and on 26 June 2011, to support the proposed constitutional reforms after the royal speech of 9 March 2011.

Jamaʿat ʿadl wʾal-ihsan (JCO) and the combination of Sufism and politics Not all Sufi movements share the same attitudes and tendencies of the Boutchichiyya towards the state and political affairs within Morocco. For instance, the Sufi group Jamaʿat al-ʿadl wʾal-ihsan (Justice and Charity) has opposing views regarding three points: participation in the national elections; accepting the status of the Moroccan king as Amir al-Muʾminin; and the response to the ‘Arabic popular revolution’ or what is called the ‘Arabic Spring’. JCO is a movement created by Shaykh ʿAbdessalam Yassine, a Berber born in Sus, Morocco. In 1965, Yassine joined the Qadiriyya Boutchichiyya tariqa and became one of the order’s active and prominent followers. He was a devoted disciple of Shaykh ʿAbbas al-Qadiri (d. 1972). Two years after the death of Shaykh ʿAbbas, Yassine left the Brotherhood because Shaykh Sidi Hamza, the new leader of the Boutchichiyya, was reluctant to articulate a political role for the tariqa.21 Having left the Boutchichiyya, Yassine began expressing his spiritual and political views in a series of publications, including in 1972 al-Islam bayna al-Dawla wa al-Din (Islam between Politics and Religion) and in 1973 al-Islam Ghadan (Islam Tomorrow). Yassine first rose to prominence as a religious rebel in 1974 when he addressed a 114-page letter to King Hassan II under the title al-Islam aw al-Tufan (Islam or the Deluge) urging him to implement the shariʿa and admonishing him about his duties as Amir al-Muʾminin who should rule with justice.22 Yassine asked the king to ‘get rid of his advisers and entourage (makhzan), seek the advice of the propagators of the daʿwa (those who preach in favour of Islamic revivalism) after abolishing all political parties, establish an Islamic economy, and … pronounce repentance loudly and clearly’.23 This daring letter cost Yassine three and a half years of imprisonment without trial, but it gained him tremendous popularity. Yassine soon founded a new religious movement based upon Sufi principles.

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In 1983, Yassine created a new magazine under the title al-Subh that published militant and subversive articles for which he was imprisoned. Yassine waited until 1987 to name his Jamaʿa as ʿAdl waʾl-Ihsan, which was never recognized by the state despite Yassine’s many attempts in this regard. After that Yassine was banned from preaching at mosques, and his movement was repressed and many of his followers were arrested and persecuted. Yassine also subsequently spent more than ten years under house arrest in Salé. He gained his freedom only in May 2000 by order of Mohammed VI. Immediately after, Yassine published his second letter, Mozakkira Ila Man Yahommoho Al-amr (Memorandum to whom it may concern), written in French in thirty-five pages, this time addressed to the young king Mohammed VI, addressing him to restore to the people the goods that they are entitled to, and purify the government from the corrupted persons in order to regain people’s trust.24 Unlike the Boutchichiyya that supports the monarchy and encourages its adepts to participate in the religious and political institutions of the country, JCO is critical of the monarchy and refuses to participate in the country’s political system. JCO combines Sufi spiritual education with political militancy. Its followers go through an inward mystical education, outlined in Yassine’s book al-Minhaj al-nabawi (The Prophetic System) which is the spiritual educational manual for his adepts. The book combines Sufi educational methodology and the politicoreligious teachings of Hassan al Banna, the founder of the Egyptian Muslim Brotherhood, which encourages political activism and resistance. Yassine has carved for himself an image that combines that of a Sufi spiritual educator with a social and political reformer. The Sufi aspects of his movement are expressed in the idea of the Shaykh as a guide (murshid) and we can attribute Yassine’s ‘issues of socialization, moral education, and spiritual preparation’ to Sufism’s influence.25 He always spoke favourably about his former Boutchichiyya master, Hajj ʿAbbas, as a Sufi Shaykh to whom he was much attached. He recommends Sufism for spiritual education, the spreading of knowledge, and jihad. ‘I have discovered truth with the Sufis as did al-Ghazali’, says Yassine. In his advice to his disciples Yassine says, ‘You will also run into Sufis inebriated with “spiritual ecstasy”; take to heart their advice to love God.’26 Yassine often quotes Sufi saints such as ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani and Abu ʾl-Hassan al-Shadhili,27 and borrows many terms from the Sufi glossary such as murid (disciple), suhba (companionship), tarbiyya (spiritual education) and salik (wayfarer). In fact, the very term ihsan (righteousness/spirituality) is a profoundly Sufi concept. Lauziere explains, ‘the notion of ihsan implies a framework of mystical gradation that is typical of Sufism’.28

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In February 2011 (the beginning of Moroccan Spring), Yassine’s JCO declared its participation in the Moroccan Spring, and joined the 20 February Movement.29 Thousands of Adlawis took to the streets of the Moroccan economic capital Casablanca every Sunday, to rally against ‘corruption’, and to protest against the absolute authority of the king as well. On 9 March 2011 Yassine’s Group rejected the king’s speech about the Constitutional reforms, deciding to boycott participation in Referendum on the proposed constitution, and the parliamentary elections, which led the Islamic Party of Justice and Development to form the first government after the Moroccan Arab Spring. In December 2012, Yassine passed away, and the shura council of his Jamaʿat chose Muhammad ʿAbbadi, the oldest member of Yassin’s disciples, to be his successor. Until the present, the relationship between JCO and the Moroccan state is still dominated by chaos and tension, an example being the state’s attempts to integrate this group into the Moroccan political and institutional system by relying on the ability of the PJD to persuade the Islamic politico-Sufi group of al-ʿAdl to change its strategy towards the state.

Salafi Jihadists and the dilemma of Moroccan state Al-‘Adl is not the only challenge to the Moroccan state. Salafist Movements also pose problems. The police investigations into the perpetrators of the 2003 Casablanca terrorist attacks led to the arrest of at least 2,000 Salafi suspects. Among those arrested, we find Shaykh Fezazi, Shaykh Kettani, Shaykh Abu Hafs, and other leaders of Jihadi Salafis and Wahhabis. Those figures represented the radical Islamists who refused to participate in the political process under the civil state. But at the same time they secretly worked to establish an Islamic caliphate by destroying constitutional rule in Morocco, and the Moroccan regime as well. However, the resistance of the Moroccan state against these extreme Salafi groups pushed some of them to revise their ideological attitudes towards the main political concerns inside Morocco. The beginning of the ‘Moroccan Spring’ in early 2011 was a good opportunity for Salafi Jihadists and Wahhabis to ask for the release of their leaders and members from jail. This request was partially fulfilled by the king after the beginning of Moroccan Spring.30 In 2013, a number of Salafi Jihadist leaders, who were still in prison, submitted a chart entitled, ‘The Political Charter of the National Committee for Reconciliation and Review’. The charter adopts a civil state as a political option along with individual freedoms that had been long regarded as a stumbling

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block before any tangible progress in the dialogue between the state and the Islamists. Many daily newspapers in Morocco were reported to have received the charter which is made up of sixteen articles. It stated that the royal regime is the symbol of unity, calling for consolidating the identity of the nation which is embodied in the Islamic religion and a national unity of different aspects under the umbrella of a parliamentary monarchy and civil state.31 A source from the National Committee for Reconciliation and Review in the prisons said that the aforementioned political charter had been received by the Ministry of the Interior and various security services that were taking charge of supervising the case of the Salafi Jihadists. The source added that the purpose was to send an encrypted message to the authorities and to public opinion that those Islamists had a clear and coherent political vision.32 According to Hassan Khattab, one of Salafi leaders in the prison: The charter accepted political action on the basis that it brings forth an opportunity for the people to express themselves, to reform their institutions and to ward off corruption. Furthermore, it regarded Islam as the state religion, but stressed its duty to guarantee the right to religious diversity, intellectual freedom and justice, emphasizing the sovereignty of the judicial system and a separation of powers.33

The charter urged the building of a diverse modern state that guarantees social justice. It also highlighted the protection of human rights, from individual and group freedoms to racial and linguistic diversity, to equality at the economical, political, social and cultural levels, while taking into consideration the country’s identity and its Islamic background. Additionally, it called for banning any form of discrimination on the grounds of sex, colour, belief or culture as well as that of social, regional or linguistic affiliation. It also demanded legal, social and economical protection of families. Conversely, Press-Maroc e-newspaper also reported that the political initiative taken by Hassan Khattab, leader of the Ansar Al-Mahdi cell, and ʿAbd-Erazzak Samah, Amir of the Moroccan Jihadist movement, had been rejected by some Salafist detainees including Omar Maarouf, Noureddine Nafiaa and an unknown group called the ‘Free People in the Moroccan Prisons’. Noureddine Nafiaa sent a letter from prison in which he denounced involvement in political action, describing politics as a ‘dirty game’.34 Another letter with the same initiative was addressed from Hassan Khattab to the King Muhammed VI mentioning that he has revised his ideological theology and adopted a new vision towards political affairs in Morocco.35 On the other hand, certain political Islamic movements

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which had Salafist tendencies accepted from the beginning to adhere to the political process within Morocco. At the forefront of these, we find the PJD.

PJD: A moderate political Salafism The PJD is considered to be the first oppositional party in Morocco. It is ‘a conservative Islamist movement, which borrows inspiration both from the Muslim Brotherhood and from Wahhabi Salafism’.36 Before it was recognized as a political party, the PJD showed its rejection of the use of violence and its support for the Moroccan constitution which entails the king’s full executive power and presents him as the highest religious authority as the Commander of the Faithful.37 The Casablanca 2003 bombings were used by the leftist parties to discredit the PJD and they accused it of having had a hand in terrorism. State authorities held the PJD to be ‘morally responsible’ for the bombing and sought to undermine the party by preventing it from fielding candidates in more than 18 per cent of the 1,544 municipalities in elections held during October 2003. The government, however, stopped short of actually abolishing the PJD. Saàddine El Otmani, one of the most prominent leaders of PJD, responded in an interview We know this accusation arose because the Party is a new political actor that quickly became one of the five largest parties in Moroccan politics. … We tried not to respond in turn, choosing instead to wait until the difficult time passed, for the benefit of the Moroccan people. We engaged other actors in internal talks and it soon became clear to the government that the PJD could play an important role in marginalising extremism in Moroccan society.38

However, the Moroccan Spring of 2011 was a new opportunity for the PJD to show itself to be an influential Public Party. It is one of the only political parties that knew how to develop a ‘forceful discourse on internal democracy and respect for party rules’ and they ‘set up comparatively democratic internal structures for selecting leaders and electoral candidates’.39 In this way they gained a lot of support, as they seemed to be much more trustworthy than other parties. In the 2011 parliamentary elections, organized after the changing of constitution under street pressure, the PJD was able to win the election and to form the first Moroccan government after the Arabic Spring.

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Conclusion Below is a table explaining the various attitudes of the Moroccan Sufi and Salafi Movements regarding: 1. The status of the king as the commander of faithful. 2. Political/Electoral Participation. 3. Constitutional Changes after the ‘Moroccan Spring’: 1.  Radical Salafi Jihadist After 2003 Casablanca terrorist attacks Status of the King as the Commander of Faithful Political/Electoral Participation

Constitutional Reforms

After 2011 & during the Moroccan Spring

The Boutchichiyya is a tariqa The Boutchichiyya is a tariqa that insists on loyalty and that insists on loyalty and obedience to the sovereign obedience to the sovereign as a Commander of the as a Commander of the Faithful. Faithful. No direct participation. But it Ahmad Tawfiq, a prominent figure of the Bushishiya does not refuse if its adepts participate in the religious became Minister of Islamic and political institutions of Affairs. the country. No opinion. Thousands of Boutchichis poured into the street in support of the new constitution.

2.  Charity & Justice Group (CJG) Before 2003 Casablanca terrorist attacks Status of the King as It is critical of the monarchy the Commander and calls for overthrowing of Faithful it and establishing a republican regime. Political/Electoral Refuses to participate in the Participation country’s political system.

Constitutional Reforms

After 2011 & during the Moroccan Spring

It rejected the constitution which confirmed the King’s Rule as Amir al-Muminin. It claims that Moroccan Political Institutions are corrupt and they will never affiliate without a total change of the system. The constitution must not be Refused the changes done, and accepted because it belongs the nominated committee to a corrupt political which revised the system. constitution, and joined 20th February Movements in protests for a while.

The Political Participation of Sufi and Salafi Movements in Modern Morocco 103 3.  Party of Justice & Development (PJD) Before 2003 Casablanca terrorist attacks Status of the King as The political wing accepts the Commander it but some of its leaders of Faithful refused it. For example, Ahmad Rayssoni was obliged to resign from the Tawhid wʾal-islah movement, the religious wing of the PJD. Political/Electoral It was always in political Participation opposition in the parliament

Constitutional Reforms

Calls for partial Change.

After 2011 & during the Moroccan Spring It supports the status of the king as a symbol of Moroccan unity.

It won the elections of 2011 for the first time in its history. Its leader, Abdelilah Benkiran, was nominated as the Prime Minister after the Moroccan Spring. Says yes to the constitution

4.  Radical Salafi Jihadist Before 2003 Casablanca terrorist attacks

After 2011 & during the Moroccan Spring

Status of the King as It refused the King’s Rule. Many of its leaders show the Commander The only legitimate Rule their readiness to accept of Faithful is the caliphate based on this status. the prophetic system. Political/Electoral A number of Salafi Jihadist It is a dangerous bidʿa, Participation leaders, detained in prison, which must be avoided submitted a political charter by Muslims, because it entitled, ‘The Political Charter comes from the ‘Kafirs’ of the National Committee for of the West. Reconciliation and Review.’ Constitutional Reforms

The only constitution of all Muslims is the Holy Quran.

It accepts the constitution after the mediation of some influential members of PJD.

Through this schematic presentation, it is evident that Sufi and Salafist movements in Morocco are not bound to specific supportive or oppositional attitudes towards the state by virtue of being either Sufi or Salafist, and that their internal policies and choices of action regarding the regime and its institutions are responsive to major political trends and events. This supports and helps to explain the distinctiveness of the Moroccan context and its trajectory both during and subsequent to the Arab Spring.

6

Sufis as ‘Good Muslims’: Sufism in the Battle against Jihadi Salafism Mark Sedgwick

The strategy of supporting Sufis as alternatives to Salafis has been a popular one, both in the Islamic world and in the West. But despite its popularity, it is a strategy that has generally not proved successful, as this chapter will show. This lack of success, it will be argued, results partly from the particular choice of Sufi tariqas (orders) that particular governments have chosen to support, and partly from the organizational nature of Sufism, which makes it hard to mobilize Sufis in large numbers. The basic idea of supporting a religious group that is presumed to be friendly against another religious group that is presumed to be hostile is an ancient one. It seems, for example, to have lain behind the Abbasid mihna of the ninth century. More recently, in the late nineteenth century, the Ottoman Sultan sponsored various Sufis against the enemies of his regime.1 British and French colonial authorities followed similar approaches. In the Sudan, support of loyal Sufis such as the Khatmiyya against dangerous Sufis such as the Mahdists was a key element of British policy, until the Khatmiyya became too close to Egypt and Britain began to support the Mahdists against the Khatmiyya instead.2 The French were still supporting loyal Sufis in Algeria in the 1930s: Ahmad al-Alawi, the ‘Sufi saint of the twentieth century’ of Martin Lings’ best-selling biography, benefitted from French support as well as from sanctity.3 What is new about current strategies of supporting Sufis against Salafis, then, is principally the emergence of Salafism. Salafism is, of course, notable for its opposition to Sufism, an opposition that it inherits from Muhammad ibn Abd al-Wahhab, and that is perhaps inherent in Islam, as Ernest Gellner has argued. According to Gellner’s ‘pendulum swing’ theory, Sufism typifies one ‘style of religious life’ in Islam, and ‘scripturalism’, the text-based puritanism of which Salafism is an example, typifies an alternative

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style. These two styles, according to Gellner, are in constant competition.4 Salafism is hard to define, partly because it is a loose movement, which develops as it grows. One characteristic of Salafism that seems to remain constant, however, in the Arab world and in Europe, is its condemnation of Sufism. Sufism seems to be one crucial ‘other’ against which Salafism defines itself. This makes Sufism an obvious ally for those who oppose Salafism. Examples of support of Sufism by anti-Salafis can be found in many places, in the Muslim world and the West, and also in Israel. This chapter will take four representative cases, two from the Arab world and two from the West. The cases from the Arab world are Moroccan government support of the Boutchichiyya (Budshishiyya) and Egyptian liberals’ attempted alliance with various Sufis during the parliamentary elections of 2011–12, which will be dealt with in outline. The two cases from the West are support of Sufis in the United States and the United Kingdom in the context of the so-called ‘War on Terror’. The Moroccan case has been selected as one of the most successful instances of the use of Sufism in the battle against Islamism and Salafism by an Arab government. The Egyptian case has been selected as the major recent non-state attempt in the Arab world to use Sufism against Islamism and Salafism. The American and British cases have been selected because those two governments stood in the front rank of the ‘War on Terror’ after 9/11.

Morocco Moroccan government support for Sufism is visible in its treatment of the Boutchichiyya, which since the 1970s has become the country’s most important tariqa, and also in a policy of promoting a ‘national’ Islam that is partly Sufi. The Boutchichiyya initially attracted not support but repression from the Moroccan state after the 1974 publication of a long ‘open letter’, Al-Islam aw al-tufan (Islam or the deluge), from Abdessalam Yassine (ʿAbd al-Salam Yasin), a former Boutchichi, to King Hassan II. In this letter, Yassine called on the king to repent and rule as a proper Islamic ruler. Rather than repenting, Hasan II had Yassine arrested and detained in a mental institution for four years. On his release in 1979, Yassine organized what is now called Al-ʿadl waʾl-ihsan (Justice and Charity), a Sufi-tinged Islamist opposition movement.5 Although the Boutchichiyya was innocent of any part in the letter or the opposition movement, and Yassine had separated himself from the Boutchichiyya some two years before writing the letter,6 the association between him and the Boutchichiyya seems to have been

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enough to account for numerous government restrictions on the Boutchichiyya during the following years.7 Government policy changed, however, under King Mohamed VI, the young and innovative successor to Hassan II, who had died in 1999. In dealing with Islamist groups, Mohamed VI switched the emphasis from repression to co-option. His policy has been generally successful. Although Yassine’s Al-ʿadl waʾl-ihsan refused to be co-opted, the larger and more important PJD, the Justice and Development Party, became a ‘loyal opposition’, participating in parliamentary politics despite the limited powers of the parliament. As part of Mohamed VI’s new policy, oppression of the Boutchichiyya was replaced by co-option. Government support of the Boutchichiyya became visible with the appointment in 2002 of a Boutchichi, Ahmed Toufiq, as Minister of Habous (awqaf, religious affairs),8 and even more visible in 2004 with the appointment of a son of the shaykh of the Boutchichiyya as governor of the province of Berkane.9 It was also visible in the end of the official obstruction of the tariqa’s activities that had been the norm under Hassan II. Which was more valuable to the tariqa, the new support or the ending of former obstruction, is not clear, but it is possible that the ending of obstruction was most significant. The policy of co-option of the Boutchichiyya has evidently succeeded, and the makhzan (palace) has secured the loyalty of one of the country’s major religious movements. Positive loyalty is visible in small ways, as when the Boutchichi shaykh displays a photograph of the king, or in bigger ways, as when at the time of the so-called ‘Arab Spring’ the Boutchichiyya helped mobilize a demonstration in favour of the king’s amended constitution,10 part of a response that succeeded in preventing Tunisian- and Egyptian-style protests from spreading to Morocco. Perhaps more importantly, loyalty is also visible in negative ways: the Boutchichiyya and its followers do not take part in activities and demonstrations critical of the king. As Abdelilah Bouasria has argued, under certain circumstances, silence may be a political action.11 It is hard to say whether government policy towards the Boutchichiyya is aimed primarily at securing the loyalty of the Boutchichiyya itself, or at strengthening the Boutchichiyya as a bulwark against Salafism. Perhaps it is both. It is easier for the government to have a large movement like the Boutchichiyya on its side than to have it in opposition. There is also a stated policy of general support for Sufism. This was announced by Mohamed VI in a speech in 2004, given in the aftermath of the 2003 Casablanca bombings, which were carried out by an al-Qa’ida affiliate and galvanized the Moroccan government. In his speech, the king outlined a policy of protecting national, Moroccan Islam, which he defined

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in terms of Ashʿari aqida (doctrine), the Maliki madhhab (codification of the Shari‘a), the role of the king as amir al-mu’minin (leader of the believers) and Sufism.12 The objective was to stem the advance of Salafism, understood as foreign and alien. Sufism, in contrast, is Moroccan, national and authentic, like the Maliki madhhab. To some extent this is true: historically, Sufism and the Maliki madhhab have indeed been important in Morocco, as in all of North Africa, and Salafism and Hanbalism are indeed of eastern (Saudi) origin. Salafis do not welcome the Ashʿari aqida, either prefer the rival Hanbali madhhab to the Maliki or attempt to avoid the madhhabs altogether, do not recognize anyone as amir al-mu’minin, and are, of course, opposed to Sufism. To some extent, however, the king’s 2004 speech announced a deliberate attempt to construct tradition, a typical project of modernity. Three of his four points (the Ashʿari ʿaqida, the madhhabs in general, and Sufism) coincide with a trend found in the United States and the United Kingdom towards a revival of what is often called ‘traditional Islam’13 but should perhaps be called ‘neo-traditionalism’. This derives in part from critiques of modernity in certain circles in the West with which some key members of the Boutchichiyya are connected. The Moroccan policy of promoting Sufism and (neo-)traditional Moroccan Islam is being implemented partly through the revitalization of the High Council of Ulama, and partly through the Ministry of Habous, which in 2005 launched a programme for the retraining of Moroccan imams. This programme trains some 200 imams a year to a high level with a special curriculum, and these imams are then meant to retrain all of Morocco’s remaining 45,000 imams.14 After ten years this programme should result in a trainer/trainee ratio of around 1:25, and so might be expected to have some impact. It is more likely to promote the Maliki madhhab, however, than Sufism. Sufism may well be promoted simply by the absence of official obstruction, and the position of the Boutchichiyya has certainly improved under King Mohamed VI. To what extent this has resulted in a decline in Salafism in Morocco is impossible to say, but it has certainly resulted in some increase in support for the king and the makhzan, which from the Moroccan government’s perspective is a desirable outcome.

The United States The extent to which the US government, and especially the administration of the second President Bush, has provided direct and indirect support for Sufism

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remains unclear. Recommendations that such a policy should be adopted, however, have been made repeatedly. Even before 9/11, in 1999, the LebaneseAmerican Naqshbandi shaykh Hisham Kabbani, the American khalifa (deputy) of the important Turkish-Cypriot shaykh Nazim al-Haqqani, told a gathering at the State Department that 80 per cent of America’s mosques were controlled by Wahhabis – what would today be called Salafis – and that this was a threat to the United States that could best be countered, in effect, by supporting the Sufi form of Islam that Kabbani espoused.15 Kabbani then established an Islamic Supreme Council of America in competition with the well-established Islamic Council of North America and the Council on American–Islamic Relations, neither of which were, in most analyses, very Salafi. It is unknown how much support or funding Kabbani’s Islamic Supreme Council received, but it at least attracted the favourable notice of one major Neo-conservative commentator on Islam, Daniel Pipes.16 After 9/11, a new proposal for support of Sufism against jihadi Salafi was made in a 2003 report, Civil Democratic Islam, Partners, Resources, and Strategies, published by the Rand Corporation and authored by Cheryl Benard, a political scientist and feminist writer17 who was married to Zalmay Khalilzad, the Afghan-born former Rand employee who had become President Bush’s special envoy for Afghanistan and then became the first post-invasion US ambassador there, before moving on to Iraq as US ambassador in Baghdad. Benard’s 2003 report identified four ‘essential positions’ within Islam: Fundamentalists, Traditionalists, Modernists and Secularists. Given the weakness of Secularists, Benard recommended supporting Modernists, among whom she (rather oddly) counted Sufis.18 ‘Sufism’, wrote Benard, ‘represents an open, intellectual interpretation of Islam. Sufi influence over school curricula, norms and cultural life should be strongly encouraged in countries that have a Sufi tradition, such as Afghanistan or Iraq.’19 It is not known to what extent Benard’s husband followed this advice as US representative in Afghanistan and Iraq, but it seems likely that he was too busy with other matters to focus much on Sufi culture. In the United States itself, however, the idea expressed by Benard and others seems to have become established: Sufism was a natural ally, as ‘a mystical form of Islam that preaches tolerance and a search for understanding’, to quote a Time article partly inspired by Benard’s report.20 This understanding of Sufism had various consequences, including a meeting between Shaykh Kabbani and President Bush. One other consequence was sponsorship of another American Sufi, Feisal Abdul Rauf, both by private individuals and by the Malaysian government, which is reported to have donated $3 million to Rauf ’s projects.21 This Malaysian sponsorship may have been direct

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Malaysian support, since Rauf has Malaysian connections, or may have been indirect US support, since the US government sometimes routes contributions to favoured causes through friendly governments. Rauf, the son of an Egyptian imam who moved to the United States in the 1960s, was himself the part-time imam of a small mosque in lower Manhattan belonging to the Jerrahi tariqa, which he had joined in 1983 at the hands of its Turkish shaykh, Muzaffer Ozak, who was then making regular visits to the United States.22 After Ozak’s death in 1985 his American following split into two branches, with the Manhattan mosque where Rauf was imam becoming the centre of the more universalist of the two. This was led not by Rauf but by an American writer and broadcaster on religion, Lex Hixon, whose understanding of religion derived partly from Plotinus, partly from a PhD in comparative religion from Columbia University, and partly from his own explorations of various religious traditions. At the time of his death in 1995, Hixon was not only a Sufi shaykh but also a devotee of Kali and a member of the Russian Orthodox Church. His Sufism, then, was certainly tolerant of other religions. Hixon was succeeded as shaykh of this branch of the Jerrahiyya by Shaykha Fariha Fatima, an American-born Jerrahi heiress well known for her earlier sponsorship of conceptual art, and whose understanding of Islam is extremely progressive.23 Rauf cooperated with both Hixon and Fariha. The Manhattan Jerrahiyya, then, was about as far from Salafism as it is possible to get. It was also linked indirectly to the neotraditionalism with which Moroccan anti-Salafi policy is aligned. After 9/11, Rauf became active in a number of ways. His American Sufi Muslim Association, established in 1997, launched itself in January 2002 as the ASMA Society with a performance by Muslim artists (painters, photographers and poets) in New York’s Cathedral of St John the Divine. The ASMA Society then developed into the American Society for Muslim Advancement, with programmes for young Muslim leaders, women’s rights in Islam, arts and culture, and interfaith work. These programmes proved so successful that it was proposed to establish a permanent home for them, to be called Cordoba House, referring to the memory of the medieval city of Cordoba as a place where not only arts and philosophy flourished but where there had also been amicable relations between Muslims, Christians and Jews. The Cordoba project gave rise to a second organization, the Cordoba Initiative, with activities mostly directed towards non-Muslim audiences. At the time of writing this chapter, for example, the Initiative’s homepage announces three upcoming events and links five media reports of past events. Only one of these eight posts relates to a Muslim audience – an annual fundraising dinner at the Islamic Center of Boston. More

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typical is a forthcoming address to an Institute for Christian and Jewish Studies in Baltimore, and an op-ed in a Memphis newspaper, evidently in connection with a past visit to Memphis.24 The Benard report was not a statement of US policy, but simply one among many proposals circulating in Washington during the first Bush administration. No direct linkage between the US government and Rauf ’s programmes is visible, but those programmes were supported by external financing which the US government may have facilitated, and fitted with a progressive conception of Islam of a variety that Benard and many in the US government would have welcomed. Rauf ’s activities were not exactly Sufi, but were certainly progressive, and the progressive and the artistic fitted well with the Jerrahi Sufi milieu in which Rauf had previously been active. To this extent, then, Benard seems to have been right: the ASMA and the Cordoba Initiative were certainly alternatives to Salafism. How many Muslims they attracted is not known, and how many of those who were attracted might otherwise have been attracted by Salafism or jihadism cannot be known, but America-friendly Islam was certainly being promoted. This also served a broader counter-radicalization objective, as radicalization is often a two-way process of polarization. From this perspective, improving nonMuslim perceptions of Muslims serves the same objective as improving Muslim perceptions of non-Muslims. In the end, however, Benard, ASMA and the Cordoba Initiative may have achieved the opposite of this. First, the Benard report became well known in the Arab world, where it was taken by some as proof of a secret American conspiracy to replace ‘true’ Islam with a fake pro-American pseudo-Islam. Hostility to the United States was thus increased rather than decreased. Secondly, the proposed Cordoba House caught the attention of activists within the American anti-Islam movement, notably Pamela Geller and Robert Spencer of the American Freedom Defense Initiative, later known as Stop Islamization of America, who objected to what they called ‘the 9/11 mosque’ or the ‘Ground Zero Mosque’.25 This led to an acrimonious nationwide debate that may have left American Muslims and non-Muslims further apart than they had been at the beginning, precisely what Benard’s plan and the Cordoba Initiative were trying to counter.

The United Kingdom Although British Prime Minister Blair followed US President Bush in seeing the War on Terror as a clash between good and evil, and although the British

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government under Blair generally followed the lead of the US government, it was not until after the London bombings of 2005 (known to some as ‘7/7’) that the British government really began to focus on ideology. To this end, the British government launched a well-funded counter-radicalization programme named ‘Prevent’. Among the beneficiaries of this programme were two Sufi-based organizations, the Sufi Muslim Council and the British Muslim Forum. Both of these received government funding of around £150,000 ($260,000) per year between 2006 and 2009. In total, the British Muslim Forum received £435,000 ($700,000), and the Sufi Muslim Council £390,000 ($630,000).26 Funding was less generous than that given to Rauf ’s activities in America, then, but still significant. The British government seems to have had two motivations in supporting these Sufi-based organizations. One motive was the support of ‘moderate’ Islam, one of the declared objectives of the Prevent strategy. Another was to provide alternatives to the Muslim Council of Britain, then Britain’s major national Muslim body. The Muslim Council of Britain evidently appeared insufficiently ‘moderate’, given its public opposition to the 2003 invasion of Iraq and its longstanding failure to attend Holocaust Memorial Day commemorations.27 Neither of these are particularly Salafi positions, of course, but both could be understood as ‘radical’. For some, ‘radical’ meant ‘Salafi’. Neither Sufi-based organization was known before the launch of the Prevent programme. The British Muslim Forum was allegedly founded shortly before the bombings, in March 2005,28 but first became visible when it organized a fatwa against bombing and murder, delivered outside the British parliament in July 2005.29 The Sufi Muslim Council first became visible inside the British parliament, where it held its launch in July 2006, in the presence of Ruth Kelly, the minister responsible for Prevent.30 The British Muslim Forum was based on the British following of a Chishti shaykh resident in Pakistan, Muhammad Imdad Hussain Pirzad;31 the Sufi Muslim Council was based on the British following of Shaykh Nazim, the shaykh of Kabbani, whose 1999 address at the State Department had first suggested Western government support of Sufism against Salafism. Both Sufi-based organizations tried to increase their support beyond their original base, but without much success. The British Muslim Forum listed nine Sufi shaykhs on its website,32 and at one point claimed the loyalty of 200 mosques around Britain, but – according to one critic – most of those mosques had never actually heard of the British Muslim Forum.33 Kabbani spent time in the United Kingdom visiting other Sufi leaders on behalf of the Sufi Muslim Council,34

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and the Sufi Muslim Council’s UK-based organizer, Haras Rafiq, organized a public dhikr, a so-called Tariqa Conference, and a ‘Hundred Colours of Sufism’ meeting.35 These events attracted mostly Naqshbandis, however. The latter two events were attended by representatives of only three other groups: the Minhaj al-Qur’an, devotees of a Pakistani Pir named Sultan Bahu, and a Pakistani Naqshbandi branch.36 Both Sufi-based organizations were criticized in Britain’s Muslim press for their close links to government and for representing only themselves.37 By 2010, the Sufi Muslim Council had folded,38 and its organizer, Rafiq, had moved on to head CENTRI, a small counter-extremism consultancy.39 The British Muslim Forum still existed in 2013, but only as a small organization devoted mostly to protesting the provocative anti-Islamic YouTube video ‘Innocence of Muslims’.40 The failure of both these Sufi-based organizations may be ascribed partly to their closeness to a British government that was suspect to many British Muslims. It may also be ascribed, in the case of the Sufi Muslim Council, to the position of the Naqshbandiyya within British Islam, which is somewhat marginal. Finally, it can also be ascribed to excessive political emphases. While the Sufi Muslim Council claimed to represent, or at least appeal to, apolitical Muslims interested in spiritual Islam, its website and its amateurish and short-lived magazine, Spirit,41 focused largely on political issues such as terrorism and radicalization, and on invective directed at Wahhabis, not on spiritual matters. An article entitled ‘Threat Levels and the System to Assess the Threat from International Terrorism’42 is hardly calculated to appeal to the apolitical, spiritually minded. The Sufi Muslim Council also focused excessively on Kabbani, who on its website was shown meeting the British Foreign Secretary and an Anglican bishop,43 and described in one caption as ‘His Holiness’,44 a title normally given to the Catholic Pope and the Dalai Lama, not to Sufi shaykhs. The promotion of Kabbani could hardly be expected to attract Sufis from other tariqas. British attempts to use Sufis against Salafis, then, were even less successful than American attempts, which had at least promoted ‘moderate’ Islam before an American audience, if not a Salafi one. The groups and individuals sponsored by the British were more marginal, and for some this association with the marginal made the British government look foolish. A subsequent government evaluation of the original Prevent programme observed that money had been wasted,45 and this observation may well have referred to initiatives such as the Sufi Muslim Council and the British Muslim Forum. A parliamentary committee

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also noted in 2010 that the support of Sufis against Salafis made it appear that the government was engaging in Islamic theology, something that it had said it would not do and, in the view of the committee, indeed should not do.46

Egypt Before the January 2011 uprising in Egypt, there were occasional suggestions that the Mubarak regime was supporting Sufis in the same way that the Moroccan government was, for example, in appointing a Sufi, Ahmad Al-Tayyib, as Shaykh al-Azhar (one of the two senior posts in Egyptian Islam) in 2010.47 There were, however, no clear indications of such a policy to compare with Mohamed VI’s 2004 speech in Morocco, and the Mubarak regime clearly also remained interested in restraining Sufis rather than supporting them, for example, through its Supreme Council for Sufi Affairs. The most interesting attempt to use Sufis against Salafis in Egypt was made not by the state but by so-called ‘secular’ or liberal politicians in the run-up to the 2011/12 parliamentary elections, that is those politicians who took a stand against both the Salafis and the Brotherhood. Three parties in the ‘secular’ block were established on Sufi foundations: the Sawt al-hurriyya (Voice of Freedom) on a Rifaʾi basis,48 the Hizb al-tahrir al-masri (Egyptian Liberation Party) on the basis of the Azimiyya49 and the Hizb al-nasr (Victory Party) on the basis of another tariqa, as yet unidentified. In addition, the shaykh of the Shabrawiyya aligned his tariqa with the Hizb al-shaʾb al-dimuqrati (Democratic People’s Party),50 and another Rifaʾi shaykh established a Coalition of Egyptian Sufis.51 Of these Sufi entrants into a crowded political field, one of the best known was Mohamed Alaʾa al-Din Abu al-ʿAzaʾim, shaykh of the Azimiyya, and so the Sufi voice in the Hizb al-tahrir al-masri. Abu al-ʿAzaʾim had been one of two contestants in 2010 for the post of head of the Supreme Council for Sufi Affairs; he had lost to ʿAbd al-Hady Ahmad al-Qasbi, who was appointed by Mubarak to that post. The expectation among the ‘secular’ politicians associating themselves with these Sufis was, presumably, that they would prove effective allies against the Salafis and the Muslim Brothers. Some commentators expected the Sufis to make an important difference. There were estimated to be 15 million Sufis in Egypt,52 and the Hizb al-sha’b al-dimuqrati, for example, was estimated to have 200,000 Sufis among its 3 million members.53 The Hizb al-tahrir al-masri spoke of contesting 150 seats.54 Matt Bradley, writing in The Wall Street Journal, assigned to Sufis a role not very different from that assigned in the United States and the United Kingdom: Sufis, he wrote, ‘represent Egypt’s silent political majority, and

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define the mainstream Egyptian religious identity: moderate, inclusive and far more personal than political’.55 In the event, however, the political impact of these Sufi parties and politicians was slight. In August 2011, for example, Al-Shabrawi and Abuʾl ʿAzaʾim were among those who called a major anti-Salafi demonstration in Tahrir Square.56 Only a handful of demonstrators showed, however.57 When it came to the parliamentary election, the Sufi parties were reported to have joined in the Hizb al-muatamar al-masri (Conference Party), a ‘secular’ umbrella, which secured only nine seats for its thirteen constituent parties. Sufi influence among voters, then, seemed slight. Sufis, in the end, failed to deliver any more in the contest with Salafism and Islamism in Egypt than they had in Britain.

Conclusion Of our four examples, it is only in Morocco that attempts to use Sufism against Salafism may have met with some success. In the United States, such attempts promoted visions of ‘moderate’ Islam, but to American rather than Salafi audiences. In the United Kingdom and Egypt, they failed to achieve anything significant. In the United States, Feisal Abdul Rauf ’s ASMA and Cordoba Initiative sponsored some Manhattan artists who happened to be Muslim and supplied a good speaker for interfaith events, but probably had more impact on nonMuslim opinion than on Muslim opinion. Sponsoring Abdul Rauf, then, was not unproductive, but probably was not productive in the fight against Salafism. In the end it backfired, when the Cordoba Initiative became the Ground Zero Mosque outrage. This was not Rauf ’s fault: he was just one of Gelner’s various targets and incidental to her main objective. However, the damage done to Muslim–nonMuslim relations in the United States by the Ground Zero Mosque controversy may well have exceeded the good done by Abdul Rauf ’s other activities. Attempts to use Sufis in the United Kingdom were even less successful than in the United States, since not even non-Muslim audiences seem to have been reached. Again, the project backfired. The British government ended up looking foolish, and also appeared to be intervening in internal questions of Islamic theology, thus strengthening the jihadist narrative of a Western war on Islam rather than undermining it. In Egypt, attempts to use Sufis against Salafis do not seem to have backfired, at least. Egyptian Sufis simply failed to achieve any significant impact. In this they were not alone: in post-Mubarak Egypt’s fractured and dysfunctional political

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scene, only the Muslim Brothers and the Salafis achieved the basic objective of organizing themselves effectively and achieving some measure of success on a national level. In general, it seems clear that Sufis have not proved effective in the fight against Salafism. This might be explained by Sufism’s apolitical nature, which is emphasized by some Sufis and by some of their sponsors. An apolitical force would not, a priori, be expected to be very effective in a political arena. In fact, however, this does not seem to be a valid explanation, as Sufis are not in fact naturally apolitical. In Morocco, Yassine was political, and his Al-ʿadl waʾl-ihsan was of Sufi origin. During the nineteenth century, Sufis were often political: in fact the religious groups that the British and French were using Sufis against, as briefly referred to at the start of this chapter, were themselves Sufi. That Sufis can be very political is also indicated by the fact that two Arab states of the twentieth century, the Emirate of Asir58 in the 1920s and the Kingdom of Libya in the 1950s and 1960s, both had a Sufi origin. States are political entities. The idea that Sufis are apolitical, then, is based on lack of information. As Isabelle Werenfels observes, it may be true of Sufi writings, but has not historically been true of Sufi activities.59 One major explanation of the failure of Sufis to prove effective in the fight against Salafism in recent years is the tariqas chosen for support. ‘Sufism’ is an outsider category, used by Salafis and scholars but not much used by the Sufis themselves. Sufis self-identify not as Sufis, but as members of a particular tariqa. And in any tariqa, there is generally a trade-off between size and intensity. A tariqa may be very intense, like the Jerrahiyya of lower Manhattan or the Naqshbandiyya of Shaykh Nazim, but in that case it will be small – probably no more than 50–100 people in Manhattan, and 100–200 Naqshbandis in England (with more in other countries). There are obvious limits to what can be achieved by a small and intense tariqa, then. The Azimiyya and the Rifaʾiyya, in contrast, are old and large tariqas. Rifaʾis may indeed be counted in the hundreds of thousands. Those Rifa’is, however, have only a loose connection to the Rifaʾiyya. If asked about Ahmad al-Rifaʾi they will express respect and even some degree of devotion, but if asked to come to Tahrir Square during Ramadan in August, most will not. There are important limits, then, to what can be achieved by both the small and intense tariqa and the old and large tariqa. In both cases, it is hard to mobilize Sufis in large numbers. Only the Boutchichiyya, as a new and expanding tariqa, combines size and intensity, rather as the Sufi enemies of the British and French in the nineteenth century did. This is one reason why Moroccan sponsorship of the Boutchichiyya was somewhat successful. The

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Moroccan government was dealing with what was already a national force, not with a handful of aspirants like the Sufi Muslim Council in Britain. There are, however, disadvantages in supporting a large and powerful tariqa, as Werenfels points out. The government may find the Boutchichiyya increasingly difficult to control, given both its capacity to mobilize and its extensive network within state institutions.60 Even if it were possible to mobilize Sufis in large numbers, Sufis would still probably prove ineffective in the fight against jihadi Salafism. Shortly after 9/11, Newsweek famously asked ‘Why do they hate us?’ The answers suggested had in common that they were generally about ‘them’, the Arabs, and not about ‘us’, the Americans. The correct answer to the Newsweek question lies beyond the scope of this chapter, but it can be argued that jihadi Salafism has primarily political causes. Since the US and UK governments after 9/11 were reluctant to admit to such political causes, however, they naturally emphasized theological and civilizational ones instead. Support for Sufism was thus a theological remedy for what was conceived of as a theological problem. To the extent that the problem was political rather than theological, however, theological remedies could not be effective. This chapter thus supports the conclusion of a recent article on the same topic in Perspectives on Terrorism, that ‘policy makers and policy-oriented scholars would be well advised to abandon the quest for theological roots of violence and theological tools for combating it’.61 Sufism may be the natural enemy of Salafism, but this does not mean that Sufism is the natural ally of those who are opposing Salafism, especially when they are opposing Salafism for their own reasons.

7

Mystical Traditions and Voices of Dissent: Experiences from Bengal Kashshaf Ghani1

Along with prominent Sufi Orders like the Chishtiyya and the Suhrawardiyya, and to some extent the Qadiriyya, Bengal also has a rich tradition of the Pir and Fakir cult. These cults hinge on Sufi traditions while expounding their own beliefs and principles, which came to be labelled as be-shariʿati by Salafis.2 I plan to explore this cultural-religious space of Bengal in the contemporary period. This is an experience unique to Bengal. In most other regions of South Asia, Sufi Orders are considered the primary carriers of the Islamic mystical tradition. But the influence of Pirs and Fakirs, stretching well into Bangladesh, offer an interesting dimension towards studying popular mystical trends in contemporary Bengal. In Bengal what we have by the Salafi tradition is the Ahl-i Hadith community, present in significant numbers in rural Bengal, where, interestingly, mystical cults and Sufi orders also command a great degree of respect. Throughout the twentieth century we come across literature produced by the Salafi groups voicing their protest and resentment against many practices prevalent among Sufis, Fakirs and Pirs, along with reflecting their own understanding of tasawwuf. These literatures, written throughout the twentieth century, will be situated within the context of Bengal to bring into focus some recent understandings on the interactions between Sufi/Fakir/Pir and Wahhabi/Salafi groups operating within the geographical and religio-cultural space of India’s easternmost pro­vince, where Islamic mysticism carries a tradition as old as Delhi and Multan.

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Introduction The establishment of Muslim political authority, by the Turks, in the early thirteenth century created a haven for Muslim holy men or Sufis who came not only from north India, but also outside the subcontinent and settled down comfortably within the emerging Muslim society in Bengal.3 These pious immigrants formed an important medium through which the inhabitants of the land came to experience Islam, steeped in Arabic and Persian symbols. The sharpness of swords was mellowed to a great extent by these Sufis who presented a more humane face of Islam. Eventually this socio-cultural proximity strengthened the bond between the immigrant and the indigenous population, which allowed for mutual understanding of cultures and religious beliefs. In course of their close contact with the local population over centuries, Sufi masters were successful in influencing a large section of the resident population. A fifteenth-century Sufi master, Sayyid Ashraf Jahangir Simnani, noted, ‘numerous saints and ascetics came from many directions and made it their habitation and home’.4 He goes on to say that ‘in the country of Bengal there is no town and no village where holy saints did not come and settle down’.5 Sufis too were in turn influenced by certain traditions of indigenous culture. Mystical teachings preached by ancient Hindu seers, practices of Nathapanthi Yogis, Tantric and Sahajiya cults and other indigenous trends came to influence the Sufi tradition in Bengal in varying degrees.6 In the same way as Chishtiyya masters in north India welcomed Nathapanthi Yogis in their khanaqahs and engaged with them in spiritual practices and discussions, with the coming of Sufism, congenial atmosphere was created in Bengal whereby mystics differing in their spiritual paths came together to share their knowledge on various mystical issues. A successful culmination of this exchange was the acceptance of yoga manuals in Sufi khanaqahs, like the translation of a Sanskrit Yoga text Amritakunda (Pool of Nectar), first into Arabic and then Persian by Qazi Rukn al-din Samarqandi during the reign of ʿAli Mardan Khilji in the early thirteenth century.7 The translation, titled Hawz al-Hayat, drew the attention of Bengal Sufis into the realm of human physiology. Masses brought within the fold of Islam failed to distance themselves completely from the religion of their ancestors and continued to practice some rituals from their former faith. As a result a popular form of Islam came to be practised through a combination of Islamic beliefs and practices with local rituals, traditions and superstitions. This cultural fusion soon found expression with the formation of sects like Aul, Baul and Fakir.8 In spite of their mystical

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leanings these sects were not considered part of the Sufi tradition, as their training and practices reflected non-Sufi and non-Islamic traits. In the following discussion the paper will explore some aspects of the sect of the Fakir in Bengal. Though their beliefs and practices – singing songs as a spiritual exercise – have much in common with the Sufi tradition, Fakirs differ in their approach towards adherence to the principles of Islam in their daily life. Their meditational practices, though largely performed behind the public eye, have invited the ire of the conservative clergy and religious leaders of the Muslim society. The paper will look into the various forms in which such hostilities were, and still are, expressed against the Fakirs. In the process it will be argued that while Islamic mystical tradition did not follow a linear trajectory in Bengal, at the same time it is unjustified to look for a single ‘voice of discontent’. Rather protests against the beliefs and practices of Fakirs need to be explored across layers, in order to gain a better understanding of its multiple trajectories.

Fakirs of Bengal Fakir literally means a poor person. Over time it also came to denote a mendicant or a guide (guru) in the mystical tradition of Islam. The origin of this sect can be traced to the Sufi traditions in Bengal that flourished between the fifteenth and seventeenth centuries. With the rise of popular or folk Islam, terms like Pir, Fakir, Baul, Awliya and Derwesh came to be used rather synonymously, representing a spiritual sect with elements drawn from both Islamic and Hindu traditions. Fakirs were greatly influenced by the Sufi tradition in Bengal and beyond, though they lacked any formal training in the Sufi path (tariqa). Not all could avail training from a Sufi master and be spiritually disciplined in a Sufi khanaqah. As a result, Natha, Sahajiya and Tantrika teachings came to supplement, and in turn influence, their spiritual training. These cults, indigenous to Bengal, hardly followed a strict code of religion and ethics.9 Such an amalgamation of spiritual trainings resulted in the formation of a hybrid sect of mystics – the Fakirs.10 Following the literal meaning of the word, Fakirs consider themselves to be free from all possessions, except their quest for God. Drawing from the Sufi tradition, their preaching carries the message of a monotheistic belief in God, and at the same time underlined ideas of liberty, equality, brotherhood and universality – rising above sectarian and socioreligious hierarchies. Religious scriptures, for the Fakirs, carry nothing more than dry religious pronouncements, which contribute little to eliminate social

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differences. Fakirs express their thoughts in the language of the masses, devoid of any complicated spiritual jargon, yet reflecting the problems that plague the society around them. Following the example of leading Sufi masters from the Chishtiyya, Suhrawardiyya and Qadiriyya Orders, Fakirs strive hard against the sectarian divisions of society. Towards this aim they preach the message of love and unity within the masses. Providing happiness to human heart, for the Fakirs, proved a duty greater than Hajj. Dil ba dast e-ahwar ke hajj e-akbar ast Az hazara ka’aba ek dil behtar ast Provide happiness to the human heart, for it is the greater hajj A happy heart is better than a thousand kaʿba

Since the human heart is God’s creation, Fakirs consider it as the dil kaʿba, or the Kaʿba of the heart.11 In contrast Fakirs attach less importance to the Kaʿba at Mecca – the qibla for Muslims, which they consider a human creation, built by Abraham.12 Fakirs also reject ideas of the after-world, heaven, hell, before-life and rebirth.13 Rather they never lose sight of the reality and prefer to believe in what is apparent, or present before the eyes.14 Going by this logic, they even do not believe in the unseen God. Instead they find God within the human body. And since humans take birth only from a human body, Fakirs argue that God has no role to play in this process. This ideology of the Fakirs reflects a clear Natha, Sahajiya and Tantrika influence, following which Fakirs attach more importance towards meditation through the human body. Unlike Sufis, who believe in mortification of the flesh towards attaining spiritual union with the Divine, Fakirs imagine the Divine within the human body itself and hence consider it the centre of their meditation.15 For Fakirs, such meditation through the human body holds the key towards spiritual elevation and unravelling of the divine mystery. Hence in their ways of meditation and interpretation of the faith, Fakirs choose to rise above the doctrines put forward by religious scriptures though, as stated below, the universal beliefs of Islam are accepted by them on many occasions. Fakirs argue that since they have not seen God, they imagine Him within the human being. In doing so they argue that since God breathed Himself into Adam and His throne is in the heart of the believer, therefore the best way to find God is not in sites of pilgrimage, but inside His finest creation (ashraf al-makhlukat) – the human being.16 So, for the Fakirs God resides within the human body, and the path towards knowing the Divine is inextricably linked to human physiology.17

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Thus the human body is the most important medium for meditation, and hence must be explored from within – in the path towards spiritual freedom, eternal love and divine realization.18 In such an exercise four bodily excretions are considered important by the Fakirs – menstrual blood (rajo), semen (birja), excrement (bistha) and urine (mutra). Fakirs believe that the human body is constituted of four elements – water (ab), fire (atash), dust (khak) and air (bat), also known as the ʿAlam-i khalq.19 However Fakirs do not attest to the ʿAlam-i amr composed of self (nafs), heart (qalb), spirit (ruh), secret (sirr), intuition (khafi) and mystery (akhfa), which together with the ʿAlam-i khalq constitute the supersensory perceptions (latifa) in Sufi psychology. The inner bodily matters corresponding to these four elements, recognized by Fakirs, are urine for water (aab), menstrual blood for fire (atash), excrement for dust (khak) and semen for air (baat). Metaphorically these four bodily elements are called by Fakirs the four moons (chari chandra) or four stations (maqam).20 Fakirs argue that since the bodily excretions are created through the four elements, intake of the former in measured amounts begins a cycle of chemical reaction, which in turn enhances the stamina of the Fakir to undertake longer durations of spiritual exercises.21 Fakirs consider the human body, and not the divine Creator, to be their source of origin. Therefore semen and menstrual blood become the two basic substances that constitute that origin. While the former carries the legacy of the father, the latter, from the mother, nourishes the unborn foetus till the time it is born. As a result Fakirs consider womb blood to be a form of sustenance provided by nature, to the foetus.22 Through consumption of these two substances – semen and menstrual blood – as part of their meditation exercise, Fakirs strive to retain the very sources of their origin within their own body. It is precisely for the fulfilment of such requirements that Fakirs insist on having a female partner, on many instances in the form of a wife, in their meditation exercises. Since Fakirs consider the human body to be the focus of their spiritual exercises, the ‘body’ of a woman is therefore considered indispensable in this exercise. Bodily productions of both man and woman, like semen, menstrual blood and breast milk, are considered important components used by Fakirs in course of their meditation exercises. Such principles and methods of meditation through the body are not always well documented. Neither do Fakirs have any well-defined manual or treatise elaborating their spiritual stages. Their entire knowledge is gained and thereafter passed on through the oral medium.23 The rules for meditating with the body

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are passed from the master (guru) to the disciple (shishya). The centrality of the master–disciple relationship in the Fakir tradition are expressed through the medium of song.24 Je ghore bas kori shey ghorer khabar nai Chetan gurur sanga laye khobor koro bhai I do not have knowledge of the house (body) I live in, Oh brother! Take help from a learned master to gain such knowledge25

In the journey towards unravelling the mysteries of the human physiology and through it eventually the divine, the role of the master or murshid is of central importance. If a Fakir aspires to follow the spiritual path and gain knowledge of the hidden sciences, he has to take recourse to a spiritual master, just like Sufi shaykhs, to guide him in the unknown path. The disciple surrenders himself at the feet of his master, while the latter familiarizes the disciple on the path towards spiritual advancement. At the same time the disciple also invokes the image of his master at times of contemplation and spiritual distress. With this the idea of fana fiʾl-shaykh or annihilation in the master assumes a tangible shape even within the Fakir tradition.26 Problems develop once the idea of fana fiʾl-shaykh becomes distorted into an actual worship of the master himself. This is when the focus of the disciple shifts from worshipping the formless God to his master, with the belief that the latter will be able to provide help to the disciple even in the afterlife. With the worship of the master and a belief in his unfailing assistance, Fakirs of Bengal moved away from the foundational principles of Sufism. The murshid of the Sufi tradition now became the primary medium through which Fakirs aimed to experience the Divine. The master in the Fakir tradition became the living manifestation of God on Earth, and his disciples looked up to him with respect, attaching a sense of divinity, much similar to the idea of the Perfect Man (insan-i kamil) prevalent in Sufi traditions. This trend became entrenched with Fakirs moving more and more into meditation through human physiology, thereby moving away from the Sufi principles of tasawwuf.27 In spite of deviations from the Sufi tradition, one practice that underlines the deep influence of Sufism on the Fakirs of Bengal is their attachment to songs and poetry as the primary medium of expressing their spiritual message. Much like the Chishtiyya masters who revelled in musical assemblies (samaʿ), Fakirs too use songs not only as a medium to express their religious, mystical and philosophical understandings, but also as an important tool for training disciples and propagating their philosophy among non-initiates.28 These songs

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are laden with metaphors, intended to hide the inner meaning from those untrained in the path, and in the process avoid invoking the ire of Salafis and religious leaders. The multi-layered meanings of these compositions can be deciphered only by those trained in this particular spiritual vocabulary. Any lay individual listening to these songs will understand it literally, rather than in the mystical sense. Fakirs call this tongue the ishara-I k ‘alam, or the language of gesture/sign.29 Amar priya nabi r deshe jabo, pal tuley de, noukai pal tuley de Do jahaan er badsha jini Parey lagaben tini Shei je par er kandari Kadam chhuye ne Arsh e te Allah chilo Madinai Muhammad holo Murshid amai bole dilo Kalma pore ne Awwal o akhir e nabi Zahir o batin e nabi Nabir nabi mahanabi Smaran kore ne30 I wish to visit my dear prophet’s land, fix the sail, fix the sail on the boat He, who, is the lord of the two worlds Will guide us to the shore He is the helmsman of the ocean Touch his feet When in the throne, he was Allah When in Madina, he was Muhammad My murshid told me such Read the kalima31 Prophet is the beginning and the end Prophet is the outer and the inner Our Prophet is the prophet of prophets Remember him

If the outer meaning reflects the desire of a devout Muslim to visit the land of his Prophet, the inner meaning reveals a hidden message and at the same time provides an understanding of the ways Fakirs meditate through the human physiology.

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In the above song, a Fakir imagines that the land of the beloved Prophet lies within our own body. One can reach there only if one sails across the river-like body. This is possible through intercourse between a male and a female. The male and the female bodies represent the two worlds (do jahan), of which the Prophet is the master (badshah). It is he who will guide a Fakir to his land through the river-like body. After one reaches the destination, they must touch the feet (kadambosi) of the Prophet. So it is evident that reaching that land, or attaining that spiritual position, is impossible for a solitary man or woman. One needs to find a murshid, and take oath (bayat) from him. The murshid then will guide the disciple on his journey after making him recite the kalima. And it is only by following the path of the Fakir that one can reach the Prophet, who is present both in the outer and inner (zahir wa batin) worlds.32 The subject of the songs sung by the Fakirs is not limited only to their meditation practices. Rather a large corpus of them is composed to voice protest against social evils and acts of injustice meted out to Fakirs in the name of religion. One such song carries a message centred on the futility of dividing mankind along categories of caste, class and religion.33 Jat gelo, jat gelo bole, Ek ajab karkhana Satya pathe keu noi raazi Sab dekhi ta na na na Jakhan tumi bhabey ele Tokhon tumi ki jaat chiley Ki jaat hobe jabar kaley Shey katha keno bolona Caste in danger, caste in danger Strikes up a strange cry None is ready to follow the right path All are going the other way When you were born What caste did you belong to? What caste will you be part of, at the time of death? Why do you not think about it?

Preaching through the medium of songs fulfil a dual motive for the Fakirs. First, as an oral medium, songs carry and express the spiritual and mystical ideology of the Fakirs to the lay individual, albeit in a veiled form. Secondly, these songs lend voice and identity to a marginal sect fighting for their existence in the face

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of relentless attacks from a larger section of the same society. These attacks range from direct physical confrontation and social harassment to sharp criticisms of beliefs and ideas that Fakirs stand for. Though largely relegated to the periphery of both the Muslim community and the larger society as a whole, it is undeniable that certain actions of the Fakirs attract unwanted reactions from within the mainstream society. As a result their songs and messages, as a critique against doctrinal religion, need to be veiled behind metaphors. Fakirs refuse to believe in the basic difference between one man and another. Such a belief can be traced to the twin influences of Sufism and local mystical traditions, elaborated above, which shaped the origin and ideology of this sect. Fakirs believe in the idea of universal brotherhood preached by Sufis as an intrinsic pronouncement of Islam. Many scholars consider this aspect of Sufi preaching as the primary reason for their popularity and acceptance in a severely caste-ridden society like South Asia. This argument also holds true for Bengal, where the lower sections of the resident population, both Hindus and Buddhists, were deprived of their right to socio-religious freedom at par with the upper classes. With the coming of Sufis to Bengal this section of the society, considerable in size and number, were attracted to the egalitarian principles of Islam brought forward to them by the compassionate mystics. This tradition continued even when Sufism declined in popularity, and its place was taken by sects like Baul and Fakir. The influence of Yogic, Natha and Sahajiya cults turned Fakirs towards the path of meditation through exploring the human body. The root to this physiological approach to meditation involved a belief in a single source of human creation – not in the divine, but in the essential elements – semen and menstrual blood – which combined to create life inside the womb. By replicating divine intervention with bodily elements as the source of human creation, Fakirs at once position themselves above social distinctions that divide human beings along parameters of religion and belief in the divine almighty. This underlines the belief of the Fakirs in the equality of mankind beyond religion and caste affiliations. At the same time by preaching that the origin of creation lay hidden in the union of the bodily elements of semen and menstrual blood, Fakirs justify their meditation practices which aid their search for the Creator not through religious performances and other-worldly pursuits, but through meditation with one’s own body. Amar ghar khanai ke biraj kore Janam bhoriya ekdin o na ekdin o na dekhlam tarey34 He who resides in my house (body) (I) Have not seen him since birth, even for once, even for once

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Though Fakirs claim to derive inspiration from the Sufi tradition, their steady avowal against scriptural religion subjects them to constant criticism, at times hostility, from the shariʿa-minded religious leaders of the Muslim community. At times such anti-scriptural positions bordered on innovation (bidaʿat) within religious canons, exposing Fakirs to intense hostility from within Muslim society, a discussion to which we turn later. For Fakirs, reciting the testament of faith (kalima) sealed an individuals’ belief only in scriptural religion. But it failed to enlighten him to the inner spiritual truth. That can only be achieved by reciting the kalima from what Fakirs’ call the dil Koran – or the Qurʾan of the heart. Fakirs believe that Prophet Muhammad received a total of 90,000 revelations from Allah, from which he shared only 30,000, in the form of the Qurʾan, meaning that he kept 50,000 secret. This can only be known if one is guided by a murshid, who will reveal the dil Koran. The remaining 10,000 revelations, sealed in the heart of the Prophet and known as the ʿilm-i sina, can only be accessed when a Fakir has reached the highest stage of spiritual attainment. The process of transmission of the ʿilm-i sina to the heart of the mystic follows the principle of sina ba sina (heart to heart).35 Therefore the teachings of maʿrifat stored in the ʿilm-i sina cannot be realized through external (zahiri) religious practices of prayer and fasting alone. Rather it is receptive only to the heart of the Fakir, which is trained by the murshid and blessed by the Prophet.36 Those who believe in scriptural Islam are called shariʿati by the Fakirs, since the former believe in the unseen God, concepts of heaven and hell, afterlife, rewards for following religious canons in their daily life, even though they have not seen or experienced anything for themselves.37 Pushed to the periphery of society, Fakirs engage in rituals and bodily exercises away from the public eye. At the same time there are some Fakirs who strive to associate themselves with Sufi establishments like khanaqahs and tombs (dargahs), which serve them a dual benefit. First, through these institutions Fakirs command respect from a much larger cross section of the society irrespective of religious affiliation. Secondly, by attaching themselves to the dominant Islamic mystical tradition of Sufism, Fakirs try to build up a stronger institutional response to conservative and reformist groups within the community, compared with what they could have done as an isolated individual. Attachment to a dargah can be in the capacity of a custodian (khadim), where a Fakir looks after the tomb complex. At the same time he takes care of all the rituals usually attached to a dargah – attending to devotees, visitors and, most importantly, organizing the annual ʿurs festival, celebrating the death anniversary of the Sufi. Such an attachment continues over generations. A Fakir

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called Dayem Shah is credited to have popularized the dargah complex of an obscure Sufi called ʿAlam Baba, regarding whom nothing is known for certain. His dargah is near the important town of Dubrajpur in the Birbhum district of West Bengal, India. Dayem Shah’s son Naib Shah and now his son Jalal Shah is the chief khadim of the dargah. He is primarily responsible for organizing an elaborate ʿurs festival every year on the fourth Friday of the Bengali month of Ashar (June–July). Popular legend has it that ʿAlam Baba came from Central Asia/Persia and settled in this place. An extra-territorial connection with Central Asia and Persia, the cradle of Sufism, is commonly used to trace the roots for the majority of Sufis settled in Bengal.38 Nayeb Shah appropriated that spiritual lineage and presented himself as the true heir of ʿAlam Baba. As a mark of his position as the khadim of the shrine, Nayeb Shah rides on horseback wearing a patched cloak (khirqa) with a stick in hand, the head of which resembled the head of a snake. Such visual representations bring alive the charisma of a Sufi master to the local population who in turn patronize the dargah with rich endowments in cash and kind.39 However it is interesting to note that most of the people who throng at the dargah of ʿAlam Baba during ʿurs follow the shariʿat in their daily life. They are least aware of the maʿrifat way of life practised by the Fakirs. Rather they are more interested in securing the blessings of the pious soul that rests there. Praying at the dargah, prostrating to the Sufi resting there, offering chadar,40 flowers and incense are strictly censured by conservative Salafis. Yet the majority of the population throng there in order to find respite from their daily material anxieties and pray for the fulfilment of their desires. They combine this intensely personal exercise with the canonical practice of offering the Friday prayers with their community brothers at the mosque adjacent to the dargah.41 In doing this they stand at the crossroads of devotion and doctrine, where illiterate anti-shariʿa Fakirs and religious authorities jostle for space in the hearts of the common masses. A second form of attachment to the Sufi tradition can be located only through participation in the annual ʿurs celebration of a major dargah. Such a tradition is visible by the attendance of Fakirs in large numbers at the ʿurs celebration in the dargah of Data Mahbub Shah Wali in a small village called Patharchapri in Birbhum district of West Bengal, India.42 Fakirs of Bengal consider this shrine to be their Mecca, where the annual ʿurs is held on the tenth, eleventh and twelfth day of the Bengali month of Chaitra (March–April).43 Here too Dayem Shah was one of the major khadims, before he shifted his base to the dargah of ʿAlam Baba.44 Popular lore has it that Data Mahbub Shah belonged to the Chishtiyya-Nizamiyya order of Sufis, and spent the last thirty-five years of his

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life in Patharchapri. ʿAlam Baba on the other hand became the disciple of Data Mahbub Shah after arriving from Central Asia/Persia. What spiritual gain do Fakirs derive from such connections? Do they at all connect to these holy sites or do these dargahs exist in isolation? The answer to these questions lies hidden in a popular saying among devotees: ‘The kahgaz of Data Baba, the qʿalam of ʿAlam Baba.’45 Looking deeper into the saying it is explained that any individual who prays at the dargah of ʿAlam Baba will have his name recorded by Data Baba of Patharchapri in his paper (kaghaz), using the pen (qʿalam ) of ʿAlam Baba. But who will write the name in that kagaz? That individual is Khwaja Muinuddin Chishti of Ajmer who is revered as Hind-al Wali or master Sufi of India. It is implied that any individual who prays at both the dargahs of ʿAlam Baba and Data Baba will have to visit Ajmer once in his lifetime to complete the devotional triangle. Since ʿAlam Baba draws his spiritual lineage from Data Mahbub Shah, who in turn belonged to the Chishtiyya-Nizamiyya order – Fakirs of Bengal connect themselves to the spiritual hierarchy of one of the premier Sufi Orders in South Asia – the Chishtiyya and at the same time perhaps the most revered Sufi shrine in South Asia – that of Muin al-Din Chishti in Ajmer. In doing so they not only establish themselves as part of a premier and hugely popular pan-Indian mystical tradition, but also use this attachment to stand up to the allegations, by Salafis and religious leaders, of being social and religious outcasts. Fakirs of Bengal form a community whose existence lies parallel to mainstream society. Their spiritual beliefs and practices are often accused of lacking any scriptural sanction. Though the existence of Fakirs within the larger society is often ignored by religious leaders, there exists considerable evidence to show that this sect is the favourite punching bag of both scholars and religious leaders within the Muslim community. Through such acts, the latter not only stamp their authority over societal norms, but at the same time claim to clean their community of such pollutants. The historical antecedents to this antipathy can be traced to the reformist wave within the Muslim community in Bengal in the nineteenth and twentieth century, which aimed to purge ‘Islam of all that they considered spurious accretion’.46

Reformist criticism of Fakirs The reformist tradition in Bengal owes its origin to the movement led in the early nineteenth century by Shaykh Mohammad bin ʿAbd al-Wahhab (1703–92) at Najd and Hejaz. ʿAbd al-Wahhab’s thought and actions, popularly called the

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Wahhabi ideology, influenced a number of Bengali Muslims who visited Hejaz during that period and brought back his kitab al-tawhid to Bengal.47 One such individual was Shariʿatullah (1781–1840), from Faridpur district of Bangladesh. He and his son Mohsin al-din Ahmed (1819–62) led the Faraizi movement in the rural areas of eastern Bengal. Though primarily a peasant movement against the colonial regime, it carried a strong message of self-purification among the Muslims of Bengal, demanding abhorrence of customs and rituals authorized neither by the Qurʾan nor by the Prophet.48 In western Bengal this was matched by the Wahhabi Movment led by Mir Nasir ʿAli from 1827 to 1831. Nasir ʿAli was greatly influenced by Sir Ahmed Khan from north India, whom he met during the hajj pilgrimage. Nasir ʿAli returned with a zealous mission of purifying the Muslim community in western Bengal from idolatrous and superstitious practices acquired through cohabitation with the Hindu community.49 The first casualty of this reformist wave was the carriers of popular Islam, like Fakirs, who were severely criticized, accompanied by physical punishment, for their beliefs, practices, superstitions, multi-religious and cultural influences and lack of adherence to scriptures.50 One of the earliest texts that proved significant in influencing the anti-Fakir agitation in Bengal was Maulana Reaz al-din Ahmad’s Baul Dhwangsha Fatwa (Legal Ruling on the Destruction of Bauls). Published in two volumes in 1925, the text was written in response to a petition submitted by twenty-five Muslim religious leaders from various districts in West Bengal. The petition elaborated the heretical ways and beliefs of the Fakirs. The latter were accused of not following the Qurʾan, Hadith and shariʿa, in spite of returning as Muslims. It was further alleged that these Fakirs identified themselves as followers of the maʿrifat path, and hence argued that they are under no compulsion to obey the shariʿa or follow the advice of shariʿa-minded religious leaders. In doing so, it was argued that these Fakirs deprive themselves from understanding true Islam. Being misguided, these Fakirs, in turn, mislead the illiterate Muslim masses away from the true faith, towards the path of the Fakir. As a result the entire Muslim community is under danger of being misguided by these Fakirs. To strengthen the petition further, the characteristic features of the Fakir sect were listed to help in a better understanding of their misdeeds in the name of Islam.51 In his reply to this petition, Ahmad labelled Fakirs as kafirs followed by an elaboration regarding the misdeeds of the Fakirs, which, in a sense, was intended to justify his strong accusations, In many places in Bengal Fakirs are beguiling illiterate Muslim masses into their order. These Fakirs have spread their network with the intention to destroy

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the Holy Qurʾan and Islam. The way in which the heretical beliefs of Fakirs are gaining ground within the Muslim community, there is sufficient reason to be concerned that in the coming days the Muslim society will become scattered and powerless to stand up against the impure attacks by these sects.52

The reasons behind undertaking this exercise of writing the book was explained in the words of the author: Without attentively reading both volumes of Baul Dhwangsha Fatwa and trying to understand its deep research and objective do not harbour any hatred against the text under the influence of rage and impatience. Baul Dhwangsha Fatwa is being preached to provide you with relief, so show respect towards it. Baul Dhwangsha Fatwa does not harbour any hatred against you. Nor does it want you to become part of some other community. All it intends is to purge you of the un-Islamic influences and practices of Fakirs that have entered your belief. It aims to free you of such impurities and restore you to the pure order under the shade of Islam so that you may live happily with your Muslim brothers.53

In his foreword to the book, Maulvi ʿAli Ahmad Wali Islamabadi, the editor of the weekly newspaper Sultan, remarked that: The way in which the religion of Islam is being wrongly attacked from all sides, such a book is necessary to protect Islam, maintain faith and bring back those who have lost their way. This book is not written to expel some Muslims from the community. Rather this book is aimed to prevent the spread of wrong ideas and turn Muslims towards truth, away from disobeying the shariʿa.54

At a time when this text was being written Ahmad estimated the number of Fakirs in Bengal to be around six to seven million, or even more. He argued that the sum included those who could be easily recognized as being the followers of the Fakir path. In addition there are those who live a rather clandestine life and cannot be easily identified as Fakirs. Concerned by the large number of Muslims who have been misguided into the sect of the Fakir, under the influence of what Fakirs incorrectly call maʿrifat, Ahmad, through his book, extolled his community not to fall prey to the lure of maʿrifat extended by the Fakirs. Identifying this sect as believers in Hinduism, Ahmad argued that it was the ploy of the Hindu community to reconvert those illiterate Muslims back to their fold, who had in the historical past moved away from the Hindu society into the more liberal Muslim society. Now when the Hindu society, under the influence of reform movements, has become less rigid and more accommodating towards differences in caste, class and order of birth – Ahmad and others from the

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Muslim community anticipated a planned backlash from the Hindu society through the Suddhi movement to regain the millions they had lost, over many centuries, to the liberating message of Islam. Ahmad accused the Fakirs of using Perso-Arabic terms like darwesh and fakir to identify themselves, yet reject the five pillars of Islam. Fakirs recognize the Prophet, the Qur’an and the Sufi tradition, yet refuse to follow the shariʿa. They also stay away from offering sacrifice in the name of Allah, following the Abrahamic lineage, but at the same time consume meat. Ahmad further argued that Fakirs gained the trust of the semi-literate Muslim masses of Bengal by luring them away from the disciplined and stoic lifestyle prescribed by Islam towards a more liberal way of life immersed in worldly pleasures in the name of spirituality.55 Such practices of the Fakirs, it was alleged, reached the extent of meditating with Hindu seers, imitating their spiritual practices, lifestyle and attire, participating in their religious practices and visiting their places of worship, which led Ahmad to label them as ‘apostates (morted) disobeying Islam’.56 These acts portrayed a wrong image of Islam in the minds of the illiterate millions who follow these Fakirs in the belief of gaining knowledge on maʿrifat. Such contradictory practices of Fakirs, coupled with Hindu influences, led Ahmad and other Muslim religious leaders to fear that millions of rural Muslims resting their faith in the belief and practices of the Fakirs will end up being followers of the larger Hindu society.57 The early seeds of Salafi ideology in India were sown through such reformist movements which gained momentum in Bengal due to its enormous Muslim population constituting elites, middle-class literati, peasants, landlords, religious leaders, Sufis, dervishes and Fakirs. The more recent form of challenge to popular Islam in Bengal can be discerned from the early twentieth century, in the form of organizations like Jamaʿat-i Islami and the Ahl-i Hadith-i Bangala.58 Attacking the very foundational ideas of tasawwuf, they question the efficacy of superogatory prayers, dhikr and mystic practices, and address sects like the Fakirs as bidaʿti (innovators), quburi (grave dwellers) and ahl-i mazar (people of the tomb).59

Jamaʿat-i Islami & Ahl-i Hadith literature The Jamaʿat-i Islami movement was founded by Sayyid Abul Aʿla Mawdudi (d. 1979). Initially supportive of Sufi movements as representing true Islam, and arguing for its propagation, the Jamaʿat-i Islami subsequently sharpened their

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differences with a total rejection of Sufi Islam in favour of a puritan and radical ideology.60 The Ahl-i Hadith group, representing another strand of salafi Islam, openly denounces tasawwuf, along with its rituals and practices. Picking up the last strands of the Wahhabi movement in Bengal, crushed during the colonial rule in the nineteenth century, the Ahl-i Hadith, also known as ghayr muqallids, strengthened the ‘puritan’ propagation throughout the twentieth century. These hardliners simply reject the beliefs and practices of Sufis and sects like the Fakirs as bidaʿat, kufr and shirk. Muqallids are commonly identified as those who follow the tradition (taqlid) of the four major law schools: Hanafi, Shafiʿi, Maliki and Hanbali. Ahl-i Hadith, by rejecting the legitimacy of these law schools, emphasize a greater and exclusive focus on the Hadith literature as an original source for guidance in matters of religion. As a result the Ahl-i Hadith are commonly known as ghayr muqallids. However Ahl-i Hadith literature produced from West Bengal resist this synonymy, arguing that it is unjustified to use the terms ‘Ahl-i Hadith’ and ‘ghayr muqallids’ interchangeably. In one such text, Marufiat Kya Hain: Haqiqat ki Aine Mein (What is Marufiat? In the light of truth), it is argued that the path of the Ahl-i Hadith is independent of all paths since it is based purely on the original texts of Islam – Qurʾan and Hadith. Those who identify themselves as Ahl-i Hadith, and choose to call themselves ghayr muqallids, have in turn defamed the spirit of the path since, while they have left the path of taqlid, they have not familiarized themselves with the original texts and obligatory norms (sunnah) of Islam.61 It further argues that a ghayr muqallid can choose to reject the taqlid of the Imam, but that does not necessarily ensure his understanding of the Hadith tradition and the sunnah of Prophet Muhammad. Thus emerging out of the chaos of taqlid does not mean that a ghayr muqallid has a strong understanding of the Quran and Hadith. As a result he then has no right to return himself as an Ahl-i Hadith. The latter are strongly entrenched in the erudite scriptural tradition of their ancestors, without any attachment to taqlid. As a result they are in a position to call themselves ghayr muqallids. But since ghayr muqallids often choose to disregard the Prophetic tradition and attach less importance to the Hadith, they are in no position to identify themselves as part of the Ahl-i Hadith path.62 The origin of the Ahl-i Hadith group can be traced to the formation of the All-India Ahl-i Hadith Conference in 1906, with Hafiz Abdullah Ghazipuri as the President and ʿAllama Sanaullah Amritsari as Secretary. Like the Deobandis, the Ahl-i Hadith were committed to the revitalization of law by reform and custom. Towards this end they advocated a strict adherence to the textual sources of faith – the Qurʾan and Hadith, which they interpreted rather literally

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and narrowly. At the same time they refused to recognize Sufi institutions and practices. Their emphasis on self-interpretation of texts stemmed from the fact that they drew their members almost entirely from an aristocratic social background, with high standards of education.63 Keeping in mind the millions of Muslims in eastern India who are nonconversant in Urdu, the need was felt for a branch exclusively for this region. This was finally met in 1914, when the Anjuman-i Ahl-i Hadith-i Bangala and Assam were established in Calcutta. From the following year the organization even started publishing its own monthly newspaper in Bengali entitled Ahl-i Hadith, with Muhammad Babar Ali as the first editor. The content of this newspaper with regard to the Fakirs will also be included in this discussion. During the postindependence period, in 1951, the Anjuman-i Ahl-i Hadith-i Paschim Bangala was formed to carry out activities only in the state of West Bengal. After a gap of two decades the Anjuman-i Ahl-i Hadith-i Paschim Bangala was constituted in 1971, and continues to function even today.64 Publication and distribution of Ahl-i Hadith literature is the primary mode for disseminating their ideology.65 One of the earliest texts detailing the ideology and beliefs of the Ahl-i Hadith group is entitled Ahl-i Hadis Madhab, written by Muhammad Babar Ali, the general secretary of the Anjuman-i Ahl-i Hadith-i Bangala, and published from its Calcutta office in 1926. It begins by refuting allegations levelled against the community regarding their antipathy towards mystical ideas, Sufis and walis. The Ahl-i Hadith group considered it their duty to counter such propagation by writing texts, mentioned above, in reply.66 In it they defended themselves by drawing on a famous hadith-i qudsi that says ‘Whoever shows enmity to My friend (wali) I declare war against him.’ They further state that walis have been accorded a higher position in the eyes of Allah, compared to ordinary believers. For the Ahl-i Hadith group, any individual who can follow high standards of piety in their spiritual life can achieve greater respect in the eyes of Allah. Those who insult Sufis and walis and possess hatred against them are considered immoral (fasiqs) by the Ahl-i Hadith.67 In another text, entitled Ikhraj ul-Mubtadein and written around 1926, Babar ʿAli continued his argument in favour of the Sufi tradition, where he characterized Sufis as followers of the sunnat and free from the bindings of the four law schools (mazhhab) of Islam. For Babar ʿAli, true followers of the Sufi tradition show great respect to the Hadith and its teachings, and hence stay away from offering taqlid to any of the four mazhabs. Thus in a sense a true Sufi, wali, awliya, derwish is also an Ahl-i Hadith at heart, which makes it superfluous to argue that the Ahl-i Hadith are opposed to the Sufi tradition.68

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While Ahl-i Hadith leaders recognized the importance of walis and their spiritual tradition, they fully opposed the form of Sufism, and their practices, attached to the shrines. More precisely they voiced their protest against shrine practices like ʿurs,69 qawwali70 and keeping taziyas,71 which to them were a great hindrance in freeing Islam from the un-Islamic customs that could be criticized by non-Muslims. These ceremonies, in the opinion of the Ahl-i Hadis group, play an important role in sustaining those communities who live off Sufi shrines and in turn mislead common Muslims in the name of Islam. While professing respect towards the Prophet and walis, the Ahl-i Hadith prohibit any form of pilgrimage to tomb complexes, even to the Prophet’s grave in Medina. They express their shock and disgust at the rituals performed, in spite of the Prophets’ censure, by pilgrims in Sufi shrines, like lighting candles, offering chadars on tombs, taking vows for fulfilment of wishes, sevenfold circumambulation of the tomb and prostration in front of the tomb.72 In light of the above, it is not surprising that rituals and practices of Fakirs in rural Bengal constitute the focus of criticisms levelled by the Ahl-i Hadith, of which the primary is that of ʿurs, the most important festival in any mystical order. Babar ʿAli states that the Prophet strictly instructed against the performance of ʿurs at his shrine, and to make it a fair site for all to come and worship the tomb, instead of following his teachings. When the companions of the Prophet, in spite of their unadulterated love and respect for the Prophet, did not celebrate ʿurs, Babar ʿAli rues that ‘we are making ourselves the subject of shame and sin by doing this on the graves of Sufis and walis, where people take vows and oaths, prostrate (sijda) and bend over the grave (ruku)’.73 Such excesses, through which Fakirs attempt to seek knowledge on the nature of God, are considered by the Ahl-i Hadith ‘to be a danger to true religion’.74 Babar ʿAli then provides an eyewitness account of an ʿurs celebration by Fakirs he had witnessed in Bengal where Fakirs and common people circle the grave seven times before prostrating before it. He then describes with equal contempt the rich decoration of the tomb complex, which in his opinion should be razed to the ground since such acts have been declared forbidden (haram) by the Prophet and in the canons of Islam.75 In the light of such opinions, the Ahl-i Hadith, Babar ʿAli states, are labelled as disrespectful towards Sufis and walis, though this is not the truth. Rather he argues that people should take vows and promises only in the name of God Almighty. Prayers, prostration and bending in respect should also be done only for God, and not to any deceased individual. Such acts are forbidden (haram), and the person praying or taking the vow will be an accursed (malaun).76

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Alongside printed texts, Ahl-i Hadith propaganda against Fakirs and mystical sects continued through their mouthpiece, the Ahl-i Hadith. Articles and news reports criticizing the beliefs and practices of what they called ‘maʿrifati Fakirs’ regularly found place in this publication. In one of their reports the Ahl-i Hadith periodical rued that millions of Muslims in Bengal are falling prey to un-Islamic practices in the name of following the path of maʿrifat. As a result they are getting more and more detached from the spirit of true Islam. As perpetrators of this great sin, the Ahl-i Hadith identified two groups, both of whom claim to follow the path of maʿrifat and in the process mislead millions. The first group was the Fakirs, who are miles away from the principles of the shariʿa. They refuse to visit the mosque, offer obligatory prayers (namaz), undertake fast and believe in the practice of hajj – all under the premise that these are superficial practices that cannot lead an individual closer to God. The only way to achieve the latter, in the opinion of the Fakirs, was to take oath (bayat) from a pir, who would then train the individual in the path of maʿrifat.77 The second group was identified as those who call themselves Sufis and derwishes. Unlike the Fakirs they offer prayers, observe fast and claim to be learned in the religious scriptures. Yet they do not hesitate to perform acts that Ahl-i Hadith label as innovation (bidaʿat). Such practices include worshipping the master (pir), prostrating before the shaykh and celebrating ʿurs at the shrine of the shaykh. At the time of ʿurs devotees and common people throng at the shrine complex offering rice, wheat, cereals and even living animals as a mark of their respect to the saint and his shrine. The report identifies Phurphura Sharif78 as one such shrine complex indulging in such bidaʿati practices. At the time of celebrating ʿurs of the patron saint Shaykh Abu Bakr Siddique, the place assumes the form of a fair site. The degree of respect and joy people express on their visit to the shrine gives the impression that, in the words of the Ahl-i Hadith newspaper, ‘they have arrived at the holy city of Mecca for performing Hajj’.79 They prostrate before the shrine and pray with the belief that the saint resting there has the power to intercede and fulfil their wishes. Some go to the extent of becoming disciples (murids) of the current sajjada nashin.80 Rather, in the eyes of the Ahl-i Hadith, Sufis and walis who are true to their path follow the Qurʾan and the Hadith along with the Sunnah of the Prophet. They stay away from claiming that their knowledge is transmitted from the heart of the Prophet, and also keep themselves away from such bidaʿati practices as worshipping the tomb, the shaykh, performing qawwali and celebrating ʿurs. These practices have contributed greatly in destroying the original teachings of

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Islam, in the opinion of the Ahl-i Hadith, and can only be restored by going back to the principles of the Qurʾan and the Hadith.81 Apart from the practices attached to shrines, the lifestyle and meditation methods of Fakirs also attract an equal degree of attack from Salafis and religious leaders. Many of these polemical literatures are written in verse, perhaps with the aim of using the very medium to attack Fakirs that they use to defend themselves and spread their beliefs – verses and songs. One such text, Actions of Fakirs and Advice from Alims, printed from Dhaka, looks into some of the villages in eastern Bengal where Fakirs reside. The author Abbas ʿAli Nazir begins by identifying one such Fakir Daulat Bari and the activities of his disciples, In a village in the pargana of Bhawal82 There lives a pir by the name Daulat Bari What do I say about him All the crooks in the vicinity have become his disciples All day they sit together to smoke grass And when night falls they take their women to the pir The pir says, Oh my disciples If you are my true servants Leave your women with me Then the disciples say We leave our women with you If you promise to remain beneficent on me The pir then takes the woman of his disciple83

Fakirs fight such allegations by arguing that the companionship of woman is indispensable for carrying their meditation physiologically, rather than satisfying their carnal desires. Meditating with woman is an important stage towards spiritual ascendancy. If a Fakir in the course of such meditation can control his desires of flesh, preserve his semen and not falter sexually, only then will he be able to elevate himself to a higher spiritual stage.84 Unless a Fakir can rise from the stage of desire to the stage of love he cannot proceed on the spiritual path. And Fakirs attain this through their companionship with woman as a partner in meditation.85 Nazir continues his composition by criticizing the practice of singing and ecstasy among Fakirs and the ritual of distributing sweets among devotees as symbol of blessing, They sing songs with their eyes closed Their bodies jerk along with the head In rhythm with the song

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They look like long-haired crooks Dancing in a sitting posture Some play mandira86 while some khartal87 In their ecstasy they roll on the floor Making sweets with rice, lentils and clarified butter Laying them on banana leaves They sit together to eat and distribute88

The Salafi response to such be-shariʿa activities are meted out with physical violence, When such news reach the ears of the local mawlvi He becomes aghast on hearing of such heretical practices How could one tolerate such insult to the faith of Muhammad? He orders his people to get such Fakirs to him by the scuff of their neck89

Nazir argues that whatever degree of spiritual power a Fakir achieves he can never be equal to an ʿAlim, an individual learned in the Islamic religious and philosophical tenets. In Bengal many Salafi/Ahl-i Hadith leaders are addressed as ʿAlims. He states thus, In this world none is greater than an ʿAlim His words, I say, are infallible Since none has achieved such greatness A greatness that is bestowed upon by Qadir90 himself Whose prayers will pardon all sins of the sinner Alim is no common man, he is the maqbul (chosen) of God Even Muhammad Mustafa has his beneficence upon him Alim is no common man, he is the habib (beloved) of God His prayers will help sinners cross the pul sirat91

Other forms of hostilities On corroborating such literature, discussed above, with contemporary accounts, one gets a continuous trajectory of violence meted out to Fakirs in the name of punishment. Often their hermitage is burned down and their hair and beard forcefully shaved.92 They are socially boycotted and forbidden from using community wells. All this is because Fakirs, in spite of living within the Muslim community, refuse to go to the mosque, offer prayer, observe fast, believe in hajj, consider humans as divine and engage in meditations using the body.93 On

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many occasions, as part of a punishment, they are forcefully taken to the mosque to take an oath of dissociation from the path of the Fakir. When all ways and means fail, then Fakirs are framed up in false cases and thrown behind bars for months.94 The highest concentration of Fakirs is spread across the three biggest districts of West Bengal: Nadia, Murshidabad and Birbhum. Therefore most instances of attacks on this community occur in these districts. In 1997 Fakirs from different districts of Bengal came together in Nadia for a two-day meeting where discussions were held and songs sung denouncing communal tendencies within the society, futile rituals in the name of religion and dominance of conservative religious leaders in the Muslim society. This endeavour was severely criticized by the orthodox section of the Muslim community. Added to this, the local mosque carried such propaganda against the Fakirs that they were denied entry to the community graveyard when they wanted to perform the last rites of a Fakir.95 In 1999 in Murshidabad, Akbar ʿAli, Suleman Mondal, Hakim Mondal and Hafizur Rahman, all Fakirs, were forcefully taken to the mosque and asked to quit their path. They were accused of singing anti-shariʿa songs and Indian hemp. Of the four, two were released after they paid a fine. But Akbar ʿAli and Hakim Mondal had to face social boycott. They were physically tortured by local religious leaders and forced to leave the village.96 In 2000, when Siddiq Fakir from Murshidabad came to Nadia to visit his four disciples, all five Fakirs were physically attacked by the local mawlana and his aides. They were brought to the mosque and forced to repent (tawba) for following the Fakiri way of life. However they continued to practice it secretly. As a result they were eventually not allowed to participate in Eid prayers and were socially boycotted.97 Arguing that it is a community affair, with clandestine local political support, law enforcement agencies refrain from taking active measures against the perpetrators of such violence. Thus religious leaders get away even after committing such attacks against the Fakirs. Instead of mitigating the violence local police officers advise Fakirs and their family members to follow the dictates of the community leaders. In a village in the Nadia district Fakir ʿAyn al-Haque, with the help of his neighbour Hiru Mandal, took his wife Rehana for treatment to the local hospital. Since then both have been threatened with social boycott by local religious leaders. Fakir Madhu Shaykh had to pay a fine of two thousand rupees for ignoring the dictates of local religious leaders and marrying his sister to another Fakir.

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In another instance, Fakir Jalil Shaykh had to pay a similar fine of 1,200 rupees, and yet was not allowed to harvest his crops. Local religious leaders like Imam ʿAli Shaykh and scholars attached to local madrasahs like Nazr al-Islam are unambiguous in their position with regard to the Fakirs: ‘In our community every individual has to follow the shariʿa … we have made it clear to the police that since Fakirs do not recognize the shariʿa they should pray separately and bury their dead in a separate graveyard.’98 They do not elucidate whether their hostility is towards the Fakirs, or more specifically towards their practices. But it does not take much effort to understand the propensity of these conservative religious leaders to throttle any alternate voice within their community, lest their authority be compromised. Such attacks continue unabated even after the foundation of the Baul-Fakir Association in 1983.99 The latter was formed with the sole intention of uniting Fakirs across districts under the umbrella of an organization that would provide them with security through legal and lawful means. Shaykh Akbar ʿAli, the Secretary of the Association, elaborated their aims in a report: Fundamentalist attacks on free-minded Fakirs have a long historical past. More recently in 1983 when Fakirs were attacked more harshly than ever before in the districts of Murshidabad, Nadia and Birbhum, the need was felt for a unified protest. We were fortunate to have the support of Professor Shaktinath Jha, and together we established the Baul-Fakir Association in 1983. In times of distress we try to stand beside these people, bauls and Fakirs, who live beyond the narrow confines of religion and caste distinctions, and respect all humans as equal. We try to offer treatment to Fakirs through our publictreatment methods. Towards this effort we have set up a garden for medicinal plants in Murshidabad. Our primary aim is to help Fakirs overcome their addiction for grass. We have been successful to an extent, though much needs to be done. It needs to be clarified that smoking grass is a personal addiction and has no relation whatsoever to the meditation practices of Fakirs. From 1999, religious leaders and fundamentalists started infiltrating the ranks of the Association with the aim to destroy it from within. When they failed in their plans, a more fierce form of attack ensued which involved local political networks as well. Such attacks apart from being physically violent also carried an extensive propaganda against Fakirs and their actions. This has increased the responsibility of our Association along with the need to expand our network in rural areas. For this we need more members who would sympathize with our cause and come forward to help us in protecting a group which is under incessant attack.100

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The words of Fakir Jalal Shah brings out the sentiment of the Fakirs succinctly, ‘Maulvis, ʿAlims, Shariʿatis – they can never agree with Fakirs. While they are only concerned with texts and canons, we have to also follow the dil Koran and search for the dil Kaʿba. Fakirs unite people, rather than dividing them. We understand their position, but they never take any effort to understand ours. It is a conflict that is ongoing and will continue till the day of Qayamat.’101

Chishtiyya defence Such attacks on Fakirs at times spill over to infringe on the spiritual territory of established Sufi tariqas like the Chishtiyya, considered the most popular Sufi Order in South Asia. In Bengal one of the earliest Chishtiyya masters to arrive and settle down was Shah ʿAbdullah Kirmani, who originally came from Kirman and received his spiritual training under Muin al-din Chishti, the founder of the order in South Asia. He started the Kirmani suborder of Chishtis in Bengal in the early thirteenth century.102 Chishtiyya spiritual manuals were usually written in Persian, which was incomprehensible to the vast number of Muslims living in rural Bengal. As a result, over centuries the beliefs and practices of the Chishtiyya Order came to be misread, and hence misinterpreted to the extent of incorporating innovations within it. Riding on the wave of reformist activities in Bengal, a manual entitled Fakir Sambal was written in 1926 under the supervision of a suborder of Chishtiyyas. Published from eastern Bengal (present-day Bangladesh), the author Muhammad Imdad ʿAli Shah Chishti Nizami was himself an initiate of the order and, under instructions from his master (murshid) Pir Dastgir Hazrat Mawlvi and Maulana Shah Ahsan Ullah, undertook the task of eliminating the misconceptions and malpractices that have crept into the order over centuries.103 Given the period when the text was composed, the readership it was aimed towards and the issues it dealt with in its pages, it leaves no doubt in the mind of a reader that a strong underlying motive behind the exercise was to stand up to the reformist challenge that was sweeping across Bengal at that time – more particularly the conservative challenge posed by the Ahl-i Hadith. Negating the primary accusation of the Salafis that Fakirs are be-shariʿati in their religious beliefs, Imdad ʿAli begins his text by pronouncing that shariʿa is the cornerstone of tasawwuf philosophy and should be considered as the point of entry towards understanding the Sufi path (tariqa) and truth (haqiqa).104 He further states that becoming a Fakir is impossible without taking recourse to the shariʿa. Be-shariʿa Fakirs and their miracles should be considered as actions

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of the evil. They are the ones who have left the practice of namaz, arguing that they are maʿrifati Fakirs, not bound to follow the shariʿa practice of namaz, as it is nothing more than mere standing and sitting without any spiritual succour.105 For such souls it is a reminder that the Prophet himself practised namaz and advised his companions and the umma to follow the same.106 This has been adhered to even by great Sufi masters like Muin al-din Chishti, Bakhtiyar Kaki and Nizam al-din Awliya. Therefore it is important to follow the path treaded by great Sufi masters of the past. Their mystical qualities are rarely found among contemporary Fakirs, who are more interested in turning the resting places of these early masters into avenues of material benefit. Such Fakirs do not possess the same spiritual knowledge as they themselves claim.107 The manual then goes on to attack the primary ritual of the Fakirs – singing, by arguing that the way in which the ritual is carried out – with accompaniments of tabla, harmonium, behala, dholki and stringed instruments, along with dancing – is strictly forbidden. Earlier Sufi masters only allowed the inclusion of dholak, considering it similar to the duff, while some considered instruments unlawful.108 The ideal way of listening to music is to follow the standards set by earlier masters, like Muin al-din Chishti, Bakhtiyar Kaki and Nizam al-din Awliyaʾ.109 The text then moves into issues of lawful (halal) and forbidden (haram) in the context of Sufi music. The manual ends on a note of warning against modern-day Fakirs, who are considered to be nowhere closer to the spiritual path. Keeping long hair, wearing a patched cloak, carrying prayer beads and singing songs does not qualify them to be part of the mystical tradition. Rather their only aim is to gain material benefits as much as possible by beguiling innocent men and women. Presentday Fakirs take disciples in thousands and proclaim themselves to be spiritual masters, just to ensure a steady supply of resources and money.110 Rather than immersing their ‘self ’ in spiritual quest, these Fakirs are more interested in extravagant rituals, with the aim to attract as many devotees as possible, thereby ensuring steady financial support for their establishment.111

Conclusions Interestingly the common masses – who are supposed to be misled by the Fakirs in the name of maʿrifat, and need to be brought back to the fold of true Islam, in the opinion of the religious leaders – never participate voluntarily in the

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anti-Fakir agitations. Bringing them to the folds to true Islam is a dichotomy in itself, since a large section neither follow Islam by the scripture nor visit the mosque for prayers. As a result they are more accommodating towards Fakirs, their songs and sayings, while being disinterested towards the diktats issued by members of the Ahl-i Hadith and Jamaʿat-i Islami groups. It is also true that there is little or no direct connection between the latter and the rural masses. Members of the Ahl-i Hadith and Jamaʿat-i Islami groups usually visit the village mosque and houses of local religious leaders. It is the latter who then conveys the message to the inhabitants of the village. While these masses listen to religious discourses on what is forbidden in the eyes of Islam, they seldom apply it to their daily lives. Even when they fail to engage the masses in their hostile activities, the local religious leaders themselves under the instigation from Ahl-i Hadith and Jamaʿat-i Islami groups take the onus to punish the Fakirs. Branches of established Sufi Orders also distance themselves from the beliefs and practices of Fakirs, especially the latter’s antipathy towards the shariʿa. While Fakirs interpret the shariʿa as a means for inculcating humane qualities within an individual, the religious leaders are bent towards a more scriptural reading of the shariʿa. This inevitably leads to a conflict between the two groups. Sufi orders and their sub-branches choose to stay away from this conflict primarily by attesting the centrality of the shariʿa in their spiritual tradition. At the same time the finer points of distinction with the Fakirs are fleshed out through texts and manuals as discussed above. Such texts aim at a twofold objective – first, by affirming the place of shariʿa as part of their spiritual training, these Sufi orders position themselves as carriers of the true spirit of Islam, alongside the reformist and Salafi groups. These Sufi branches then emerge as competitors rather than collaborators to the Ahl-i Hadith and Jamaʿat-i Islami in their claim as interpreters of true Islam. Secondly, by detailing the points of difference with sects like the Fakirs, these Sufi Orders and their branches across Bengal stamp their authority as primary carriers of the spiritual tradition of Islam, for which the term ‘Sufism’ is used rather homogenously. Such texts then place Sufi Orders as the ‘mainstream’ within the spiritual tradition of Islam, relegating sects like Bauls and Fakirs to the periphery. Thus the entire idea of a centre-periphery gets reworked within the mystical traditions of Islam, which in turn is believed, by reformists and Salafis alike, to be antithetical to true Islam. It is not to be believed that branches of Sufi Orders in Bengal are immune from attacks by the religious clergy. But Sufi branches in Bengal, like elsewhere in South Asia, enjoy an enormous degree of popular support that renders them

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immune to a large extent from the hostile behaviour of conservative religious leaders. Individual Fakirs, or even a group of Fakirs living in a village, usually do not command such a large degree of reverence from the masses. As a result they are easily overpowered and harassed by religious leaders attached to a village mosque or madrasah. Even though Fakirs claim a similar status to Sufi Orders, one of the primary challenges to this claim is posed by the lack of a spiritual genealogy or shajarah to link the current sajjada nashin of a Sufi Order to Prophet Muhammad through the genealogical tree of his ancestors. Absence of shajarah poses a major lacuna in ascertaining the claim of Fakirs as equal to Sufi tariqas.112 The entire spiritual-conservative discourse within the Muslim community in Bengal is greatly layered to offer any linear patterns of deduction. The presence of Islam in Bengal, being part of a long historical process extending over many centuries, not only created a favourable environment for Sufis to settle and preach, but at the same time the interaction of Islam with local religious traditions led to the formation of sects like the Fakirs, who combine in their beliefs and practices both Islamic and local traditions. In the same way the conservative reaction also defies any homogenous characterization. It ranged from individual scholars like Mawlana Reaz al-din Ahmad to conservative reformist groups like the Ahl-i Hadith to local religious leaders and pan-Indian Sufi Orders like the Chishtiyya. While all had their individual approaches and arguments to put forward, it is interesting to note that the common thread that tied them together was the call of ‘Islam in danger’. And the source for this danger was unanimously identified to be the Fakirs. It is also worth noting that while there was less disagreement with regard to the source of the danger – the Fakirs – the ways to remove this so-called danger ranged from polemical literature to extreme physical violence. Therefore it is precisely this intolerance towards an alternative voice within the Muslim community that gives rise to this variety of responses from the so-called leadership. Yet it is the heterogeneity of the Islamic spiritual tradition in Bengal, together with the voices and hands that oppose it, that take this discourse beyond a narrow, homogenous perspective, opening it to deeper analysis, which continues to emerge as Fakirs strive for their existence at the edges of society.

8

Representing the Detractors of Sufism in Twentieth-Century Hyderabad, India Mauro Valdinoci

Introduction India has proved to be fertile ground for the growth of modern Islamic movements of reform (islah) and revival (tajdid).1 Since the second half of the nineteenth century, the ‘ulama’ who belonged to these groups have engaged in debates concerning doctrinal issues, such as the qualities of the Prophet Muhammad and the permissibility of religious practices, such as visiting the tombs of saints. From their respective perspectives, they have criticized different aspects of contemporary Muslim culture and society, urging Muslims to reform their religious views and practices by adhering more faithfully to the principles expressed in the Qurʾan and the ahadith. Much of their criticism has been directed against Sufism, which has increasingly come to be seen as an un-Islamic and culturally backward religious tradition that hinders social reform.2 As a reaction to such denunciation, certain Sufi masters (pirs) began to engage in these debates, arguing for the legitimacy of Sufi beliefs and practices.3 The overall picture offered by historians is one of intense competition for hegemonic influence over the Indian Muslim population,4 which has placed these movements in opposition to each other and has often taken the form of a war of abuses and accusations. While a wide body of scholarly literature on the Indian Islamic reformist movements is available, the responses of Indian Sufis to their detractors represent a more neglected field.5 The last fifteen years have witnessed the publication of several scholarly works devoted to highlighting the perspective of South Asian Sufis, both monographs6 and articles.7 Although these studies shed light on different aspects of the reactions

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of South Asian Sufis to the attacks made by their detractors, nevertheless they do not focus on the ways in which Sufis have portrayed them. Notable exceptions are the monographs of Usha Sanyal and Alix Philippon,8 however, since both works focus on the leaders of the Barelvi movement, the Sufis who do not identify themselves with the views and methods of this movement are not adequately represented in the literature. This article seeks to provide a contribution to an understanding of the Indian Sufis’ responses to the attacks of Muslim reformist intellectuals by specifically looking at the representation of the detractors of Sufism by a prominent Sufi in twentieth-century Hyderabad, Muhammad ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi (1871–1962), and one of his khalifas (deputies), Muhammad Anwar al-Din Siddiqi (1923–92), who wrote texts in defence of Sufism. I suggest here that investigating the ways in which Sufis depict their detractors is a helpful method of highlighting their stance on controversial religious issues. Thus, it contributes to the spotlighting of different orientations among Sufis and divergent approaches to the defence of Sufism. To analyse this topic, I combine the methods of historical anthropology with the philological approach of Islamic studies and analytical tools derived from discourse analysis, drawing on both fieldwork and textual research.9 The sources on which this chapter is based include select writings of Muhammad ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi and Muhammad Anwar al-Din Siddiqi, my field notes, and interviews with present-day pirs and khalifas of this branch of the Qadiriyya. The primary purpose of this chapter is to piece together the image that the Sufi masters of this Qadiri branch intended to convey, by focusing on the ways they refer to the detractors of Sufism, the characteristics they attribute to them and the arguments they use against them. Moreover, I wish to discuss this portrayal through reference to the work of the renowned Ahmad Rida Khan of Bareilly in order to highlight similarities and differences. Although the depiction of the detractors of Sufism provided by ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi and his khalifa has much in common with that offered by Ahmad Rida Khan, the former also differs from the latter on several counts. While Ahmad Rida Khan clearly identified his rivals when denouncing their views, ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi focused on the controversial issues without mentioning specific persons or movements. On the one hand, Ahmad Rida Khan argued quite aggressively with rival Muslim leaders, not hesitating to label those who did not agree with his own views as infidels (kafirs), thus drawing exclusive boundaries within the Muslim community. On the other hand, ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi strongly criticized the excessive resort to takfir (the practice of declaring someone a kafir) promoting the idea that divergent opinions

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can coexist within Islam. By suggesting that differences in the representation of the detractors of Sufism may have a parallel in the different approaches to the defence of Sufism, this chapter seeks to argue that the Indian Sufis’ responses to their modern detractors are more complex and varied than has been suggested in previous research. Before exploring the ways ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi and his khalifa depicted the detractors of Sufism, I would like to say a few words about the relationship between Sufi and reformist discourse in Hyderabad.

Sufism and Islamic reformism in Hyderabad under Muslim rule As Fabrizio Speziale observes, since the second half of the sixteenth century, Sufis and Sufi institutions have made a notable contribution to the development of Muslim culture in Hyderabad.10 After the fall of the Mughal Empire, Hyderabad State became the wealthiest Muslim princely state, attracting a great number of poets, scholars, religious men and doctors from all over India.11 While the British gradually took control of India, despite the Subsidiary Alliance treaty signed with the British in 1798, Hyderabad State was able to retain its autonomy concerning internal affairs right up to the independence of India, and stood out as a stronghold of traditional Indo-Muslim culture. Under the rule of the Nizams (r. 1724–1948), according to the available biographical dictionaries, numerous Sufis and Sufi shrines in Hyderabad benefited from the patronage of the court and some sections of the nobility.12 Nevertheless, in spite of such a favourable context for the development of Sufi traditions, Hyderabad was not immune to the spread of anti-Sufi criticism advanced by modern Islamic reformist movements, such as the Deobandi movement, the Ahl-i Hadith, and the circle of Sayyid Ahmad Khan (d. 1898). In the period following the war of 1857 and the exile of the last Mughal emperor in 1858, numerous Muslim poets, scholars and religious notables escaped from Delhi and the old centres of Muslim patronage in north India, which gradually came under the control of the British, in order to seek refuge and employment in Hyderabad.13 This influx of north Indian Muslims, many of whom were associated with the aforesaid movements, might have played a part in the spread of reformist ideas.14 While our knowledge of the extent of the dissemination of reformist ideas in Hyderabad during the second half of the nineteenth century is still fragmentary, the fact that some Hyderabadi Sufis, such as Iftikhar ʿAli Shah Watan (d. 1906)

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and Habib ʿAli Shah (d. 1906), felt the need to write texts in defence of Sufism15 may suggest that reformist discourse had a degree of support in the city. At that time, several Islamic educational institutions were established, some of which reflected reformist tendencies. The most important madrasa in Hyderabad, the Jamiʿa Nizamiyya, was founded in 1875 by Muhammad Anwar Allah Faruqi (1849–1918), a scholar and Sufi.16 It is interesting to note that he was a disciple of Imdadullah Makki (1817–99), as were numerous contemporary Indian ‘ulama’, such as the founders of the Dar al-ʿUlum of Deoband (founded 1866) and the Nadwat al-‘ulama’ (founded 1893).17 Although it appears that Muhammad Anwar Allah Faruqi never criticized the Deobandi movement openly, and his successor as head of the Jamiʿa Nizamiyya, Muhammad Ahmad, was a Deobandi, any attempt to define the Jamiʿa Nizamiyya as an offshoot of the Dar al-ʿUlum of Deoband would be problematic.18 Although the identity of the madrasa seems more in line with the ideas of the Barelvi movement,19 apparently neither Muhammad Anwar Allah Faruqi nor subsequent leading scholars of the madrasa ever identified with this movement. Thus it appears that the Jamiʿa Nizamiyya was able to retain its own identity among Indian Islamic reformist institutions. Another significant educational institution in Hyderabad is Osmania University (founded 1918), where the study of Islamic sciences was combined with modern scientific education and Western humanities. The ideas and purposes which lay behind the establishment of this modern university were very similar to those that led to the foundation of the Aligarh school in 1875 (which later became the Mohammedan Anglo Oriental College and in 1920 was expanded into Aligarh Muslim University) by Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan. Osmania University undoubtedly played a part in the discussion and dissemination of modernist ideas in Hyderabad, in a similar way as the other universities that were established later on. As different tendencies of Islamic reformism increasingly attracted new supporters in Hyderabad, Sufi doctrines and practices became the target of harsh criticism. Nevertheless, at least up until 1948, it can be safely stated that Sufism was an integral part of the worldview and ethos of most Hyderabadi Muslims, and that it enjoyed support, both ideological and material, from the court and a section of the nobility. Not only did a majority of the rulers of the Nizam dynasty, as well as many members of the local aristocracy, regularly patronize Sufi masters and shrines by donating money and land grants, but numerous aristocrats became disciples of local Sufi masters and even the last two rulers,

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Mahbub ʿAli Khan (r. 1869–1911) and ʿUthman ʿAli Khan (r. 1911–48), were tutored by a Sufi master, Muhammad Anwar Allah Faruqi.20 This situation radically changed in 1948, when Hyderabad was taken over by the Indian union and the Muslim princely state was turned abruptly into a modern secular democracy.

The contemporary context In post-1948 Hyderabad, Islam was no longer the state religion but simply a minority religion, as the majority population was Hindu. Sufism lost a source of legitimacy that had once been provided by Muslim rulers and became merely one interpretation of Islam among other competing interpretations. Since then, intellectuals and religious scholars have had to compete for hegemonic influence over Indian Muslims and they have primarily done this through the delivery of public lectures and the publication of polemical pamphlets, articles in periodicals, and books in Urdu and English. Furthermore, this intense publication activity has been paralleled by the establishment of networks of educational institutions and mosques. In the 1970s, the growth of Saudi Arabia’s political and economic power had an impact on Muslim religious discourse and practices in Hyderabad.21 On the one hand, Saudi Arabia’s policy of sponsoring the foundation of educational institutions and mosques in foreign countries has given impetus to the activities of reformist groups, as happened in Pakistan and Bangladesh.22 On the other hand, the considerable flow of migrant workers to the Gulf has affected religious discourse and practices. During their stay in Saudi Arabia or other Gulf countries, migrants have been exposed to the ideas of the Wahhabiyya movement, and it is likely that some of them have imbibed such views, thus becoming vehicles for their propagation, such as in the case of the Bengali migrants studied by Katy Gardner.23 Currently, all the major Indian reformist movements are represented in Hyderabad. The leading Deobandi organization, Jamʿiyat-i ʿUlamaʾ-i Hind (founded 1919), has a local branch based in Amberpet, presided over by Pir Shabbir Ahmad. Several Deobandi madrasas have been established, the most important being the Dar al-ʿUlum Sabil al-Salam (founded 1972), which also functions as a welfare organization and is located in Salala, Barkas; and the Jamiʿa Islamiyya Dar al-ʿUlum Hyderabad, founded by the renowned scholar

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and Sufi Hamid al-Din Husami ʿAqil (d. 2010), in 1975, located in Jamia Nagar. The modernist tendency that takes inspiration from the thought of Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan and Abu’l-ʿAla Mawdudi (1903–79) has some following, especially among the upper classes and the highly educated. Several Ahl-i Hadith organizations have offshoots in Hyderabad, such as the Markazi Jamʿiyat-i Ahl-i Hadith Hind (founded 1906). The missionary organization known as Tablighi Jamaʿat (founded 1926) has established a vibrant network of mosques, with its headquarters in the main mosque of Mallepally. Therefore, it is no surprise that anti-Sufi discourse is so common in Hyderabad nowadays. During my fieldwork, when chatting with common Hyderabadis, I often came across negative or abusive comments on local Sufi masters and shrines. On several occasions, when I told my interlocutors that I was conducting research on Sufism, they made a point of explaining to me the differences between Sufism and correct Islam. However, walking through Hyderabad’s neighbourhoods, especially the older ones, one gets a sense of the relevance of Sufism to contemporary Hyderabadis. The landscape is scattered with dargahs and cenotaphs of ʿAli (d. 661), ʿAbd al-Qadir Jilani (d. 1166) and Muin al-Din Chishti (d. 1234) are ubiquitous. Anniversaries of the deaths of Sufi saints (sing. ʿurs) are advertised in local Urdu newspapers and on posters. Pious visits to the tombs of the saints (ziyarat) are common practice among both Muslims and non-Muslims. The milad al-nabi, the annual anniversary of the Prophet’s birth, is celebrated on a large scale, and throughout the month of rabiʿ al-awwal a great number of processions, public gatherings, conferences, lectures and poetic symposiums (sing. mushaʿira) are organized in honour of the Prophet. Furthermore, Sufi masters offering spiritual training and healing are in plentiful supply: the most widespread order is apparently the Qadiriyya, followed by the Chishtiyya and the Naqshbandiyya. Other orders, such as the Rifaʾiyya, the Shattariyya and the Naqshbandi branch known as Abuʾl-ʿUlaiyya also have a following. Offshoots of the Barelvi movement are also to be found in the city. Indeed, while observing the city’s landscape it is not unusual to spot the domes of mosques and dargahs decorated with black and white stripes, the typical hallmark of the movement. In addition, some of the poems composed by the founder of the movement, Ahmad Rida Khan, especially the one entitled Mustafa jan-i rahmat pe lakhun salam (Thousands of Salutes to Mustafa, the Source of Mercy), are sung daily in many city dargahs, such as the dargah of Yusuf Chishti (d. 1710) and Sharf al-Din Chishti (d. 1710) in Nampally and that of Baba Sharf al-Din Suhrawardi (d. 1286) in Pahari Sharif, which are the two most popular local Sufi

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shrines. The Barelvi organization Minhaj al-Qurʾan, founded by the renowned Pakistani scholar Muhammad Tahir al-Qadiri in 1981, established a local branch in Mughalpura, in the Old City, which includes a centre and a school. Similarly, the Daʿwat-i Islami, also founded in Pakistan in 1981, established the Sunni Dawat-i Islami Centre in Dilli Darwaza (Nayapul) and a school in Latifabad (Zamzam Nagar).24 During my fieldwork, visiting several Sufi circles of Hyderabad and conducting extended participant observation among a few of them, I gained the impression that, on the whole, Sufis are not very much concerned with the disputes between the supporters and the detractors of Sufism. It seems that Sufis have largely ignored the attacks of reformist movements and instead have opted to focus on their own practices. Nevertheless, some of them have publicly defended the legitimacy of Sufi beliefs and practices through lectures and writings. Among the most active have been the Barelvis, who have primarily been involved in the dissemination of the texts of Ahmad Rida Khan and leading north Indian scholars of the movement. However, there have also been other Sufis who have published writings in defence of Sufism, such as ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi (d. 1962), his khalifa Muhammad Anwar al-Din Siddiqi (d. 1992), Sahwi Shah (d. 1979), the latter’s living spiritual successor Ghawthwi Shah and Muhammad ʿAli Khan Mujaddidi Naqshbandi, just to mention a few names. As a first step in the broader project aimed at investigating the justification of Sufism in Hyderabad, this chapter is concerned with the works of the first two authors on the list. The following sections explore some of their writings, focusing on the ways they represent the detractors of Sufism.

ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi and his Tafsir The fact that ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi is mentioned in all the biographical anthologies of the Sufi saints of Hyderabad is a sign of his prominence.25 As his name suggests, he was a lineal descendant of the first caliph: Abu Bakr (d. 634). His ancestors hailed from Cheenak, a small town near Ahmedabad, Gujarat, and migrated to Hyderabad towards the middle of the eighteenth century.26 Among his ancestors were religious scholars, Sufis and doctors; many of them, including ʿAbd alQadir Siddiqi’s father, held important positions in the Nizams’ administration.27 ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi was born in Hyderabad in 1871. He received his basic religious education from his father, then attended the madrasa Mahbubiyya, and finally went to the madrasa Dar al-ʿUlum (founded 1856), where he studied

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Islamic religious and rational sciences in addition to Arabic grammar and literature, earning the degree of mawlwi fadil.28 At the age of fifteen, he began his career as a mufti and teacher of fiqh at the Dar al-ʿUlum, where later on he also taught subjects such as tafsir and hadith.29 When the Osmania University was founded in 1918, he was appointed as a professor of religious sciences and the first head of the Department of Theology, holding these positions until 1932, when he retired.30 In his youth, ʿAbd al-Qadir became a disciple of his maternal uncle, Muhammad Siddiq Husayni, known as Mahbub Allah (1847–95), and was initiated into the Qadiriyya, receiving the khilafat at the age of sixteen.31 He set up a broad network of followers, disciples and khalifas; while the number of disciples is not known, one of his main biographers informs us that he had ninety-two khalifas.32 When he was not at work, the centre of his activities was his home: there he taught, wrote, carried out the spiritual training of disciples, received daily visitors and supplicants and engaged in his own spiritual exercises and devotions.33 He died there on 24 March 1962 (17 shawwal 1381) and was buried in Bahadurpura, in a thirteen-acre plot he had purchased in 1935, where his dargah is currently located. ʿAbd al-Qadir had four wives (not simultaneously), ten sons and twelve daughters. Long before his own death, he appointed his elder son, ʿAbd al-Rahim Siddiqi (1887–1968), to be his sajjada nashin. ʿAbd al-Qadir was a renowned scholar in the field of Islamic religious sciences, specializing in tafsir, and was also a prolific writer. He has numerous works to his credit, in Arabic, Persian and Urdu, both in prose and poetry.34 The most important of his works are an Urdu translation and commentary of Ibn ʿArabi’s Fusus al-hikam, which was included in the syllabus in several Indian madrasas and universities such as the Dar al-ʿUlum of Hyderabad and Panjab University, and an Urdu translation and exegesis of the Qurʾan entitled Tafsir-i Siddiqi (The Tafsir of Siddiqi). His writings cover a wide range of subjects, including theology, cosmology, logic, Sufism, Sufi practices, social and moral reforms and others. While he chiefly defended the legitimacy of Sufi doctrines and practices in Tafsir-i Siddiqi, he also wrote an article in defence of samaʿ (meditative listening), entitled Samaʿ, another on the notion of bidʿat (illegitimate innovation), entitled Bidʿat, and another on the celebration of the Prophet’s birthday, entitled Eid al-milad (The Feast of the Birth).35 ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi started working on his Tafsir at the beginning of the 1930s and the writing process took several years. Afterwards, individual chapters of the Tafsir were published monthly in the periodical Al-Qadir under the title

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Dars al-Qurʾan.36 The text was published as a single book entitled Tafsir-i Siddiqi by ʿAbd al-Qadir’s sons and khalifas Dr Musa ʿAbd al-Rahman Siddiqi (1922– 85) and Ahmad ʿAbd al-Shakur Siddiqi, in Karachi, Pakistan, in 1969, seven years after the author’s demise. A few years ago it was republished by Hasrat Academy Publications, the publishing house of the Siddiqi family, in a six-volume edition, and recently it was made available for free consultation on its website. Since ʿAbd al-Qadir’s passing, his spiritual successors have taught Tafsir-i Siddiqi on the occasion of the weekly public gatherings that still take place every Sunday at the dargah. Intriguingly, ʿAbd al-Qadir writes in the introduction to the Tafsir that after the publication of the first chapter of the Tafsir (the exegesis of the sura al-fatiha), some unidentified ‘internal enemies (andaruni dushmanon)’ went to a certain Mr Grigson, the member in charge of Police and Public Affairs of the Executive Council of the Nizam, complaining about the views expressed in the text. However, Mr Grigson remarked that a tafsir was a legitimate place for any author to express his own opinion on religion and that if they had any objections against the text, they could simply choose to ignore it.37 Although this may be just a tale aimed at supporting ʿAbd al-Qadir’s arguments,38 it suggests that Tafsir-i Siddiqi might have become the target of criticism from reformistminded Muslims in Hyderabad. Since the tafsir, as an established genre in Islamic literature, is an ideal place to explore an author’s opinions on religious issues, Tafsir-i Siddiqi offers a privileged perspective on ʿAbd al-Qadir’s personal view on the detractors of Sufism. Throughout the text, ʿAbd al-Qadir often refers to them. At the beginning of the introduction, ʿAbd al-Qadir stresses that he composed his Tafsir ‘according to the need of his age’ (iqtida-i zamana ka lahaz),39 and this idea is reiterated throughout the text.40 It seems that he saw his age as a time in which Islam was constantly under threat from both external and internal enemies, and it was the latter about which he was most concerned.41 Besides extolling the virtues of the religious scholars, who, in the past, had devoted their own lives to rebutting the enemies of Islam,42 ʿAbd al-Qadir makes it clear that he intends to take up such a task, presenting himself as their heir.43 As he states, Throughout this translation, I have tried my best not only to translate Qurʾanic passages according to Arabic idioms, but also to answer the objections of the enemies of Islam. This kind of work is part of dialectic philosophy (ʿilm-i kalam) but times have changed. Objectors of older days are no more. Modern objectors object differently. The replies should also be in accordance with the objections.44

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While illustrating the characteristics of his Tafsir, ʿAbd al-Qadir reveals that its aim is not only to translate the Qurʾanic text as thoroughly as possible, but also to reply to the charges put forward by reformist Muslims. Another significant characteristic of this tafsir is that while discussing objections, the names of the objectors are omitted.45 ʿAbd al-Qadir does not mention specific scholars; rather, he seems more interested in elucidating controversial issues by discussing them in light of the Qur’an, the ahadith, and the opinions of the imams of the four schools of law, particularly the Hanafi school. As I will show later, this is a key point in his defence of Sufism, which distinguishes him from other twentiethcentury Indian Sufis. Given that the introduction and first chapter are expressly devoted to the defence of Sufism,46 I shall focus only on this part of the Tafsir. In the following section, by specifically looking at the chapters and other texts mentioned above, I seek to highlight the ways in which ʿAbd al-Qadir constructed and represented the detractors of Sufism.

ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi’s representation of the

detractors of Sufism

Before turning to ʿAbd al-Qadir’s writings, I would like to make a few remarks on the analytical tools I have used to analyse them. Researchers in the field of critical discourse analysis have provided useful categories to investigate the topic of legitimation in discourse. They have mostly analysed legitimation in political discourse, but the categories put forward by them can also be used to explore legitimation (and of course delegitimation) in religious discourse. Critical discourse analysis sees both spoken and written discourse as a form of social practice, assuming a dialectic relationship between particular discourses and the contexts and institutions in which they occur.47 As Van Leeuwen and Wodak put it, ‘Through discourse, social actors constitute knowledge, situations, social roles as well as identities and interpersonal relations between various interacting social groups. In addition, discursive acts are socially constitutive in a number of ways.’48 Spoken and written discourse plays a key role in the construction of certain identities and groups of people; in addition, it can justify or condemn a particular social status quo, contributing to both its perpetuation and transformation (or even destruction).49 Concerning the discourses in defence of Sufism examined in this chapter, it can be noted that they are instrumental in reproducing certain religious practices that have been

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settled in South Asia but have become contested during the past two centuries. Furthermore, these discourses play a part in the construction of Sufi identity and that of its detractors. As Philippon states, ‘The identification of the rival/ opponent of a certain movement is a crucial process in the definition of the identity of the group and the establishment of the boundary between we/ they.’50 From the perspective of any particular group that becomes the target of criticism from rival groups, projecting a negative representation of its opponents becomes an important means of challenging the legitimacy of such criticism. In this regard, Teun van Dijk claims that the justification of a particular status quo ‘involves two complementary strategies, namely the positive representation of the own group, and the negative representation of the Others’.51 According to van Leeuwen and Wodak, these discursive strategies fall into the category of ‘constructive strategies’, namely ‘linguistic utterances which constitute a “we” group and a “they” group through a particular act of reference’.52 Such strategies enact a process of ‘moral evaluation’53 that implies the positive representation of the we-group, in our case composed of the writer and his followers, and the negative representation of the they-group, namely the detractors of Sufism. Analysing the double process of positive self-representation and negative otherrepresentation, Ruth Wodak distinguishes three discursive strategies through which such a process is accomplished. ‘Referential strategies’ are used for the construction and representation of social actors, ‘predicative strategies’ are used to identify or explain social actors through evaluative attributions and ‘argumentative strategies’ are related to the arguments, linguistic structures and rhetorical devices used for the delegitimization of others.54

Referential strategies As the selected chapters of Tafsir-i Siddiqi and other works listed above show, ʿAbd al-Qadir combined all these strategies in representing the detractors of Sufism. A glimpse into the ways in which he names and refers to the detractors of Sufism reveals all his main arguments against them. As stated above, ʿAbd al-Qadir never mentions specific persons or groups of people. Rather, he refers to the detractors of Sufism through generic words and phrases, such as ‘one gentleman’ (ek sahab),55 ‘people’ (lug) or ‘the people’ (yeh lug),56 ‘religious scholars’ (ʿulamaʾ-i millat)57 or ‘those who say amin loudly or raise their hands [at the time of takbir during prayers]’ (amin baʾl-jahr aur rafiʿ yadn karnewalon).58 Sometimes, he addresses them directly as ‘gentlemen’ (sahabu), or ‘you’ (tum)

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(which, by the way, is less formal and deferential than ap)59; ‘oh my dear wicked brothers [lit. brothers of the master of angels]’, (ae farishton ke ustad bhaʾiu).60 The last phrase is the least neutral among these and hints at the analogy between the detractors of Sufism and Iblis (Satan). In the same way that Iblis refused to bow down before Adam, the detractors refuse to pay due respect to the Prophet and the saints. ʿAbd al-Qadir sometimes calls them jahil (ignorant),61 stressing that many of them are incompetent, as they lack the required religious knowledge needed to discuss complex doctrinal issues and directly interpret the Qurʾan. Most of the phrases used by ʿAbd al-Qadir underline the detractors’ otherness in relation to the majority of Sunni Muslims, for example, muʿtaridin (objectors),62 mukhallifin-i Islam/mukhallifan-i Islam (enemies of Islam)63 or andaruni dushmanon (internal enemies).64 According to ʿAbd al-Qadir, on the one hand, the detractors are enemies because their views conflict with the principles laid down in the Qurʾan and ahadith; on the other hand, this is the case because their views create resentment and divisions among Muslims. Nevertheless, he does not regard them as being outside the fold of Islam – indeed he refers to them as ‘monotheists’ (muwahhid). Phrases such as madda parast muwahhid (materialist monotheists)65 or be ruh muwahhid (monotheists devoid of spirit)66 serve to emphasize the detractors’ hostility to anything related to spirituality (ruhaniyyat). Other phrases, such as bad lagam muwahhid (unbridled monotheists)67 or ʿazab-i jan muwahhid (obstinate monotheists)68 allude to the rudeness of their style of argumentation, their pride and their disrespectful attitude towards the Prophet and the saints. Despite the fact that most of these phrases certainly have a negative semantic load, they are less insulting than words such as kafir (unbeliever) or bidʿati (innovator), which were much in vogue among Muslim intellectuals and religious scholars during ʿAbd al-Qadir’s time. He could have provided a more negative portrayal of the detractors of Sufism by using kafir or bidʿati, as other scholars and Sufis did, for example, his elder contemporary Ahmad Rida Khan of Bareilly. However, ʿAbd al-Qadir purposefully refrains from using those words and advises his readers to adopt the same attitude. He criticizes Muslims who repeatedly accuse other Muslims of shirk, kufr and bid‘at, particularly in relation to non-obligatory practices (ghayr wajibat) such as the ziyarat or the fatiha, the annual celebration of the anniversaries of the deaths of the saints and the birthday of the Prophet. Alluding to a famous Hadith, he asks his reader to ‘remember that action and reaction are correlated. If someone calls an ordinary Muslim kafir, and the accusation is not true, his accusation rebounds on

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himself. Water flows out from the fountain but falls back into it.’69 For example, in another work, he asserts: ‘Remember: when an issue is interpreted through the involvement of independent reasoning (ijtihad), we cannot pronounce each other as kafirs.’70 While ʿAbd al-Qadir made it a point to rebut the charges of the detractors of Sufism, he always adopted a sober style when discussing contested practices, trying to avoid fuelling disputes and controversies.

Predicative strategies In order to gain a clearer picture of ʿAbd al-Qadir’s representation of the detractors of Sufism, we should now look at the characteristics and qualities he attributes to them. Among key issues that lie at the heart of the disputes between Sufis and their detractors are the differing conceptions of the Prophet. While the latter emphasize the idea of Muhammad as an ordinary man, though a perfect model for behaviour,71 the former argue that Muhammad was not only the most exalted being of all creation but the very purpose of creation, an intercessor with Allah on behalf of mankind, and someone who received extraordinary powers from Allah.72 ʿAbd al-Qadir blames the critics of Sufism for being disrespectful to the Prophet. In his opinion, they are presumptuous when they regard the veneration of the Prophet as shirk and kufr.73 They claim that to celebrate the anniversary of Muhammad’s birth is like the festival in honour of Rama held by the Hindus.74 To put it briefly, they are not able to differentiate between worship (ʿibadat) and reverence (taʿzim).75 Another quality that ʿAbd al-Qadir associates with the detractors of Sufism is incompetence in religious matters. In all likelihood, in this case he is not talking about the leaders of reformist movements, such as the Deobandi movement or the Ahl-i Hadith, who were well-known learned scholars, but rather about their followers, particularly those of the Ahl-i Hadith, who are generally encouraged to look directly at the founding texts of Islam. As he ironically states, Being equipped with neither necessary nor complementary knowledge, by merely claiming to be an expert of ijtihad, one does not become a learned man. One is not even able to read correctly four sentences in Arabic but calls himself Ahl-i Hadith and trusts each end every incompetent Ahl-i Hadith leader without verifying or assessing what the latter says. This is nothing but imitation or unconditional trust.76

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After explaining that one has to acquire an extremely vast array of knowledge before one can claim to be a mujtahid, he laments that: At present, by reading the translation of a book or two on hadith, one calls himself a mujtahid. He does not know either the transmitters’ biographies nor the annulling and the annulled verses of the Qurʾan nor other principles. He is incapable of both comparison and deduction.77

However, ʿAbd al-Qadir is not against the application of ijtihad per se. Unlike many Indian Sufis, such as those associated with the Deobandi and Barelvi movements, he argues that if one has all the required scholarly qualifications for applying ijtihad, he has the right to do so.78 Needless to say, in cases where one is not in such a position, he should follow the opinions of any imam of the four schools of law. He does not agree with the idea that in modern times the doors of ijtihad should remain closed and no one should be able to become a mujtahid, commenting that ‘this is just putting a limit to Allah’s Grace, favours and bounty in endowing men with knowledge’.79 In projecting his self-identity, he thus sets himself apart, not only from the leaders of groups such as the Ahl-i Hadith and the modernists, but also from the Sufis and ʿulamaʾ associated with the Deobandi and Barelvi movements: Between the extremes of pure conformism (taqlid-i mahd) and independence (azadi) or non-conformism (ghayr muqallidi), are different types of ijtihad (independent reasoning), namely the ijtihad-i matlaq, the ijtihad fiʾl-madhhab, and the ijtihad fiʾl-masla, exercised by scholars who have been engaged in theological research and have thus followed the Truth.80

The detractors of Sufism are also portrayed as aggressive and intolerant preachers, often engaged in abusing other Muslims and accusing them of shirk, kufr and bidʿat. They are held liable for damage caused to the Muslim community from inside by their tendency to generate division and conflict and by stirring up hatred among religious groups. For example, ʿAbd al-Qadir draws a comparison between the style of preaching of the critics of Sufism and that of prophets such as Musa (Qurʾan 20:43) and Muhammad (Qurʾan 16:124), who were urged by Allah to speak gently and to reason with people in a better way81: You are by no means more beloved of Allah than Musa and Harun. The people whom you have to deal with are not so rebellious and wicked as Pharaoh. So let your advice be mild and your preaching attractive. Why have you become such a fountain of shirk and kufr, and accuse everyone you meet of being a kafir and a mushrik?

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In another passage, it is stated that they (ʿAbd al-Qadir is most likely referring here to the Deobandis) constantly quarrel with those who say amin loudly or raise their hands during prayers (amin baʾl-jahr aur rafiʿ yadin karnewalon), which is how the followers of the Ahl-i Hadith are sometimes called) for nonobligatory (ghayr wajibat) issues.82 They even ‘take pleasure in calling Muslims kafirs’.83 Moreover, they damage Islam by calling into question well-established religious principles, for example: ‘Instead of reforming (islah) customs (rasum) and illegitimate innovations (bidʿat), destroying the principles of religion is stupidity, foolishness, muddle-headedness.’84 ʿAbd al-Qadir also blames the critics of Sufism for misinterpreting the intention of persons who perform contested practices. The detractors accuse Muslims of bidʿat, presuming that the latter carry out recommended (mustahab) religious acts as if these were obligatory (fard, wajib); however, as ʿAbd al-Qadir remarks, ‘whomever we asked, we were told that people had never regarded these practices as fard or wajib’.85 Finally, the detractors of Sufism are depicted as being hostile to whatever practices are to do with spirituality. At a certain point, ʿAbd al-Qadir comments that they condemn particular beliefs and practices that are completely unknown to them, just on the basis of prejudice. As he puts it: It is nearly impossible to help these obstinate monotheists understand these matters. If they had undertaken the spiritual path, they would have obtained some knowledge of the soul. They form their own opinion about a thing of which they have neither knowledge nor experience, yet they are bold enough to call Muslims kafir and mushrik!86

As I show below, he criticizes those, for example, who, like Sayyid Ahmad Khan and his followers, deny the possibility of miracles (muʿjizat, karamat).87 Regarding certain contested spiritual practices, ʿAbd al-Qadir remarks that: ‘He [Allah] has created exterior as well as interior means to acquire things. Using these means for one’s own benefit is not shirk; rather, to acknowledge the means as effective by themselves is shirk.’88 Elsewhere we are told that materialist monotheists do not believe in the Prophet’s supernatural powers, such as the knowledge of the Invisible (ʿilm-i ghayb).89

Argumentative strategies This representation of the detractors of Sufism as being disrespectful to the Prophet and the saints, incompetent in religious issues, deleterious to Islam and

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the Muslim community and hostile to matters related to spirituality, is conveyed both through the choice of words and evaluative attributions and also through linguistic structures and rhetorical devices. ʿAbd al-Qadir uses several figures of speech to create a rhetorical effect and thus strengthen his arguments. For example, he stresses the detractors’ extensive use of the word kafir through a reiterated metaphor, namely ‘they have become the fountain of shirk and kufr’,90 which was also quoted in a work by his grandson and khalifa Anwar al-Din Siddiqi, which will be explored later.91 Through other metaphors, ʿAbd al-Qadir seeks to delegitimize the modernists’ materialistic arguments. For example, two effective metaphors of this type are found in his treatise Hikmat-i islamiyya (Islamic Wisdom). Referring to the modernist ideas disseminated by Sayyid Ahmad Khan and his followers, particularly their denial of the possibility of miracles, he compares them to a colony of frogs who are unaware of the existence of rivers and oceans: Getting worked up by knowing a few laws and facts of nature and a few materialistic secrets of Allah’s creation while denying other secrets of nature, prevents the development of knowledge. Did you ever know what connection you have with Allah? To know such things is a different affair. There is some dirty water in a small pit and a few frogs are croaking while sitting around in it. Do they know that in the world there are also oceans and rivers which have no end?92

In another passage, he compares them to children, adding an Arabic saying to his metaphor: There is a four year old child who has always seen the sunlight but has never witnessed a solar eclipse. On the basis of his experience, he denies the solar eclipse saying: La tabdila li khalqillahi (There is no change in Allah’s creation) (Qurʾan 30:30). Is his denial of a solar eclipse, or his thought that Allah’s will depends on his unsound experience and logic correct? Of course not. First of all, how old is your history? Secondly, how many detailed facts related to nature are you aware of? The point at issue is that your narrow-mindedness has made you express these denials. Al-nasu aʿadaʾun lima jahilu (People are critical of all those facts about which they are unaware).93

In these chapters of Tafsir-i Siddiqi, there are numerous examples of hyperbole that stress the negative qualities attributed to the detractors; for example: ‘One is not even able to read correctly four sentences in Arabic but calls himself Ahl-i Hadith’, or ‘by reading the translation of a book or two on hadith,

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one calls himself a mujtahid’.94 Throughout these chapters, rhetorical questions are inserted to support the author’s statements, such as: ‘Why have you become such a fountain of shirk and kufr, and accuse everyone you meet of being a kafir and a mushrik?’95; ‘Is everything which is new bidʿat?’96; ‘Is whatever jurists and scholars of hadith deduce bidʿat?’97; or ‘Perhaps, you have some knowledge of the Invisible?’98 Not surprisingly, these arguments are supported by countless quotations from the Qurʾan and the ahadith. Like many ʿulamaʾ and Sufis of his time, ʿAbd al-Qadir decided to ground his defence of Sufism in the founding texts of Islam, constantly referring to these sources. This argumentative strategy, based on reference to authority figures or tradition, is common in discourses involving legitimation, and has been defined as ‘authorization’.99 This strategy was also widely used by ʿAbd al-Qadir’s khalifa in his polemical tract in defence of the fatiha, which, in a span of just twenty-one pages, includes eight quotations from the Qurʾan and eleven ahadith.

The detractors of Sufism as depicted by one of ʿAbd al-Qadir’s Khalifas Anwar al-Din Siddiqi (1923–92), a grandson and khalifa of ʿAbd al-Qadir, taught Islamic religious sciences at different institutes and colleges in Hyderabad and authored a number of treatises in addition to a monumental biography of ʿAbd al-Qadir. Of his works, the one I am concerned with here is a pamphlet devoted to the legal defence of the fatiha, entitled Luzum-i fatiha. Fatiha bidʿat nahin, sunnat hay (Necessity of the Fatiha. The Fatiha Is Not an Illegitimate Innovation, It Is Sunna). It was published in 1958 and a second edition published by Hasrat Academy Publications appeared in 2010. During my fieldwork, it was distributed free of charge in the form of photocopies by members of the Siddiqi family on the occasion of the aʿras (sing. ʿurs) of the saints of the family. The topic of this pamphlet is very specific, as the three lines following the title suggest: A reply, grounded in the Qur’an, ahadith and tradition of the Companions of the Prophet, to the following accusation [advanced] by the opponents of the fatiha (mukhallifin-i fatiha): ‘The practice of performing the fatiha in congregation, encouraged by the innovators (ahl-i bid‘at) does not belong to the Prophet’s teachings, therefore it is a reprehensible innovation (bid‘at) and as such, it is wrong.’100

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The main purpose of this tract is to rebut the accusation of bidʿat in relation to the practice of the fatiha, thus reassuring ordinary believers that the fatiha is a virtuous practice in line with the principles laid down in the Qurʾan and the ahadith. One of Anwar al-Din Siddiqi’s primary concerns is apparently to provide ordinary Muslims with detailed information on the origin, characteristics and purposes of this practice, so that they would not abandon it due to the views of the detractors of Sufism and would not lose the spiritual benefits that it entails.101 In his opinion, it is especially because of Muslims’ lack of knowledge concerning the fatiha that the idea of the fatiha as a later innovation has taken root.102 Following the lead of ʿAbd al-Qadir, Anwar al-Din opts to focus more on the statements and views of the detractors of Sufism, rather than on specific figures or movements. Yet, he quotes from Ahmad Rida Khan, a certain Maulwi Fazlallah professor at Osmania University, and two books by some unnamed detractors of Sufism, namely Fatiha ka sahih tariqa (The Authentic Method of the Fatiha) and Murawwaja bidʿat (Current Illegitimate Innovations). Like his grandfather, Anwar al-Din refers to the detractors of Sufism by generic phrases that simply reflect the latter’s stance against the fatiha, such as mukhallifin-i fatiha (the opponents of the fatiha),103 munkiran-i fatiha (those who reject the fatiha)104 or just moʿtaridin (objectors).105 These categories include the leaders and followers of most of the Indian Islamic reformist movements. Once he mentions a specific group using ghayr muqallidin (non-conformists),106 a phrase that stands for those who deny the legitimacy of the four schools of law and are in favour of a liberalized exercise of ijtihad, that is to say the Ahl-i Hadith. At one point, he talks about an organization affiliated with the Ahl-i Hadith established in Sultan Shahi, in the Old City, which carries out anti-Sufi propaganda, but he does not disclose its name.107 In Luzum-i fatiha there is no trace of the pejorative term wahhabi, nor of the abusive kafir, expressions that were extremely popular with ʿulamaʾ and Muslim intellectuals at the time the text was composed. In this respect, Anwar al-Din’s style of argumentation differs from that of other, more famous Sufi ʿulamaʾ, such as those associated with the Deobandi and Barelvi movements. At the same time, he does not refrain from criticizing the detractors of Sufism. He makes numerous evaluative statements about them both directly and indirectly. For instance, concerning their frequent accusations of bidʿat, he states that ‘whoever accuses innocent persons is a sinner’.108 In different passages, he criticizes their habit of calumniating Hanafis’ views and practices without

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investigation or verification. He laments that they have adopted such a style of preaching that has succeeded in winning the trust of numerous common Muslims and instilling doubts about particular beliefs and practices in the minds of many of them. He defines such behaviour as (thagi ʿamal) (cheating, imposture).109 In addition, the detractors of Sufism are depicted as presumptuous, as they dare to claim that those who practice the fatiha deserve to be sent to hell and be showered with insults.110 Ironically, they are portrayed as constantly engaged in a ‘linguistic exercise so grand and so useless’, namely dismissing the fatiha and other practices by quoting a famous Hadith.111 Echoing ʿAbd al-Qadir’s representation of the detractors of Sufism as incompetent in religious matters, Anwar al-Din remarks that the latter usually interpret ahadith inappropriately (be-muqeʿ).112 Furthermore, even though justification of the fatiha has been provided by different ʿulamaʾ, they have never seriously taken into consideration those elucidations, and at present they still continue to regard it as an illegitimate innovation.113 Their accusations are without foundation (be baniyad),114 while elsewhere in the text their speculations are described as wrong (batil) and vain (khayali).115 In a similar way to ʿAbd al-Qadir, Anwar al-Din quotes numerous Qurʾanic verses and ahadith to show that their views conflict with the founding texts of Islam. In addition, he represents them as disrespectful to Allah, the Prophet and Muhammad’s companions. The detractors of Sufism are ‘disgusted by the word fatiha’ and ‘consider it an illegitimate innovation’,116 even though it is one of Allah’s gifts to mankind and a practice taught by Muhammad to some of his companions.117 Moreover, they contradict a statement by the second caliph, ʿUmar (d. 644), and deliberately shape the simple and clear instructions of the Qurʾan and the Prophet according to their own purposes.118 At the same time, Anwar al-Din projects a positive image of his own group and uses this image to create a contrast with the group of the detractors. As he states: ‘It is common practice for us, the Ahl-i sunnat waʾl-jamaʿat, after discharging the obligatory (fard) duties, trying to win Allah’s gratefulness (ihsanmandi).’119 He emphasizes that the Ahl-i Sunnat waʾl-Jamaʿat are not content with performing the religiously prescribed obligations; they also endeavour to carry out optional (sunna), supererogatory (nahfil) and recommended (mustahab) practices, which include the fatiha. Contrastingly, the detractors of Sufism not only contradict the principles laid down in the Qurʾan and Hadith, but their behaviour is also detrimental to the Muslim community. In the following sentence, they are compared with the first generations of Muslims:

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‘Our predecessors used to turn infidels into Muslims, while these people turn Muslims into infidels.’120 The contrast between the Ahl-i Sunnat waʾl-Jamaʿat and the detractors of Sufism is highlighted through metaphors such as the following: While the aim of some persons is constructive, that of others is destructive. The bee takes the nectar of flowers and produces honey, which is a remedy for men. The fly which lives around dung drinks garbage and does nothing useful. What does it do except sting the wounds and cause them to rot, bringing pus and worsening the illness?121

Like his grandfather, Anwar al-Din uses numerous figures of speech and rhetorical devices to enhance his arguments. For example, he stresses the stubbornness and obstinacy of the detractors of Sufism through the following simile: ‘It is not possible to correct the thought of the detractors, the thought of reforming their faith is as unrealistic as the thought of recovering the chicken from the egg.’122 Through another simile, he emphasizes that their accusations rebound on them: ‘They are like fountains whose water jumps high but falls back into the fountain itself.’123 Rhetorical questions are inserted throughout the texts in order to strengthen the author’s claims, for instance: ‘Is the word fatiha our invention?’124; ‘Those who practice it have been considered worse than dogs; will not there be any repercussion for this? Will they be punished or not?’125; ‘Do all these things have any purpose or are they just superficial and well-pleasing things; did the Prophet hear those instructions in one ear and lose it from the other or is there any special truth in these words?’126; or ‘We should consider who provided these teachings. Except the Messenger of God, did anybody else provide it?’127 Hyperbole is used to stress the otherness of the detractors, for example: ‘They have a different opinion on every single matter, even the handshake and the greetings.’128 Or it is used to underline their negative qualities: ‘Their whole thought is limited to the mutual exchange of disdain for the Prophet.’129 As Luzum-i fatiha shows, Anwar al-Din’s portrayal of the detractors of Sufism is in line with the representation provided by his grandfather. Although it is evident that while defending the legitimacy of the fatiha Anwar al-Din also intends to delegitimate its detractors, nevertheless he does not go to the extent of judging them as being infidels. Compared with many texts written against or in defence of Sufi practices during the same period, the tone of Luzum-i fatiha seems less harsh and aggressive.

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ʿAbd al-Qadir’s present-day spiritual heirs Apart from Anwar al-Din, ʿAbd al-Qadir’s sons and grandsons did not produce relevant writings on the defence of Sufism. They have been chiefly engaged in disseminating ʿAbd al-Qadir’s teachings through their network of disciples and the publication of his works. In the 1970s, his second sajjada nashin Abu Turab ʿAli Siddiqi (1905–88) established Hasrat Academy Publications with the purpose of publicizing his thinking. Almost all of ʿAbd al-Qadir’s writings have been published in the last fifty years, including those in Arabic and Persian, which were translated into Urdu to make them accessible to a wider audience. ʿAbd al-Qadir’s teachings have also been transmitted orally within the framework of the master–disciple (piri–muridi) relationship and group classes provided by the leading scholars of the Siddiqi family.130 While ʿAbd al-Qadir’s sons and grandsons have not expressed their opinions on the detractors of Sufism publicly, when asked to pronounce on the subject, in private, they have been willing to talk about them at length. Although it would be tempting to analyse the interviews I recorded with them, their statements would not add much to what ʿAbd al-Qadir and Anwar al-Din wrote, and I do not explore them here in order to avoid repetition. Their representation of the detractors of Sufism is basically shaped by the opinion of ʿAbd al-Qadir, thus highlighting the same concepts. The pirs and khalifas whom I interviewed mostly depicted their detractors as enemies of Islam and of the Muslim community,131 disrespectful to the Prophet and the saints132 and ignorant or incompetent in religious matters.133 To sum up, the present-day pirs and khalifas of this Qadiri branch apparently do not seem to be much concerned with the views of the detractors of Sufism; rather, they look more interested in providing fellow Muslims with what they consider to be correct knowledge about religious beliefs and practices so that they will not be misled.

Different views among the Ahl-i Sunnat waʾl-Jamaʿat Since few researchers have investigated the responses of South Asian Sufis to their detractors, our knowledge of the ways the former viewed the latter is still fragmentary. Sanyal states that the celebrated Ahmad Rida Khan of Bareilly extensively wrote about contemporary Indian Muslim groups and their leaders, assessing them on the basis of their stance on the beliefs which, according to him,

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made up the category of the ‘essentials of religion’ (daruriyat-i din).134 According to Ahmad Rida, a Muslim became a kafir if he denied any of the ‘essentials of religion’. As Sanyal illustrates, Ahmad Rida repeatedly used the term kafir in his fatwas while discussing contemporary reformist movements, and even accused specific persons of kufr, particularly in his later writings. Similarly, Philippon states that the leaders of the offshoots of the Barelvi movement in Pakistan explicitly referred to particular rival Muslim groups in their writings, declaring them to be kafirs.135 From their perspective, all those who disagree with Ahmad Rida’s view of faith are simply outside the fold of Sunni Islam. In similar fashion, Lizzio asserts that the pir object of his study, Saifur Rahman, in his writings and in interviews with journalists, considers modern reformists to be outside the pale of Islam,136 and even ‘condemns as kafir virtually all Muslims not in general accord with the exoteric teachings of the Mujaddid [Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, 1564–1624]’.137 On the contrary, ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi did not refer to specific ʿulamaʾ in his defence of Sufism, nor did he ever accuse anyone of kufr. Rather, he strongly criticized the frequent recourse to takfir by contemporary ʿulamaʾ, seeing this habit as detrimental to the unity of the Muslim community. Instead, he opted to focus on the issues that constituted the roots of the disputes between conflicting Muslim groups. His grandson, Anwar al-Din Siddiqi, adopted the same stance, and so have his living descendants. Compared with the writings of Ahmad Rida and other ʿulamaʾ associated with the Barelwi movement, the texts analysed in this chapter appear to be marked by a mild and sober tone. They provide a negative representation of the detractors of Sufism by constructing them as ‘others’ through the choice of words, evaluative attributions, linguistic structures and rhetorical devices. However, this negative depiction is mitigated by the absence of statements of takfir, which would have made the detractors’ otherness more extreme. The practice known as takfir, perhaps one of the worst abuses that a Muslim can direct against a fellow Muslim, is a hallmark of the writings and speeches of the detractors of Sufism. Since judgements of kufr abound in the writings of Ahmad Rida and subsequent leaders of the Barelwi movement, it seems that there are similarities in style and tone between these works and those of rival ʿulamaʾ. As Philippon argues, there is a relationship of competition and ambivalence between the main Pakistani Barelwi organizations and rival groups hostile to Sufism; through competition, the Barelwis ended up appropriating some of their rivals’ categories, values and institutions.138

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That did not happen with ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi and his spiritual successors, who determined to actively take part in the debate between the detractors and supporters of Sufism and adopt a way of argumentation that was different from that of their rivals, drawing on a less aggressive style and tone. Although the aims of Ahmad Rida and ʿAbd al-Qadir were the same, that is to say rebutting the accusations of the detractors of Sufism while simultaneously arguing for the legitimacy of Sufi beliefs and practices, they set different priorities. On the one hand, for Ahmad Rida the priority was to defend his own conception of religion, particularly his own conception of the Prophet139; therefore it did not matter to him if such a defence contributed to the exacerbation of disputes among Muslims. On the other hand, ʿAbd al-Qadir’s primary concern was to clarify controversial issues and provide ordinary Muslims with correct religious knowledge, trying to dispel the doubts concerning the legitimacy of religious beliefs and practices. He wrote with dismay about the conflicts and divisions within the South Asian Muslim community, arguing for the importance of attenuating disputes and solving disagreements among Muslims. Because of the scarcity of studies devoted to the investigation of the Sufis’ responses to the attacks of modern Islamic reformist movements, it is the case that some researchers have tended to view Ahmad Rida as a sort of spokesman for all South Asian Sufis. However, evidence suggests that the leaders of the Barelwi movement are by no means representative of all South Asian Sufis, as Philippon remarks in relation to Pakistan.140 As far as Hyderabad is concerned, ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi and his spiritual successors, like many other local Sufis, did not completely identify with the ideas and methods of Ahmad Rida and subsequent leaders of the Barelwi movement, and worked out a somewhat different approach to the defence of Sufism. By showing differences in the depictions of the detractors of Sufism, this chapter contributes to the highlighting of the variety of views and orientations that exist among modern South Asian Sufis.

9

Barelwis: Developments and Dynamics of Conflict with Deobandis Thomas K. Gugler

The majority of Sunni Muslims in South Asia is considered to subscribe to Barelwi beliefs, only a minority to Deobandi belief systems. At the same time, a majority of Muslims claims to consider themselves as Muslim only, thereby theoretically putting the theological differences of interpretation between specific schools of thought to a place of secondary relevance in everyday life. The following article aims to understand why this could sometimes be difficult in practice.

Barelwiyat and reformist Islam Following experiences of frustration with the British-Christian colonial powers towards the end of the nineteenth century, several Islamic reform and revival movements developed in northern India. Among others they aimed to compensate  for the decline of Muslim political power and authority by and through religion. The widespread introduction and liberalization of printing, in particular in the 1880s, facilitated the rapid spread of reformist movements dramatically.1 The reform movements were characterized by the dynamics of modernization, individualization and industrialization of everyday worlds. The purist reform movement of Deoband, deriving its name from the location of the seminary (dar al-ʿulum) founded by Muhammad Qasim Nanawtawi (1832– 79) and Rashid Ahmad Gangohi (1829–1905) in May 1866, aimed to purify South Asian Islam from alleged Hindu and Sikh influences, and demanded a reorientation of Islamic practice towards the way it is attributed to the companions of the Prophet.2 As a counter-reform movement to Deoband, a coalition of shrines and schools coalesced around 1880 around the person of Ahmad Rida

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Khan (1856–1921) in Bareilly, a city located today in the Indian state of Uttar Pradesh. This alliance gave birth to a school of thought called Barelwi. Followers of this school of thought (maktab-i fikr)3 prefer to refer to themselves as Ahl-i Sunnat wa-l Jamaʿat, people of the Sunnah and the majority community. They preach practices close to popular Islam and Sufism, encouraging rituals revolving around saints and their shrines and graves. At the centre is the veneration of the Prophet Muhammad, who is considered to possess specific special qualities.4 Hence their most important Islamic festival is milad al-nabi, the birthday of the Prophet. The Barelwis are counter-reformist antagonists to the ‘reformers’ in the sense that they emphasize tradition and the time period between contemporary Muslims and the Salaf, subscribe to shrine rituals (including ʿurs, celebrating the anniversary of the death of popular saints or their marriage with God), worship potential intercessors between Muslims and Allah, and at the same time are reformist in their emphasis on individual responsibility in salvation questions.5 Since 1772, the British Indian civil law differentiated between Hindus and Muslims, specifying Hindu law and Anglo-Mohammadan law. The main response of the ʿulamaʾ to the loss of the judicial bodies under British colonial rule was a dramatic increase in the production of fatwa, that is, recommend by issuing legal advice. A pioneer of this trend was Shah Wali Allah from Delhi (1703–62), director of the Madrasa-yi rahimiya. This institution was founded by his father Shaykh ʿAbd al-Rahim (1644–1718), an associate editor of the Fatawa-yi ʿAlamgiri, who devoted his life to the study and teaching of Hadith. Shaikh ʿAbd al-Rahim requested Muslim scholars to revive the responsibility of giving legal opinions.6 As a contemporary of ʿAbd al-Wahhab (1703–92), Shah Waliullah was inspired by the same ideas and scholars.7 Shah Waliullahʼs son Shah ʿAbd al-ʿAziz (1745–1823) extended his father’s legacy further. Shah ʿAbd al-ʿAziz is later considered by Barelwis – and others – as the mujaddid (revivalist) of the thirteenth Islamic century.8 In 1806, Sayyid Ahmad Barelwi (1786–1831), from Rae Bareli in Awadh (not to be confused with Bareilly in Rohilkhand), became a disciple of Shah ʿAbd al-ʿAziz. Sayyid Ahmad founded the Tariqa-yi Muhammadiyya, a piety movement that focused closely on the role model set by the Prophet Muhammad and opposed rituals revolving around the graves of saints, denouncing these as shirk.9 The teachings of this movement are canonized in the Taqwiyat al-Iman (‘Strengthening Faith’)10 authored by Muhammad Ismaʿil (1779–1831), nephew of ʿAbd al-ʿAziz, and in the Nasihat al-Muslimin written by Khurram ʿAli in 1824.11 By integrating elements of Sufism in orthodox Islam the Tariqa-yi

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Muhammadiyya deeply impacted on later South Asian reform movements.12 Barelwis consider the Deobandi school of thought as inspired by the theological concepts associated with the Tariqa-yi Muhammadiyya.13 Ahmad Rida Khan (Qadiri Barkati Barelwi) (1856–1921) is the central figure for the Ahl-i Sunnat. The term ‘Barelwi’ for the Ahl-i Sunnat school of thought derives from his location: Bareilly. The Ahl-i Sunnat consider him to be Aʿla Hadrat (Urdu: the Great Threshold) and the mujaddid, renewer of the fourteenth Islamic century. Barelwis reject the term ‘founder’ while referring to Aʿla Hadrat.14 The central biographical source is the Hayat-i Aʿla Hadrat authored in 1938 by his disciple, Zafar al-Din Bihari.15 Reportedly at the age of four, Rida Khan recited the Qurʾan by heart and quite early his father Mawlana Naqi ʿAli Khan (d. 1880) asked him to pen fatwa, religious opinions concerning Islamic law.16 In 1869, that is, at the age of thirteen (ten months and four days) Ahmad Rida Khan began producing fatwa, which would remain the main preoccupation of his life.  In 1878 and again in 1905 he performed the hajj. For many years he maintained close relations with scholars based in Mecca and Medina by exchanging numerous letters. These scholars confirmed the legal opinions issued by him – most famous are the thirty-four confirmations of his Husam al-Haramain.17 In 1900 he was officially installed as a leader of the unfolding Barelwi movement (which emerged in 1880) during a meeting of the Majlis-i Ahl-i Sunnat wa Jamaʿat, an anti-Nadwa-organization.18 Ahmad Rida Khan was primarily an ʿalim, in particular a mufti (interpreter of Islamic law), a murid (1877) as well, and he became a pir and khalifa of Shah Al-i Rasul (1794–1879) from the Barkatiya Sayyids of Marahra (in the Etah district, south-west of Bareilly)19 who had studied Hadith from Shah ʿAbd al-ʿAziz.20 As pir Rida Khan regularly gave taʿwiz, amulets containing Islamic prayers or Qurʾanic verses. Contrary to several other Sufis the Barkatiya Sayyids disapprove of samaʿ, music, qawwali, as well as the participation of women in collective rituals practised at shrines. The shariʿa hence sets the clear boundaries to Barelwi Sufism. Ahmad Rida considered ʿAbd al-Qadir Jilani (1088–1166) to be the most important among the saints,21 and he claimed he had appeared to him in a vision during his hajj in 1905.22 Ahmad Rida founded the Ridwiya Silsila (Rida means contentment or peace of the heart). His works include his Urdu translation of the Qurʾan, Kanz al-iman,23 published in 1910; poetry (naʿt – edited in the Diwan); and his malfuzat, especially the thirty-four volumes of the Fatawa-yi Ridwiya.24 (During Ramadan 2009 Daʿwat-i Islami25 launched new software for using the translation of the Qurʾan Kanz al-iman).

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His manner has been described as aristocratic.26 He encouraged his students with enormous personal commitment and placed great value on etiquette and small gestures; for example he always entered a mosque with his right foot first and left it with the left foot, and he never stretched his legs in the direction of Mecca27: He preferred solitude, and, when he did appear people would rush to touch him, coming to kiss his hand or feet. He acted as a patron, a quite different role from that of the Deobandis, who did not have the means nor the inclination to dispense largesse. He gave Eid gifts to his students; he gave feasts on such personal occasions as the birth of a grandchild, a practice the Deobandis disapproved of. Around him clustered students from across upper India, for on such occasions he prepared, his biographer noted, fish for Bengalis; sweets, rice dishes, and kababs for Biharis; roasted meats and ovenbaken bread for Punjabis and Afghanis. He outfitted his relatives and associates on ceremonial occasions, as well. He seemed to have a ‘bottomless box,’ as his biographer wrote, never exhausted when he wanted to give gifts to his family or subsidies to his students.28

His followers are found particularly in rural areas and also among the less educated strata of society – he wrote for the ordinary Muslim of the subcontinent. His Islamic programme was essentially apolitical, that is, he did not act aggressively against the British.29 Yet, in his advice on consumer behaviour, he requested that Muslims keep their capital within the community. One example is his four-point reform programme outlined in 1912: First: Muslims must avoid all non-Muslim courts in their countries and solve all their problems among themselves by following the Islamic shariʿa. Second: Muslims should avoid the non-Muslim economy and must build up their own independent economy. Third: Muslims should develop their own Islamic banking system. Fourth: The Muslim community must also develop their knowledge of Islam.30

The Barelwi movement rapidly expanded its pir-based networks throughout South Asia, although, of course, not all Sufi shrines and organizations would position themselves under the Barelwi umbrella, and several Sufi organizations today are not Barelwi.31 Pirs (popular saints) are essential for the Barelwi perception of piety, as connection to Allah has to come about through an intercessor. Of similar importance is the recognition of the specific qualities of the Prophet Muhammad, and Islamic rituals as practised at shrines of saints,

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khanaqahs or dargahs, remain unchanged and respected. The transformative ideas preached by other reformist actors are said to be innovations inspired by idealized images of the time of the companions. Inherent in reformist and counter-reformist Muslim movements is the mode to legitimate a specific reformist agenda by distinguishing between ‘true Islam’ and ‘failing Muslims’, and by constructing denomination-specific identities that contrast with that of so-called deviants. Barelwis and Deobandis both subscribe to the most prominent Sunni school of law, the Hanafis – about 50 per cent of all Sunni Muslims follow this school of law. Barelwis condemn Deobandis as kafir (unbelievers),32 murderers of Muhammad, enemies of the Prophet and pagan producers of pornography,33 and they believe that they do not respect the Prophet sufficiently. Deobandis consider Barelwis to be at best uneducated,34 rural grave worshippers, idolaters or even crypto-Hindus. These polemical sectarian semantics of disrespect and abuse, however, remain peripheral in everyday life, as the radical rhetoric of the Barelwi preachers are in practice counter-balanced by local and context-oriented blessing pirs.35 The Barelwis were among the first to support the Pakistan Movement and the demand for an independent Islamic state. Among other things, this led to the accusation that the Barelwis were co-financed by the British.36 The Deobandis, however, were more sceptical of establishing an Islamic state, as they interpreted the project as an obstacle against the Islamization of India as a whole. Ironically, Islamic state politics in Pakistan has mostly favoured Deobandis, who have managed to communicate their ideas of the ‘pure and original Islam’ in a more rational and hence more convincing way. The main difference between the more emotional Barelwi lovers of the Prophet and the strictly rational monotheistic cultures of interpretation of Deoband,37 whose followers are considered Wahhabis by Barelwis,38 is centred on the super-human, almost god-like status attributed to the Prophet Muhammad; for Barelwis, Muhammad undergoes a kind of apotheosis.39 This difference unfolds in a variety of beliefs, which in their various forms became the centre of debate among various reformist agents. As a result of the very strong emphasis on the love for the Prophet, Barelwis are particularly sensitive to alleged abuse and insults against the Prophet. Barelwis, for example, protested vehemently against Salman Rushdie40 and mobilized mass rallies after the Regensburg lecture of Pope Benedict XVI in September 2006 and the Danish cartoon publications. During the Gulf crisis Barelwis supported Saddam Hussein, as he was seen as an antagonist to Saudi Wahhabism.41

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‘Loyalty to Allah is useless without love for the Prophet’42 Love for the Prophet is central for the Barelwis, and involves a number of complexities, for example, on the debate whether the parents and ancestors of the Prophet, who were never invited to accept Islam, should be considered believers.43 Barelwis answer that Muhammad could not have been born into a family of non-Muslims.44 This significantly increased the love for the Prophet, which for Rida Khan is a conditio sina qua non to be a Muslim – and he refers to a Hadith to support this claim: ‘Nobody among you will become a Muslim unless I am dearer to him than his parents, children and all other persons.’45 ‘It has become crystal clear that any person who holds somebody dearer than the Prophet is not a Muslim at all.’46 Friendship with those who speak disrespectfully about the Prophet is forbidden: The proper way to carry out this test is that if the persons who command your respect and love, such as your parents, your teachers, your spiritual guides, your children, your brothers, your intimate friends, your companions, your maulvis, your huffaz, your Muftis, or your preachers etc. etc. whoever they may be, if they are disrespectful to Prophet Muhammad, they should lose their respect and love in your hearts at once. You should leave them and throw them out like a fly thrown out of milk. You should hate them. You shouldn’t value your relationship and friendship with them. You shouldn’t feel impressed by their religious leadership and scholarship. After all, whatever position they enjoyed was because of their slavery and loyalty to Prophet Muhammad, and if they have acted disrespectfully to Prophet Muhammad they have lost their position. Their religious cloaks and turbans should not impress you. Aren’t there Jews who wear cloaks and turbans?47

This position supports the translation of his heritage in the semantics and characteristics of new religious movements that are known to be disruptive on the social and family level.48 Anyone, who fails to observe the command ‘Disrespect must be given to those who disrespect the Prophet’,49 is considered a non-Muslim, if not a Satanist, because: ‘It is customary in the Holy Qurʾan to give good tidings of blessings to the believers and to threaten the disbelievers with the whip of chastisement.’50 ‘To respect a true scholar is to respect the Prophet, and to respect a disrespectful scholar is to respect Satan. … The scholars of unbelievers and infidels cannot be regarded as leaders of the Muslims.’51 ‘From this we can deduce that a person who maintains friendly relations with such a person ceases to be a Muslim. … It is very important to cut your relations of respect and love with anyone who is disrespectful.’52

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Rida Khan backs this thesis by quoting the Q.60:1-3.53 He adds: ‘All the Muslims are unanimously of the view that any person who shows disrespect to the Prophet Muhammad is a disbeliever. Anybody who doubts it, is himself a disbeliever.’54 ‘Do not pay any respect to such people, but humiliate them.’55 Rida Khan’s most famous fatwa, Husam al-Haramain, published in 1906 (authored already in 1902), mentions among others the Deobandi founding fathers Muhammad Qasim Nanawtawi, Rashid Ahmad Gangohi and Ashraf ʿAli Thanwi (1863–1943) among the Wahhabiya Shaytaniya, unbelievers and Satanists.56 For this fatwa he cites thirty-four opinions from scholars based in Mecca and Medina who describe the threats imagined by Rida Khan in further detail: ‘It is also true that these sects are the confidants of infidels, who are their main sources of support and allies who are enemies of Islam. They are making blasphemous statements and creating sacrilege faiths in order to create disunity among the Muslims and erase Islam and the Muslims from the surface of the Earth.’57 ‘We pray to our Lord, that He uproots their rebellious nature, and when they wake up in the morning, find nothing save [in] their destroyed houses.’58 Also of note is the response given by Rida Khan in his fatwa ‘Did Wahabiyyah exist in the time of the Prophet?’, on whether these Deobandis would indeed be an old sect. He answers the question raised in the title: Yes and of course! This is the sect which consists of those misled and heretic people about whom Hazrat ʿAbdullah bin ʿAbbas asked permission from the Amir al-Mominin, Hazrat ʿAli al-Murtaza, to wage war against and kill them.59

So all of them were surrounded and killed in the battle ground. … Then they surely have killed and wiped out the most evil man from the surface of earth. … They all praised Allah Taʿala for wiping out this filth from the face of earth. Then

he [Hazrat ʿAli] addressed his army and said that: ‘Do you think this cursed cult is totally exterminated from the face of earth? Absolutely and definitely not! Some of them are still in the wombs of their mothers and some are in their father´s sperm.’ … Now in this age, this cult has appeared in the name of reformers of Islam, and they are called Wahhabiyyah. And Islam does not need reform but revival.’60

At the same time central to the understanding of Barelwi-Sufism and NeoBarelwi Sufi-Islamism61 is the surprisingly strict recognition of the shariʿa: The shariʿa exists in every breath and in all aspects of Islamic life. … Tariqa

and maʿrifa are only a part of the whole that is the shariʿa. … If not, they are

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rejected outright as deviants. The Shariʿa is a standards and a measure to which everything must be referred.62 Shariʿa … is the only light for mankind in the whole universe.63 Tariqa cannot exist without the shariʿa.64 At present, in these times, there are some people who project themselves to be Sufis. They claim that the driving force behind the ʿt pres is the Qurʾan and the Sunnah whereas their guidance and energy comes directly from our beloved Prophet. In our opinion, this is kufr, since intentionally or unintentionally these people are taking themselves outside the fold of the holy shariʿa. … It inherently implies that they consider the mission of all the prophets in history as a waste of time.65

Although some issues remain a matter of controversial debate within the Barelwi movements, the writings of Ahmad Khan serve as a canon accepted by all Barelwis. An argument frequently repeated in the opinions given by Barelwi scholars refers to the second part of their self-designated name, Ahl-i Jamaʿat: ‘The thing that a group of a Muslims say is good, it is accepted by Allah!’66 The first part of their self-designated name, Ahl-i Sunnat, implies that they are Sunni Muslims. Several Daʿwat-i Islami lay preachers I interviewed even believed that Deobandi lay preachers of the Tablighi Jamaʿat would be Shiʿa because they do not stick to the Sunna.67 In turn, Deobandis accuse the Barelwis of shirk (polytheism) for the alleged deification of the Prophet, and the Barelwis accuse Deobandis of blasphemy for being disrespectful to the Prophet.68

Main characteristics of the Ahl-i Sunnat The two main features of spiritual-emotional popular Islam that provoke tensions with the more rational religiously dogma-oriented reformists are the veneration of saints and the shrine-visiting culture resulting from it. The activism of the purists against bidʿa (innovation) implies the rejection of monasticism and several mystical concepts. At the same time it should not be forgotten that neither Deobandis nor Barelwis is internally a homogenous group – both schools of thought include several subfamilies who compete internally for interpretive power, social recognition and hard resources like funds, disciples and institutions.69

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For Barelwis the confrontation with the Deobandis began with the question of the finality of the Prophet, that is, whether there is a final prophet for each of the seven heavens, which is negated by Barelwis.70 Contemporary authors further develop earlier debates and meanwhile the current discourses between both schools of thought revolve around several points. The Deobandi scholars Qasimi and Mahmud formulated a fundamental criticism of the Barelwi belief systems outlined in seven volumes. More concise Deobandi criticisms of Barelwi beliefs have been published, for example by Suhail (1999 and 2002), Badawi (2000) and Jamiʿi (n.d.).71 The main areas of conflict focus upon the following topics:

i  Assistance from others than Allah72 Although salvation and spiritual support can only come from Allah, Barelwis allow that the faithful and saints can be asked for blessings, knowing that these are merely a means, as Allah has endowed the anbiyaʾ and awliyaʾ with special abilities. The same is true even of saints who are not present or have already died73: The distinguished Prophets and illustrious awliya enjoy a very special proximity with Allah and are therefore, divinely blessed to assist fellow creation. This assistance can be of a spiritual or physical nature and can be rendered while they are alive and even after their death. These elite servants of Allah offer their help only by the command of Almighty Allah.74

Deobandis are more sceptical of intercessors, and consider the seeking of assistance from the deceased an example of polytheism.75

ii  Saying ‘Ya Muhammad!’ and ‘Ya Rasul Allah!’76 The invocation of the Prophet is allowed among Barelwis – but it is not fard, wajib or sunna – whereas Deobandis consider such invocations to be shirk (polytheism), because to them the additional ‘Ya!’ (Oh) implies the presence of the person being invocated, and the Prophet has died like a human being according to Deobandi interpretation. Deobandi mosques hence do not display signs stating ‘Ya Rasul Allah!’, which are usually displayed in Barelwi mosques. Rida Khan explains that saying ‘Ya Muhammad!’ is benedictory and can remove pain.77

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iii  ‘Death’ of the Prophet78 Barelwis are accused of claiming that the Prophet Muhammad never died. This often-repeated standpoint, however, is not the full story: Barelwis believe that the Prophet Muhammad has died, but at the same time lives on in his grave, and from there he passes the invocational prayers of the Muslim umma. For this reason, he is able to appear in dreams and visions. Barelwis locate the main argument for this is in the Qurʾan (3,169):  ‘And those who have been slain in the way of Allah, never think of them as dead; but they are alive with their Lord, get their subsistence.’79 Prophets, however, are higher than martyrs, and their place is in their grave. For the Deobandis, direct reconnection with Allah is the only way of worship.

iv  Wasila – Intercession80 For Barelwis the intercession via the Prophet Muhammad is a conditio sine qua non of seeking proximity to God81: ‘Only the Prophet can reach God without intermediaries. This is why, on the Day of the Resurrection, all the prophets, walis and ʿulama’ will gather in the Prophet’s presence and beg him to intercede for them with God.’82 For Barelwis approaching Allah (tawassul) means to supplicate to Allah through the Prophet or another living or deceased saint, that is, the Muslim seeks the wasila of a saint, who is considered to be specifically close to Allah or the Prophet Muhammad and requested to function as an intercessor: ‘O Allah! I ask You with the wasila of the Prophet. Ya Muhammad! I am making duʿaʾ to Allah Most High with your wasila, so that Allah Most High may accept my duʿaʾ. O Allah! Make Prophet as my interceder.’83 Lay preachers of the Barelwi missionary movement Daʿwat-i Islami explained to me in Multan: ‘If you miss the link, you will sink.’84 Muslims who do not accept a Shaykh are regarded as Satanists on the basis of Hadith: ‘He who has no Sufi Shaykh here, shall have, hereafter, the Devil as his Shaykh,’85 and ‘The Sufi Shaykh in his nation is like a Prophet among his people. … A people without a prophet is misguided and lost. Similarly a person without a Sufi Shaikh is not on the right path.’86 ‘A person without a Shaykh is outside the pale of Islam, his worship is void and greeting him is prohibited and dangerous. He will be raised up from his grave on the Day of Judgment with the band of Devils.’87 According to Rida Khan hence the Qur’anic saying shall apply: ‘Allah (Himself) fights against them. How perverse they are!’88 Deobandis consider this practice polytheism, as Allah alone is worthy of worship, and third parties cannot support or increase the likelihood of acceptance of any prayer.

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v  Nur – Divine light89 Barelwis consider the Prophet Muhammad not only as human (bashar) but also as nur-i khuda (the light of God): ‘Undoubtedly, there has come to you from Allah a light and a Book, luminous.’90 According to Barelwi beliefs the light of the Prophet was created before the creation and is hence timeless.91 That means that the Prophet was initially created from the light of God and after that the creation unfolded from this light.92 Nur-i Muhammadi93 is the first manifestation of the divine light, and out of that everything else was created dependent on it.94 ‘Allah Taʿala is the Real Light and His is the Only Light. … The Holy Prophet Hazrat Muhammad is, no doubt, created from the Self Light of Allah Taʿala.’95 The dictum of the Prophet’s infallibility originates from this concept, which is again rejected by Deobandis as polytheistic. A detailed account of the fall and rise of the angels in this light can be found in Rida Khan’s essay ‘Al-Hidayat al-Mubarakah fi-Khalq il-Malaʾikah’.96 Deobandis consider the Prophet as solely human (bashar) or insan-i kamil, the perfect human. The debate on this question resulted in the famous fatwa-war on whether the Prophet (as perfect beauty or figure of light) could have had a shadow.97

vi  ʿIlm-i ghayb – Knowledge of the unseen98 Knowledge of the unseen, the past and future, is for Deobandis one of the exclusive qualities of Allah: ‘Who indicates that anybody other than Allah possesses ʿilm-i ghayb, is indeed a kafir … friendship and sympathy with him are totally forbidden.’99 Barelwis, however, believe that Allah can reveal parts of this knowledge to selected prophets,100 and that Allah gave Muhammad full access to this knowledge,101 and he passed it on to selected successors.102 The Qurʾan is more ambivalent in this regard: ‘And it is not befitting to the dignity of Allah that O general people! He let you know the unseen. Yes, Allah chooses from amongst His messengers whom He pleases.’103 ‘The Knower of Unseen reveals not His secret to anyone. Except to His chosen Messengers.’104 To declare the Prophet Muhammad devoid of this knowledge is considered blasphemous by Barelwis: ‘Ashraf ʿAli Thanwi compares in his Hifz al-Iman the knowledge of the Prophet with that of lower creatures like animals. … Mister Thanwi is guilty of blaspheming the Prophet.’105 ‘The attacks of their perverse pens aim not against the Ahl-i Sunnat scholars, but against the prophet himself!’106 Deobandis and Ahl-i Hadith reject the idea of Muhammad being superior to man and pay tribute to his achievements as a social reformer.107

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vii  Hadir-o nazir – Presence of the Prophet, who views all actions108 As light the Prophet is eternally omnipresent, hence he is present (hadir) as a witness and a viewer (nazir)109 of all human deeds. His character as a nazir is drawn from the Qurʾan (2:143): ‘And thus We made you exalted among all nations that you may be witnesses to the people, and this Messenger your guard, and witness.’110 As hadir, (as pointed out by Ahmad Sirhindi (1564–1624)), Muhammad had a super-creational knowledge about the nature of things (al-ʿilm al-huduri).111 Barelwis believe that the Prophet can be present at the same time at different locations, and is able to view the whole creation inside his grave in his palm. Deobandis interpret this as polytheism, and are in this regard in the tradition of the Taqwiyat al-Iman: ‘The first distinction is to be omnipresent (hazir o nazir rahna) and omniscient at every point, far and near, hidden or open, in darkness or in light, in the heavens or on earth, on mountain peaks or the depth of the sea – this is Allah’s glory alone and the glory of no one else.’112

viii  Bidʿa – Innovation?113 Innovation is a highly ambivalent term, and mostly understood as opposite to sunna, tradition or customs, the rule of actions, the eternally valid example given by the Prophet: ‘In Islamic terminology bidʿa means introduction of some novelty in religion which resembles and looks like a part of religion, but in reality, it is not so. … The crux of the matter is the fact that bidʿa is usually invented with good intentions and then is naively made a part of religion.’114 Hence there is a distinction between bidʿa sayyia, a bad innovation, which is contradicting a sunna, and bidʿa hasana, a good innovation in harmony with shariʿa, for example, the insertion of vocalization signs in the Qurʾan, mosque minarets,115 Friday sermons in a language other than Arabic, calling for prayers with loudspeakers or making pilgrimage by plane. In the literature Indian Sufis justify that by referring to a Hadith of Muwattaʾ: Ma raʾauhu ʾl-muslimun hasanan fa-huwa ʿinda llahi hasan. But as far as ibadat through which a man seeks proximity to God is concerned, everything is duly defined and well perfected by God Himself, leaving no room for any novelty, innovation, addition, omission, alteration or modification whatever the condition may prevail therein. … Even a slightest change in mode, form, presentation, quality, place and time is not allowed.’116

The circumambulation of a grave, ʿurs celebrations, celibate lifestyle and tasbih are innovations usually heavily criticized by Deobandis.117 The debate and possibility of good bidaʿ, for example, doing bayʿa to the al-salaf al-salih, enables

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Sufi groups to perceive themselves as Salafi-Sufis. Ahmad Rida is often honoured with the title ‘Reviver of the Sunnah, Destroyer of Bidʿah’118 because Barelwis regard several purist Deobandi teachings as historically new.

ix  Milad al-nabi – Birthday of the Prophet119 The celebration of the birthday of the Prophet (the same date as the day of his death) is a source of conflict: whether it is bidʿa hasana or bidʿa sayyia. Barelwis say that a gathering during which salutations to the Prophet Muḥammad are given, donations are collected for the needy and the deeds and virtues of the Prophet are commemorated is clearly a pious action and a good innovation. Deobandis argue that120 ‘If at the same point of time different birthday congregations take place, will Muhammad be present at all locations or not? He has to decide according to his preferences where to go and where not to go. If he would be present at all locations, how could he be at a thousand places, while his existence is one?’121 Quite famous as well is the online fatwa given by the Tablighi Mufti Taqi ʿUsmani, who parallels milad with the Christian Christmas celebrations,122 against which he levels the same arguments to identify them as non-biblical and un-Christian, and likewise the milad is considered non-Qurʾanic and un-Islamic. Rida Khan argues, ‘To celebrate the birth of the Prophet is according to the order of Allah Taʿala who also says, “and publicize well the favour of your Lord”. (Q.93:11). The birth of the Holy Prophet has more eminence than all the other favours.’123 Followers of the Daʿwat-i Islami consider milad al-nabi to be the most important Islamic holiday of the year, the ‘ʿid of ʿids.’124 Daʿwat-i Islami claims that the milad celebration at their international headquarters in Karachi is the largest worldwide.125 Men congregate to commemorate the Prophet, decorating the whole area with massive additional lighting and green flags. The celebrations happen there without music.126

x  Idkhal al-tawab – Raising the spiritual status of the deceased127 Barelwis believe that spiritual benefits as well as forgiveness of sins can be generated and asked for on another’s behalf – including for someone who has passed away. The means for attaining that higher spiritual status are for example prayer, giving donations, reciting the Qurʾan or making an additional hajj in the name of that person.128 Other Muslims consider it impossible to produce spiritual benefits for others. Barelwis, however, usually fix a date for a meeting dedicated to this purpose after someone has died: guests gather to donate for

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the needy in the name of the deceased, the Qurʾan is recited, etc. There is a kind of continuity to ʿurs celebrations.129 Barelwi scholars, however, stress that the family shall not provide food for the participants of this gathering (funeral feast),130 but that the food that the participants bring along is used only for the family members of the deceased and donations are for the needy.131 Related to this debate is the well-known fatwa-war concerning whether it is allowed to recite the azan (the call for prayer) at someone’s grave. Rida Khan unambiguously allows this practice: The person who has just entered the grave is also in need of this help [recitation of kalima]. Therefore, if we recite the azan at his graveside, he will not only be able to save himself from the clutches of Shaytan, but he will also be able to answer the questions put to him by the Munkar and Nakir.132 The Holy Prophet, explaining the times when the duʾa of a person is mostly accepted, said: ‘There are two Duʾas which are not refused. One is at the moment of azan and the other is at the beginning of jihad.’133 Indeed it is surprising that those who prohibit this wonderful deed of reciting the azan are doing nothing but robbing the Muslims of all the above mentioned benefits. As a matter of fact if we do recite the azan at the graveside of a brother Muslim we are doing nothing but practising the blessed words of the Holy Prophet wherein he has clearly stated: You should as much as you can be of benefit to your brother Muslim.134

Idkhal al-tawab is at the same time a great opportunity to do daʿwa.135 Critics, however, argue: Hundreds and thousands of Muslims died during the period of Holy Prophet, his noble companions and those who followed them. They quietly took their biers to the graveyards, prayed for their salvation, buried them and dust off their hands. … The installation of tent, making special arrangements for receiving condolences from the people, their entertainment with food and beverages, non-stop recitation of Holy Qurʾan for three days which is called Teejah in vernacular language, are totally unlawful and forbidden.136

xi  Taʿwiz – Amulet locket137 The taʿwiz is a duʿaʾ, a verse of the Qurʾan or one of the Ahadith, written on a repeatedly folded piece of paper worn in a locket around the neck. As an amulet it is believed, for example, to have healing powers for sick people, protective

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powers for children and can repel evil. Alternatively a duʿaʾ can be blown into the face of those seeking help or assistance. Among Barelwis it is a debate of some controversy, however, whether numerical diagrams etc. are permitted, as these seem to revolve around extra-Qurʾanic ‘magical’ data.

xii  Travelling to the Prophet’s Tomb138 Masjid al-nabawi, the Prophet’s Mosque with the green dome in Medina, shall be visited only with the intention to perform the prayers according to Deobandi scholars. On that occasion the Prophetʼs tomb may be visited. Barelwis, however, allow and stress that Muslims travel to Medina with the intention of visiting the Prophetʼs tomb: ‘The Holy Prophet has said in a Hadith that: “Whoever visits my grave, it is like he who has visited me in my life time.”’139 Deobandis associate travelling to graves with Hindu pilgrimages, and hence consider this custom un-Islamic: ‘The Holy Apostle had cursed the Jews and Christians, for they made the graves of their Prophets mosques.’140

Processes of pluralization and institutionalization As a counter-reformist movement to Deoband and the Ahl-i Hadith a coalition of shrines and schools coalesced after 1880 around the person of Ahmad Rida Khan. Throughout the 1890s the Ahl-i Sunnat organized numerous meetings on regional levels to unify Sufi sympathizers and oppose the Nadwat al-ʿUlamaʾ. In 1900 Ahmad Rida Khan was officially installed as a leader of the unfolding Barelwi movement during a meeting of the Majlis-i Ahl-i Sunnat wa Jamaʿat. The first madrasa of the Barelwi movement was the Madrasa Manzar-i Islam, which was founded by Rida Khan himself in 1904 in Bareilly. This institution was also known as the Madrasa-yi Ahl-i Sunnat wa Jamaʿat.141 Zafar al-Din Bihari, Rida Khanʼs disciple and biographer,142 had an active role in establishing the madrasa. Rida Khanʼs most famous fatwa, authored in 1906, in which he calls the Deobandi elder Rashid Ahmad Gangohi a kafir, should be understood in the context of mobilizing support for this madrasa. The main leader of this madrasa was Rida Khanʼs firstborn son, Hamid Rida Khan (1875–1943), who was the director of the madrasa after its launch in 1904 until his death. Hereafter his firstborn son, Ibrahim Rida Khan (1907–65), became the director of the madrasa. Currently about 200 to 300 students are enrolled in this institution.143

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In comparison to the reformist movement of Deoband the counter-reformist Barelwi movement revolves more around specific personalities. The focus on the person of Ahmad Rida Khan, who stressed fatwa production rather than founding institutions for education, resulted in such institutions and madrasas having initially been considered of secondary importance. Following Rida Khanʼs death in 1921 his two sons became leading figures in the reformist movement. Hamid Rida Khan had two sons and five daughters. His brother Mustafa Rida Khan (1892–1981), eighteen years younger than him and also born in Bareilly, became famous after Hamidʼs death in 1943 as the Mufti al-Aʿzam-i Hind,144 the great jurist of India – not with a title that honoured him as a Sufi saint. His magnum opus is the two volumes of the Fatawa-yi Mustafawiya. Another quite well-known work is his collection of poems, Saman-i Bakhshish. Mustafa Rida Khan was a khalifa of his father, and authored, like him, his first fatwa at the age of thirteen (on the relation of persons being breastfed by the same woman).145 He received his education at the Madrasa Manaar-i Islam. Like his father, he attached great importance to piety in everyday behaviour, for example touching things with the right hand only, never spitting in the direction of Mecca or touching the earth at a graveyard only with the toes. He did not permit Muslims to use the honorific title sarkar (leader) for government officials.146 He performed hajj thrice, 1905, 1945 and 1971.147 According to reports of his followers Mustafa Rida Khan was the first Muslim in India who did the hajj with a special passport devoid of a photograph, as for religious reasons he aggressively and successfully objected to a photograph in his passport.148 Yet, he also became famous rather as a pir and not as an ʿalim.149 In the second generation of the movement, sunna had to become a central concept, as the movement of the Ahl-i Sunnat considered itself not as founded by Ahmad Rida Khan, but claimed to translate traditional principles into contemporary practice. Mustafa Rida Khan is reported to have thousands of khalifas.150 Barelwis consider him the mujaddid of the fifteenth Islamic century.151 It is interesting that the Memon Mawlana Muhammad Shakir ʿAli Nuri, the first nigran of Daʿwat-i Islami in India and the founder of the Indian Daʿwat-i Islami split off Sunni Daʿwat-i Islami,152 is a murid of Mustafa Rida Khan.153 The well-known author Arshad al-Qadiri and Akhtar Rida Khan, the current mufti of Bareilly, are among the most influential khalifas of Mustafa Rida Khan in India. In Pakistan, Shah Turab al-Haq Qadiri is his most important khalifa. Rida Khan is part of a specific silsila, and appointed his son Hamid Rida Khan (Hujjat al-Islam, proof of Islam) his sajjada nashin in 1915.154 Under his guidance, the grave of his father was transformed into a shrine – one of the most central Barelwi khanaqah –

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Ahmad Rida Khan, 1856–1921

Hamid Rida Khan, 1875–1943

Ibrahim Rida Khan, 1907–1965

Mustafa Rida Khan, 1892–1981

Hammad Rida Khan, 1916–1956

Ahtar Rida Khan (Azhari)

Rehan Rida Khan, 1934–1985

Subhan Rida Khan

becoming an important destination of pilgrimage and a place for annual ʿurs celebrations. Bareilly became a sacred site, with the grave of Rida Khan as a centre for the baraka, the most important area for the emanation of positive spiritual powers and blessing energies. At the same time Hamid Rida Khan was the muhtamim, manager, of the Madrasa Manzar al-Islam. Both sons of Rida Khan are buried next to their father in the shrine in Bareilly. Apart from the works of Rida Khan, the most central pillar of contemporary Barelwiyyat is the fatwa collection Bahar-i shariʿat authored by Mufti Muhammad Amjad ʿAli (1879–1948),155 a khalifa of Rida Khan,156 which was published by Daʿwat-i Islami’s Maktabat al-Madina in (currently) sixteen volumes, in an easy-to-read language and with additional notes.157 The most important and largest institution of education of the Ahl-i Sunnat in India is currently the Madrasa Ashrafiyya, Ashrafiyya Misbaḥ al-ʿulum, in Mubarakpur, in the district of Azamgarh, with about 1,500 students.158 The history of this institution dates back to 1898, however it was a completely ‘Barelwi-ised’

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only in 1934, when ʿAbd al-ʿAziz from Muradabad became its director.159 ʿAbd al-ʿAziz graduated from the Manzar-i Islam in Bareilly and was a disciple of Amjad ʿAli. Without going into detail here,160 it should be underlined that the local shift of Barelwi scholarship from Bareilly to Mubarakpur is significant, and has not yet been evaluated analytically in the academic discourse. Rida Khan focussed on fatwa production, and not on teaching. For this reason madaris received at first relatively little support compared to other reformist movements. Any reform movement stresses education as well as missionary activities. The first missionary Barelwi organization began to operate, most likely, in 1924. The Jamaʿat-i Rida-i Mustafa countered the activities of the neo-Hindu missionary movement Arya Samaj (Aryan Society) founded in 1875 in Mumbai. Apparently the Jamaʿat-i Rida-i Mustafa was soon outshone by the Tablighi Jamaʿat. The Jamaʿat-i Rida-i Mustafa seems to have been active until 1957.161 In 1925 in Muradabad the All-India Sunni Conference was founded as the new and main institution of the Ahl-i Sunnat ʿulamaʾ. This institution can be interpreted as reaction against the JUH (Jamiʿat-i ʿUlamaʾ-yi Hind) founded in 1919 and the Khilafat Committee (1919–24).162 Its second meeting after the foundational congregation took place during the All-India Sunni Conference in 1935 in Badayun. During the third and last conference in 1946 in Benares the idea of the foundation of Pakistan was discussed. At the first meeting in 1925 a document of statutes was passed, outlining the institution’s aims, principles, rules and membership details.163 In the wake of globalization of the Barelwi movement,164 numerous ‘RazaAcademies’ came into existence in several Diaspora societies, where Rida Khan’s works were circulated and translated, fatwa were edited and madrasas founded. Among the globally most active centres is the ‘Imam Ahmed Raza Academy’ founded on 5 July 1986 in Durban, South Africa, which operates under its Secretary General Yunus ʿAbd al-Karim al-Qadiri Ridawi.165 In Europe the Raza Academy in Stockport is probably the main institution. It was founded in 1979 by Muhammad Kashmiri in Manchester and started to publish the works by and about Rida Khan,166 as well as the magazine The Islamic Times, in 1985.167 In the United States, Ghulam Zarquani, Arshad al-Qadiri’s son, directs the Raza Educational Circle in Houston.168 In India the Tahrik-i Fikr-i Rida in Mumbai is an important organization and prominent Barelwi publisher. The Raza Academy founded in Mumbai in 1978 propagates Ahl-i Sunnat aims by translations, publications and (sometimes violent) political mass demonstrations (e.g. during the visit of George W. Bush in India or against apparently blasphemous cultural programmes like the screening of The Da Vinci Code in cinemas).

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The dominant and main new feature of Neo-Barelwiyyat is the successful integration of modernization and globalization strategies. The new competence of transnational communication is clearly visible in the dramatic increase of translations of the works of Ahmad Rida Khan, which are meanwhile mostly translated and printed in South Africa, that is, the classical centre of Barelwiyyat became pluralized and shifted: Bareilly itself is for the global Neo-Barelwiyyat today of rather ideational meaning; Dubai and the United States have become important for financial funding of the movement; South Africa became a main intellectual hub; and Mumbai a centre for the media activities of ‘the Barelwi movement’ in today’s late-modernity. The most visible sign of the successful implementation of processes of modernization are the productions of the Medina media industry, that is, the well-organized presence of eloquent and sometimes impressively charismatic Barelwi preachers and other agents on YouTube, Islamspecific internet sites and Daʿwat-i Islami’s TV channel ‘Madani Channel’. Although the analysts of the Islamic spheres from South Asia are deeply influenced by their specific civilizational patterns, their religious traditions and institutions, the worlds of faith of South Asian Muslims remain multilayered, complex, sometimes contradictory and often opaque. Since the end of the nineteenth century, however, modern theological debates became increasingly enriched by subjective experiences of God or a prophet, and their debates of selfunderstanding were thus increasingly characterized by a competitive rivalry for impact in society, in which bitterly feuding agents accused each other in their ‘race for souls’ in the sense of a radical foreign-God-critique of xenotheism and bigotry,169 while their specific tradition of hatred remains a proof of faith: ‘Our hatred and our disgust for the Deobandis is for their shocking words and acts of blasphemy an obligation of our faith and will remain alive as long as we are alive.’170

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The Contested Milieu of Deoband: ‘Salafis’ or ‘Sufis’? Ron Geaves

Building upon my own research on the presence of Muslims in Britain over the past twenty-five years and other scholarship that has investigated the South Asian Islamic movements that dominate British Muslim life, this chapter will place two current theses under investigation. The first is that the Deobandis are a strict scriptural tradition, often accused of being ‘Wahhabi’; the second is that they are the bitter rivals of the South Asian Sufi traditions (Barelvis), and thus the bitter opponents of Sufism. The article is based upon research undertaken in north India in the regions of Deoband and Saharanpur in 2012, where several sites located within Deoband’s historic origins were visited and a number of interviews with prominent Deobandi ʿulamaʾ and Sufis were undertaken. The objective of the research was to establish Deoband’s current relationship with Sufism. The research was triggered by two anecdotal or fleeting observations, the first encountered in 1994 on my first visit to Deoband and the second more recently in 2008 at the same location. In 1994, I was permitted to carry out research in Deoband at the intervention of the Shaykh al-Hadith (Nasir Ahmed Khan), who had been a Deoband student and teacher from early childhood. His span of experience stretched back over sixty years. I asked him in one of many conversations and interviews what significant changes he had observed in the institution since he came as a boy. His response was immediate. ‘The decline of tasawwuf. When I first came tasawwuf was widespread in Deoband, now I am the last practitioner.’ In 2008, I noted the presence of several practitioners of tasawwuf staying with the senior ʿulamaʾ of Deoband as honoured guests and advisers. In Saharanpur there were significant khanaqahs belonging to families whose predecessors had influenced Deobandi diaspora worldwide through their impact on Tabligh-i piety and dar al-ʿulum education. Foremost among these

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was the well-known and revered Shaykh Zakariya, whose grandson still presides over the khanaqah, holding daily dhikr and offering counselling to visitors from across the world. In the khanaqah at Saharanpur and later in Allahabad I was able to observe practices by Deobandi Sufis that were identical to those I had witnessed by Barelwi Shaykhs.1 These observations raised three important questions: a) had Sufism revived among Deobandis since 1994?; b) what was the key difference between Deobandi Sufism and other forms of traditional Sufism in India?; and c) to what degree was the Deobandi movement, at least in its Indian formations, a movement of Sufi reformers? In order to discover answers a field visit was undertaken in 2012 to interview influential ʿulamaʾ and Deobandi Sufis and visit historic sites involved with the origins of Deoband and Tabligh-i Jamaʿat. These included the khanaqah in Raipur of Hazrat Shah Abdul Rahim Raipuri Saheb, a direct murid of Shaykh Haji Imdadullah, which was established in the late nineteenth century under instructions from Sarananpur and still functions to this day as a madrasa and khanaqah, with around 250 students. It also included Thana Bhavan, the khanaqah of Ashraf ʿAli Thanwi, where Muhammad Ilyas and his immediate associates came to reflect upon the reform of Islam in the Indian subcontinent and originated the idea of Tabligh-i Jamaʿat. The age of this khanaqah is disputed between those who claim that it was instituted by Ashraf ʿAli Thanwi in 1916, and those who state it had already been in operation from before 1857.

Competing constructions of Deoband Deoband is a religious movement marked by strong piety, forged in the early British colonial period in India and arising out of the long-term concerns with the consequences of the loss of Muslim power and a more short-term reaction to the failure of the 1857 uprising. The founders of Deoband chose to protect Islam in India through a dual strategy of first providing educational institutions that could supply graduates capable of protecting and maintaining a conservative scripturalist interpretation of Islam in the absence of a Muslim-governed state, and second by promoting a deliberate policy of isolation that protected India’s Muslims against both Hindu and British cultural influence. The reformers of Deoband went on to create a network of dar al-ʿulums or madrasas across South Asia as the institutional centres of their activities. By 1880, the original school in Deoband had expanded to a dozen, stretching from Madras to Bengal. By 1967, there were estimated to be 8,934 Deobandi schools across South Asia, and the

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original school in Deoband had long become an international hub for promoting Deoband’s brand of conservative Islam. In the highly contested world of Islam in South Asia and its various manifestations in Britain, the movement known as ‘Deobandi’ is likely to be labelled as ‘Wahhabi’. One major area of Deobandi contestation has been with the Barelwi tradition, spilling over into various Pakistani, Bangladeshi and Indian Diasporas, including Britain. This contestation has led to the formation of discursive narratives that label Deobandis as ‘influenced by the doctrines of the Arabian reformer, Muhammad ibn al-Wahhab’. For example, Muhammad Raza goes on to say that ‘some Islamic groups under Wahhabi influence stopped their followers from paying respects to the saints in Indo-Pakistani history’, and it can be surmised that he is referring to the Deobandi movement.2 Perhaps more damning is the Deobandi link to the Taliban in Pakistan. William Maley notes that the Taliban’s leaders were influenced by Deobandi ‘fundamentalism’.3 The usage of the term ‘fundamentalism’ to describe Deobandis compounds the problem of locating the movement, as it is too broad and is likely to brand unwittingly Deoband alongside Jihadist movements, and cement the label ‘Wahhabi’ or ‘Salafi’. The link to the Taliban arises from the role that the Deobandi dar al-ʿulums played in the religious education of young Afghan refugees of Pushtun ethnicity on the North-West Frontier during the Russian occupation of Afghanistan. Leading Deobandis in Pakistan have been connected to the Sipah-i Sahaba Pakistan (SSP), which has been alleged to be involved in terrorist violence, primarily targeted against the minority Shiʿa community in Pakistan. The movement was part of the alliance of Jamaʿat-i Islami (JeI), Jamaʿat-i ʿUlamaʾ-i Pakistan (JUP), Jamaʿat-i ʿUlamaʾ-i Islam, and Fazlur Rahman faction of JUI and Jamaʿat-i Ahl-i Hadith in forming the Afghan Jehad Council, which claimed that the US action was not a war against Taliban but against Islam, and therefore, it was essential for the Muslims to declare Jihad against the United States and its allies.4 Jamaʿat-i ʿUlamaʾ-i Pakistan (JUP) and Jamaʿat-i ʿUlamaʾ-i Islam are both official bodies of Deobandi ʿulamaʾ in Pakistan. From the early 1980s until the early 2000s, the Deobandi movement in Pakistan was a major recipient of funding from Saudi Arabia until it ceased in favour of the rival Ahl-i Hadith movement,5 who are today far more likely and accurately to be associated with the Salafi movement. Vincenzo Olivetti is far more deterministic in his analysis of the relationship between Deobandis and Salafis. He argues that the Salafi movement uses a conscious ‘virus’ or ‘Trojan Horse’ strategy to infiltrate local Islamic movements in Muslim nations and communities where they have little presence of their own. He particularly cites Deoband as a victim of this approach, stating ‘particular

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dupes of this shrewd thinking are the puritanical, reformist Deobandi movement of the Indian Subcontinent (who now seem to have entirely dove-tailed with the Salafis) and the Muslim Brotherhood [my italics]’.6 However, Olivetti appears to be drawing upon a dichotomy of the Muslim world into hard-line movements associated with ‘terror’ or, on the other hand, ‘traditional orthodoxy’7 linked to traditions of spirituality and tolerance. In this regard he would appear to be acknowledging a simplistic dichotomy of the Islamic world that is promoted by those sympathetic to Sufism and used to polemically maintain the tariqas as normative. Olivetti lists one of the defining characteristics of Salafism as rejection of sanctity and especially Islamic mysticism or tasawwuf.8 An internet search for sites used by young British South Asians exploring their Islamic identity reveals considerable confusion regarding the positioning of Deoband. Typical questions and statements on Muslim forum sites are as follows: ‘As I understand it, the Taliban are said to be Deobandi, while al-Qaʾida is Wahhabi/Salafi. But the two seem similar in aims and outlook’.9 The author of the article ‘Who are these Deobandi/Wahabi people and what is the Tablighi Jamaat?’ conflates a number of Islamic movements as ‘the biggest threat to Islam from within these days is from the Wahabi, Deobandi, Tablighi, Salafi sects’.10 On the other hand, the following comment identifies the Deobandis as Sufis, ‘The Deobandis and Barelvis are both from the Ahla Sunnah, and they are both mainstream Sufis. The main difference with them is that, the Deobandis don’t praise the Prophet(saw) as much as the Barelvis do, the rest of the problems they have are pride issues.’11  Even scholars of South Asian Sufism seem to be caught up in the ambiguity of Deobandi identity. Clinton Bennett notes that Deoband and its missionary offshoot Tabligh-i Jamaʿat have Sufi roots and that its founders even belonged to traditional Indian tariqas, but that ‘they are increasingly considered to be opponents to Sufism and even theological allies to the Wahhabis’.12 Clinton appears to be arguing a historic transformation in which Deoband increasingly adopted an anti-tariqa message, especially ‘shrine-centered systems of authority’.13 In the same volume, the anthropologist Pnina Werbner draws upon her fieldwork in Ghamkol Sharif, Pakistan, where she spent time with the Naqshbandi Shaykh, Zindapir, before his death in 1999, to argue an ‘ambivalent relationship’ between Sufi and ʿulamaʾ, the popular and the legalistic.14 Bennett understands Werbner to be saying that they are not completely polarized, but there is still a tendency to locate ʿulamaʾ-based movements such as Deoband as being more critical of Sufi practices.15 To be precise, Werbner is referring to the ambiguous and complex relationships between the pirs of South Asia and the ʿulamaʾ that are loyal to

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them, describing the pirs as repositories of experience and example, whereas the ʿulamaʾ convey religious knowledge gleaned through their Islamic schooling.16 The relationship of ʿulamaʾ and Sufi is very different in the Deobandi tradition, and requires further clarification. An ʿalim of Deoband may well be a Sufi in the sense of tariqa membership, or he may not. Piety, however, is not measured by tariqa membership, and nor is there necessarily the binary division of tariqaand shariʿa-based forms of knowledge. However, the eighth mohtamim (rector) of Dar al-ʿUlum Deoband, Qari Muhammad Tayyid (1897–1983), described the scholars and clerics of Deoband as Sufis. He affirmed that: Religiously, the ʿulamaʾ of Deoband are Muslims, as a sect they belong to the

Ahl al-Sunnah waʾl-Jamaʿah, by madhhab they are Hanafi, in conduct they are Sufis, scholastically they are Maturidi and in suluk they are Chishti – rather they combine all Sufi orders. … And in nisbat they are Deobandi.17 

He continues to elaborate the defining features of Deoband: In essentials and beliefs, they (the Deobandis) follow Imam Abuʾl-Hasan Ashʿari and Imam Abu Mansur Maturidi; and in sub-principles Imam Abu Hanifah. They are initiates of the Chistiyyah, Naqshbandiyya, Qadriyyah and Suharwardiyyah Sufi orders.18

Deoband’s official website continues to affirm the view of the eighth rector. The  ʿulamaʾ of Deoband – named after a sleepy north Indian town where a group of scholars established a  madrasah  to safeguard and propagate sacred knowledge – are adherents of one of the four imams of fiqh: Imam Abu Hanifah, Imam Shafi‘i, Imam Malik and Imam Ahmad bin Hanbal; and follow the Ash‘ari and Maturidi schools of creed. As epitomes of shari‘a and tariqa, the ʿulamaʾ of Deoband were and are practitioners of a strict fiqh-based tasawwuf and follow the Chishti, Naqshbandi, Qadri and Suhrawardi tariqahs.19

Deobandi Sufism The interviews with senior Deobandi ʿulamaʾ in Deoband and Saharanpur revealed that this understanding of Deoband as a Sufi tradition remained, but there were differences of opinion with regard to the extent of tasawwuf in contemporary practice – whether it had declined and when, how it was incorporated into the Deobandi dar al-ʿulums alongside the study of the curriculum and, most significantly, to what degree Deobandi tasawwuf departed

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from Barelwi modes of Sufism. However, there was no disagreement with regard to the centrality of tasawwuf in the maintenance of the relationship between a Muslim and Allah. The most common reference point for the Deobandi ʿulamaʾ was the well-known Hadith in which Muhammad elaborates on the differences between islam, iman and ihsan. There is no difference between Islami tasawwuf, or Deobandi tasawwuf. Islami tasawwuf is the same as found in Qurʾan and the hadith. In the hadith books we

read that Jibraʾil (A) came in the last years of the Prophet (S) and asked him a few questions about islam and iman and the third question was … what is ihsan. The answer given by the Prophet (s) was that ihsan is that you worship Allah as if you were seeing Him and the second level is that even if you cannot see Him worship Allah as if He is seeing you. To bring about sincerity in your worship so that it is only for Allah is known as tasawwuf. To reach this goal … some of the elders who were faced with circumstances found that certain practices would help achieve this goal. Keeping this goal in mind and to achieve it, staying in company of an elder (buzurk) - shaykh who was close to God would become necessary. Because keeping a company of somebody has a great impact on one’s personality/character. In Islami tasawwuf importance is not given to miracles or special powers, rather, emphasis is on following the shariʿa sincerely and accurately.20 The foundation of tasawwuf is ihsan.21 Deobandi tasawwuf is that from the beginning our elders have followed the Sunna and it means that peopleʼs relationship with God should be made strong and the ethical impurities that contaminates a human being should be removed from that person. A true person with integrity who is close to Allah and has good relations with other human beings is capable of preparing a kind of tasawwuf that will be effective and that is the tasawwuf we are inclined towards.22 The word tasawwuf has been derived from the word ‘Suf’ which means wool. This term has been used much later. It has not come from the Qurʾan or hadith. In Qurʾan the word ihsan has been used. The root word for ihsan is husn which

means beauty. Ihsan means to make something beautiful. The hadith-i Jibraʾil … you must have heard of that … where Jibraʾil asks the Prophet what is iman? So

the Prophet spoke about seven beliefs that make up the iman. Then Jibraʾil (A) asked about Islam. … So the Prophet (S) spoke about the five actions … (Salaah, fast etc.) then he asked. ‘What is ihsan …?’ So the Prophet said that there are two ways to beautify these beliefs and actions. The ‘high class’ way is that a person worships Allah as if he is seeing Allah – but it is not possible for everybody

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to reach this level. And for those who cannot attain this level then for them is the lower degree. When they worship Allah they should keep in mind that Allah is watching them. If this thought is kept in mind then the worship will be enhanced. The first degree of ihsan is known as tasawwuf.23 First of all this terminology is not used (Deobandi tasawwuf). Deoband is the stream of Ahl-i Sunnat wa Jamaʿat and some innovations had started during the Mughal rule due to revival movements. There are five things that are overarching  – Book of Allah, traditions of the prophet, jurisprudence, rules of jurisprudence and qiyas – And tasawwuf is not an Islamic terminology. The term that is used in the Hadith is ‘ihsan’ and the commentary is mentioned in the famous hadith of Jibraʾil.24

The insistence upon replacing tasawwuf with ihsan and removing any identification with Deoband belongs to the discourses of contestation as identified by Talal Asad.25 Indeed the Rector of Deoband Waqf is keen to point out that any other form of language is a device of Deoband’s opponents. I would like to mention that do not attach Deobandi to tasawwuf. Because the elders of Deoband are the people who have protected and presented the truth of din and book of Allah and sunnat of the Prophet to this country. The competing party would have, due to their own stubbornness, called it Deobandi tasawwuf. In principle this is false. It is the stream of Ahl-i Sunnat wa Jamaʿat that has been continuing for a long time. There was no discipline as tasawwuf during the time of Prophet. It was later on for different reasons that people may have adopted this discipline and initially it was called ‘Suf ’ and later on it became tasawwuf, Suf and Safa are related. It is the cleaning of the heart and later a lot of things was added to it.26

My interviews with Barelwi Sufis in Britain also elicited responses that referred to the ‘Jibraʾili’ hadith and the significance of ‘seeing Allah in front of you’.27 The Deobandi ʿulamaʾ were far more likely to define tasawwuf as ‘intention’ as opposed to more normative associations with dhikr. Some were keen to point out that dhikr was only part of tasawwuf, and that any Islamic practice if carried out with intention was purification of the soul. In other words ihsan had to be brought to all the practices expected to be carried out by a pious Muslim. In this context manners and morality were also important elements. For Deobandis, intention (niyat) was closely linked to ihsan and taqwa (piety), as intention is the essential ingredient that led to piety being uncovered in the context of the experience of being in proximity to Allah (ihsan). It would not be an understatement to assert

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that niyat constituted the discipline of tasawwuf according to Deobandis. As explained by Maulana Qasimi: Whatever intentions you have in your heart is of paramount importance. Because Islam is a way of life according to nature (fitrat). So whatever action you want to do make an intention for it and ikhlas (sincerity) is to earn the pleasure of Allah. So it is the intention that purifies you. Obedience will purify you outwardly. The inner will be cleansed through your intentions and the outer will be cleansed through your actions. Whatever shariʿa says should be followed because our eyes could see wrong, our ears could hear wrong. So by doing this you will get the one biggest blessing of this world which is contentment of the heart.28

This sentiment is further developed by Maulana Ghulam Nabi: Deobandi tasawwuf aims towards informing people that there is only One God. And there may be many ways of asking from God but the Deobandi khanaqahs provide nurturing in such a way that an individual develops morals and realises that there is only one God. Tasawwuf is that where you feel the spirituality.29

However, dhikr remains an important constituent of the Deobandi approach to Islam. With respect to dhikr, Deoband demonstrates no significant differences to normative Sufi practices. Attendance at several dhikr sessions revealed little difference from sessions I had attended across the Arab and South Asian regions. The South Asian milieu of Sufism has always permitted initiation into several tariqas, and this is also common practice among Deobandis. Maulana Abdul Haq notes that: Our Akabirs (founders) are related to all four tariqas and they used to take bayʿat under all four. This influence was started by Haji Imdadullah Sahib and Deoband was established towards his last years when he left for Makkah. There was a tradition of taking bayʿat even during the time of Rashid Ahmed Gangohi. He was the first one and also followed by Maulana Qasim and the silsila of Deoband backdates to them.30

Maulana Qasimi endorses this viewpoint, and describes the flexibility in Deoband with regard to tariqa membership. The approach is pragmatic: The four tariqas (Naqshbandi, Chishti, Suhrawardi and Qadari) may have different dhikr but they all come from the Qurʾan and hadith. Maulana Habibur Rahman who was the assistant principal for a long time, and others decided to go to a Delhi based shaykh and he taught them the Naqshbandi way of dhikr. Two of the friends in fifteen days saw a difference in their spirituality and they

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were progressing, whereas Maulana Habibur Rahman did not see any change in his heart. So the shaykh then suggested a Chishtiyya way of doing dhikr which is audibly in contrast to the silent way of doing dhikr in the Naqshbandi tariqa.31

Deoband’s students may also seek the formal relationship with a Shaykh in addition to staff–student relationships that they possess with their dar al-ʿulum teachers. Such Shaykh–murid relations are expected to be through the traditional offering of allegiance (bayʿat), and entering into a chain of transmission (silsila), normally into one or more of the four principal tariqas present in India. However, Deobandi scholars are adamant that such a person must be a pious Muslim following the sunna. In Deobandi tasawwuf they also remember the shaykh who benefitted them and also that the blessings that are showered on them by Allah are due to the (fayz) of the shaykh and the chain of this is traced back. When we develop a relation with a shaykh, he should be of that calibre that by sitting in his company – the love of Allah is enhanced. By sitting in that shaykhʾs gathering one should get the ability to save oneself from sins and develop a zeal to perform righteous actions. That shaykh should be abiding by the Sunna and have some knowledge of Qurʾan and hadith and be a performer of salah and fasting and the one who saves himself from sins. Even if he does sin by mistake he should realise and ask for forgiveness immediately. Such a person can be made a shaykh whether or not he has the ability to perform miracles or engage in mystical states. People who started innovative practices used to start following a person only because he had the ability to perform some mystical act – whether that person was a Jogi (hindu Saint) or Jotshi (fortune teller) or even not following the din. The masses due to ignorance used to get impressed by such people even though they would not be praying or fasting or reciting the Qurʾan.32

Maulana Ruqnur Deen also explains that the relationship with a Shaykh is not compulsory, but when entered into it is related only to reform of character. He explains: If this is related to reform your religious practices then it is compulsory but taking allegiance by taking a hand in hand with shaykh is desirable but not compulsory. The shaykh will act as a guide to do good actions and stay away from bad actions. As the shaykh himself would have walked that path – and so he will show the follower. Yes it is important that the guide has knowledge of shariʿa and tariqa and he should have the ability to reform. His outward and inner character should be sound.33

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Thus, it is also possible to find Deobandis who cultivate ihsan without taking bayʿat at the hands of a Shaykh or attending formal dhikr sessions. If a person is engaged in teaching or learning or writing and we may think he is not practicing tasawwuf – but actually he is engaged in tasawwuf because of his intentions. So if some people then engage or specialise one part of the community in tasawwuf itself like in dhikr etc are practicing tasawwuf but even the other group that is engaged in teaching/learning etc are practicing tasawwuf. So in that sense the elders of Deoband were practicing Sufism but it was later on due to enmity and hatred that people started giving this name as Deobandi tasawwuf. Even today you will find people who are practicing Sufism.34 For tasawwuf the belief or conviction in your heart should be very strong. Just so a person does not do only the external actions to show off and this is what tasawwuf does to develop the spirit in a heart. If you attain this state then you are in the state of ihsan where you are worshipping Allah as if he is seeing you … whether it is salah, fasting, zakat or other acts of ibadat. And this will strengthen the relation with Allah. To attain this state of the heart people have adopted different strategies. Some people say repeat the name of Allah so many times etc. When these things are done the love of Allah becomes stronger and then even to give up your life becomes easy.35 One meaning of tasawwuf would be understood as the person formally takes a bayʿat (oath) and follows his guide. The other is that a person stays on Sunnat and follows the hadith. tasawwuf is also understood by the hadith that says … ‘worship Allah as if you are seeing him or that He is seeing you …’ so basically to develop that ‘ihsan’ is also tasawwuf which is mandatory.36

These two attitudes towards Sufism are reflected in a somewhat contested set of responses from Deobandi ʿulamaʾ and Sufis with regard to the relationship between the dar al-ʿulum and the khanaqah. Ghulam Nabi, who was interviewed in the historic Thana Bhavan, the khanaqah of Ashraf ʿAli Thanwi, one of Deoband’s founding figures, argues that Sufism can only be learnt in the khanaqah. Regarding khanaqahs I can say this that it has become very popular these days. So the theory of tasawwuf may be learnt from books in madrasas but one would need a khanaqah to put it in practice. One needs to remove all malice from within – so if there is any malice then khanaqahs are the places where they show you practical ways of cleansing from within. After belief any efforts in practicing those beliefs is tasawwuf, So we merge the theory and practice.37

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Others are not so sure that khanaqah and dar al-ʿulum require separation from each other, but rather students should organically seek out the pious and knowledgeable among the ʿulamaʾ who teach them in the dar al-ʿulum. Others were to suggest that the study of tasawwuf would distract from the formal curriculum learning required of the dar al-ʿulum student, and that it is better for students to seek out a Shaykh after completing the dars-i nizami curriculum. Mufti Azizur Rahman states that the original foundation of the dar al-ʿulum Deoband provided the necessary qualities required for both formal Islamic learning and the values associated with Sufism. Interestingly he suggests that it is no longer the case and that there has been decline. When Dar al-ʿulum was established, the foundation values of this Dar al-ʿulum were based on sincerity, spirituality and morality. It is not like any other Dar al-ʿulum where there is a teacher and student and education begins. This

Dar al-ʿulum was started with this idea that with education there will also be nurturing for sincerity and even a sweeper at that time was influenced with that idea and hence connected to Allah. Even a sweeper would consider his services to be in the way of Allah. This was the time of the founders. These two eras during their time was the best period of the Dar al-ʿulum and this period lasted for about 25–30 years.38

Maulana Abdul Haq Sambhali agrees with this viewpoint: Deoband is about teaching and tasawwuf is about shariʿa and tariqa. In our

madrasa we have merged it together. Under the name of shariʿa our elders have taught us to practice the din according to the sunna and they do tell us to do dhikr of Allah and they make us ask for forgiveness. Basically it is all about practicing the din and the buzurk (elders) showed us how to practice it. So they were intellectuals as well Sufis of that time.39

However, in the khanaqahs of the Deobandi tradition there was a difference of opinion. It was argued that the well-known Shaykh Zakiriya, who had a very strong influence on the global Deobandi diaspora, had written that every dar al-ʿulum should have a khanaqah attached to it. Yet some of the ʿulamaʾ were afraid that separate khanaqahs might lead to ‘exaggerated’ practices, and argued that wherever Islamic spirituality was cultivated the place was a khanaqah. Wherever one sits and practices remembrance of Allah is a khanaqah.40 There are no separate spaces. It is about doing work on the soul and one does not need a separate building for that. This is a better way that during education of

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children the teachers touch upon this topic simultaneously. These days we see that making a separate khanaqah leads to exaggeration and that becomes challenging to handle. They call it khanaqah and then it becomes like a mazar (grave).41

Yet the ideal persists that the dar al-ʿulum students should seek out a Shaykh after completing their studies. Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi is content with either system of learning tasawwuf. They study – there are two ways of doing this. One is that during the lesson they talk about cleansing the soul and the other way is after graduating they are encouraged to get company of one of the shaykhs – whoever they are inclined towards. In the madrasa there is education and in khanaqah there is reformation through tasawwuf. In the madrasa there are small children and in khanaqah those same children who have completed their education come on their own accord for purification.42

The idea persisted that there was a time in Deoband when the practice of seeking out a Shaykh after completing formal study was formalized, even to the degree that certification (ijaza) was not awarded unless the student undertook a period of study of tasawwuf. However, it was not possible to obtain evidence of the practice or agreement as to when it discontinued. Maulana Ruqnoor Deen refers to the practice: I believe the student used to be with the shaykh for about six months after that the student would get the ijaza. Qari Tayyab Sahib about 30 years ago used to speak about it in his speeches. But this practice may have stopped about 80 years ago. Since the material world is more attractive the spiritual world is declining.43

Mufti Palanpuri also corroborated the practice, agreeing with the same timeframe: This is during the time of Hazrat Allama Anwar Kashmiri when there were about 30 students. Then Maulana Hassan Muhammad Madaniʾs time came and there was a large increase in the number of students. His idea was make people maulvis so that they will not go astray so the value diminished. This was around the 1930s.44

Maulana Niamatullah Azmi believes that the practice declined when there was a politicization of Deoband: ‘I will not provide any names as that will not be appropriate but I can say that when politics came in to dar al-ʿulums and madrasas this practice stopped. After

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the demise of Qari Tayyab Saheb politics penetrated with speed and after that there was a change in thought and practice.’45

Maulana Noman was more vague, stating that ‘It was not during our time … may be a long time ago … this may have been the case’.46

Maulana Qasimi provides a more official view of the situation. He also acknowledges that a more formal approach to the study of tasawwuf once existed, but he considers change to have taken place due to the success of Deoband and the extra demands of teaching so many more students in the dar al-ʿulums and madrasas. He states that: I do not remember the exact year. At that time there were not many distractions and students could focus. In this busy age students are given the understanding the principles of tasawwuf and then whatever time they have they work towards it.47

Several of the ʿulamaʾ also agreed that the formal teaching of tasawwuf was in decline. Some, like Maulana Azmi, blamed the decline on politics, others to the massive increase in students or the calibre of the students. However there was also a view that the practice was reviving, and that more khanaqahs were opening. Hassan al-Hashmi encapsulates the viewpoint of decline: Our main aim should be to spread the ‘din’ and inner cleansing which are both important. If politics overtakes these aims then some harm will be apparent … and this happened in the past. For example the students of dar al-ʿulum had a desire that their relationship should be with Sufis and they would want that while they are studying in dar al-ʿulum they would get a bayʿat with some shaykh and become their followers. Gradually that desire has declined.48

Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi is not so sure why there is a decline in the formal teaching of tasawwuf, but he considers it might be because the institution of the Deobandi khanaqah is disappearing: There is no particular reason for that … just like before the silsila carries on. Most of the teachers (muddarasin) always had a bayʿat with someone or the other but unlike before there are not so many khanaqahs these days.49

However, he is among those who are optimistic that there is a revival of Sufism among the Deobandis, going on to say: As I told you before there are some places where this practice is being revived again. In the past some circumstances prevented this practice.50

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Maulana Azmi agrees but is more specific about the causes of decline: The people (teachers and students) are gradually realising the repercussions of politics and material world so they are coming back towards tasawwuf. People have seen a deficiency and hence there will be a revival for spirituality through tasawwuf.51

It was clear from the interviews that the ʿulamaʾ of Deoband (both Sufi and non-Sufis) were cognizant that tasawwuf was an essential part of Islamic life, and had always been integral to Deobandi life, both in its foundation and in its continuation as a living tradition. The Sufis among the ʿulamaʾ were more likely to emphasize the decline in the number of formal Sufi institutions and practices, for example the decline of the khanaqah as a parallel institution to the dar al-ʿulum, the numbers of students formally introduced to dhikr and initiation into a silsila under the formal guidance of a Shaykh. The non-Sufis acknowledged the significance of tasawwuf but looked towards its integration with the dar al-ʿulum curriculum. They worried about the number of students and their quality as compared with the past, and had concerns that the dar al-ʿulums could not provide the access to such teachers as in the golden age of the tradition. There was an overall sense of nostalgia and a hope that there would be a revival.

The Rivalry with Barelvis Sufism has always been a strong presence in India, dating back to the original Muslim conquests and reinforced by various Muslim missionaries from Central Asia, Persia and Iraq. Nile Green reminds us that in defining Sufism in India it is more helpful to shy away from metaphysical and theosophical understandings of the cosmos, the soul and God, and to focus on ‘embodied blessed men’ that maintain genealogies of blessing power (baraka) believed to owe its origins and to have come down from the blessing power embodied in Allah’s final prophet. He states in the context of Indian Sufi landscape: It is an Islam of blessed men and remembered saints who in living deed and recollected narrative dwelt in the midst of communities whose supernatural patrons they were in an India whose towns were still under settlement by mobile individuals and factions linked to the Mughal Empire.52

Geaves has argued that it is precisely this focus on blessed men (and sometimes women) that Sufism was able to spread successfully in the Hindu milieu of

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India.53 Sufism had arrived in India as early as the tenth century but certainly by the twelfth, and three major tariqas had been established: the Chishtiyya, the Suhrawardiyya and the Firdawsiyya. In the Mughal period, new Sufi Orders appeared, most notably the Shattariyya, the Qadiriyya and the Naqshbandiyya. In addition to the orders, with their fixed disciplines and lineages of masters, there were also wandering individual ascetics known as qalandars or fakirs, who, in practice, would have been indistinguishable for the majority of rural people from the wandering ascetics of Hinduism. When the Shaykhs died the focus of their followers turned to the grave that would, in turn, develop as a shrine centre and the focus of the continuing development of the tariqa. It was believed that the power to intercede and perform miracles was now contained within the tomb of the saint, as he was in some way still alive, awaiting Judgement Day. His power was also contained in his bloodline, and it was usually his immediate remaining family who would take over the religious functions and administration of the shrine. The proliferation of shrines of deceased saints brought a new dynamic into South Asian Muslim belief and practices, as millions of rural adherents of the faith concentrated their devotional practices and petitions around the tombs. The development of a fully fledged theosophy of sainthood, both living and in the tomb, was a contentious issue for many more orthodox Muslims, especially among the ranks of the ʿulamaʾ. There was considerable criticism of the need to submit to the authority of charismatic men who claimed a special relationship to Allah through ecstasy. But the most bitter criticism of the orthodox was reserved for some Sufis who began to proclaim that the intimate relationship with Allah that is enjoyed by the wali (friend of God) excludes the requirement of obedience to the outer laws of Islam. Some suggested that obedience to the exoteric laws and requirements of Islam was only a duty during the early stages of spiritual development. It was inevitable that a dichotomy between the experience of those who claimed direct inner access to the Divine and therefore felt themselves to be completely surrendered to the Divine will and those who dutifully followed the external requirements of the shariʿa would develop. This difference was to follow along doctrinal lines, in which many Sufis in India subscribed to Ibn al-ʿArabi’s formulation of the doctrine of wahdat al-wujud (unity of existence), concerning Allah’s unity. They were taken to India by several prominent Sufis, most notably ʿAbd al-Karim al-Jili (1365–1428), who wrote over thirty books expounding Ibn al-ʿArabi’s philosophy. Another important figure was Fakhr al-din Ibrahim (d. 1289), commonly known as ʿIraqi, who lived in Multan for around twenty-five years and had been introduced to the ideas of Ibn al-ʿArabi while travelling in

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Asia Minor after undergoing pilgrimage to Mecca. Not all Indian Sufis followed Ibn al-ʿArabi’s ideas on wahdat al-wujud. There were those who followed a modified form known as wahdat al-shuhud (Unity of Appearance). This was first propounded by Ala al-Dawla Simnani (1261–1336) of Iran, whose disciples travelled to India. Simnani disagreed that Being and God were the same. He argued that unity of being was only a stage on the mystical journey, and that the final stage reasserted transcendence. Later, in the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries, wahdat al-shuhud would be adopted by the Naqshbandiyya Indian reformers Shaikh Ahmad Sirhindi (1564–1624) and Shah Waliullah (1703–62). The key factor here is that both Islamic and Hindu theism were able to interface through ideas of unity of being and even sometimes fuse with each other as well as with the rarer manifestations of monism. Some Sufis seemed to be taking the Hindu ideas closer to Islam, and often the Sufis and the Hindu theists seemed to have more in common with each other than the respective orthodoxies of brahmin and ʿalim. Figures like Bullhe Shah (1680–1752) and Waris Shah (1730– 90) attacked the exoteric paths of both religions, and like Guru Nanak claimed to be neither Hindu nor Muslim, but it needs to be reiterated that for many Sufis this disregard for the shariʿa was anathema, and that both the exoteric (shariʿa) and esoteric (tariqa) dimensions of Islam were essential. As early as the sixteenth century, orthodox Muslims had reacted negatively to the compromises of the Mughal Emperor Akbar (1556–1603). Akbar’s abandonment of shariʿa law and the apparent establishment of a new religion that placed him above the law appalled the orthodox. Akbar had made the ʿulamaʾ sign a decree of his infallibility that in effect placed the decisions of the monarch over and above the shariʿa.54 This situation brought to a head the idea that Islam was in danger of being engulfed in an all-embracing sea of Hinduism, but it is important to note that the criticisms of folk practices, syncretism and popular Sufism were to come from within the ranks of the Sufis themselves, and this is key to understanding Deoband. The strongest and most influential voice of protest came from Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi (d. 1625) of the Naqshbandi tariqa. Sirhindi was determined to unite the umma under the rule of the shariʿa, to destroy the bidaʿ (innovations) that he saw creeping into Islamic belief and practice and to persuade Muslims to shun religious contact with the Hindu population.55 Sirhindi attempted to clarify the relationship between Hinduism and Islam. He considered the two religions to be mutually exclusive, with no possibility of integration. Sirhindi also attacked heterodox Sufis who had absorbed ideas from Hinduism, and he sought to close the gap between Sufism and the shariʿa. Mujeeb goes as far as to argue that in spite of

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his own Sufi affiliation, Sirhindi asserted the prominence of the shariʿa over the tariqa, insisting that Sufis themselves should be exemplary in their obedience to the law.56 Simple conformity to the shariʿa would base the Muslims’ faith firmly on revelation rather than on the mystic’s intuitional awareness of unity. He considered that education in theology and law should take precedence over Sufi teaching, and that the Prophet and his companions were superior to all the saints of Sufism. The core idea in Sirhindiʼs plan for revival, central to all later reform movements, was the return of Muslims to perceived standards of the Islam of the Prophet and the Rashidun (the first four rightly guided caliphs). Haq explains that essentially, Sirhindi saw Hindus as infidels not entitled to their dhimmi status; the revival of Islam thus meant the re-imposition of shariʿa and the removal of cultural accretions and innovations arising out of Sufism, Shiʿa and, in particular, Hinduism.57 Sirhindiʾs deep awareness of the need for reform, combined with his intense suspicion of innovation and his distrust of any contact with the non-Muslim world, made him the pioneer of Muslim isolationism as a strategy to protect orthodox understandings of revelation. The Battle of Plassey in 1757 ended the independence of Bengal and began the process of final unravelling of the Mughal rule of India. The decline of Muslim power highlighted a crucial inner tension within Islam: the tension between the ideal and the real. For centuries the pious in India, with their vision of a pure faith and their ideal of Islamic monotheism, had to endure the compromises made by their rulers in order to hold the empire together. Now that the reformed Sufi Orders and the ʿulamaʾ had seized the initiative, they predictably insisted on a return to the first principles of Islam based firmly on the Qurʾan and the Hadith. With the rejection of scholasticism and mysticism came the call for a pure and uncluttered faith. Many eclectic beliefs and practices tolerated over the centuries were now condemned as not Islamic. The authenticity of Islam was seen in exclusive rather than inclusive terms; compromise was regarded as abomination. Shah Waliullah (1703–62), also a Shaykh of the Naqshbandi tariqa and often described as the greatest Islamic scholar India ever produced, picked up the major strands of Sirhindi’s ideas and developed them into a coherent ideology that was to form the basis of Islamic revival in the subcontinent right through to the present day. Through his inspiration, the religious leadership came to believe that political leaders could no longer hold on to the empire without the motivating force of religion. Like Sirhindi before him, Shah Waliullah reiterated that the lack of moral standards that led to the decline of Muslim fortunes was due to contact with Hindus and partially converted Muslims. Like Sirhindi, he

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accused the Muslims of India of becoming Indians rather than identifying with the larger worldwide umma. He was especially afraid that Islam, believed by Muslims to be the only religion that had not been corrupted by innovation, was itself in danger of losing its pristine and final revelation.58 Like Sirhindi, he insisted that Indian Muslims should see themselves as an integral part of the larger Muslim world. He saw the intolerable political situation as proof that Indian Muslims had failed to fulfil the requirements of the shariʿa. It was incomprehensible to him that Islam itself could be at fault. Recommitment was required, and no true Muslim should accept the contemporary decline. He was convinced that a regenerated Islam could again be strong enough to counteract the effects of internal decay and external domination. Shah Waliullah’s family and religious descendants were to create a number of reform movements that used strategies of isolation based on communicating the minutiae of strict adherence to the shariʿa through education and the issuing of fatwas. These strategies were created to maintain the borders of Muslim group identity. They also allowed for some control over keeping Muslim life within the bounds of the shariʿa when there was no Muslim state to enforce the law. The detailed restrictions on daily activity also functioned as a boundary that isolated those Muslims who observed these practices from both Hindu and British India. Furthermore the issuing of fatwas confirmed that India was no longer dar al/ islam; it was now dar al-harb (a region of conflict). The use of fatwa as a means of securing orthodoxy was to eventually result in full-blown fatwa wars, in which various claimants to the position of ‘true’ Islam would compete with each other and the Muslim masses, culminating in the struggle between the Barelvis and the Deobandis. However, to see the struggle in terms of a Wahhabi/Sufi polarization is simplistic. The Barelwi–Deoband clash is more easily perceived in terms of reformed Naqshbandi conflicts, following in the footsteps of Ahmad Sirhindi and Shah Waliullah with the Barelwi movement, founded by Rida Ahmed Khan, who were diligent in defending traditional shrine-based Sufism from the end of the nineteenth century. The answers to the questions posed to Deobandi leaders in India bore out this supposition. The founders of Deoband were rooted in Indian Sufi tradition, especially the reformed Naqshbandi dating back to Shah Waliullah and also to the Chishti tariqa. However, as with most Indian Sufis, multiple belonging to the four major tariqas of the Indian subcontinent is common. I first traced Deobandi origins in Sufism in 1996 when I linked back the spiritual chains of ijaza and bayʿat from the founders of Deoband to Shah Waliullah through the famous Shaykh of the reformers Imdadullah (1817–99). The Sufi link goes to Nasim al-din Dihlawi,

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whose grandfather Rafi al-din Dihlawi took bayʿat from Sayyid Ahmed of Rae Bareilly (1786–1831), who studied with Shah Waliullah’s son, ʿAbd al-Qadir (1753–1827). Both Muhammad Qasim Nanautawi and Rashid Ahmad Gangohi, the main founders of Deoband, had been taught by Imdadullah, and Ahmad ʿAli Saharanpur, the founder of Deoband’s sister school in Saharanpur, was taught by Nanautawi. Gangohi’s historic khanaqah remains a part of the historic landscape in northern India.

‘Deoband is Sufism’ The contestation with the Barelvis is not to be seen in the context of an outright condemnation of Sufism or its practices. Indeed the questions posed to the ʿulamaʾ of Deoband revealed a more nuanced position to South Asian Sufi practices than is normally believed. The usual bones of contention relate to the Deobandi concern that the Barelvis are in danger of promoting the Prophet to equal status with Allah. The major points of contention concern prayers of intercession, the doctrine of the Prophet’s continuing role in guiding the Muslim umma, and the celebration of the Prophet’s birthday (milad-i nabi). To a lesser extent this is also carried forward to the authority of the Shaykh. Here the main criticisms concern the status of the Shaykhs after death, particularly veneration at their graves; the elevation of the Shaykh in the Shaykh–murid relationship; and the celebration of ʿurs, a festival held in honour of the deceased Shaykhs on their deathday. These concerns were mentioned by the ʿulamaʾ of Deoband, but often conditionally. Maulana Mufti Wasi Ahmad holds to the commonly perceived polarized position to the point of accusing the Barelvis of ‘depravity’. He is convinced that only Deobandi reform revived true Sufism in India and that only the Deobandis maintain authentic Islam: Attention was given to the right form of tasawwuf to correct the ‘false’ tasawwuf which was flourishing. Now since the right tasawwuf has come to light the efforts towards tasawwuf has also declined.59

False tasawwuf is described as anything that is not the process of purifying the human being. He states: Anything that is away from these two – which is cleansing and outer cleansing. False tasawwuf is where the shaykh is remunerated by kissing his hands and feet

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where women go to serve him etc. It is like a Hindu yogi in the form of a Muslim. Everything that tasawwuf is supposed to eliminate; false tasawwuf promotes. Like love of this world, love of oneself.60

Mufti Wasi Ahmad is convinced that the Barelvis maintain a corrupted form of tasawwuf that is corrected by the Deobandi reformists. He also places an emphasis on ʿaqida (correct belief) in addition to tasawwuf. This position is normative among the ʿulamaʾ of Deobandi who teach in the dar al-ʿulums: False tasawwuf does not exist in our Deobandi ʿulamaʾ but among the ʿulamaʾ of Rida Khan Barelvi it is present with all its depravity. Even right tasawwuf is not enough for your salvation. It is important to have the correct beliefs and in the Indian sub-continent it is only the ʿulamaʾ of Deoband that have the correct beliefs.61

Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi endorses this view but is less provocative in his criticism. He does, however, express the commonly held view that the Barelvis do not live in accord in with the sunna in their practices and beliefs – yet he refers to a prominent Deobandi founder who demonstrates that Sufism itself is a part of sunna: In Barelvi tasawwuf there are more innovations and we can hardly see the sunna. Deobandi tasawwuf walks the path of sunna. Maulana Thanwi has written two books where he has used hadith and proven the path of tasawwuf.62

The criticism that the Barelvis do not follow the sunna in their beliefs and practices was commonplace among the ʿulamaʾ and Sufis of Deoband. Mufti Wasi Ahmad was prepared to acknowledge that in some elements the Barelvis followed Hanafi fiqh, but not in everything. He says that ‘They could be following the Hanafi tradition but certain things they do are against the shariʿa’.63 The most common concerns with regard to deviation from sunna relate to the role of the Shaykh, veneration at shrines, and the festivals of ʿurs and milad-i nabi. There was also concern that the Barelvis expressed the belief that the Prophet remained alive in a spiritual form to continue to guide the umma. Yet many of the ʿulamaʾ were not in total opposition to the practices, but had concerns with the intention or the way in which local South Asian customs appeared to override the prescribed Islamic way of observing such customs. With regard to visiting the graves of the awliya, Maulana Qasimi affirmed the practice: Yes it is alright. It is not supposed to be an object in itself but if you want to pass on a message and also to get lessons from them then it is ok. And one should go

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but not very often. Some awliyas are said to be benefiting even after their death. For example Shah Waliullah used to sit at his fatherʼs grave and benefit even after his father’s death.64

Mufti Wasi Ahmad also acknowledged that the practice in itself was not haram, depending upon intention: One would go and read something at the grave so that Allah would reward them as well as you for reciting at the grave. But you do not have to go to the grave to do that. You can also do this from a distance and pray to Allah that whatever reward you give me for reciting this also give the same to the person in the grave. Whatever love one has for ones shaykh it can be connected with this kind of spiritual gift by reading and recitation.65

Mufti Azizur Rahman is also concerned with intention: ‘First of all one should learn a lesson from the grave as according to the hadith – it says one should be reminded of death by visiting a grave. Secondly one should pray for the person laying in the grave for Allah to forgive that person and also for self and others.’66 Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi also agrees that visiting graves is permissible as long as the practices are acceptable according to sunna: We do not say no to visits as the Prophet (S) has allowed it but they have taken it further and started prostrating down at graves. Tasawwuf came from the same source but some of their practices we do not approve of and cannot accept.67

The Deobandi ʿulamaʾ were also equally ambivalent with regard to ʿurs and milad-i nabi. Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi states that it is the practices developed at ʿurs rather than the custom itself. He claims that they have become un-Islamic: Historically ʿurs meant something else and now it means something else. Earlier

it was like reading Qurʾan and reading dua and now it is much different. It has become contaminated.68

Mufti Palanpuri also expresses a similar view with regard to ʿurs, and applies the same logic towards milad-i nabi: The very term ʿurs is not wrong it is the practices that are followed there that are subject to question. There is no harm in having milad-i nabi as long as there is a lecture on sirah (life of the Prophet) and people are learning from that. It is the wrong practices that have penetrated in such gatherings is a matter of concern.69

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With regard to the Prophet’s visitations, the Deobandi ʿulamaʾ did not accept that Muhammad could appear as a live person in spiritual gatherings, but they were prepared to acknowledge dream visitations. They were careful to not apply the rules of normal human behaviour to prophets and saintly personages. Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi typifies this viewpoint held by the ʿulamaʾ with reference to Deoband’s founders: Haji Imdadullah used to do qayam that is true, but his belief was very different from the beliefs they have today. Today they believe that after the dhikr is completed the Prophet (S) actually visits these gatherings and that is why they stand up. This belief is wrong and is a sin. How is it possible that a gathering will do dhikr as and when they wish and when they finish that the Prophet will descend down? Maulana Gangohi has written that if one says ‘Ya Rasullah’ with the belief that the Prophet is omnipresent then that is wrong but if they say it with love then it is acceptable. One is to imagine him and the other is to believe that he is actually present. We do not deny some special phenomenon that can occur with some special people. This could be in the form of dreams or actual incidents.70

The main concern for the Deobandis is that the practices associated with veneration could spill over into shirk; in other words, great care has to be taken not to associate partners with Allah. This particularly applies to the respect normatively applied to the Shaykh–murid relationship. For example, Mufti Wasi Ahmad explains that: The Barelvis have a practice of showing love towards their shaykh and that is the reason why they put a decorated sheet (chadar) over graves or their shaykhs whereas according to the Deobandi tradition one would be a follower of a shaykh in actions according to shariʿa. They do it out of love but itʼs against the

shariʿa.71

He reiterates that ‘In the Deobandi thought everything is asked directly from Allah whereas the Barelvis think that there are some things that the pirs can do for them’.72 Maulana Niamatullah Azmi expresses a similar viewpoint: ‘They go around the graves, kiss the graves, bow down at graves and what they need to ask from Allah they ask the people in the graves.’ However, he admits that there are many similarities: ‘There is a fine dividing line and there are a lot of overlapping practices.’73 He also refers to the issue of intercession: The difference between us and them is that we ask from Allah directly. We pray for the shaykhs and ask Allah for blessings due to their sacrifices. But what they do is that they bow down at the shaykh’s grave and ask the shaykhs (who are dead) for granting their duas and call them the ‘remover of difficulties’.74

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Mufti Azizur Rahman also objects to this practice: ‘They are asking directly from the saints lying in the grave. These are the practices that make it different from Islami tasawwuf ’.75 However, he does not deny that there are benefits in drawing upon human closeness to Allah to assist in the granting of prayer: ‘So for instance if a saint was known to be very close to Allah the one can ask Allah to accept the dua due to that saint’s closeness with Him. The same applies to the Prophet of Allah. One cannot ask the Prophet but ask Allah in lieu of the Prophet’s holiness.’76 Ruqnur Deen also affirms the role of prophets in prayer: ‘We also believe in intercession by the Prophet(s).’77

However, none of the ʿulamaʾ deny that Deoband is a Sufi tradition. Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi states that: The elders such as Abul Hassan ʿAli Nadvi spoke about a time in Ahmadpur when they could hear the sound of dhikr even from the branches of trees. This is because people would sit around trees and do dhikr. In Gangohi also when people washed clothes instead of talking about other things they would recite ‘Allahu Allahu’.78

He affirms that Deoband is a Sufi tradition in which both learning and tasawwuf play equal roles: Yes indeed. With tradition I mean it is not any different (to Sufism) but in accordance with the hadith and sunna of the Prophet. Our elders have given in tasawwuf, the importance of ʿilm and seeking knowledge as important as seeking tazkiyah.79

Conclusion The world of Deoband is one in which internal and external contestation is the norm. Previous research carried out in India80 revealed that any investigation of Islamic movements needs to acknowledge Talal Asad’s notion of a ‘discursive tradition’, in which knowledge is historically and culturally constituted in the interactive space between people, texts and practice.81 Deobandi tradition is not an unchanging or unitary formation, but is comprised of diversity, polemic and difference, including the relationship with Deobandi versions of Sufism. The research revealed new authoritative spokespersons representing blocs of ʿulamaʾ are engaged in continuously negotiating old founding texts (dars-i nizami) as new orthodoxies appear, through the changing relations of power and subsequent

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contestation. Although secure in their belief that they are the authentic version of Islam in South Asia, Indian Deobandis dispute with their external opponents (rival Islamic movements, especially the Barelvis) over correct ʿaqida (doctrine and practice), but also internally, among the various offshoots of the movement. In the present environment in India, where Islam is under constant examination, the ʿulamaʾ of Deoband are involved in a continuous debate among themselves with regard to what constitutes correct Islam. But all are united in their opposition to the traditional supporters of Sufism in India: the Barelwi movement. In both preaching and issuing of fatwa, the Deobandis would appear to be engaged in an ongoing struggle, primarily with the supporters of Sufism, or at least the Barelwi understanding of the same. Arguably, the creation of an external opposition provides the Deobandi movement with an ‘other’ from which they can reinforce their own identity as Islamic orthodoxy. The responses from the ʿulamaʾ of Deoband revealed differences of opinion with regard to the practice of tasawwuf. However, there was no disagreement that Deoband is deeply rooted in South Asian Sufism. It is perhaps Deoband’s deliberate strategy of isolation and its refusal in South Asia to incorporate Western modes of education or secular subjects to its traditional curriculum that has led to the criticism that both the dar al-ʿulum graduates and their staff are deeply out of touch with the contemporary world and the challenges facing Muslims living within it.82 Although the interviews with the ʿulamaʾ and Sufis of Deoband suggest strongly that Deobandi scholars identify their tradition within the parameters of Indian Sufism, a closer analysis of their responses would indicate that there is a general concern with the historical trajectory of Deoband as a reform movement. Although loath to admit the decline of Deobandi tradition, there is a concern that there is a contemporary malaise, in which the quality of Deoband’s initial teachers and students is no longer present. In this discourse of decline, the narratives of Deobandi Sufism play a special role. These might be categorized as narratives of malaise, decline and revival. In this scenario, Deoband’s understanding of tasawwuf represents the ideal of the scholar/saint, sanctified by both study and purification. Such figures are iconically representative of Deoband’s role as the reviver of Islam in India. However, the decline of tasawwuf in the formal curriculi of Deoband, or its absence from most students’ lives, is perceived as evidence of a moral and ethical decline. The recovery of tasawwuf is symbolic of the revival of Deoband as South Asia’s foremost revivalist movement. Deobandi ʿulamaʾ still identify their tradition within the world of Sufism. They have terminology issues with Barelwi Sufis, and contest various practices associated with traditional Sufism as innovation or a corruption of the practices

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associated with the Prophet and his companions. However, acceptance of some practices may not be as polarized as some might believe. It may be more a matter of intention than practice. However, there are key differences between Deobandi Sufism and Barelwi Sufism: 1. There is no division of authority between ʿulamaʾ and Sufi, as noted by Pnina Werbner. They are one and the same. Chains of authentication link the ʿulamaʾ back through ijaza and sanad, chains of bayʿat to tasawwuf. Often both ijaza and tasawwuf are received from the same person, but not always. However, on the whole Deoband’s Sufis areʿulamaʾ. Not all ʿulamaʾ are Sufis but Deobandi formal study tries to incorporate taqwa into its learning. There is little differentiation between taqwa, adab and ihsan. Deobandi Sufis and ʿulamaʾ are more likely to redefine tasawwuf as ihsan. In the early years of Deoband, the Shaykh–murid relationship underpinned the teacher–student relationship in the madrasa. 2. Deoband synthesized two main streams of Islamic tradition – learning and spiritual experience – combined with, especially in Saharanpur, a degree of asceticism. 3. Deobandi ʿulamaʾ actualized Shah Waliullah’s ideal of the unity of shariʿa and tariqa, with tariqa re-established at the heart of Islamic orthodoxy. 4. Deobandis, however, have key differences with Barelwi Sufis. These may not be necessarily concerned with practices but intention. The cultus of the shrines is usually condemned but not visitation to shrines of the pious per se; veneration of the Prophet is encouraged up to the point of not accepting the doctrines that surround nur-i muhammad. Graves of the Deobandi Sufis are kept simple to avoid veneration, yet students of ʿulamaʾ who are Sufis demonstrate marked signs of commitment and highly charged emotional loyalties. Dhikr with Deobandi Sufis shows no obvious differences with other Sufi tariqas. 5. All ʿulamaʾ talk of an ‘idealized Deoband’, where all students studied tasawwuf after graduating from their dars-i nizami curriculum and could not collect their certificates of graduation until they had spent some time with a Shaykh. However, no one could point me to evidence that confirmed this, or indicate exactly when it stopped. 6. Deobandi Sufism is hidden but vibrant. It is more likely to be veiled behind charismatic ʿulamaʾ renowned for taqwa. Direct questions about Sufi identity are more likely to be met with responses that focus on ihsan as a psychological state of mind/being that should be the goal of all Muslims.

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Contemporary Deobandi graduates find their way to tasawwuf through informal, affective channels, but Sufism remains a vibrant force. The research carried out shows that understandings of Deoband that perceive the tradition to be part of the Salafi or Wahhabi movements are too simplistic, and may even be part of the polemical labelling of Deoband by its opponents. Without an analysis that understands Deoband’s historic roots in South Asian as part of Sufi attempts to reform their own disciplines and bring them more in line with the sunna of the Prophet and stricter application of shariʿa as interpreted through Hanafi fiqh, the movement is likely to be misunderstood in regard to its positioning in the arena of Islamic contestation and diversity. These oversimplifications also operate to displace Sufism itself to an antinomian fringe, and miss the point that Sufis were capable of cleaning their own house and re-establish orthodoxy independent of the critiques of Wahhabi and Salafi reformers.

Notes Introduction 1 Lloyd Ridgeon (2014), ‘Mysticism in Medieval Sufism’, Cambridge Companion to Sufism, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 125–49. 2 For a discussion of these three terms see Sachiko Murata and William Chittick (1994), The Vision of Islam, New York: Paragon House. 3 Richard Gauvain (2013), Salafi Ritual Purity, Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge. 4 See also Martin van Bruinessen (2009), ‘Sufism, “Popular Islam” and the Encounter with Modernity’, in Muhammad Khalid Masud, Armando Salvatore and Martin van Bruinessen (eds), Islam and Modernity: Key Issues and Debates, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 125–57. 5 Afghani (2002), ‘Answer of Jamal al-Din to Renan’, in Charles Kurzman (ed.), Modernist Islam 1840-1940, Oxford: Oxford University Press. 6 For both Afghani and ʿAbduh see Albert Hourani (1983), Arabic Thought in the Liberal Age, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, chs 5 and 6. For ʿAbduhʼs Sufi sympathies see Oliver Scharbrodt (2007), ‘The Salafiyya and Sufism: Muhammad ʿAbduh and his Risalat al-Waridat (Treatise on Mystical Inspirations)’, Bulletin of SOAS, 70(1): 89–115. 7 For Hasan al-Banna see David Commins (1994), ‘Hasan al-Banna (1906-1949)’, in Ali Rahnema (ed.), Pioneers of Islamic Revival, London: Zed Books, pp. 154–83. See also the relevant pages in Alison Pargeter (2013), The Muslim Brotherhood: From Power to Opposition, London: Saqi Books; For Mawdudi see Seyyed Vali Reza Nasr (1996), Mawdudi and the Making of Islamic Revivalism, Oxford: New York University Press. 8 See Sayyid Qutb (2008–9), Milestones, Delhi: Islamic Book Service. (Good surveys include Charles Tripp (1994), ‘Sayyid Qutb: The Political Vision’, in Ali Rahnema (ed.), Pioneers of Islamic Revival, London: Zed Books, pp. 154–83; Yvonne Y. Haddad (1983), ‘Sayyid Qutb: Ideologue of the Islamic Revival’, in John L. Esposito (ed.), Voices of Resurgent Islam, Oxford: New York University Press, pp. 67–98. 9 Quintan Wiktorowicz (2006), ‘Anatomy of the Salafi Movement’, Studies in Conflict and Terrorism, 29: 210. 10 For al-Albani see Stéphane Lacroix (2009), ‘Between Revolution and Apoliticism: Nasir al-Din al-Albani and his Impact on the Shaping of Contemporary Salafism’, in R. Meijer (ed.), Global Salafism, pp. 58–80.

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11 The Mirror newspaper reported on 19 May 2014, ‘Hook handed terrorist Abu Hamza al-Misri is GUILTY and faces 100 years in jail.’http://www.mirror.co.uk/ news/uk-news/hook-handed-terrorist-abu-hamza-al-masri-3572628 , accessed 28 August 2014. 12 Thomas Hegghammer (2009), ‘Revolutionaries? On Religion and Politics in the Study of Militant Islamist’, in Roel Meijer (ed.), Global Salafism: Islamʼs New Religious Movement, London: Hurst. 13 Kouichi Shirayanagi, ‘Religion – Sufi Shrines’, http://libertymagblog.wordpress. com/2013/12/27/religion-sufi-shrines/, accessed 28 August 2014. 14 ‘List of Mosul architectural monuments destroyed by ISIS’, 3rd version (2 September 2014), compiled by Karel Nováček and Miroslav Melčák. https://www. facebook.com/download/852611031418107/Mosul_list3.pdf, accessed 7 September 2014. I am grateful to Noorah al-Gailani for providing me with this information. 15 http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/belief/2010/may/10/islam-sufisalafi-egypt-religion. 16 Shirayanagi, ‘Religion – Sufi Shrines.’ 17 http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-africa-19380083 , accessed 28 August 2012. 18 Magharebia, 27 August 2012. See http://www.magharebia.com/en_GB/articles/ awi/features/2012/08/27/feature-01, accessed 28 September 2014. 19 ‘North African Salafists Turn on Sufi Shrines in Mali’. http://www.refworld.org/ docid/4fbdf9702.html, accessed 28 August 2014. 20 See ‘Deadly blasts hit Sufi shrine in Lahore’, BBC News South Asia. http://www. bbc.co.uk/news/10483453, accessed 28 August 2014. 21 See ‘Pakistan Sufi shrine suicide attack kills 41’, BBC News, South Asia. http:// www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-south-asia-12951923, accessed 28 August 2014. 22 Andrew Johnstone, ‘Saudis risk new Muslim division with proposal to move Mohamed’s tomb’, The Independent, 1 September 2014. 23 Academic works on Salafism tend to focus upon the political dimensions of Salafism, and less on its relations with Sufism. Typifying this trend is Roel Meijer (ed.) (2009), Global Salafism: Islamʼs New Religious Movement, London: Hurst. Likewise, another example is Jeevan Deol and Zaheer Kazmi (eds) (2012), Contextualising Jihadi Thought, London: Hurst. Both are excellent contributions to the literature on Salafism/Jihadism.

Chapter 1 1 Rashid Rida, ‘al-Mawalid’, al-Manar, 1: 82–3. 2 Seminal works in this tradition are H. A. R. Gibb (1947), Modern Trends in Islam, Chicago; A. J. Arberry (1968), Sufism: An Account of the Mystics of Islam, London; and J. S. Triminghm (1971), The Sufi Orders in Islam, Oxford.

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3 F. Rahman (1979), Islam, 2nd edn, Chicago; N. Levztion and J. Voll (eds) (1987), Eighteenth-Century Renewal and Reform Movements in Islam, Syracuse; the revisionist works by R. Schulze (1990), ‘Das Islamische actzehnte Jarhhundert: Versuch einer historiographischen Kritik’, Die Welt des Islam, 30: 140–59; and R. S. O’Fahey and B. Radtke (1993), ‘Neo-Sufism Reconsidered’, Der Islam, 70: 52–87. 4 For recent studies on modern Sufism, see especially M. van Bruinessen and J. Howell (eds) (2007), Sufism and the ‘Modern’ in Islam, London and New York; J. Malik and J. Hinnels (eds) (2006), Sufism in the West, London and New York; and I. Weismann (2014), ‘Sufism and Globalisation’, Cambridge. 5 For the recordings of a conference on the subject convened by the author in July 2007 at Haifa University, see http://www.islamw.haifa.ac.il. 6 This part of the investigation relies on I. Weismann (2007), The Naqshbandiyya: Orthodoxy and Activism in a Worldwide Sufi Tradition, London and New York. 7 B. Lewis (2003), The Crisis of Islam: Holy War and Unholy Terror, Random House. 8 A. Gabriel, G. A. Almond, R. S. Appleby and E. Sivan (eds) (2003), Strong Religion: The Rise of Fundamentalisms around the World, Chicago. 9 S. Schwartz (2002), The Two Faces of Islam: Saudi Fundamentalism and its Role in Terrorism, New York. 10 R. L. Euben (1999), Enemy in the Mirror: Islamic Fundamentalism and the Limits of Modern Rationalism, Princeton. 11 Gibb, p. 29. 12 H. Enayat (1982), Modern Islamic Political Thought, Austin, pp. 83ff; and M. Moaddel (2005), Islamic Modernism, Nationalism, and Fundamentalism: Episode and Discourse, Chicago, pp. 95ff. 13 Euben, pp. 17–18. 14 B. D. Metcalf (1982), Islamic Revival in British India: Deoband 1860-1900, Princeton, pp. 268–96; C. Preckel (2000), ‘Islamische Reform in Indien des 19. Jahrhunderts: Aufstieg und Fall von Muhammad Siddiq Hasan Khan, Nawwab von Bhopal’, in R. Loimeier (ed.), Die Islamische Welt als Netzwek: Moglichkeiten und Grenzen des Netzwerkansatzes im Islamische Kontext, Wurzberg, pp. 239–56; and M. Riexinger (2004), Sana’ullah Amritsari (1868-1948) und die Ahl-i Hadis im Punjab unter britischen Herrschaft, Wurzberg, esp. pp. 121–78. 15 H. Laoust (1932), ‘Le Reformisme othodoxe des “Salafiya” et les caracteres generaux de son orientation actuelle’, Revue des Etudes Islamiques, 6: 175–224; D. D. Commins (1990), Islamic Reform: Politics and Social Change in Late Ottoman Syria, New York; and I. Weismann (2009), ‘Genealogies of Fundamentalism: Salafi Discourse in Nineteenth-Century Baghdad’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, 36: 269–82. 16 See I. Weismann (2006), ‘Islamic Modernism’, Encyclopaedia of Western Colonialism since 1450, Farmington Hills, 2: 656–61.

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17 A. H. Hourani (1983), Arabic Thought in the Liberal Age, 1798-1939, Reissued. Cambridge, pp. 222–44; and Enayat, pp. 68–83. 18 R. Mitchell (1969), The Society of the Muslim Brothers, London, p. 14. 19 S. V. R. Nasr (1994), The Vanguard of the Islamic Revolution: The Jama’at-I Islami of Pakistan, Berkeley, pp. 7–9. 20 G. Kepel (1985), The Prophet and Pharaoh: Muslim Extremism in Egypt, London, pp. 36–58. 21 Kepel, The Prophet and Pharaoh, pp. 129–222. 22 S. Zubaida (1993), Islam, the People £ the State: Political Ideas & Movements in the Middle East, London and New York, pp. 1–37. 23 F. Gerges (2005), Why Jihad went Global? Cambridge; B. Rougier (ed.) (2008), Que’st-ce que le Salafisme? Paris; R. Meijer (ed.) (2009), Global Salafism: Islam’s New Religious Movement, London. 24 D. Commins (2006), The Wahhabi Mission and Saudi Arabia, London and New York, pp. 130–43. Another precursor of the fundamentalist stand is the Yemeni jurist Muhammad al-Shawkani, who was closer than the Wahhabis to the original teachings of Ibn Taymiyya and a major influence on the Ahl-I Hadith and the Salafiyya. See I. Weismann (2001), Taste of Modernity: Sufism, Salafiyya, and Arabism in Late Ottoman Damascus, Leiden, pp. 270–1. 25 M. Fandy (1999), Saudi Arabia and the Politics of Dissent, New York; M. al-Rasheed (2007), Contesting the Saudi State: Islamic Voices from a New Generation, Cambridge. 26 For various manifestations of the anti-Sufi sentiment throughout Muslim history, see F. de Jong and B. Radtke (eds) (1999), Islamic Mysticism Contested: Thirteen Centuries of Controversies and Polemics, Leiden; for a study that focuses on the controversial legacy of Ibn ʿArabi, see A. Knysh (1999), Ibn ‘Arabi in the later Islamic Tradition: The Making of a Polemical Image in Medieval Islam, Albany. 27 For an overview, see E. Sirriyeh (1999), Sufis and Anti-Sufis: The Defence, Rethinking and Rejection of Sufism in the Modern World, Richmond, Surrey. 28 Saeedullah (1973), The Life and Works of Siddiq Hasan Khan Nawab of Bhopal (1248-1307/1832-1890), Lahore, pp. 152ff. 29 An exception is the virulent attack on Sufism and religious learning of ‘Abd al-Hamid al-Zahrawi, al-Fiqh wa ‘l-tasawwuf, Cairo, 1319/1901. For an analysis, see D. D. Commins (1990), Islamic Reform, pp. 55–9. 30 N. Al-Alusi (1961), Jala’ al-‘aynayn fi muhakamat al-Ahmadayn, Cairo, pp. 99–107, 432–525; for an analysis, see I. Weismann (2004), ‘The Naqshbandiyya-Khalidiyya and the Salafi Challenge in Iraq’, Journal of the History of Sufism, 4: 229–40. See also B. Nafi (2009), ‘Salafism Revived: Nu’man al-Alusi and the Trial of the Two Ahmads’, Die Welt des Islams, 49: 49–97. 31 Al-Kawakibi, ‘Abd al-Rahman (1982), Umm al-Qura, Beirut, p. 75.

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32 I. Weismann (2007), ‘The Hidden Hand: The Khalidiyya and the Orthodox – Fundamentalist Nexus in Aleppo’, Journal of the History of Sufism, 5: 41–59. 33 C. W. Troll (1978), Sayyid Ahmad Khan: A Reinterpretation of Muslim Theology, New Delhi, pp. 171–93. 34 M. ‘Abduh (1994), Risalat al-tawhid, Beirut and Cairo, p. 183. See Sirriyeh, pp. 94–8. 35 A. Hourani (1981), ‘Sufism and Modern Islam: Rashid Rida’, in A. Hourani, The Emergence of the Modern Middle East, Berkeley and Los Angeles, pp. 90–102. 36 Mitchell, pp. 214–16. For Syria see I. Weismann (2005), ‘The Politics of Popular Religion: Sufis, Salafis, and Muslim Brothers in Twentieth Century Hamah’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 37: 39–58. 37 S. V. R. Nasr (1996), Mawdudi & the Making of Islamic Revivalism, New York, pp. 122–4. 38 J.-P. Hartung (2007), Viele Wege und ein Ziel: Leben und Wirken von Sayyid Abu l-Hasan ‘Ali al-Hasani Nadwi (1914-1999), Wurzburg, pp. 104–7, 114–23. 39 Abu l-Hasan ‘Ali al-Hasani al-Nadwi (1986), Rabbaniyya la rahbaniyya, 4th edn. Beirut. 40 O. Carre (2003), Mysticism and Politics: A Critical Reading of Fi Zilal al-Qur’an by Sayyid Qutb, Leiden, pp. 95–100. 41 A. McGregor (2003), ‘Jihad and the Rifle Alone’: ‘Abdullah ‘Azzam and the Islamist Revolution’, The Journal of Conflict Studies, 23(2): 104–5. 42 See J. Wagemakers (2009), ‘A Purist Jihadi-Salafi: The Ideology of Abu Muhammad al-Maqdisi’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, 36: 281–98. 43 www.tawhed.ws/r?1=ag3kae5j , www.tawhed.ws/r?1=4vp6qwvg, accessed 5 February 2010. 44 A. Knysh (1992), ‘Irfan Revisited: Khomeini and the Legacy of Islamic Mysticism’, Middle East Journal, 46: 631–53. 45 Sirriyeh, pp. 164–7. 46 M. van den Boss (2002), Mystic Regimes: Sufism and the State in Iran, from the Late Qajar Era to the Islamic Republic, Leiden, 145–70. 47 E. Peskes, ‘The Wahhabiyya and Sufism in the Eighteenth Century’, in De Jong and Radtke, pp. 145–61. 48 J. O. Voll (1989), ‘Hadith Scholars and Tariqahs: An “Ulama” Group in the Eighteenth-Century Haramayn and Their Impact in the Islamic World’, Journal of African and Asian Studies, 15: 264–73. 49 Metcalf, pp. 35–45; J. M. S. Baljon (1986), Religion and Thought of Shah Wali Allah Dihlawi, 1703-1776, Leiden, esp pp. 200–1. 50 R. S. O’Fahey (1990), Enigmatic Saint: Ahmad Ibn Idris and the Idrisi Tradition, Evanston, IL, esp. pp. 65ff.; and B. Radtke et al. (2000), The Exoteric Ahmad Ibn Idris, Leiden.

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51 K. Vikor (1995), Sufi Scholar and Saint on the Desert Edge: Muhammad b. ‘Ali al-Sanusi and his Brotherhoof, London, p. 5; J. O. Voll (1969), ‘A History of the Khatmiya in the Sudan’, PhD Dissertation, Harvard University; and M. Sedgwick (2005), Saints and Sons: The Making and Remaking of the Rashidi Ahmadi Sufi Order, 1799-2000, Leiden. 52 See G. Weigert and N. Levztion (1990), ‘Renewal an Reform of the Khalwatiyya in Egypt (18th Century)’, unpublished paper for the 24th annual meeting of MESA, San Antonio. 53 M. Zekri (2005), ‘La tariqa Shadhiliyya-Darqawiyya: les ‘empreintes du Shaykh al-Arabi al-Darqawi’, in Eric Geoffroy (ed.), Une voie soufie dans le monde: la Shadhiliyya, Paris, pp. 229–36. 54 Hourani (1982), ‘Sufism and Modern islam: Mawlana Khalid and the Naqshbandiyya-Mujaddidiyya in the Ottoman Lands in the Early 19th Century’, Die Welt des Islams, 22: 1–36; Hourani (1990), ‘Khalwa and Rabita in the Khalidi Suborder’, in Marc Gaborieasu et al. (eds), Naqshbandis, Istanbul and Paris, pp. 289–302. 55 E. Kolberg, ‘Aspects of Akhbari Thought in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries’, in Voll and Levtzion, pp. 133–60. 56 M. Bayat (1982), Mysticism and Dissrnt: Socioreligious Thought in Qajar Iran, Syracuse, chs 1–2. 57 N. Levtzion (1997), ‘Eighteenth-Century Sufi Brotherhoods: Structural, Organizational and Ritual Changes’, in R. P. Riddel and T. Street (eds), Essays on Scripture, Thought and Society, Leiden, pp. 147–60. 58 A. Jalal (1998), Partisans of Allah: Jihad in South Asia, Cambridge, MA, pp. 58–113. 59 R. Danziger (1977), Abd al-Qadir and the Algerian Resistance to the French and International Consolidation, New York and London. 60 M. Gammer (1994), Muslim Resistance to the Tsar: Shamil and the Conquest of Chechnia and Daghestan, London; A. Zelkina (2000), In Quest for God and Freedom: The Sufi Response to the Russian Advance in the North Caucasus, London. 61 E. E. Evans-Pritchard (1949), The Sanusi of Cyrenaica, London. 62 R. S. O’Fahey (1999), ‘Sufism in Suspense: The Sudanese Mahdi and the Sufis’, in de Jong and Radtke, pp. 145–61; and G. Warburg (2009), ‘From Sufism to Fundamentalism: The Mahdiyya and the Wahhabiya’, Middle East Studies, 45: 661–72. 63 M. van Bruinessen (1992), Agham Shaikh and State: the Social and Political Structures of Kurdistan, London and New Jersey, pp. 265–305; R. W. Olson (1989), The Emergence of Kurdish Nationalism and the Sheikh Said Rebellion, 1880-1926, Austin. 64 See F. Jad’an (1979), Usus al-taqqaddum ‘inda mufakkiri l-Islan fi l-alam al ‘arabi al-hadith, Beirut, pp. 193–229.

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65 Weismann, ‘Genealogies’, pp. 273–4. 66 This genre ranges from ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Kawakibi’s Taba’i al-istibdad, Cairo, n.d., through Sayyid Qutb’s Ma’alim fi l-tariq, many editions, to Osama b. Ladin’s numerous statements against the Saudi and other Muslim states, for example, B. Lawrence (ed.) (2005), Messages to the World: The Statementd of Osama Bin Laden, London and New York. 67 M. R. Rida (1922), al-Khilada aw al-imama al-uzma, Cairo (1922); Abu l-ʿAlaʾ al-Mawdudi (1974), Mafahim hawla al-din wa’l-dawla, Kuwait. 68 R. Schulze (2002), A Modern History of the Islamic World, London and New York, pp. 93–107. 69 M. M. J. Fischer (1980), Iran from Religious Dispute to Revolution, Cambridge, MA, pp. 213ff. 70 R. Khomeini, Hukumat-i Islami, many editions; S. A. Arjomand (1988), The Turban for the Crown: The Islamic Revolution in Iran, New York. 71 S. Hawwa (1983), Fusul fi l-imra wa’l-amir, Hebron; O. Roy (1999), The Failure of Political Islam, London and New York, pp. 42–5. 72 A. S. Mousalli (2001), The Islamic Quest for Democracy, Pluralism, and Human Rights, Gainesville, FL, pp. 53–60; I. Weismann (2010), ‘Democratic Fundamentalism? The Practice and Discourse of the Muslim Brothers in Movements in Syria’, The Muslim World, 100: 1–16. 73 On the impact of media see F. Robinson (1993), ‘Technology and Religious Change: Islam and the Impact of Print’, Modern Asian Studes, 27: 229–51; and G. R. Bunt (2009), Muslims: Rewiring the House of Islam, Chapel Hill. 74 C. W. Troll (1978), Sayyid Ahmad Khan: A Reinterpretation of Muslim Theology, New Delhi. 75 B. M. Nafi (2002), ‘Abu al-Thana’ al-Alusi: AN Alim, Ottoman Mufti, and Exegete of the Qur’an’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 34: 472–4. 76 Weismann, Taste of Modernity. 77 Hourani, Arabic Thought, pp. 131–2; and O. Scharbrodt (2007), ‘The Salafiyya and Sufism: Muhammad ‘Abudh and his Risalat al-Waridat (Treatise on Mystical Inspirations)’, BSOAS, 70: 89–115. 78 Mitchell, pp. 2–3. 79 Nasr, Mawdudi, pp. 9–11. 80 Hartung, pp. 251–71. 81 A. Musallam (2005), From Secularism to Jihad: Sayyid Qutb and the Foundations of Radical Islamism, Westport, CT. 82 Abu Mujahid (n.d.), al-Shahid ‘Abdallah ‘Azzam bayna ;-milad wa’l-istishhad, Peshawar, p. 13. 83 Wagemakers, pp. 285–6. 84 C. Kurzman (fall/winter 2002), ‘Bin Laden and Other Thoroughly Modern Muslims’, Contexts, 1(4): 13–20.

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85 A. Rahnema (1994), ‘Ali Shariati: Teacher, Preacher, Rebel’, in A. Rahnema (ed.), Pioneers of Islamic Revival, London and New Jersey, pp. 217–25. 86 Siddiq ibn Hasan al-Husayni al-Bukhari al-Qannawji (1963), al-Taj al-mukallal min jawahir ma’athir al-tiraz al-akhir w’al-awwal, 2nd edn, Bombay, pp. 515–16. 87 Weismann, Taste of Modernity, pp. 263–71. 88 H. al-Banna (1986), Mudhakkirat al-da’wa wa’l-da’iya, Cairo, pp. 65–7. 89 ‘Al-Qaeda Surrogate Islamic Group in Southern Kurdistan Destroys Sufi Shrines’, http://www.punk.ord/htm/news/press/prss/aiq.html, 28 July 2002, accessed 12 March 2003. 90 S. Hawwa (1981), Tarbiyatuna al-ruhiyya, Amman. 91 S. Hawwa (1984), Ihya’ al-rabbaniyya, Cairo. For an analysis, see I. Weismann (1997), ‘Sa’id Hawwa and Islamic Revivalism in Baʿthist Syria’, Studia Islamica 85: 141–2. 92 Y. al-Qaradawi (1991), Awwaliyyat al-hraka al-islamiyya fi l-marhala al-qadima, Beirut, pp. 81–2. 93 M. al-Ghazzali (1990), al-Da’wa al-islamiyya tastaqbilu qarnaha al-khamis-ashar, Cairo, pp. 32, 37–8, 50, 60, 106. 94 R. Rida (1906), Ta’rikh al-ustadh al-imam al-Shaykh Muhammad ‘Abduh, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 23. 95 R. Rida (1934), al-Manar wa’l-Azhar, Cairo, pp. 146–9. 96 Banna, Mudhakkirat, pp. 10–14. 97 S. Qutb (n.d.), Tifl min al-qarya, Beirut, p. 78. 98 A. Bottcher (1998), Syrische Religionspolitik unter Asad, Freiburg, pp. 147–223. For biographical details see also M. Habash (1996), al-Shaykh Ahmad Kuftaru wa-minhajuhu fi l-tajdid wa l-islah, Damascus. 99 M. H. Yavuz (2003), Islamic Political Identity in Turkey, New York, esp. ch. 6; T. Zarcone (1992), ‘Les Nakshibedi et la republique turque: de la persecution au repositionnement theologique, politique et social (1925–1991)’, Turcica, 24: 133–51. See also the official site of the center, www.iskenderpasa.com. 100 For an overview see Weismann, Naqshbandiyya, pp. 166–70. The official view of the brotherhood is presented in ‘Adnan Muhammad al-Qabbani, al-Futuhat al-haqqaniya fi manaqib ajilla’ al-silsila al-dhahabiyya li’l-tariqa al-naqshbandiyya al-‘aliyya, n.d., and in the shortened English edition, M. H. al-Kabbani (1995), The Naqshbandi Sufi Way: History and Guidebook of the Saints of the Golden Chain, Chicago, its eschatology is expounded in, al-Haqqani al-Naqshbandi (1994), Mystical Secrets of the Last Days, Los Altos, CL.

Chapter 2 1 ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil’s response, in 1952, to the news that eight million Sufis had united to demonstrate against a joint decision by the Egyptian government,

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under ‘Ali Mahir (d. 1960), and various representatives of the Azhar University to prohibit the ‘mahmul’ on the grounds that this practice is innovatory (bida). ‘Thamaniyyat milayyin madha?’ in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds) (2010), Majmu‘at maqallat al-‘allama ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil, vol. 1, Cairo: Dar al-Sabil al-Mu’minin, pp. 402–7. On the overlap between Egyptian Salafi and Sufi usages of language and ideas in the field of purity law, for example, see R. Gauvain (2013), Salafi Ritual Purity: In the Presence of God, London: Routledge, pp. 79–87. For another example of an Egyptian Salafi employing mystical language, see below (2.a). The standard academic narrative sees the two as fundamentally opposed: on the one hand, Sufis are depicted as representing a traditional, pluralist and overtly spiritual approach to Islam; on the other hand, Salafis are depicted as embracing a new, anti-traditional, anti-Western and legalistic understanding of Islam. On the problems of such clear-cut depictions, in ‘popular Russian and Western journalism and academic studies’, see for example A. Knysh (2004), ‘A Clear and Present Danger: “Wahhabism” as a Rhetorical Foil’, Die Welt des Islams, 44(1): 3–26. On these clashes, see for example J. Brown (2011), ‘Salafis and Sufis in Egypt’, Carnegie Paper, Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, http:// carnegieendowment.org/files/salafis_sufis.pdf, p. 7; J. Hoigilt (2011), ‘The Salafis are coming, but where are they going?’ NOREF, 4, http://www.peacebuilding.no/ var/ezflow_site/storage/original/application/e007391d10b6aad11171c452eeb2f9f6. pdf; and I. al-Alawi (2011), ‘Egyptian extremism sees Salafis attacking Sufi mosques’, The Guardian, http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/belief/2011/ apr/11/salafis-attack-sufi-mosques. This particular observation was made by an imam at Shirbini mosque in Madinat Nasr in October 2007. It stands out from many such quotes because, to this day, I remember the startling volume at which it was delivered. The best argument for the decline of Egyptian Sufism throughout the twentieth century is still that of Michael Gilsenan. See for example M. Gilsenan (1973), Saint and Sufi in Modern Egypt: An Essay in the Sociology of Religion, Oxford: Clarendon Press. As is well known, Valerie Hoffman disagrees with Gilsenan. Hoffman notes that the number of Egypt’s Sufi branches actually rose during the twentieth century; and that, while not as prominent as before, the Sufis remain an important presence in Egypt’s religio-political landscape. See V. Hoffman (1995), Sufis, Mystics and Saints in Modern Egypt, Columbia: University of South Carolina Press. For my purposes, however, the question of whether or not Sufism actually declined during this period is less important than modern Salafis’ perceptions of Sufi success or failure. As a general rule, Ansar al-Sunna scholars remain warier of Sufism than other Salafis I spoke to. Whereas the latter tended to dismiss Sufis as mere country bumpkins, spokesmen at the Ansar al-Sunna headquarters in ‘Abdin unambiguously stated that, as an ideology, Sufism remains very dangerous indeed.

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However, even the ‘Abdin men acknowledged that, in Egypt at least, the Sufis’ best days are behind them. 7 Among Western scholars, there has been a desiccating lack of interest in Egyptian Salafism, and in the Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya movement in particular. One step in the right direction has recently been taken by T. Behnan Said and Hazim Fouad (2014), editors of a large collection of essays entitled Salafismus: Auf de Suche nach dem Wahren Islam, Herder Verlag GmbH. Providing a useful overview of what has so far been written on Egyptian Salafism, pre- and postrevolution, Fouad’s own chapter reassuringly pays attention to the Ansar al-Sunna movement. Despite this welcome addition to the literature, however, there remains little in-depth, historically informed analysis of Egyptian Salafism in any European language. The situation is particularly vexing when we compare it to the current state of research into Egyptian Sufism, which has been carefully and sensitively explored by a number of Western scholars, including inter alia Michael Gilsenan, Valerie Hoffman and Julian Johansen. A tentative explanation for this lack of interest in Salafism is suggested in R. Gauvain (2013), ‘Egyptian Salafism as a Problematic for Islamic and Middle Eastern Studies’, Orient, 35–47. In Arabic, the situation is better and has been further helped by the arrival of Ahmed Zaghloul Shalata’s lengthy analysis of the development of Egyptian Salafism, see A. Shalata (2013), Al-Hala al-salafiyya al-mu’assira fi misr, Cairo: Madbouly Bookstore. Though richly detailed, the author’s claim that the fundamental nature and workings of Egyptian Salafism may be explained through a connection to Saudi Arabia is problematic. 8 A. Knysh (1999), Ibn ‘Arabi in the Later Islamic Tradition: The making of a Polemical Image in Medieval Islam, Albany: State University of New York Press, p. 364, n. 62. To explain who precisely is meant by ‘Egyptian liberal intellectuals of the 1950s’, Knysh cites Michael Gilsenan’s article, ‘Trajectories of Contemporary Sufism’, in a compilation by E. Gellner (1985), Islamic Dilemmas: Reformers, Nationalists and Industrialization, The Hague: Mouton, pp. 187–99. The only critic of Sufism cited in this paper, however, is Shaykh ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud, (at this time, Dean of the College of Usul al-Din at al-Azhar University; later, the ‘extremely stern Rector’ of the same University). And there should be no real comparison, at least regarding the subject of Sufism, between al-Mahmud and al-Wakil: while Mahmud does criticize certain aspects of popular Sufism (which he apparently described as ‘delusions and distractions from the truth at best’), he is nevertheless remembered fondly as enthusiastically promoting ‘the lives of the great Sufis and thinkers’ (187). Al-Wakil, by contrast, vehemently criticized all Sufi thinkers and aspects of Sufism, including, as we shall see, Ibn al-‘Arabi, Ibn Farid and al-Ghazali. 9 Pink refers to Al-Wakil as ‘the head of the Wahhabite [sic] Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya [who] wrote a book about the Baha’i Faith that first appeared

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in 1962 and saw a second edition in 1986.’ J. Pink (2005), ‘The Concept of Freedom of Belief and Its Boundaries in Egypt: The Jehovah’s Witnesses and the Baha’i Faith Between Established Religions and An Authoritarian State’, Culture and Religion, 1: 135–60, 140. Other passing references to al-Wakil, which make no reference to his status as polemicist, include citations in E. Kohlberg (1976), ‘From Imamiyya to Ithna-‘ashariyya’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, 39(3): 521–34, at p. 529 n. 55; M. Sells (1990), ‘Banat Su‘ad: Translation and Introduction’, Journal of Arabic Literature, 140–51, 140 n. 1; K. Abu el-Fadl (2001), ‘Constitutionalism and the Islamic Sunni Legacy’, UCLA, Journal of Islamic & Near E.L. 67: 67–101; and M. Lecker (2010), ‘Glimpses of Muhammad’s Medinan Decade’, in Jonathon Brockopp (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Muhammad, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, p. 70 n. 10. 10 For al-Wakil’s biography according to Ansar al-Sunna, see: A. M. al-Tahir (2006), Jama‘at ansar al-sunna al-Muhammadiyya: nasha’tuha-ahdafuha-manhajuhajuhuduha, Cairo: Markaz al-‘Amm, pp. 188–90; and, more specifically, comments made throughout Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya’s festschrift (2010), ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil wa qadiyyat al-tasawwuf, Cairo: Dar al-Sabil al-Mu’minin. The basics of his biography in Ansar al-Sunna sources may be summarized as follows. Al-Wakil was born, in 1913, in the rural village of Zawiyya Baqli, in the governorate of Munafiyya. Despite other memories of a childhood spent in ‘a swamp of heresy’ (see 2.a.), his biographers stick oddly to convention by stating simply that he was raised in a pious era, ‘when the village family was interested in the Qur’an and Sunna’, as well as to a notably religious family. Known as ‘shaykh al-balad’, his father helped his son in his earliest studies of Qur’an. Al-Wakil successfully memorized the Qur’an at a very young age in the village kuttab, before continuing his religious studies at the Azhar’s religious college (the ma‘had al-Ahmadi) in Tanta for nine years. He completed his secondary education at the Azhar University’s College of the Foundations of Religion (Kulliyat Usul al-Din), garnering a high diploma (ijaza) with a grade of excellence, and then receiving a further diploma in teaching. After graduating from the Azhar, al-Wakil worked as a school teacher for the government (in the fields of tarbiyya and ta‘lim). Al-Wakil’s biographers mention that his first connection with Ansar al-Sunna occurred via Ni‘mat Sidqi, the well-known writer of Al-Tabarruj (Shamelessness) – a work still popular in Egypt today – who, in 1936, personally recommended him for membership, and through whom he was introduced to the books of al-Fiqqi. Originally, it seems al-Wakil may have been involved in da‘wa work for a number of different movements, but it was al-Fiqqi’s scholarship that apparently sealed his love for and commitment to Ansar al-Sunna. There is little information available on al-Wakil’s formative years in the movement, but he seems to have been a prolific writer. Indeed, he must have built up a considerable reputation as, in 1952, slightly before his fortieth birthday, he was invited to teach

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Notes in Saudi Arabia at Riyadh’s Scientific College (ma‘had al-‘ilmy). How much of the 1950s he spent in Saudi Arabia is not stated. However, it is clear that, while there, he managed to establish links with Saudi Arabian Wahhabi and Egyptian Ansar al-Sunna scholars that would only strengthen over time. He was not alone in travelling to Saudi. For a list of other scholars who travelled to Saudi Arabia during this time, see R. Gauvain, Salafi Ritual Purity, p. 284 n. 37. Back in Egypt, al-Wakil was elected leader of the Misr al-Qadima branch of Ansar al-Sunna (no date is given). 1959–60 was a momentous year for al-Wakil. First, he was elected vice president of the movement under a fellow Munafiyyan, al-‘Afifi, to whom ‘he was a great help’ (wa kan lihu khayr mu‘ayn). Simultaneously, he was promoted to chief editor of the movement’s main periodical, al-Hadi al-nabawi, ‘contributing tafsir to it until the day he passed away’. And on the 10th of Muharram, 1960, following al-‘Afifi’s decision to return to Saudi Arabia, al-Wakil became President of Ansar al-Sunna itself, with Muhammad Khalil Harras being promoted to serve as his deputy. The following nine years of leadership are reported to have been fruitful, particularly (and not surprisingly) in terms of Ansar al-Sunna’s relationship with Saudi Arabia. He retained the presidency until, in 1969, Ansar al-Sunna was compelled by Gamal ‘Abd al-Nasser’s government to merge with another Egyptian da‘wa group, and its larger rival, al-Gam‘iyya al-Shar‘iyya. At this point, al-Wakil accepted an invitation to return to a teaching position in Saudi Arabia, this time in Makka’s Shari‘a College. There, he served as professor of religious doctrine (al-‘aqida) in the Department of Higher Studies until he died, in Mecca, at the comparatively early age of fifty-eight in 1970 (Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya, Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 18). In passing, we note that al-Wakil’s biography leaves us with more questions than it answers. The reference to a happy youth studying the Qur’an with a pious father does not easily tally with al-Wakil’s own memories of village life, in Hadhihi hiyya al-sufiyya and Masra‘ al-tasawwuf. Similarly, while it is clear that he was a successful student at the Tanta branch of the Azhar, al-Wakil professes to have loathed his time there and as having gained nothing from the shaykhs (see 3.a). Once he joined Ansar al-Sunna, at the bequest of Ni‘mat Sidqi, it remains unclear as to how al-Wakil managed to rise through its ranks with such alacrity, particularly when he was probably out of Egypt for some time. It is tempting to suggest that such progress happened as a result of the alliances he formed in Saudi Arabia in the 1950s, particularly with al-‘Afifi, his predecessor in Ansar al-Sunna, whose reputation may have been more impressive in Saudi Arabia than in his native country; but there is no real evidence to support this. While not directly relevant to this paper, the question of what happened in Ansar al-Sunna, during the late 1960s, to prompt the government to force its merger with al-Gam‘iyya al-Shar‘iyya, a recognizably ‘less Salafi’ organization, is more intriguing still. The sources are

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notably silent on this matter, though Khalid Muhammad Younus suggests that it was due to the movement’s growing reputation as a place of political activism. See K. M. Younus (2006), Al-Qarn al-‘ashriyin wa juhud al-harakat al-da‘wiyya fi Misr, Karachi,http://eprints.hec.gov.pk/2722/ . Given that al-Gam‘iyya al-Shar‘iyya accepts and even promotes the validity of ‘sober Sufism’ – al-Ghazali’s Ihya al-‘ulum al-din remains a favourite within its mosques – we can only speculate regarding how painful this experience must have been for al-Wakil. Before founding Ansar al-Sunna’s main publication, al-Hadi al-nabawi, in Egypt, al-Fiqqi established a short-lived journal, entitled al-Islah, in Saudi Arabia in the early 1920s; al-‘Afifi’s biography, meanwhile, is replete with awards and formal recognitions from the most prestigious educational establishments in both Egypt and Saudi Arabia. Both scholars’ biographies are available in al-Tahir. Interestingly, al-Wakil’s criticism of the Baha’is makes its way onto UTube: http:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=vZEh2s2bS-M. In this regard, al-Wakil is unique among the other pioneers of Ansar al-Sunna scholars, who have yet to arrive on this particular forum. For al-Wakil’s ideas on the Baha’is in print, see the six articles included in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 2, Cairo, ch. 6. In addition to his polemics against the Sufis, al-Wakil’s response to Ibn Battuta’s notorious observation that Ibn Taymiyya ‘had a screw loose’, was, for instance, well known by these individuals. For the original, see ‘Ibn Battuta yuftari al-kidhb al-Wakil, ‘ala Ibn Taymiyya’ in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 2, Cairo: Dar al-Sabil al-Mu’minin, pp. 616–30. Though in terms of popularity, al-Wakil cannot of course compete with contemporary Ansar al-Sunna proselytizers, many of whom, like Muhammad Hassan, regularly contribute to Egypt’s fairly sophisticated Salafi media world. For a survey of Salafi media in Egypt before the revolution, now in need of revision, see Nathan Field and Ahmad Hamam (2009), ‘Salafi Satellite TV in Egypt’, Arab Media & Society, 8, http://www.arabmediasociety.com/?article=712. Even within Egyptian Salafi circles, there are other opinions about why Sufism has fallen into decline, though all agree that it comes as a direct result of the Salafis’ efforts. For instance, the author of a text that was popular in Shubra when I carried out most of my research in this district confirms Ansar al-Sunna’s contributions to the war against Sufism (without mentioning the names of their scholars), but places equal importance on the role of al-Gama‘a al-Islamiyya, in the 1970s, in defeating Egypt’s traditional Sufi strongholds, see Muhammad Gamil Ghazi (2007), Al-Sufiyya al-wajh al-akhar, Alexandria: Dar al-Iman, pp. 6–7. Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil wa qadiyyat al-tasawwuf, Cairo. The text is available here, http://www.ansaralsonna. com/web/play-4097.html.

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17 The website directs the reader to the following versions of these texts printed in Lebanon: ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil (1984), Hadhihi hiyya al-Sufiyya, Beirut: Dar al-Kutub al-‘Ilmiyya; and ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil (1980), Masra‘ al-tasawwuf, Beirut: Dar al-Kutub al-‘Ilmiyya. 18 For the most part, we can find the content of al-Wakil’s criticisms in the classical polemics of Ibn Taymiyya, Ibn Qayyim, al-Biqa‘i et al., as well as in the works of modern, particularly Egyptian Azhari scholars, such as Zaki Mubarak (d. 1952). 19 This description of al-Wakil as a ‘salafi mutlaq’ was noted by my research assistant, Sara Gabralla, who spoke to a number of Ansar al-Sunna scholars following their recent conference on al-Wakil, https://www1.youm7.com/News. asp?NewsID=1409972&. N.B: the Ansar al-Sunna scholars also appreciate al-Wakil’s linguistic skills: once a reader begins one of his articles or book, al-Tahir argues that he will automatically ‘wish to finish the entire work in a single sitting’, al-Tahir, p. 190. 20 Al-Tahir, p. 188. Al-Tahir also references an important series of publications entitled Dallalat al-sufiyya, which I could not obtain in time to write this chapter. 21 Al-Tahir, p. 190. 22 A comment by my teacher, Osama, during a discussion in his mosque in Shubra in December, 2008, on the most ‘effective responses to Sufi thinking’ (aktar radd fa‘al li-tafkir al-Sufiyya). 23 Al-Wakil’s thoroughness is also clear in his attack on the Baha’is. As Johanna Pink notes, there have been two main criticisms of Egypt’s Baha’is: either, they are judged as similar to the Shi‘i ‘Batiniyya’ trend, which seeks to smuggle heresies into Sunni Islam, and refuted accordingly; or they are friends of Zionism because their headquarters is in Haifa, Israel. Al-Wakil contains both brands of ‘conspiracy theory’, Pink, p. 142. Al-Wakil’s attack on al-Ghazali is discussed in 3.b. below. 24 The same point is made by al-Tahir: ‘the reasons for this [al-Wakil’s success in fighting Sufism] was that he was raised in a village where most people were Sufis; then he went to Tanta, and this had [the cult of] al-Badawi, and the people who worshipped graves. See al-Tahir, p. 188. 25 Masra‘ al-tasawwuf, pp. 4–7; the same material – free of the typos preserved in the original manuscript – is quoted here, http://www.alagidah.com/vb/showthread. php?t=8456. 26 For the connection to Judaism and Christianity, see note 39 below. 27 The terms ‘Abdal’, ‘anjab’, ‘awtad’ all have specific Sufi meanings. 28 This paragraphic structure follows the original format. However, in the original, al-Wakil’s biographical reminiscences begin two paragraphs before, when he was even younger – a ‘misled, wretched, pathetic boy’ (al-sabi al-gharir al-ta‘is) – in the village. At this stage, he learns of al-Badawi (‘the Pole of Poles’) from angry shaykhs; but these earliest recollections add little substance to the overall narrative.

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29 In al-Tahir’s biographical notes, the degree to which the young al-Wakil swallowed the Sufi line is entertained, so as only to be rejected: ‘he was raised, practiced going around the idraha, he shared with them their dhikr, their awrad … but he was always questioning, and within himself he denied [the validity of what he was doing]. But he could not object, or he would have been expelled’, al-Tahir, pp. 188 ff. In his earlier work, Hadhihi hiyya al-sufiyya (pp. 14–15), al-Wakil seems to have been more persuaded by his early Sufi instructors than al-Tahir admits: I still remember how, when I was a student [in Tanta], the old shaykh would swear to us – with his eyes full of tears, and with his voice full of grief, nostalgia and powerful longing – that the grave of ‘Abd al-‘Al that is next to al-Badawi’s grave contains a strand of the Prophet’s hair! And that it [this strand of hair] was full of blessings and hope!! And I remember that when I heard him [the shaykh] talking and declaring [about this strand of hair] I felt in my heart … I felt as if the angels had carried to me to immortality!! ... And I remember that I believed this legend as if were God-given proof!! And I remember that the shaykh made another claim … he also claimed that they put the strand of hair under the sun and that it had no shadow!! And that was the polytheist illusion!! And I remember … that the shaykh’s superstitions filled me with a joy that felt like Heaven, as if I were one of the Prophet’s disciples! And I used to humbly, with a heart filled with loyalty and prayers, pass by that grave where the strand of hair lies. I yearned to touch the gravestone and imagined that I could smell its unworldly scent.

30 As noted already, there is plenty of room left in Egyptian Salafism, for quasi-mystical feelings. The fact that even al-Wakil indulges in them – given his reputation as the most unequivocally anti-Sufi Salafi of recent times – proves the point nicely. 31 By which ideas are grasped through oppositions, see for example Omaima Abu Bakr (1992), ‘The Symbolic Function of Metaphor in Medieval Sufi Poetry: The Case of Shushtari’, Alif, 12: 40–57. 32 As its main source of information, the chapter cites al-Wakil’s article in al-Hady al-nabawi entitled ‘‘Alaqat al-murid bi-shaykhuh’, in which al-Wakil ‘explains the relationship between the murid and the shaykh as it exists in their books and on the tongues of their shaykhs’. ‘Alaqat al-murid bi’l-shaykh’, p. 24. 33 ‘‘Alaqat al-murid bi’l-shaykh’, p. 26. The full title of al-Qushayri’s work is al-Risala al-Qushayriyya fi ‘ilm al-tassawuf; it remains very popular throughout Egyptian mosque circles, many of which would not describe themselves as particularly Sufi. 34 ‘‘Alaqat al-murid bi’l-shaykh’, p. 25 35 ‘‘Alaqat al-murid bi’l-shaykh’, p. 25. 36 ‘‘Alaqat al-murid bi’l-shaykh’, pp. 25–6. 37 The Sufi shaykhs’ own denial of this practice is dismissed accordingly: ‘and while the shaykhs claim that the rights of the teacher do not include the power to grant repentance (tawba), what storm of deep despair will attack the murid’s soul if he does anything against the Shaykh orders?!’ ‘‘Alaqat al-murid bi’l-shaykh’, p. 25.

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38 ‘‘Alaqat al-murid bi’l-shaykh’, p. 28. 39 Here, we recall al-Wakil’s description of his teachers in Tanta as ‘ancient rabbis/ priests’ (harimun min al-ahbar). More specifically, he traces the Sufi ritual of dhikr to an ancient Israelite practice described in detail in the Old Testament, ‘Dhikr al-sufiyya bida‘ yuhudiyya’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil wa qadiyyat al-tasawwuf, pp. 95–6. 40 Asl al-zuhd, p. 82. 41 On page 82, the text states ‘Mani Ibn Malik.’ The mistake is rectified later on, ‘Asl al-zuhd’, p. 89. 42 For an extensive discussion on the Sufi doctrine of ‘ishq, from the perspective of al-Wakil, see ‘al-‘Ishq ‘inda al-Sufiyya’ in Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil wa qadiyyat al-tasawwuf, pp. 207–20. 43 ‘Asl al-zuhd’, p. 85. 44 ‘Asl al-zuhd’, p. 84. 45 ‘The forbidding of marriage is not from God’s law; rather it is from the law of Mani Ibn Fatik, the Persian magician who pretended to be a Prophet. He pretended that the light – the god he worshipped – was mixed with darkness, the god of evil, and that light would not be able to defeat darkness unless this world was destroyed. So, Mani forbade marriage to his followers and made obligatory the fatal practices of zuhd and [excessive] fasting, so that the world would end rapidly.’ ‘Asl al-zuhd’, p. 89. 46 ‘Asl al-zuhd’, p. 86. 47 Al-Wakil refers to Goldziher’s theories in al-Hadi al-nabawi, 36(1), and Hadhihi hiyya al-sufiyya, pp. 140–1. Goldziher is quoted in ‘Asl al-zuhd’, pp. 82–3. This author’s original theory – that, with the Qur’an (e.g. Q. 27:67), the earliest and most reliable Prophetic traditions rejected zuhd, only for later forgeries to endorse it – is to be found in I. Goldziher (1898), ‘De L’ascétisme aux premiers temps d’Islam’, RHR, xxxvii: 314–24. 48 We note, for instance, that R. A. Nicholson (d. 1945) – another Western scholar whose ideas regularly appear in al-Wakil’s writings – comments on the connection between Manichaeism and Sufism. See R. A. Nicholson (1914), The Mystics of Islam, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, p. 14. 49 Information on these terms and figures is primarily gleaned from al-Tabaqat al-kubri, the work of the sixteenth century Egyptian Sufi al-Sha‘rani (d. 1565), ‘Asl al-zuhd’, pp. 83 ff. 50 ‘Asl al-zuhd’, p. 88. Similarly, al-Wakil notes that: ‘God did not give an order to a messenger, or to a prophet, or to a wali to uphold zuhd. Rather, God gave them all an order to uphold taqwa.’ Ibid. 51 The chapter is quick to point out that the Prophet only retreated to the cave of Hira because, by that stage, Meccan society had become so saturated with idolatry and corruption that it could no longer be tolerated. As soon as he was

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made Messenger, however, Muhammad sought to rejoin his people. As Goldziher realizes, there are numerous hadiths intended to dissuade Muslims of the need for extreme acts of renunciation. One such hadith, attributed to Anas ibn Malik (and located in al-Bukhari), regularly features in modern Salafi polemics against the excesses of zuhd. It is cited in ‘Asl al-zuhd’, p. 89: Some people came to the houses of the wives of the Prophet so as to enquire about the worshipping practices of the Prophet. … The first [of the visitors] says, ‘I pray all night, as long as I have lived.’ The second says: ‘I fast all the time, and I never break my fast.’ Another one says: ‘I avoid women, I will never marry.’ The Prophet came and asked ‘are you are the people who say such and such? I swear I am the most fearful of God, and pious in regard for God, but I fast and break the fast, I pray and sleep, and I marry women. Whoever fails to follow my sunna does not belong to me.

52 These six articles are all dated to 1947. They constitute the fifth chapter of vol. 1 of Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, pp. 481 ff. 53 While al-Wakil bases his objections to al-Ghazali on the opinions of Ibn Taymiyya (see below in the present subsection), even this scholar was known to express some positive views regarding al-Ghazali. For Ibn Taymiyya’s statement of appreciation that al-Ghazali (and al-Qushayri) have legitimized Sufism for the Hanbalis, see G. Makdisi (1963), Ibn Aqil et la resurgence de l’Islam traditionaliste au XI siècle, Damascus, pp. 377–8. In this regard, it is also worth noting that Muhammad ‘Abduh and, the teacher of al-Fiqqi, Rashid Rida, both spoke positively of al-Ghazali. See for example M. Sirry (2011), ‘Jamal al-Din al-Qasimi and the Salafi Approach to Sufism’, Die Welt des Islams, 51: 75–108, 85, where Sirry notes that Muhammad ‘Abduh encouraged al-Qasimi to write in cautious defence of al-Ghazali’s work; and E. Sirriyeh (1999), Sufis and Anti-Sufis: The Defense, Rethinking and Rejection of Sufism in the Modern World, Richmond, Surrey: Curzon Press, where Rida’s initial appreciation for al-Ghazali’s masterpiece the Ihya’ is described as having ‘helped his mold his conviction that the Muslim should consciously interiorise the faith and go beyond the mere externals of observance’, p. 99. 54 See R. Gauvain, Salafi Ritual Purity, p. 81. Indeed, the Ihya provides much of the logic and language utilized within several of the Salafi classes on ritual performance (specifically associated with purification and prayer) I attended in Cairo. 55 Interestingly, al-Wakil indicates that there are individuals within Ansar al-Sunna itself who adopt the second view (of al-Ghazali as beyond reproach simply because he is usually treated as an Imam), on the grounds that such criticism will only ‘increase people’s feelings of aversion (nufur) regarding us [in] Ansar al-Sunna’. Al-Wakil, ‘Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (1)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at Maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 486. 56 Matters are clearly serious. Addressing colleagues within the first two groups, al-Wakil observes that perhaps they are not aware that the Sufi shaykhs have

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60 61 62 63

64 65

Notes threatened him, and Ansar al-Sunna itself, with legal action if he does not change his approach (presumably given the location of this note) towards al-Ghazali. Apparently, the previous prime-minister – given the date, almost certainly Ali Mahir (who served in the post four times, and towards whom al-Wakil was friendly) – was informed that the Sufis would take matters into their own hands if he did not censure al-Wakil from continue to speak against them. Thankfully, al-Wakil observes, the former prime-minister did not find any merit in the Sufis’ complaints.’ Al-Wakil, Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (1), in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 483. Al-Wakil, ‘Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (1)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 486. Al-Wakil, ‘Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (1)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 487. Also: ‘I do not criticize al-Ghazali because he is Abu Hamid al-Ghazali, but because he is, for the people, ‘hujjat al-Islam.’’ Al-Wakil, ‘Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (1)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 488. Al-Wakil ‘Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (1)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 488. Al-Wakil ‘Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (1)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 488. For these points, see Al-Wakil, ‘Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (2)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 493. Among the books of Sufis to which al-Ghazali acknowledges his debt are included, for instance, the works of al-Harith al-Muhasibi and, more specifically, Abu Talib Al-Makki’s Quwat al-qulub. See al-Wakil ‘Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (2)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, pp. 492–3. For an interesting discussion of the nature of al-Ghazali’s debt to al-Makki, see Wan Mohd Azzam (1998), ‘The Influence of al-Makki on al-Ghazali’, Intellectual Discourse, 6(2): 159–75. Al-Wakil, Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (2)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, pp. 491–2. Al-Wakil’s polemic against al-Ghazali’s character – and more reasons not to trust him – continues further on in the text. From a long list, the following accusations stand out. ‘His lies and phony claims simply outweigh his honesty’ ‘Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (3)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 498. ‘He changes his mind over night; so, what he claims in the Ihya is different from what he claims in other books’ ‘Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (4)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 500. He only wrote books because the Sultan

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70

71

72

73

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instructed him to do so, ‘Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (4)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 501. And he upheld heretical practices and superstitions, such as worshipping graves; and he even tells Muslims that leaving the mushaf, as well as the shoes of prophets and imams on graves is beneficial for the dead, ‘Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (4)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 501. He mentions Malik ibn Anas, Ibn Jawzi’s Talbis iblis and, tellingly, Ignaz Goldziher, p. 490. Al-Wakil, Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (2)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 490. Al-Wakil, Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (2)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 489. Al-Wakil notes that his kind and forgiving colleague in Ansar al-Sunna completely misunderstands the situation by suggesting that Ibn Taymiyya is willing to forgive al-Ghazali. Al-Wakil responds that nothing could be further from the truth, Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (2)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 494. Al-Wakil does not tell us what Ibn Taymiyya’s chapter concerns. The passage is taken from Ibn Taymiyya, Tafsir surat al-ikhlas (Damascus), p. 102, and is found in al-Wakil, Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (2)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 494. Ibn Taymiyya, Kitab al-nubuwwat (Damascus), p. 79, cited in Al-Wakil, Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (1)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 489. Ibn Taymiyya, Kitab al-nubuwwat (Damascus), p. 79, cited in al-Wakil, Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (2)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, pp. 494–5. Here, al-Wakil points to what he perceives as Ibn Taymiyya’s mistaken belief that the jinn can manifest as humans. See al-Wakil, Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (2)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 491. In Qur’an 20:19, God instructs Moses to throw down his rod. Moses is understood, therefore, to have heard the Voice of God. Al-Wakil is doubtless angered by the idea that the inviolability of the boundary lines separating God from ordinary believers is threatened by this idea. See immediately below on al-Wakil’s response to wahdat al-wujud. Al-Wakil, Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (2)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 491. Al-Wakil, Hadhihi hiyya al-Sufiyya, p. 48.

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77 Al-Wakil, Hadhihi hiyya al-Sufiyya, p. 48. 78 Though al-Wakil seems to accuse al-Ghazali of hiding behind the language of wahdat al-shuhud, the development of this concept is normally attributed to the much later Indian scholar Ahmad al-Sirhindi al-Faruqi (d. 1624). 79 Al-Wakil, Hadhihi hiyya al-Sufiyya, p. 50. 80 Al-Wakil, Hadhihi hiyya al-Sufiyya, p. 50. Nicholson’s observations, in particular, seem to strike a chord with al-Wakil. He is even more satisfied with this scholar’s claim that ‘Islam loses all its meaning, [indeed] its name is entirely emptied of meaning, if the doctrine of tawhid, which is expressed in the first half of the shahada – ‘There is no God, but God’ (‘la ilah illa lah’) – is instead rendered as ‘Nothing real exists other than God’ (la mawjud ‘ala haqiqat illa allah).’ On repeating this, al-Wakil declares: ‘this is a shining truth by a Christian who [despite the handicap of his religion] accuses a very well-known shaykh who pretends to be the greatest Imam of the faith!!’ Al-Wakil, Hadhihi hiyya al-Sufiyya, pp. 51–2. 81 Among which we may include his promise ‘to anger the great shaykhs of the Sufis’, then ‘to scream the truth in the faces of these angry men’; and his description of al-Ghazali’s Ihya ‘ulum al-din as the ‘first Qur’an’ of the Sufis, and of al-Ghazali’s other books as their ‘idols’ (asnam). 82 This is not to deny that there are scholars in Saudi Arabia who are aware of Western scholarship on Islam. The Bengali scholar and author of Sirat al-Nabi and the Orientalists, Mohamad Mohsen Ali (d. 2007), for instance, taught in Saudi Arabia, won the King Faisal prize, and lent his services to the Wahhabi cause. However, Ali trained as a barrister in London and preferred to write in English. He was not a product of Wahhabism in the sense in which Pink assumes to be true of al-Wakil. 83 Despite spending time in Saudi Arabia, al-Wakil does not seem to have written anything substantial regarding his experiences there. On the problems of dismissing Ansar al-Sunna as merely an offshoot of Wahhabism, see R. Gauvain (2010), ‘Salafism in Modern Egypt: Panacea or Pest? Political Theology, 11(6): 802–25. (In passing, and apropos of nothing in particular, we note that at least one contemporary Egyptian Salafi scholar claims that al-Wakil also proselytized in Russia, http://www.salafievents.com/biographies/shaykh-hasan-abdul-wahhaabmarzooq-al-banna-1212. No mention of this trip is made in the usual Ansar al-Sunna biographical sources, however.) 84 ‘Al-Sayyid al-Badawi (d. 675/1276), the famous saint of Ṭanta who had adopted voluntary celibacy, possessed nothing of his own and burned out his eyes by staring at the sun from his terrace, spent forty days without drinking, eating or sleeping. He never took off his clothes or his turban, waiting for them to fall to pieces by themselves’, Genevieve Gobillot (2012), ‘Zuhd’, in Encylopedia of Islam, II Brill Online.

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85 See 3.b. above. Note, in Hadhihi hiyya al-Sufiyya, al-Wakil also cites from Theodore Noldeke (d. 1930). 86 Al-Wakil begins by noting that an unnamed English Orientalist has befriended some Egypt’s Sufis, so as to document their shameful behaviour. This Orientalist has recorded everything he has seen in an (unnamed) book. After warning his reader against the treachery of all Orientalists, however, al-Wakil proceeds to counter this particular Orientalist’s accusations, regarding the excesses of the mawalid, through the arguments of Ignaz Goldziher! Al-Wakil concludes his piece by comparing the crimes of the Orientalist with the far greater crimes of the Sufis: ‘it does not hurt us that these shameful deeds were documented by Orientalists, and that this [the Sufis’ crimes] are being held against all Muslims. However, what we should feel ashamed of is that we have enabled Sufis to … spread their poisons, which reflects badly on Islam and Muslims, who now come across as foolish, the worshippers of myths. … The Orientalists are not our primary enemy; it is our enemy, which is nothing but Sufism, which has enabled them to attack us’, ‘Khizy Sufi’ in al-Wakil, Hadhihi hiyya al-Sufiyya, pp. 114–15. 87 It is worth here noting that, while much has been said about the damage caused to Egyptian Sufism by colonialism, on the one hand, and the Islamic Revival movement (within which Salafism fits), on the other, much less has been said about later Salafi applications of Orientalist scholarship. 88 There are marginal exceptions to this rule. The current head of Ansar al-Sunna’s Department of Literary Heritage, Shaykh Sha‘ban, for instance, is clearly familiar with some Western scholarship. While he warned my research assistant to steer clear of the same scholarship, he also admitted that the Orientalists of Goldziher’s generation had contributed much of merit to the study of Islam. To my knowledge, however, there is nothing to suggest that Shaykh Sha‘ban, or any other Ansar al-Sunna scholars (or, indeed, those belonging to any other Egyptian Salafi group), are up to date with Islamic Studies, as this field is understood from a Western academic perspective. 89 ‘Among the matters that make the soul restive with sadness and pain the heart is the fact that the orientalists – although they are enemies of Islam – are aware of the truth [regarding the Sufiyya].’ ‘Ara’ al-mustashriqin’, in ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil wa qadiyyat al-tasawwuf, p. 148. The most recently published of the Western scholars to be referenced is, I believe, Philip Hitti (d. 1978). 90 On these disagreements, see R. Gauvain, Salafi Ritual Purity, pp. 37–47. 91 Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 2, Cairo, pp. 715–16. 92 See above 3.a. and n. 56. In this regard, there is an undeniable poignancy to the fact that Nasser eventually forces al-Wakil’s beloved Ansar al-Sunna to merge with al-Gam‘iyya al-Shar‘iyya.

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93 Prior to his overthrow, the clearest (and most controversial) statements of loyalty to Mubarak were to be found in the preaching of Mahmud Lutfi ‘Amir, see R. Gauvain, ‘Salafi Ritual Purity’, pp. 44–5. 94 Recent events, following the military’s removal of Morsi from power, are unlikely to have reassured them.

Chapter 3 1 C. V. Findley (2010); Th. Zarcone (2004); K. Karpat (2001); İ. Kara (1997); P. Dumont (1983); and N. Berkes (1964). 2 R. Olson (1989); and B. Kurbanoğlu (2012). 3 A. F. Ambrosio (2014a), pp. 126–8; A. F. Ambrosio (2014b); and H. Küçük (2002). 4 F. M. Köprülü, Türk Edebiyatında İlk Mutasavvıflar (2006); and F. Köprülü (2003). 5 H. Z. Ülken (1964); H. Z. Ülken (2001); and H. Z. Ülken (1930). 6 A. Gölpınarlı (1983). 7 H. Z. Ülken (1972). 8 S. Karasipahi (2009); B. Eligür (2010); U. Azak (2010); Ş. Mardin (2003); and H. M. Yavuz (2003). 9 A. Bein (2011); and M. Gormez (2008). 10 H. M. Yavuz (2013). 11 R. Çakır (1990). 12 R. Çakır (1990), pp. 199–204. 13 E. Özkan (1996); E. Özkan (1999a); and E. Özkan (1999b). 14 A. Gross (2012); S. Hamid (2007); and S. Taji-Farouki (1996). 15 E. Özkan (1995). 16 E. Özkan (1995), p. 3. 17 E. Özkan (1995), p. 3. 18 E. Özkan (1995), pp. 4–6. 19 E. Özkan (1995), p. 8. 20 E. Özkan (1995), pp. 9–10. 21 In Turkey, there are some different approaches to this question as shown by an interesting article by the Dean of Sufi Studies, S. Uludağ (2010).

Chapter 4 1 This chapter presents some observations and findings gathered while carrying out field research in Iraq between 2009 and 2013 in the process of preparing my

Notes

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3

4

5

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PhD thesis in the subject of Islamic Sufi material culture as exemplified by these two shrines. What is beyond this paper’s remit – due to restrictions in time and access while conducting field research – is an historical review of the relationship between Salafism and Sufism in Iraq, and their recent history in the country. What is meant by Salafists in this chapter are those practising Muslims (including fundamentalists, literalists and puritanical) who are ideologically opposed to Sufism as a method of worship, as a way of religious self-expression, and as a socio-religious institution that individuals belong and give allegiance to. The term also includes those who tolerate Sufism’s beliefs as long as they fall within strict Islamic orthodoxy and exclude what they perceive as non-orthodox practices such as saint’s tomb visitations, and the use of musical instruments in worship. In Iraq, Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qadir’s family name ‘Jilani’ is usually spelt and pronounced ‘‫يناليگ‬, derived from the Persian style of pronunciation rendering the name’s spelling and pronunciation in English ‘Gailani’ or ‘Gaylani’. In this paper Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qādir’s family name will be spelt ‘al-Jilani’ in following with Western academic custom, but it will be spelt ‘Al-Gailani’ when referring to his descendants and the street named after him. The transliteration system used in this paper is that of the International Journal of Middle East Studies. Where Arabic words have a common spelling in English such as Sufi, Baghdad, al-Qa’ida, etc., these have been used. Several Arabic and English language media websites have covered the event. These include Kirk Semple, ‘In Rare Talks, U.S. and Iran Discuss Iraq’, The New York Times, 28 May 2007, accessed 10 February 2013. http://www.nytimes. com/2007/05/28/world/worldspecial/28cnd-iraqiran.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0; and Al Jazeera TV website’s coverage on 29 May 2007, titled ‘Dozens killed in Baghdad blasts’, accessed 9 February 2013. http://www.aljazeera.com/news/ middleeast/2007/05/2008525115811971147.html. For images of the damage caused by the explosion see http://www.nytimes.com/imagepages/2007/05/28/ world/28cnd-iraq-bomb.html; and http://www.reuters.com/news/pictures/ searchpopup?picId=867886. Interviews with attendants responsible for the burial chamber of Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qadir and for the women’s section of the prayer halls in the Shrine, February 2013. Kirk Semple ‘In Rare Talks, U.S. and Iran Discuss Iraq’, The New York Times, 28 May 2007. http://www.nytimes.com/2007/05/28/world/worldspecial/28cndiraqiran.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0, accessed 10 February 2013. Juan Cole (29 May 2007), reporting on Informed Comment blog, ‘24 Killed, 90 Wounded; Qadiriya Shrine Damaged in Blast’, Informed Comment, Thoughts on the Middle East, History and Religion, 29 May 2007, http://www.juancole. com/2007/05/24-killed90-wounded-Qādirīya-shrine.html.

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8 An example of the news coverage in Iraqi daily newspapers is in Al-Ittihad which published President Jalal Talibani’s letter of condemnation and reported his deputies and the Prime Minister’s comments and instructions on 30 May 2007, http://www.alitthad.com/paper.php?name=News&News&file=article&sid=25719. 9 Kasnazan.com ‘The speech of Al-Sheikh D. Nahro Muhammad Al-Kasnazan Al-Hassani about the condemnation of the sinful aggression on the Shrine of Al-Shekh ‘Abdul Qadir Al-Ghailani (may Allah sanctify his spirit) with Al-Sharqiya Satellite Channel’, accessed 10 February 2013; in English: http://www. kasnazan.com/article.php?id=1030; and in Arabic: http://www.kasnazan.com/ article.php?id=1020. Also published in Arabic in Al-Kasnazan. Al-Tariqa al-‘Aliyya al-Qadiriyya al-Kasnazaniyya, issue 2, summer 2007, pp. 6–9. 10 D. S. Margoliouth (1907), ‘Contributions to the Biography of ‘Abd al-Kadir of Jilan’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland, pp. 267–310. 11 ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Mahadh Al-Gailani (1994), ‘Tarikh Jam’i al-Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Gailani’, Baghdad: Dar al-Shu‘un al-Thaqafiyya al-‘Amma, pp. 4–13. 12 The field research revealed the glaring absence of Qadiris from other parts of the Middle East, North and Sub-Saharan Africa, and from the Caucasus. It is interesting to note that this was not the case in previous eras. The reference in note 11 above describes the allocation of specific lodging rooms in the Shrine to the Moroccan Qadirīs as well as to the Afghans and the Indians during the nineteenth and first half of the twentieth century. 13 This particular Qadiri endowment trust is exclusively concerned with the two shrines being explored in this paper. Other Qadiri Sufi groups and shrines in Iraq have their own separate endowment trusts that have no association with this trust. 14 Information supplied by the Shrine’s head of administration, including copies of staff lists, during field research carried out between 2009 and 2012 by the author. 15 Ibrahim bin ‘Ib al-Ghani Al-Durubi (1956, and reprinted with additions in Karachi in the early 1980s), Al-Mukhtasar fi tarikh Shaykh al-Islam sayyidna ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Gailani wa awladuh, Baghdad, pp. 98–101. 16 Yunus al-Shaykh Ibrahim Al-Samara’i (1988, a revised edition), Al-Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Gailani Qadasa Allahu Sirrahu, Hayyatuh wa Atharuh, Baghdad: Diwan al-Awqaf al-Qadiriyya, pp. 46–7. 17 Gailani family lore that has been retold by a number of them over the years. An annotated copy of the above book in note 16, in which the historian ‘Abd al-Rahman Al-Gailani refers to ‘Abd al-Karim Qasim not appointing a successor. 18 See the chapter entitled ‘Sadah’ regarding the social change faced by the Ashraf class in Iraq during the twentieth century, in Batatu Hanna (1978), The Old Social Classes and the Revolutionary Movements of Iraq, a Study of Iraq’s Old Landed and Commercial Classes and of its Communists, Ba‘thists and Free Officers, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, pp. 155–210.

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19 Interview with the Iraqi archaeologist Lamia Al-Gailani Werr on 11 August 2013, who over a seven year period lobbied the Iraqi government, including the President and Vice-President, to reverse the decision to demolish historical parts of the Shrine associated with the expansion project. 20 Several references to these visitations were described by staff during my field research period between 2009 and 2013. Saddam Hussein’s personal religiosity, and how his regime dealt with and used religion, has been explored in several publications. One relevant to the period of the early 1990s is Jerry M. Long (2004), Saddam’s War of Words, Politics, Religion, and the Iraqi Invasion of Kuwait, Austin: University of Texas Press. 21 Amatzia Baram (2011), From Militant Secularism to Islamism: The Iraqi Baʻth Regime 1968-2003, Washington, DC: Woodrow Wilson International Centre for Scholars, History and Public Policy Program occasional paper, p. 10. http://www. wilsoncenter.org/sites/default/files/From%20Militant%20Secularism%20to%20 Islamism.pdf. 22 Conversation with the solicitor of the Shrine on 25 November 2010, and a conversation with the custodian on 28 December 2011. 23 For a summary coverage on the Ba‘th Party’s position in relation to the rise of Salafism in Iraq see Ahmed S. Hashim (2009), Iraq’s Sunni Insurgency, London: Routledge for The International Institute for Strategic Studies, Adelphi Paper 402, pp. 29–32. Also see the references referred to in notes 18 and 19. 24 Interview with Lamia Al-Gailani Werr. See note 17. 25 Interviews with the Shrine’s solicitor on 25 November 2010; and with the custodian on 14 March 2011. 26 Interviews with the Shrine’s solicitor on 25 November 2010; and with the custodian on 14 March 2011. Two of the Shrine’s three imams and their Salafist leanings, and their effects on the Shrine’s daily life, will be addressed further along in this paper. 27 Yunus al-Shaykh Ibrahim Al-Samara’i (1988), Al-Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Gailani Qadasa Allahu Sirrahu, Hayyatuh wa Atharuh, Baghdad: Dīwān al-Awqāf al-Qādiriyya, pp. 68–70. 28 This ministry was abolished after the 2003 invasion, and was succeeded by three separate endowments’ entities, one for each of the two Islamic sects: Sunni and Shi‘i, and one for Christianity and other faiths. All three entities are administratively linked to the ministerial council and the prime minister’s office. 29 Interview with the solicitor of the Qadiriyya Endowments on 25 November 2010. 30 Interview with the solicitor of the Qadiriyya Endowments on 25 November 2010. 31 Two such examples are: al-Shaykh Hashim Al-‘Adhami (1971), Tarikh Jam‘i al-Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Gailani wa madrasatuh al-‘ilmiyya, Baghdad: Matba’at al-Azhar, pp. 62–3; and Yunus al-Shaykh Ibrahim Al-Samara’i (1988), Al-Shaykh

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Notes ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Gailani Qadasa Allahu Sirrahu, Hayyatuh wa Atharuh, Baghdad: Diwan al-Awqaf al-Qadiriyya, pp. 30–4. Interview with Shaykh al-Halaqa al-Qadiriyya conducted on 21 March 2011. All the Qur’anic verses quoted in this paper are from The Holy Qur’an, English Translation of the Meanings and Commentary. Edited by The Presidency of Islamic Researches, Ifta‘, Call and Guidance. Al-Madīna al-Munawara, Saudi Arabia: The King Fahad Holy Qur’an Printing Complex, 1989. This particular translation was chosen as it represents an official state supported Salafist understanding of the meanings of the Qur’an in translation. For ease of identification, the phrases highlighted by Shaykh al-Halaqa in support of his argument have been rendered in italic. (8:2): ‘For the believers are those who when Allah is mentioned, felt a tremor in their hearts, and when they hear His revelations rehearsed, find their faith strengthened, and put all their trust in their Lord.’ (13:28): ‘Those who believe, and whose hearts find satisfaction in the remembrance of Allah; for without doubt in the remembrance of Allah do hearts find satisfaction.’ (3:135): ‘And those who having done an act of indecency or wronged their own sols, remember Allah and ask for forgiveness for their sins; and who can forgive sins except Allah? And are never obstinate in persisting knowingly in the wrong they have done.’ (62:10): ‘And when the prayer is finished, then may ye disperse through the land, and seek of the bounty of Allah; and remember Allah frequently that ye may prosper.’ (22:35): ‘Those whose hearts, when Allah is mentioned, are filled with fear, who show patient perseverance over the afflictions, keep up regular prayer, and spend in charity out of what We have bestowed upon them.’ (2:200): ‘So when ye have accomplished your rites, celebrate the praises of Allah as ye used to celebrate the praises of your fathers, yea, with far more heart and soul. For there are men who say: Our Lord, give us thy bounties in this world; but they will have no portion in the hereafter.’ (4:103): ‘When ye have performed the prayers, remember Allah, standing, sitting down or lying down on your sides; but when ye are free from danger, set up regular prayers; for such prayers are enjoined on believers at stated times.’ (24:35-38): ‘Allah is the Light of the heavens and the earth. The parable of His Light is as if there were a niche and within it a lamp; the lamp enclosed in glass; the glass as it were a brilliant star, lit from a blessed tree, an olive, neither of the east nor of the west, whose oil is well-nigh luminous though fire scarce touched it. Light upon light, Allah doth guide whom He will to His Light; Allah doth set forth parables for men, and Allah doth know all things. (lit is such a light) In houses which Allah hath permitted to be raised to honour, for the celebration in them of

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His name; in them is He glorified in the mornings and in the evenings, (again and again), by men whom neither trade nor sale can divert from the remembrance of Allah, nor from regular prayer, nor from paying zakat. Their (only)fear is for the day when hearts and eyes will be turned about, that Allah may reward them according to the best of their deeds, and add even more for them out of His Grace: for Allah doth provide for those whom He will, without measure.’ (33:35): ‘For Muslim men and women, for believing men and women, for devout men and women, for true men and women, for men and women who are patient and constant, for men and women who humble themselves, for men and women who give in charity, for men and women who fast, for men and women who guard their chastity, and for men and women who engage much in Allah’s remembrance, for them has Allah prepared forgiveness and great reward.’ (2.114): ‘And who is more unjust than he who forbids that in places for the worship of Allah His name should be celebrated? Whose zeal is (in fact) to ruin them? It was not fitting that such should themselves enter them except in fear. For them there is nothing but disgrace in this world, and in the word to come, an exceeding torment.’ (18:28): ‘And keep yourself content with those who call on their Lord morning and evening, seeking His face; and let not thine eyes pass beyond them, seeking the pomp and glitter of this life; nor obey any whose heart We have permitted to neglect the remembrance of Us, one who follows his own desires, and his affair has become all excess.’ I have translated these prophetic sayings as they were quoted to me by Shaykh al-Halaqa. (7:205): ‘And do thou bring thy soul with humility, and remember without loudness in words, in the mornings and evenings, and be not thou of those who are unheedful.’ (3:191): ‘Men who remember Allah standing, sitting and lying down on their sides, and contemplate the wonders of creation in the heavens and the earth, (and say) our Lord not for naught hast thou created all this. Glory to Thee. Give us salvation from the chastisement of the fire.’ Interview conducted with Shaykh ‘Abd al-Wahhab al-Janabi on 22 November 2010. Mulali is the plural of mula in Iraqi vernacular Arabic; and usually denotes a traditional instructor in the recitation of the Qur’an. Mulas also taught reading and writing Arabic. Shaykh ‘Abd al-Wahhab is also popularly known as Mula ‘Abd al-Wahhab al-Janabi. In its heydays during the nineteenth and first half of the twentieth century, the original Qadiriyya School employed leading religious tutors and theologians of the day to teach Qur’an recitation and interpretation, Prophet Muhammad’s traditions

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Notes and sayings, jurisprudence, and Sufism. Lists of the names of the various tutors appear in several of the Shrine’s publications. These include such illustrious figures as ‘Abd Allah al-Suwaidi (d. 1756 AD) who played a role in the negotiations between the Ottomans and Nadir Shah of Iran in 1737; several Muftis of Baghdad, including Abu al-Thana’ Shihab al-Din Mahmud al-Alusi (d. 1855); and in more recent times the leading Mufti of Baghdad Shaykh Yusif al-‘Atta (d. 1951) to name a few. See: Ibrahim bin ‘Abd al-Ghani Al-Durubi (1956 and reprinted with additions in Karachi in the early 1980s), Al-Mukhtasar fi tarikh Shaykh al-Islam sayyidna ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Gailani wa awladuh, Baghedad, pp. 92–4; and see al-Shaykh Hashim Al-‘Adhami (1971), Tarikh Jam‘i al-Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Gailani wa madrasatuh al-‘ilmiyya, Baghdad, pp. 118–33. ‘Abd al-Wahhab Al-Janabi, Risalat al-Janabi ‘Abd al-Wahhab fi Mawlid al-Nabi al-’Awab. No publishing details or date. Copies were being sold at street bookseller-stalls lined up against the outer wall of the Qadiri Shrine along Shar‘i al-Kiffah for the equivalent of £1. Thirteen references are briefly listed on the last page of al-Janabi’s Risala. These are as they appear in the Risala: Ibn Abi Shama’s al-Ba‘ith ‘ala inkar al-buda‘wa al-hawadith; Isma‘il Basha al-Baghdadi’s Idhah al-maknun fi al-dhail ‘ala kashf al-dinun; Ibn Kathir’s al-Bidayya wa al-nihayya; al-Dhahabi’s Siyyar a‘alam al-nubala’; Sibt Ibn al-Jawzi’s Mir’at al-Zaman; Ibn Taghri Bardi’s al-Nujum al-Zahira fi muluk Misr wa al-Qahira; Bukhari’s Sahih; Muslim’s Sahih; Ahmad Ibn Hanbal’s Musnad; Tirmidhi’s Sunnan; Ibn Hisham’s Sira; al-Baihaqī’s Dala’il al-Nubwa; and al-Sayuti’s al-Khasā’is al-Kubra. Salafists and those with fundamentalist understandings of Islam see all innovation as deviation and threatening to distort the true faith and its practices; and therefore must be prohibited. John Esposito (2003), The Oxford Dictionary of Islam, Oxford: Oxford University Press, p. 138. The Caliph ‘Umar bin al-Khatab ruled between 634 and 644 AD. Marion Holmes Katz (2007), The Birth of the Prophet Muḥammad, Devotional piety in Sunni Islam, London: Routledge, p. 1. Interviewed on 23 February 2013. He is the third of the three imams in the Shrine, and the only Qadiri Sufi among them. He was appointed to the Shrine in 2010. Shaykh ‘Abd al-Karim Biāra al-Mudaris (1901–2005), tutored at the Shrine of Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qadir from 1960 and until his retirement in 1973. After that he continued to lodge at the Shrine until his death. He is buried in the Shrine’s graveyard. See Hassani Sharqi ‘Abd Allah (2013), Dalil al-Hadhra al-Qadiriyya fi Baghdad, M’ujam tawthiqi li-tarikh wa hadhir al-Hadhra al-Qadiriyya wa al-’Usra al-Gailaniyya al-Shariffa, Baghdad: Diwan al-Awqaf al-Qadiriyya, pp. 166–7. In this term, dharb – an Arabic word – denotes the act of striking or stabbing; and Dirbasha – believed to be an Indian Hindi word – denotes a skewer or such

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like-metal object for piercing. Dharb al-Dirbasha is the Iraqi term for the Sufi practice of ritual self piercing in the stomach, cheeks and other parts of the body by some Sufis at dhikr sessions and Sufi festivities. Other Sufi groups in the country also practice forms of it. Conversations and interviews with staff at the Shrine on 22 and 24 February, and with the muezzin on 25 February 2013. The maw‘idha on Thursday 21 February 2013, was repeated word for word the next day as the first half of the Friday sermon. Conversations and interviews with various staff on 22, 24 and 25 February 2013. Both the senior imam and his son hold doctorates of philosophy in religious studies, and hold posts at Kuliat Usul al-Din in al-Jami‘a al-‘Iraqiyya (the faculty of theology at the Iraqi University). This university is still popularly known by a shortened version of its original name: al-Jami‘a al-Islamiyya (the Islamic University); with its former full name having been Jami‘at Saddam lil-‘Ulum al-Islaiyya (Saddam University for Religious Sciences) prior to the 2003 invasion. The current university operates under the umbrella of the Ministry of Higher Education and Scientific Research. The imams’ appointments to the Shrine of Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qadir are on a secondment bases. From internet research on works published by the senior imam, two books have been found. The first is his doctorate thesis on Fiqh al-Ghazawat (the jurisprudence of military expeditions or campaigns), and the second is a book on Fiqh al-Saraya (the jurisprudence of military brigades or squadrons). Editions of both books have been published by Dar ‘Amar lil-nashr, Amman, in 2000. Between them, the two custodians and the solicitor hold seven degrees in law from Baghdad, Cairo and the United States. A large number of comments expressed during interviews and conversations with the staff and occupants of the Shrine between 2009 and 2013. It is generally believed among his opponents that the senior imam was brought to the Shrine by influential Salafists in the sectarian government as part of their religious reform agenda. Interviews with Qadiri Kurds in November 2010. These observations were recorded between 2009 and 2013. Interview with the attendant responsible for the females’ prayer hall at the Shrine conducted on 16 December 2011. Sharaf al-Din Abi al-Barakat bin Ahmad al-Lakhmi al-’Irbili known as Ibn al-Mustawfi (1980), Tarikh ’Irbil, al-musamma Nabahat al-balad al-khamil bi-man waradahu min al-’amāthil, Baghdad: Dar al-Rashd lil-Nashr, p. 95. Ibrahim bin ‘Abd al-Ghani Al-Durubi (1956), Al-Mukhtasar fi Tarikh Shaykh al-Islam sayyidna ‘Abd al-Qādir al-Gailani wa ’awladuh, Baghdad: Qadiriyya Library, p. 108 (re-printed with additions by Tahir ‘Ala’ al-Dīn al-Qadiri al-Gailani in Karachi, Pakistan). The same author also wrote Al-Baz al-Ashhab in which

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76 77 78 79 80

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Notes he describes the brief biography of Shaykh ‘Abd al-‘Aziz in a similar fashion on pages 18–19 and referred to in Yunis al-Shaykh Ibrahim al-Samara’i (1982), Al-Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Gailani qaddasa Allah sirrahu, hayatahu wa atharuh, Baghdad: al-Awqaf al-Qadiriyya, pp. 34–5. The slight problem with al-Durubi from a Western academic perspective is that he did not always clearly specify the historical references he had used for each historical fact he stated, and in a number of cases, he quoted unpublished manuscripts without stating where they were deposited. But nevertheless, his biographical works are widely read and accepted as being authoritative. Three field research visits were conducted to the Shrine of Shaykh ‘Abd al-‘Aziz, in November 2009 and November 2010, and in December 2011. Field visit to the Shrine of Isma‘il al-Wuliyani in Rovia and interviews with its caretakers on 22 December 2011. Interview with the caretakers in ‘Aqra on 23 December 2011. Interview with the caretakers in ‘Aqra on 14 November 2010. Interview with the caretakers in ‘Aqra on 14 November 2010. Unlike the Shrine in Baghdad, the caretakers in ‘Aqra spoke in general terms without giving many specific or anecdotal examples to illustrate their points. This is partly to do with the shortness of the field research days spent there and the main focus being the recording of the daily activities within the Shrine; and partly to do with the language barrier between me as a non-Kurdish speaker and most of the attendants and visitors as non-Arabic speakers. Those who spoke Arabic did not speak it fluently enough to express in-depth views on such sensitive subjects as facing and dealing with Salafism. A discussion between the leader of the Wuliyaniyya and the custodians of the Shrine of Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qādir in Baghdad that took place on 16 March 2011. Several interviews and conversations that took place in March 2011, during the Mawlid festival of Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qadir in Baghdad. Sermons by the senior imam on 18 March and 16 December 2011; and sermons by the deputy imam on 30 December 2011 and 22 February 2013. Conversation with the custodian and a number of his followers on 14th March 2011. The revised law (number 56 for 2012) that defines the role and governorship of Diwan al-Waqf al-Sunni is published on several Iraqi websites including: http:// www.iraq-lg-law.org/ar/webfm_send/1333. Field research in Baghdad during 2010 and some of that carried out during 2011 took place over the annual Hajj season and festivities, when the senior imam was away on the Ḥajj. References to his participation in public events held in Mecca during the 2013 – as well as for 2011 – season is present on the website of al-Haī’a al-‘Uliyya lil-Hajj wa al-‘Umra – the Iraqi Hajj and ‘Umra Commission; (www.hajj. gov.iq/ArticleShow.aspx?ID=260).

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Chapter 5 1 For more details look at: Guide de l’imam, du sermonnaire (al-khatîb) et du prédicateur (al-wâ‘îz).http://www.habous.net/fr/guide-de-l-imam.html , accessed 31 January 2014. 2 Malika Zeghal (2008), Islamism in Morocco: Religion, Authoritarianism, and Electoral Politics, Princeton, NJ: Markus Wiener, p. 253. 3 Ricardo Rene Laremont (2011), ‘Moroccan Youth Go Sufi’, Journal of the Middle East and Africa, p. 33. 4 Guide de l’imam, du sermonnaire (al-khatîb) et du prédicateur (al-wâ‘îz). http:// www.habous.net/fr/guide-de-l-imam.html . 5 Guide de l’imam, du sermonnaire (al-khatîb) et du prédicateur (al-wâ‘îz). http:// www.habous.net/fr/guide-de-l-imam.html. 6 For more hagiographical details on the Qadiriyya Boutchichiyya see Karim Ben Driss (2002), Sidi Hamza al-Qâdiri Bouddich: Le renouveau du soufisme au Maroc, Paris: Albouraq-Archè. 7 Mohammed Tozy (1990), ‘Le Prince, le Clerc et l’Etat: La restructuration du champ religieux au Maroc’, in Gilles Kepel and Yann Richard (eds), Intellectuels et militants de l’islam Contemporain, Paris: Seuil, p. 85. 8 Taha Abderrahman, whose research centres on logic, philosophy of language and philosophy of morality, is a Moroccan philosopher who is considered one of the leading philosophers and thinkers in Islamic world. 9 Ahmed Toufiq is a well-known Moroccan writer and scholar. He was appointed as minister for Islamic Affairs by the Moroccan government in November 2002. 10 Dr Faouzi Skali, an anthropologist and an ethnologist, is a professor from the Ecole Normale Supérieure in Fes and author of many publications including ‘La Voie Soufi’ (The Soufi Path), ‘Traces de Lumiere’ (Traces of Light) and ‘Le Face à Face des Cœurs: Le soufisme aujourd’hui’ (A Dialogue of Hearts: Sufism Today). He is the Director of the Fes Festival of World Sacred Music. 11 Abdellah Hammoudi (2007), Master and Disciple: The Cultural Foundations of Moroccan Authoritarianism, Chicago/London: University of Chicago Press, p. 137. 12 As-Sabah, 20 March 2009. 13 Sidi Mounir Qadiri Boutchichi, ‘The Importance of Sufism in an Era of Globalization’, www.sufiway.net, accessed 20 December 2013. 14 Sidi Mounir Qadiri Boutchichi, ‘The Importance of Sufism in an Era of Globalization’, www.sufiway.net. 15 Sidi Mounir Qadiri Boutchichi, ‘The Importance of Sufism in an Era of Globalization’, www.sufiway.net. 16 Mark Sedgwick (2004), ‘In Search of a Counter-Reformation: Anti-Sufi Stereotypes and the Boutchichiyya’s Response’, in Michaelle Browers and Charles Kurzman (eds), An Islamic Reformation? Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, p. 135.

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17 Mokhtar Ghambou (2009), ‘Sufism as Youth Culture in Morocco’, Common Ground News Service (CGNews), 3 March. 18 Ricardo Rene Laremont (2011), ‘Moroccan Youth Go Sufi’, Journal of the Middle East and Africa, p. 35. 19 Video circulated through the Tariqa’s Groups on Facebook and Youtube. 20 Video circulated through the Tariqa’s Groups on Facebook and Youtube. 21 Julie E. Pruzan-Jørgensen (2010), The Islamist Movement in Morocco: Main Actors and Regime Responses, Danish Institute for International Studies, DIIS Report: 05, pp. 15–19 22 For more details see Abdessamad Ait Dada and Richard van Schaik (2012), Political Islam and the Moroccan Arab Spring, Nederlands Institut Marokko (Minor Social Studies of Morocco), Final research report, 23 January 2012, p. 9. 23 M. M. Laskier (September 2003), ‘A Difficult Inheritance: Moroccan Society under King Muhammad VI’, MERIA, 7: 3, p. 4. 24 Dada and van Schaik, Political Islam and the Moroccan Arab Spring, p. 10. 25 Emad Eldin Shahin (1996), ‘Islamism and Secularism in North Africa’, in John Ruedy (ed.), Islamism and Secularism in North Africa, New York: St. Martin’s Press, p. 169. 26 Abdessalam Yassine (2000), Winning the Modern World for Islam, trans. Martin Jenni, Iowa City: Justice and Spirituality Publishing, p. 112. 27 Both Jilani and Shadhili are founders of the well-known Sufi Orders (Al-Qadiriyya and As-Shadhiliyya). 28 H. Lauziere (2005), ‘Post-Islamism and the Religious Discourse of “Abd al-Salam Yasin”’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 37(2): 247. 29 The main political demands causing the 20 February Movement to be established are: a new popular and democratic constitution, the dissolution of parliament and dismissal of the government, an independent judiciary, and the release of all political prisoners. 30 Ash-Sharq Awsat Newspaper, vol. 11826/, 15 April 2011. 31 http://www.alwatan.com.sa/dialogue/News_Detail.aspx?ArticleID134671&Cate goryID4. 32 http://www.assabah.press.ma/index.php?option=com_ content&view=article&id=41806:qq------&catid=109:2010-10-13-15-4613&Itemid=793. 33 http://www.almokhtsar.com/node/110746. Last accessed 2 February 2014. 34 http://www.press-maroc.com/t2603-topic. 35 The letter published through some websites of Moroccan Press on: 5 September 2011, look at: http://www.press-maroc.com/t2603-topic. Last accessed 2 February 2014. 36 Dada and van Schaik, Political Islam and the Moroccan Arab Spring, 11. 37 Dada and van Schaik, Political Islam and the Moroccan Arab Spring, 11.

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38 A. Hamzawy (20 December 2005), Interview with Saad Eddin Al Othmani,leader of Morocco’s Party of Justice and Development. Retrieved December 2011 from Carnegie Endowment for International Peace: http://www.carnegieendowment. org/2008/08/20/interview%2Dwith%2Dsaad%2Deddin%2Dal%2Dothmani%2Dl eader%2Dof%2Dmorocco%2Ds%2Dparty%2Dof%2Djustice%2Dand%2Ddevelop ment/6cee, accessed 20 December 2013. 39 E. Wegner and M. Pellicer (2010), ‘Hitting the Glass Ceiling: The Trajectory of the Moroccan Party of Justice and Development’, in Islamist Mass Movements,External Actors and Political Change in the Arab World, 31: 23–51. Centro Studi di Politica Internazionale.

Chapter 6 1 B. Abu-Manneh (1979), ‘Sultan Abdulhamid II and Shaikh Abulhuda Al-Sayyadi’, Middle Eastern Studies, 15(2) (May): 131–53. 2 Gabriel Warburg (2005), ‘The Wingate Literature Revisited: The Sudan as Seen by Members of the Sudan Political Service during the Condominium: 1899-1956’, Middle Eastern Studies, 41: 382–83; R. S. O’Fahey (1996), ‘Islam and Ethnicity in the Sudan’, Journal of Religion in Africa, 26(3) (August): 260. 3 Mark Sedgwick (2015), ‘The Making of a Sufi Saint of the Twentieth Century: Shaykh Ahmad al-Alawi (1869-1934)’, Journal of the History of Sufism 7. 4 Ernest Gellner (1968), ‘A Pendulum Swing Theory of Islam’, Annales de Sociologie Marocaines, pp. 5–14, reprinted in Roland Robertson (ed.) (1969), Sociology of Religion: Selected Readings, Harmondsworth: Penguin, pp. 127–40. 5 Abdessamad Dialmy (2000), ‘L’Islamisme marocain: entre révolution et intégration’, Archives de sciences sociales des religions, 110 (April): 14. 6 Abdelilah Bouasria (2010), ‘The Secret Politics of the Sufi: The Sultan and the Saint in Modern Morocco’, Unpublished PhD thesis, American University, pp. 210–11. 7 Bouasria, ‘Secret politics’, p. 167. 8 Toufiq does not now describe himself as an active Boutchichi, possibly because as a minister his loyalty should be to his king rather than to any shaykh, but he is still widely regarded as a Boutchichi. 9 Abdelilah Bouasria (2012), ‘La Tarîqa Qadiria Boutchichi au Maroc: la genèse d’un soufisme de marché?’ Demain, 25 February. http://www.demainonline. com/2012/02/25/la-tariqa-qadiria-boutchichi-au-maroc-la-genese-dun-soufismede-marche/. 10 Bouasria (2013), ‘La Tarîqa Qadiria Boutchichi’; Isabelle Werenfels (2014), ‘Beyond Authoritarian Upgrading: The Re-emergence of Sufi Orders in Maghrebi Politics’, The Journal of North African Studies 19, p. 279.

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11 Bouasria, ‘Secret politics’, p. 16. 12 Khalid Bekkaoui and Ricardo René Larémont (2011), ‘Moroccan Youth Go Sufi’, The Journal of the Middle East and Africa, 2(1): 33. 13 Kasper Mathiesen (2013), ‘Anglo-American “Traditional Islam” and its Discourse of Orthodoxy’, Journal of Arabic and Islamic Studies, 13: 191–219. 14 Mohammed El-Katiri (2013), ‘The Institutionalisation of Religious Affairs: Religious Reform in Morocco’, The Journal of North African Studies, 18: 57–9. 15 Hisham Kabbani, ‘Islamic Extremism: A Viable Threat to U.S. National Security’. Transcript at the Islamic Supreme Council of America. http://www. islamicsupremecouncil.org/media-center/domestic-extremism/63-islamicextremism-a-viable-threat-to-us-national-security.html. 16 Daniel Pipes (2001), ‘The Danger Within: Militant Islam in America’, Middle East Forum. http://www.danielpipes.org/77/the-danger-within-militant-islam-inamerica. 17 Bernard is a scholar, but not a scholar of Islam, and at the time of writing the Rand report she had been outside academia for some time. In 1978 she was an assistant professor in political science at the University of Vienna, and between 1978 and 1992 she published on gender issues and on migration, with only two publications on the Muslim world, a 1979 article and a 1984 book, both co-authored with Zalmay Khalilzad. Between 1992 and 2002 she published no academic work, but rather two novels, one set in Peshawar and the other in a future feminist utopia. Then in 2002 she published a book on gender oppression in Afghanistan, based on her time there in the early 1980s, and in 2003 the Rand report. 18 Cheryl Benard (2003), Civil democratic Islam, partners, resources, and strategies, Santa Monica: Rand, pp. x–xi. She conceded that Sufis were ‘not a ready match’ for any of her categories. Benard, Civil democratic Islam, p. 46. 19 Benard, Civil democratic Islam, p. 46. 20 Ishaan Tharoor (2009), ‘Can Sufism Defuse Terrorism?’ Time, 22 July. http://www. time.com/time/world/article/0,8599,1912091,00.html#ixzz2MNflwnDP. 21 Sharon Otterman (2013), ‘Donor, Citing Fraud, Sues Imam Tied to Mosque Near Ground Zero’, New York Times, 5 February. http://www.nytimes.com/2013/02/06/ nyregion/donor-sues-imam-tied-to-mosque-near-ground-zero.html. The allegations of fraud referred to in the article were later dropped, and seem to have derived from a business dispute. 22 Feisal Abdul Rauf (2012), Moving the Mountain: Beyond Ground Zero to a New Vision of Islam in America, New York: Simon & Schuster, pp. 10–11. 23 Mark Sedgwick (2013), ‘The Western Neo-Sufi Milieu in and after the 1960s’, Unpublished paper given at the meeting of the Nordic Association for Middle East Studies, Lund, Sweden, 19–21 September.

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24 ASMA website. http://www.asmasociety.org/reflections.html, captured by internet Archive, 9 June 2002. ‘Mission’. http://www.asmasociety.org/about/index.html, accessed 2 March 2013. Cordoba Imitative website. http://www.cordobainitiative. org/, accessed 3 March 2013. 25 Wajahat Ali et al. (2011), Fear, Inc: The Roots of the Islamophobia Network in America, Washington, DC: Center for American Progress, pp. 30–1. 26 ‘Memorandum from the Islamic Human Rights Commission to the Communities and Local Government Committee, September 2009’. Printed in United Kingdom, House of Commons, Communities and Local Government Committee, ‘Preventing Violent Extremism: Sixth Report of Session 2009–10’. London Stationery Office, 2010, p. 174, n. 11. The source of this information is unclear, but it was not queried. Currency conversions at 2006 rates, save for 2006–9, which uses an average. 27 H. A. Hellyer (2008), ‘Engaging British Muslim Communities in CounterTerrorism Strategies’, The RUSI Journal, 153(2): 12. 28 Philip Lewis (2006), ‘Imams, Ulema and Sufis: Providers of Bridging Social Capital for British Pakistanis?’ Contemporary South Asia, 15: 284. 29 ‘UK Muslims issue bombings fatwa’, BBC, 19 July 2005. http://www.news.bbc. co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/politics/4694441.stm. 30 Dominic Casciani (2006), ‘Minister backs new Muslim group’, BBC, 19 July. http:// www.news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/5193402.stm. 31 Lewis, ‘Imams, Ulema and Sufis’, p. 284. 32 ‘Founder Members’. http://www.britishmuslimforum.com/founder-members/, accessed 3 March 2013. 33 Waqar I. U. Ahmad and Venetia Evergeti (2010), ‘The Making and Representation of Muslim Identity in Britain: Conversations with British Muslim “Elites”’, Ethnic and Racial Studies, 33: 1709. 34 Simon Stjernholm (2010), ‘Sufi Politics in Britain: The Sufi Muslim Council and the “Silent Majority” of Muslims’, Journal of Islamic Law and Culture, 12: 221. 35 Stjernholm, ‘Sufi politics’, p. 222. 36 Stjernholm, ‘Sufi politics’, p. 223. Stjernholm does not say this, but he lists three groups as being represented. Three groups is not many. 37 Shehla Khan (2006), ‘From another shore - New Sufis for New Labour’, Muslim News, 25 August. http://www.muslimnews.co.uk/paper/index.php?article=2563 and ‘Finally Exposed! - The Sufi Muslim Council’, MPAC, 8 October 2006. http:// www.mpacuk.org/content/view/2816/35/. 38 Its website vanished in mid-2009. 39 Haras Rafiq (2011), ‘At long last we have a Prime Minister who rightly makes the distinction between Islam and Islamism’. Conservative Home website 6 February. http://www.conservativehome.blogs.com/platform/2011/02/haras-rafiq-at-long-

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49 50

51

52

53 54 55 56

57 58

Notes last-we-have-a-prime-minister-who-rightly-makes-the-distinction-betweenislam-an.html. BMF website. http://www.britishmuslimforum.com/archive-blogs/. Spirit website. http://www.spiritthemag.com/, 30 June 2007, internet Archive. The site closed at the end of 2007. Sufi Muslim Council website. http://www.sufimuslimcouncil.org/ 24 August 2006, captured by the internet Archive. The Bishop of Bolton, active in the Christian Muslim Forum. Sufi Muslim Council website. http://www.sufimuslimcouncil.org/, 24 August 2006, captured by the internet Archive. United Kingdom, Secretary of State for the Home Department (2011), Prevent Strategy, London: Stationery Office, p. 6. United Kingdom, House of Commons, Communities and Local Government Committee, ‘Preventing Violent Extremism’, pp. 34–5. ‘Ahmad al-Tayyib shaykh al-Azhar al-jadid’, Al-Jazeera, 19 March 2010. http:// www.aljazeera.net/news/pages/170d7c3f-94cf-486e-91e2-614f411b2aa3. ‘Contested Sufi Electoral Parties: The Voice of Freedom Party and The Liberation of Egypt Party’, Islamopedia. http://www.islamopediaonline.org/country-profile/egypt/ islam-and-electoral-parties/contested-sufi-electoral-parties-voice-freedom-par. ‘Al-Sufiyun yundamun li-hizb al-tahrir’, Al-Badil, 13 January 2011, elbadil.com. Kristin Deasy (2012), ‘The Sufis’ Choice: Egypt’s Political Wild Card’, World Affairs September. http://www.worldaffairsjournal.org/article/sufis%E2%80%99choice-egypt%E2%80%99s-political-wild-card. Ammar Ali Hassan (2011), ‘Political Role of Sufi Orders in Egypt after the January 25 Revolution’, Al-Jazeera Studies, 13 August, p. 4. http://www.studies.aljazeera. net/ResourceGallery/media/Documents/2011/8/23/201182385744117734Politica l%20role%20of%20sufi%20orders%20in%20egypt.pdf. Matt Bradley (2011), ‘Parties in Egypt Seek New Weapon’, Wall Street Journal, 27 October. http://www.online.wsj.com/article/SB100014240531119033740045765 82850351152880.html. Deasy, ‘The Sufis’ Choice’. ‘Egyptian elections: Egyptian Liberation Party’, Carnegie, 7 November 2011. http:// www.aucegypt.edu/gapp/cairoreview/pages/articleDetails.aspx?aid=115. Bradley, ‘Parties in Egypt Seek New Weapon’. ‘Egypt Sufis plan mass rally to counter Salafist and Wahhabi muscle flexing’. Ahram online, 7 August 2011. http://www.english.ahram.org.eg/NewsContent/1/64/18261/ Egypt/Politics-/Egypt-Sufis-plan-mass-rally-to-counter-Salafist-an.aspx. Bradley, ‘Parties in Egypt Seek New Weapon’. The emirate existed between 1906 and 1934 in the area of what is now south-west Saudi Arabia. It was annexed by Saudi Arabia in the Treaty of Taif.

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59 Werenfels, ‘Beyond Authoritarian Upgrading’, p. 283. 60 Werenfels, ‘Beyond Authoritarian Upgrading’, p. 287. 61 Mark Woodward et al. (2013), ‘Salafi Violence and Sufi Tolerance? Rethinking Conventional Wisdom’, Perspectives on Terrorism, 7(6): 75.

Chapter 7 1 The author is thankful to Rajarshi Ghose, Hardik Brata Biswas and Naba Gopal Ray for valuable suggestions and resources. Questions and comments by fellow participants in the conference have enriched this paper greatly. 2 Actions in accordance with shariʿa or religious law of Islam are considered shariʿati. While those which do not conform to the shariʿa are labelled as be-shariʿa (anti-shariʿa). 3 A. Karim (1985), Social History of the Muslims in Bengal, Chittagong: Baitush Sharif Islamic Research Institute, p. 50. 4 Karim, Social History of the Muslims in Bengal, pp. 115–16. 5 Karim, Social History of the Muslims in Bengal, pp. 115–16. 6 M. E. Haque (1975), A History of Sufism in Bengal, Dacca: Asiatic Society of Bangladesh, p. 265. 7 A. Talib (1968), Lalan Shah o Lalan Gitika, vol. I, Dacca: Bangla Academy, pp. 88–9; and Karim, Social History, pp. 94–6. 8 Haque, Sufism in Bengal, pp. 155–6. 9 Haque, Sufism in Bengal, pp. 154–6, 265. 10 A. Karim (1971), Baul Sahitya o Baul Gaan, Kushtia, Bangladesh, p. 65. 11 Talib, Lalan Shah, pp. 153–4. 12 Talib, Lalan Shah, pp. 102–4. 13 S. Jha (2002), Baul Fakir Dhangsher Itibritta, Kolkata: Subarnarekha, p. 8. 14 S. Sen (2009), Fakirnama, Kolkata: Gangchil, p. 135. 15 Karim, Baul Sahitya, p. 14. 16 R. Ahmad (1925), Baul Dhangsha Fatwa, Calcutta: Muhammadi Press, p. 5; and Talib, Lalan Shah, pp. 96–7. 17 Jha, Baul Fakir, p. 8. 18 Sen, Fakirnama, pp. 26–7. 19 Talib, Lalan Shah, pp. 89–90. 20 Sen, Fakirnama, pp. 327–8; and Karim, Baul Sahitya, p. 20. 21 Sen, Fakirnama, pp. 327–8; and Karim, Baul Sahitya, p. 102. 22 Sen, Fakirnama, pp. 327–8; and Ahmad, Baul Dhangsha, p. 4. 23 Jha, Baul Fakir, p. 8. 24 Sen, Fakirnama, p. 27.

254 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47

48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59

Notes Sen, Fakirnama, Introduction. Haque, Sufism in Bengal, pp. 308–9. Haque, Sufism in Bengal, pp. 411–12; and Sen, Fakirnama, pp. 328–9. Jha, Baul Fakir, p. 8. Sen, Fakirnama, p. 28. Sen, Fakirnama, p. 45. Testament of faith in Islam. La Ilaha Ila Allah, Muhammad al-Rasul Allah (There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is the Prophet of Allah). Sen, Fakirnama, p. 46. Sen, Fakirnama, p. 41. Sen, Fakirnama, p. 31. Talib, Lalan Shah, pp. 106–7; and Ahmad, Baul Dhangsha, pp. 1–2. Sen, Fakirnama, p. 46. Sen, Fakirnama, p. 30. Sen, Fakirnama, p. 237. Sen, Fakirnama, p. 44. Sheet of cloth, used to cover the tomb, offered as a mark of respect to the Sufi master. Sen, Fakirnama, p. 240. Sen, Fakirnama, p. 223. Sen, Fakirnama, pp. 245–7. Sen, Fakirnama, p. 237. Sen, Fakirnama, p. 232. A. Rafiuddin (1988), The Bengal Muslims: A Quest for Identity, Delhi: Oxford University Press, p. 58. S. Z. H. Jafri (2006), ‘Sufism and the Present: Issues and Paradigms’, in S. Z. H. Jafri and H. Reifeld (eds), The Islamic Path: Sufism, Society and Politics in India, New Delhi: Konrad Adenauer Foundation, p. 5. D. K. Chattopadhyay (1977), ‘The Ferazee and Wahabi Movements of Bengal’, Social Scientist, 6(2): 42–3. Chattopadhyay, ‘The Ferazee and Wahabi Movements of Bengal’, pp. 46–7. Ahmed, Bengal Muslims, p. 59. Ahmad, Baul Dhangsha, pp. 1–5. Ahmad, Baul Dhangsha, Introduction. Ahmad, Baul Dhangsha, 2nd Volume, p. 59. Ahmad, Baul Dhangsha, Foreword. Ahmad, Baul Dhangsha, p. 161. Ahmad, Baul Dhangsha, p. 17. Ahmad, Baul Dhangsha, p. 61. Jafri, ‘Sufism and the Present’, p. 11. Jafri, ‘Sufism and the Present’, p. 10.

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60 Jafri, ‘Sufism and the Present’, pp. 11–12. 61 M. Salafi (2009), Marufiat Kya Hain: Haqiqat ki Aine Mein, Kolkata: Idarah Daawat i- Ahl i-Hadis, pp. 20–2. 62 Salafi, Marufiat Kya Hain: Haqiqat ki Aine Mein, pp. 20–2. 63 B. D. Metcalf (1982), Islamic Revival in British India: Deoband, 1860-1900, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, pp. 264–5; and I. S. Lemah (2012), Jamiati Tatparatar Samkhiptasar (Short Account of Jamiati Activities), Calcutta, p. 5. 64 Lemah, Jamiati, pp. 6–8. 65 Jafri, ‘Sufism and the Present’, pp. 12–13. 66 B. ʿAli (1926a), Ahl i-Hadis Madhhab, Calcutta: Anjuman Office, p. 2. 67 Ali, Ahl i-Hadis, pp. 9–10. 68 B. ʿAli (1926b), Ikhraj ul Mubtadeyin, Calcutta: Anjuman Office, pp. 43–4. 69 Celebration of a saint’s final union with God on his death anniversary. 70 Music performed in Sufi assemblies for the purpose of arousing mystical emotion. 71 Replica of Imam Hussain’s tomb taken out during the mourning of Muharram. Imam Husayn, the grandson of Prophet Muhammad was a martyr at the Battle of Karbala in 680 A.D. 72 Metcalf, Islamic Revival, pp. 273–4. 73 Ali, Ahl i-Hadis, pp. 48–9. 74 Metcalf, Islamic Revival, p. 274. 75 Ali, Ahl i-Hadis, pp. 48–50. 76 Ali, Ahl i-Hadis, pp. 51–5. 77 Anonymous (1916), ‘Marfati o Pir er Sijda’, Ahl i-Hadis, 2: 67. 78 Phurphura is a village in the district of Hooghly in the Indian state of West Bengal. The tomb complex of Shaykh Abu Bakr Siddique is venerated by a large number of Muslims within and outside Bengal who visit the shrine regularly, especially at the time of ʿurs. More information at http://www.furfuradarbarsharif.com/home.php, visited on 30 August 2013. 79 Anonymous (1916), ‘Marfati’, Ahl i-Hadis, 2: 69. 80 Anonymous (1916), ‘Marfati’, Ahl i-Hadis, 2: 70. Sajjada nashin is the official successor to a Sufi dargah, and by implication, the master of that particular shrine. 81 Anonymous (1917), Ahl i-Hadis, 11: 483–4. 82 Bhawal was a large zamindari estate in modern-day Bangladesh. Currently it falls in the Ghazipur district in the vicinity of Dhaka. 83 A. A. Nazir (1920), Kalir Fakir er Khela o Alimgan er Nasihat, Dacca: Islamia Press, pp. 1–3. 84 Sen, Fakirnama, p. 139. 85 Sen, Fakirnama, p. 124. 86 Mandira is a musical instrument consisting of a pair of metal bawls used for rhythm effect.

Notes

256 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111

Khartal is an ancient percussion instrument used mainly in devotional songs. Nazir, Kalir Fakir, pp. 3–5. Nazir, Kalir Fakir, p. 6. Shaykh Abdul Qadir Jilani, the founder of the Qadiriyya tariqa of Sufis. He is venerated as the ‘great pir’ throughout South Asia. Believed to be a bridge (pul) which sinners have to cross in order to enter heaven. Sen, Fakirnama, p. 132. Sen, Fakirnama, pp. 136–7. Sen, Fakirnama, pp. 219–20. Sen, Fakirnama, p. 39. Sen, Fakirnama, p. 39. Sen, Fakirnama, p. 40. Sen, Fakirnama, pp. 307–8. ‘Fatwa Manen Ni, Tai Baul Fakirera Gharchhara’, Anandabazar Patrika, 23 February 2003. Sen, Fakirnama, p. 39. Sen, Fakirnama, pp. 66–9. Sen, Fakirnama, pp. 48–9. Sen, Fakirnama, p. 331. M. Nizami (1926), Fakir Sambal, Chittagong: Islamabad Press, Introduction. Nizami, Fakir Sambal, p. 1. Sen, Fakirnama, pp. 51, 186, 220. Nizami, Fakir Sambal, p. 2. Nizami, Fakir Sambal, pp. 4, 7. Nizami, Fakir Sambal, pp. 25, 41. Nizami, Fakir Sambal, p. 42. Nizami, Fakir Sambal, p. 65. Nizami, Fakir Sambal, p. 45.

112 Ahmad, Baul Dhangsha, pp. 105–6.

Chapter 8 1 This chapter was partly written during my postdoctoral fellowship at the Oriental Institute of the Academy of Sciences of Czech Republic in Prague (academic year 2013/2014). 2 De Jong and Radtke (1999); Sirriyeh (1999). 3 Sanyal (1996). 4 Sanyal (1996), p. 3. 5 On the modern Indian Islamic reformist movements, see for example, Metcalf (1982); Gaborieau (1999, 2003, 2010); Sikand (2002); Zaman (2007); and Ahmad (2011).

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6 Sanyal (1996); Liebeskind (1998); and Philippon (2011a). 7 Buehler (1999); Lizzio (2006); Green (2008); Harder (2008); Hartung (2008); and Philippon (2011b). 8 Sanyal’s monograph includes two chapters, namely Chapter 7 (Sanyal 1996, pp. 201–30) and Chapter 8 (Sanyal 1996, pp. 231–67), devoted to a discussion as to how the celebrated Ahmad Rida Khan Barelwi (1856–1921), perhaps the most famous champion of traditionalist Sufism in British India, viewed the leaders of the new Islamic reformist movements. Philippon’s book contains a chapter, namely Chapter 4 (Philippon 2011a, pp. 115–44), which discusses the defence of Sufi identity by prominent branches of the Barelwi movement in contemporary Pakistan, as well as a representation of their rivals. 9 Fieldwork was conducted in Hyderabad between 2008 and 2010. 10 Speziale (2010), p. 87. 11 Green (2008), p. 331; Speziale (2010), p. 95. 12 Malkapuri I, II; Taliʿ III, IV. 13 Green (2008), p. 331. 14 Green (2008), p. 331. 15 Green (2008). 16 On the Jami‘a Nizamiyya, see Farooqui (1972) and Kozlowski (1995). 17 Before becoming Hajji Imdadullah’s disciple, Muhammad Anwar Allah Faruqi had already received the bay‘at and khilafat from his own father, Qadi Muhammad Shujaʿ al-Din. On Muhammad Anwar Allah, see Taliʿ (IV, 72–5) and Kozlowski (1995, pp. 902–13). On Hajji Imdadullah, see Kugle (2007, pp. 222–9). On the founding fathers of the Dar al-ʿUlum of Deoband, Rashid Ahmad Gango’i (1829–1905) and Muhammad Qasim Nanutwi (1833–80), and of the Nadwat al-ʿulamaʾ, Muhammad ʿAli Mongiri, see Metcalf (1982) and Zaman (2007). 18 As Gregory Kozlowski states, numerous contemporary scholars of the Jami‘a Nizamiyya disagree with Deobandi views (1995, pp. 911–12). If we look at the biographical dictionaries on the Sufis of Hyderabad, we notice that many of them studied Islamic religious sciences at the Jami‘a Nizamiyya (Taliʿ III, IV) and at present many Sufi families still send their sons there. That would have been unlikely if the madrasa had embraced Deobandi views. ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi was appointed Honorary Rector (shaykh al-jami‘a) of the madrasa and probably he would not have accepted this title from a Deobandi institution (Siddiqi 2004, p. 104). Moreover, the madrasa complex includes the dargah of Muhammad Anwar Allah Faruqi, where devotees daily come for the ziyarat and every year the anniversary of the death of the founder of the madrasa is celebrated. At present, leading scholars of the madrasa are often invited to attend celebrations of the anniversaries of the deaths of the saints and deliver lectures in various dargahs in Hyderabad.

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19 Kozlowski (1995), pp. 911–12. 20 Both rulers conferred robes of honour and titles such as Khan Bahadur and Fadilat Jang on him. ‘Uthman ‘Ali Khan, the last Nizam, appointed him as Sadr al-sudur and later on he made him Minister of Religious Affairs. 21 On the role of educational institutions funded by Gulf countries and migration in shaping local religious practice in Bangladesh, see Harder (2008). 22 Philippon (2011), p. 94; Harder (2008), p. 190. 23 Gardner (1995), pp. 229–68. 24 On the various offshoots of the Barelwi movement in Pakistan, see Philippon (2011a). 25 See Taliʿ IV, pp. 142–5; Ahmed (2007), pp. 19–23; Reshma (2008), pp. 29–41. 26 Siddiqi (2004), pp. 12–13. 27 Siddiqi (2004), pp. 13–28. 28 Siddiqi (2004), p. 80. ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi also studied other subjects with private teachers (Siddiqi 2004, pp. 80–1, 505–24). 29 Siddiqi (2004), pp. 101–3, pp. 256–356. 30 Siddiqi (2004), p. 104. He was also appointed Honorary Rector (shaykh al-jami‘a) of the Jami‘a Nizamiyya (Siddiqi 2004, p. 104). 31 Siddiqi (2004), p. 86. Though his main affiliation was with the Qadiriyya, at the same time, Muhammad Siddiq Husayni initiated him into a number of other Sufi orders including the Chishtiyya, the Naqshbandiyya, the Rifa‘iyya, the Shadhiliyya, the Suhrawardiyya, the Madariyya, and the Shattariyya (Siddiqi 2004, pp. 619–40). After the demise of his pir, ‘Abd al-Qadīr received the khilāfat also from his own father, Shāh ‘Abd al-Qādir (d. 1911); from the father of his second wife, Shah Ahsan al-Haqq; and from the Naqib al-Ashraf of Baghdad Husam al-din Mahmud, the sajjada nashin of the shrine of ʿAbd al-Qadir Jilani (Siddiqi 2004, p. 179). 32 Siddiqi (2004), pp. 641–4. 33 During the last decades of his life, his residence was in Malakpet. 34 Taliʿ reports twenty-six titles (IV, 144), while Reshma mentions thirty-eight works (2008, pp. 31–2); for a comprehensive list, see Siddiqi (2004), pp. 357–84. 35 The last two articles were republished in 1994 in a collection of his articles entitled Irshadat-i Siddiqi (The Directives of Siddiqi). Occasional statements in defence of Sufism are also to be found in some of his treatises which are not specifically devoted to this topic, such as Hikmat-i islamiyya (Islamic Wisdom) and Tahfimat-i Siddiqi (Siddiqi’s Elucidations). 36 Siddiqi (2004), p. 343. These chapters were republished in a single volume with the same title by ʿAbd al-Qadir’s second sajjada nashin, Abu Turab ʿAli Siddiqi (1905–88). 37 Siddiqi (1969), p. 53.

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38 Researchers in the field of Critical Discourse Analysis claim that the telling of stories ‘whose outcomes reward legitimate actions and punish non-legitimate actions’, is often used as a strategy of legitimation or delegitimation (van Leeuwen 2007, p. 92). 39 Siddiqi (1969), p. 3. 40 For example: ‘A merit of this commentary is that the commandments of the Qur’an have been applied to modern times and explained in the light of science and civilization so that Muslims, especially the new generation, may understand how they have gone and are going astray from the Qurʾanic injunctions’ (Siddiqi 1969, p. 57). 41 Siddiqi (1969), p. 53. 42 Siddiqi (1969), p. 5. 43 Siddiqi (1969), pp. 52–3. 44 Siddiqi (1969), p. 53. 45 Siddiqi (1969), p. 56. 46 Siddiqi (1969), p. 53. 47 Fairclough and Wodak (1997); Wodak (1996). 48 Van Leeuwen and Wodak (1999), p. 92. 49 These sociological ‘macro-functions’ of discourses are related to corresponding ‘macro-strategies of discourse’, namely constructive, perpetuating, transformational and destructive (van Leeuwen and Wodak 1999, p. 92). 50 Phillipon (2011), p. 117. 51 Teun van Dijk (1993), p. 263. 52 Van Leeuwen and Wodak (1999), p. 92. 53 Van Leeuwen (2007), p. 92. 54 Wodak (2001), p. 72. 55 Siddiqi (1969), p. 42. 56 Siddiqi (1969), pp. 52, 70, 92. 57 Siddiqi (1969), p. 66. 58 Siddiqi (1969), pp. 52, 70, 92. 59 Siddiqi (1969), pp. 66, 69, 71, 73. 60 Siddiqi (1969), p. 79. 61 Siddiqi (1969), p. 49. 62 Siddiqi (1969), pp. 53, 56. 63 Siddiqi (1969), pp. 5, 42–3, 52–3, 56. 64 Siddiqi (1969), p. 53. 65 Siddiqi (1969), p. 68. 66 Siddiqi (1969), p. 69. 67 Siddiqi (1969), p. 72. 68 Siddiqi (1969), p. 74.

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69 Siddiqi (1969, p. 92). The Hadith in question is also quoted by Sanyal (1996, p. 233) and Lizzio (2006, p. 50): ‘If a Muslim charges a fellow Muslim with kufr, he is himself a kafir [sic], if the accusation should prove untrue.’ This concept is also expressed in ʿAbd al-Qadir’s article Samaʿ (Siddiqi n.d., p. 13). 70 Siddiqi (1996), p. 40. 71 Siddiqi (1969), p. 72. 72 Siddiqi (1969), pp. 71–3. 73 ‘Oh you who claim to be monotheists! You charge us with shirk and kufr because we address the Prophet by Ya rasul Allāh and believe that he can hear our supplications’’ (Siddiqi 1969, pp. 71–2). 74 Siddiqi (1969), p. 78. 75 Siddiqi (1969), p. 79. ‘Not to differentiate between worship and adoration on the one hand and honour and respect on the other hand is diabolic.’ (Siddiqi 1969, p. 79) This concept is also stated in Hikmat-i islamiyya (Islamic Wisdom) (Siddiqi 1998, p. 128). This argument is also found in ʿAbd al-Qadir’s article Bid‘at (Siddiqi 1994, p. 90). 76 Siddiqi (1969), p. 49. 77 Siddiqi (1969), p. 49. 78 Siddiqi (1969), pp. 49–50. 79 Siddiqi (1969), p. 50. 80 Siddiqi (1969), p. 81. 81 Siddiqi (1969), p. 66. 82 Siddiqi (1969), p. 68. 83 Siddiqi (1969), p. 69. 84 Siddiqi (1969), p. 78. This argument is also found in ʿAbd al-Qadir’s article Bid‘at (Siddiqi 1994, p. 90). 85 Siddiqi (1969), p. 77. This concept is also stressed in the article Bid‘at (Siddiqi 1994, pp. 88–9). 86 Siddiqi (1969), p. 74. 87 In Hikmat-i islamiyya (Islamic Wisdom), he remarks: ‘All these self-complacent people are caught in a misunderstanding. They claim that a thing which they do not know does not exist. These people consider non-existence of their knowledge as non-existence of facts.’ (Siddiqi 1998, p. 109). 88 Siddiqi (1969), p. 78. 89 Siddiqi (1969), p. 79. 90 Siddiqi (1969), p. 66. 91 Siddiqi (2010), p. 20. 92 Siddiqi (1998), p. 108. 93 Siddiqi (1998), p. 109. 94 Siddiqi (1969), p. 49. 95 Siddiqi (1969), p. 66.

Notes 96 97 98 99

1 00 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111

1 12 113 114 115 116 117

1 18 119 120 121 122 123 124

261

Siddiqi (1969), p. 77. Siddiqi (1969), p. 77. Siddiqi (1969), p. 77. Siddiqi (1969), p. 77. Given that in Islam, in the absence of an ecclesiastical hierarchy, the Qur’an and the ahadith are the ultimate authorities in religious matters, intellectuals and religious scholars refer to them in order to legitimate or delegitimate religious practices. However, since scholars disagree over the methods of interpretation of the scriptural sources, the statements put forward by a scholar may not be considered valid by others. Siddiqi (2010), cover. Siddiqi (2010), pp. 2, 6, 20. Siddiqi (2010), p. 3. Siddiqi (2010), pp. 2, 3, 17–20. Siddiqi (2010), p. 3. Siddiqi (2010), pp. 6, 16. Siddiqi (2010), p. 2. Siddiqi (2010), p. 2. Siddiqi (2010), p. 2. Siddiqi (2010), p. 2. Siddiqi (2010), p. 3. The Hadith in question is the following: Kul bid‘at zalalahu wa kul zalala fī’l-nar’ (Bukhārī) (All illegitimate innovations are reprehensible and all the reprehensible things are worthy of hell) (Siddiqi 2010, p. 1). Siddiqi (2010), p. 3. Siddiqi (2010), pp. 6, 19. Siddiqi (2010), p. 16. Siddiqi (2010), p. 3. Siddiqi (2010), p. 7. Siddiqi (2010), pp. 7–9. Anwar al-Din compares the fatiha with other favours granted to men by Allah such as the Night of Power (laylat al-qadr) and the facilitations arranged for travellers. According to the Hanafī school of law, travellers are exempted from several obligatory religious acts such as for instance fasting, performing the Friday noon prayer in a mosque and can perform the canonical prayers in the shortened form. Siddiqi (2010), p. 19. Siddiqi (2010), p. 15. Siddiqi (2010), p. 20. Siddiqi (2010), p. 20. Siddiqi (2010), p. 20. Siddiqi (2010), p. 20. Siddiqi (2010), p. 7.

262 1 25 126 127 128 129 130

Notes

Siddiqi (2010), p. 8. Siddiqi (2010), p. 9. Siddiqi (2010), p. 12. Siddiqi (2010), p. 20. Siddiqi (2010), p. 20. At present, the Siddiqi family provides courses of tafsir, hadith, and Arabic grammar and literature. 131 As a pir tells, ‘Certain groups such as the Deobandis, the Ahl-i Hadith, the Tablighi Jama‘at, and the Jama‘at-i Islami have created so much confusion among Muslims that the common believers do not know anymore which practices are correct and which are wrong. Those who know the Qur’an and the Ahadith are not affected by their views, they know that there is nothing wrong with the fatiha and the ziyarat. It is those who live in villages and the uneducated who, lacking religious knowledge, are confused and misled by their ideas.’ (7 December 2009). 1 32 As the following example illustrates, ‘These Wahhabis claim that we worship our pirs and awliya’. How is this possible? There is not any single doubt on the issue of worship (‘ibādat): worship is only for Allāh. Every day we repeat many times Ashadu la ilaha ill’Allah wa ashaduannah Muhammad abdhu wa rasulhu. Is it not clear who we worship? We respect our pirs, we love our pirs, but we don’t think even for a second, of worshipping them. When Allah ordered to the angels to prostrate themselves in front of Adam, what kind of sajda (prostration) do you think it was? The sajda of respect. One thing is the sajda of worship, and another thing is the sajda of respect. Do you think Allah would have given this order if it was against the principles of Islam? The prophet Yūsuf had a dream in which eleven stars, and the sun and the moon were bowing down in front of him. Why did Allāh put this in the Qur’an? Islamic monotheism is believing in one God while respecting the prophets and the saints. That of the Wahhabis and Ahl-i Hadith is monotheism without respect for the prophets and saints. That is not Islamic monotheism, it is Iblisi monotheism (satanic monotheism).’ (6 October 2010). 133 ‘Among the Ahl-i Hadith, there is much illiteracy and ignorance. As a rule, they take fragments of ahadith according to their own convenience and apply them to situations that are different from their original context. Everyone is responsible for his own actions. Teachers are available, so why don’t they go to them and learn?’ (4 April 2010). ‘I spoke to those people several times. [When I state my arguments] they don’t know how to reply. But there is a great deal of difference between remaining speechless and understanding. In this age sound can travel very fast. If a sound originates in Japan or in Australia, after going through many hurdles it can reach India in one second. It is much easier to cover that long distance than the distance between the ears and the heart.’ (6 October 2010).

Notes

263

134 On the notion of ‘essentials of religion’ (daruriyat-i din), see Sanyal (1996, pp. 201–7). The term is applied to a wide range of beliefs, practically everything that falls under the term ‘aqaʾid (articles of faith). 135 Philippon (2011), pp. 116–20. 136 Lizzio (2006), pp. 49–53. 137 Lizzio (2006), p. 51. 138 Philippon (2011), pp. 119–20. 139 Sanyal (1996), pp. 255–66. 140 Philippon (2011), p. 116.

Chapter 9

1 2 3 4

Cf. for example Sanyal (1996[a]), pp. 82–8. Metcalf (2005). Pl. Makatib-i Fikr, for an analysis see Malik (1996), p. 303 and Malik (1989), p. 405. Cf. Sanyal (2005), p. xii: ‘While Ahmad Riza’s interpretation of Islam is deeply rooted in South Asian culture, he based his arguments on the classical Islamic sources and looked to the religious leaders of Mecca and Medina for validation and approval. And while he was a reformist in the sense of demanding that his followers be personally responsible for their own salvation, the kind of model Muslim person he visualized was one who embraces rather than shunned ritual intermediaries and a ritualistic style of worshiping God. One might say that he wanted his followers to use reformist religious methods so as to be better, and more individually driven, traditionalists.’   The most useful introductions into the Barelwi movement are Sanyal (2011); Sanyal (1996a); Sanyal (2005); Metcalf (2002), pp. 296–314 and Malik (2008), pp. 291–308. 5 Cf. Sanyal (1996a), p. 5. 6 Sanyal (2005), pp. 23–4 and Metcalf (2002), p. 38. Baljon (1986) published a highly useful study on Shah Wali Allah Dihlawi. On his impact see also Rizvi (1980). 7 See Voll (1975) and Pearson (2008), p. 10: ‘Shah Wali Allah studied unter Abu ʾl-Tahir Muhammad ibn Ibrahim al-Kurani, who also taught Muhammad Hayya al-Sindi, the teacher of Muhammad ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhab.’ 8 Rizvi (1982) authored a standard work on Shah ʿAbd al-ʿAziz. Barelwis do not consider Shah Wali Allah (1703–62) the mujaddid of the twelfth Islamic century (cf. Sanyal 1996a, pp. 40–1). The reason is that his lifetime (1115–176 a. H.) is completely within one century and hence does not fulfill the condition that he was famous at the end of the century of his birth as well as the beginning of the century of his death (Sanyal 1996a, pp. 228–9).

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9 Cf. Farooqi (2006); Pearson (2008). 10 This text is considered the most important reformist publication of its time in South Asia and its editors claim that the text has been circulated in millions: http://www.islambasics.com/view.php?bkID=162&chapter=1, 2 September 2012. 11 Cf. Metcalf (2009). 12 Pearson (2008), pp. 235–6. 13 Sanyal (1996a), pp. 248–55. 14 Followers of the Daʿwat-i Islami refer to him by the title Imam-i Ahl-i Sunnat (in contrast to Amir-i Ahl-i Sunnat for their founder Muhammad Ilyas Qadiri ʿAttar). 15 http://www.dawateislami.net/book/detail/496/volume/964/writer/32/ ur#section:writer_0.0, 2 September 2012. Within the Daʿwat-i Islami ʿAttar (2007) is specifically important. 16 On his father see Hassan (n.d.). 17 Rida Khan (2005b) (1906). 18 Sanyal (1996a), pp. 62, 226–9. 19 On the Barkatiya Sayyids see Sanyal (2009) and (1996a), pp. 97–127. 20 Baraka (2005), pp. 55, 71. 21 On the development of the silsila Qadiriya in India see Bilgrami (2006). 22 Baraka (2005), pp. 117–18. 23 Rida Khan (1988). Online available on: http://www.truequran.com/, 2 September 2012. English translation on: http://www.ahlesunnat.biz/, 2  September 2012. Audio-file available on: http://www.barkati.net/qurannew12/quran.htm, 2 September 2012. 24 Rida Khan (n.d.). Only in 1950th, comparably late, the compilation work began at the Dar al-ʿulum Ashrafiya in Mubarakpur. This edition contains 6847 Fatwa. Daʿwat-i Islami published a searchable software of the most important fatwa, cf. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ZhoNsYICo4, 2 September 2012. 25 On the Daʿwat-i Islami see Gugler (2011). 26 Metcalf (2005), p. 306. 27 Sanyal (1996a), pp. 57–8, 139. 28 Metcalf (2005), p. 306. Cf. Hadi al-Qadri (2001), p. 52. 29 Cf. Ahmed (1991). Rida Khan made negative remarks on Christianity, considered the British educational reform ‘useless’, prohibited the British way to dress for Muslims and remained unsympathetic – for example he is been said to have commented while seeing British soldiers: ‘The wretch, they are complete monkeys.’ (cited in Ahmed 1991, p. 31). However, he never called to fight the British. 30 Baraka (2005), p. 194. 31 Cf. Hermansen (2001). 32 For example Amjadi (2003), pp. 6–7. 33 Okarvi (1996), pp. 4, 30.

Notes 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43

44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53

54 55 56 57 58

265

Suhail (2002). Werbner (2003), p. 257. A refutation was authored by Bastawi (2001). Cf. Okarvi (1996), p. 7. See, Sanyal (1996a), pp. 231–67. Refutations were written by Haq (n.d.) and Badayuni (n.d.). Cf. Rida Khan (1996a). Modood (1990), p. 156 and Werbner (2008), pp. 10–11. Cf. Werbner (1996), p. 110. Rida Khan (1996a), p. 13. Cf. Rida Khan (2003b), pp. 6 and 16: ‘This verse warns Muslims that mere recitation of the ‘kalima’ is not enough for their salvation.’ Rida Khan (2003a), Rida Khan (2005d), pp. 24–49, and Rida Khan (2005a), pp. 27–86: ‘Inclusion in Islam of the Prophet´s Dignified Ancestry’. Naturally Barelwis support this position as the Prophet could only be born into the best of families and several Hadith suggest that non-Muslims are unclean (Rida Khan 2003a, pp. 7, 9). Rida Khan (2005d), pp. 163–270; Rida Khan (2005a), pp. 87–126: ‘The Full Moon in Refutation of a Shadow of the Master of Mankind’. Rida Khan (1996a), p. 15. Cf. Haddad (2005), p. 70. Rida Khan (1996a), pp. 15, 77; Rida Khan (2003b), p. 8. Rida Khan (1996a), pp. 16–17. Cf. Barker/Warburg (2001). Rida Khan (1996a), p. 18. Rida Khan (1996a), p. 19. Rida Khan (1996a), pp. 38–9. Rida Khan (1996a), pp. 18–19. Cf. Rida Khan (1996a), p. 77. Rida Khan (1996a), p. 20, ‘O believers! Take not for friends My and your enemies, you deliver the news to them in friendship, while they are deniars of the truth that has come to you, and drive out the Messenger and yourselves from homes because you believe in Allah, your Lord. … If they get hold of you, they will be your enemies and will stretch forth their hands and their tongues towards you with evil, and they desire that you should anyhow become disbelievers. Never will profit you, neither your kindred nor your children on the Day of Judgement. He shall separate you from them. And Allah is seeing your doings.’ (Rida Khan 1988, p. 823). Rida Khan (1996a), pp. 49–50. Cf. Rida Khan (2005b), p. 24. Rida Khan (2005b), p. 24. Rida Khan (2005b), pp. 32–50. Rida Khan (2005b), p. 71. Rida Khan (2005b), p. 80.

266

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59 Rida Khan (2005c), p. 20. 60 Rida Khan (2005c), pp. 27–9. 61 On that term see Philippon (2011) and http://www.univie.ac.at/jihadism/blog/ wp-content/uploads/2011/05/Thomas-K-Gugler-Pakistans-Barelwiyat-betweenSufislamism-and-Love-for-the-Prophet.pdf, 2 September 2012. 62 Rida Khan (2002), p. 20. 63 Rida Khan (2002), p. 23. 64 Rida Khan (2002), p. 26. 65 Rida Khan (2002), p. 42. 66 Hadith cited by Ammar (2001a), p. 87. 67 Interview in November 2006 in Multan. 68 Cf. Kaazmi (2001). 69 See for example Kugle (2009); Qasmi (2006) and Ernst/Lawrence (2002), pp. 119–20. A resource-oriented example is the split of the seminary in Deoband in 1982 and the foundation of the Dār al-ʿUlūm Waqf following the family dispute between Asad Madani, son of Ḥusayn Aḥmad Madanī (1879–1957), and the Qasimi-group led by the former director Muhammad Tayyib Qasimi (1897–1983). For the Deobandīs, cf. Zaman (2007), p. 24. For the Barelwis this point is stressed by Werbner (1996), p. 114. 70 Cf. Daʿwat-i Islami author Anjum (1999) and Hassan (n.d.). 71 Furthermore worth mentioning are the shorter writings by Gayawi (2004); Qasimi (1998) and Qasimi (n.d.) etc. For a more concise Barelwi-critique of Deobandi belief systems see Naʿimi (n.d.); Nizami (2002); Okarvi (2002) and Rumi (n.d.). 72 Ammar (2001a), pp. 1–19. Rida Khan (2007a). 73 Ammar (2001a), p. 17: ‘A living person cannot understand what the birds are saying, but the deceased can hear and understand exactly what they are saying. Also, a living person cannot travel millions of miles faster than the blink of an eye, but the deceased can travel many millions of miles faster than the blink of the eye. An example of this is that when one sleeps, one can travel many miles and break the physical laws of this world.’ 74 Rida Khan (2007a), p. 6. 75 Rida Khan interprets this as a proof for the blasphemy the Deobandis are guilty of: ‘In a Hadith the Holy Prophet has said that: ‘Before I used to stop you from visiting the graves, but now I command to visit them.’ (Rida Khan 2005c, p. 52). Cf. Rida Khan (2007a), pp. 51–6. 76 Ammar (2001a), pp. 20–8. 77 Rida Khan (2007c), pp. 17–18. 78 Ammar (2001a), pp. 29–34. 79 Rida Khan (1988), p. 107.

Notes 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100

1 01 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112

267

Ammar (2001a), pp. 35–42. Rida Khan [a] and Rida Khan (2005a), pp. 1–25. Sanyal (1996a), p. 132. Rida Khan cited by Sanyal (1996a), p. 153. Hadith cited by Ammar (2001a), p. 38 and Rida Khan (2007c), pp. 11–13. Interview in November 2006, Multan. Rida Khan (1996b), p. 34. Rida Khan (1996b), p. 34. Rida Khan (1996b), p. 36. Rida Khan (1996b), p. 37. Ammar (2001a), pp. 43–50. Rida Khan (2005d), pp. 52–113. Cf. Rida Khan (2007d). Qur’an 5: 15 (Rida Khan 1988, p. 163). Cf. verse of light 24: 35: And Q. 33: 45–6. Cf. Ernst (2010), pp. 124–9. Rida Khan (2005d), p. 55. On the history of this concept in the Arabic literature see Nagel (2008), pp. 153–8 and Schimmel (1995), pp. 305–6, 317. Rida Khan (2005d), p. 79. Cf. Rida Khan (2005d), pp. 86–7. Rida Khan (2005d), p. 69. Rida Khan (2000). Rida Khan (2005d), pp. 163–270 and Rida Khan (2005a), pp. 87–126. Ammar (2001a), pp. 51–8. Rida Khan (1996a), pp. 25–33. Al-Qadiri (n.d.[a]). Fatawa-yi Rashidiya Vol. II, p. 14, cited by al-Qadiri 1972 (1992), p. 55. Translated from the Urdu text. Ahmed (n.d.), pp. 5–6, 16. To support this position Barelwis refer to Qurʾan 2: 31, 2: 251, 27: 16, 21: 74, 12: 22, 12: 96 and 18: 65. ‘More or less 124,000 Apostles were raised at different periods of time with some specific knowledge of the hidden realm, i.e. ʿilm-i ghayb. But the knowledge of the unseen bestowed upon the Holy Prophet was limitless in scope and magnitude.’ (Ahmed n.d., p. 7). Ahmed (n.d.), pp. 9–16. Ahmed (n.d.), p. 15. Rida Khan (1988), p. 109. Cf. 6: 59, 10: 20 and 11: 31. Rida Khan (1988), p. 862. Al-Qadiri (1993), pp. 13–14, translated from the Urdu text. Al-Qadiri (1993), p. 16, translated from the Urdu text. Safdar (2007). Ammar (2001a), pp. 59–62. Haddad (2003), pp. 36–51. Cf. Khan 4: 41. Rida Khan (1988), p. 31. Cited in Haddad (2003), p. 45. Translated by Metcalf (2009), p. 207.

268

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1 13 Ammar (2001a), pp. 63–71. Yaar Khan (2004). 114 Qasmi (2008), p. 7. 115 Cf. hadith cited by Qasmi (2008), p. 92: ‘I have not ordered to make the mosques high. … You will certainly decorate the mosques just like the Christians and Jews.’ 116 Qasmi (2008), p. 21. 117 Qasmi (2008), pp. 33–4, 66, 84–8. 118 ʿAttar (2007), p. 1. 119 Ammar (2001a), pp. 72–9. Rida Khan (2005d), pp. 115–62. ʿAttar a. Haddad (2003). Qasmi (2008), pp. 89–90. 120 However, ‘the Deobandis’ are neither a monolithic group nor a united family. Several actors of this tradition argued for a differing point of view: ‘Imdad Allah saw nothing wrong with ceremonies intended to bless the souls of the dead, or those commemorating the birthday of the Prophet Muhammad – at which the Prophet himself was believed to make an appearance, with people standing in his honor – or the death anniversaries of Muslim saints, especially at their shrines. … As he explained to Gangohi, his own view was that ceremonies honouring the Prophet or commemorating the dead were not necessarily objectionable in themselves, as long as they were not turned into religious obligations.’ (Zaman 2007, p. 24). Not all Deobandis found friendly words to express their doubts on this position (Zaman 2007, p. 82). 121 Ashraf ʿAli Thanwi in Fatawa-yi Imdadiya, Vol. II, p. 58, cited by al-Qadiri 1972 (1992), p. 158. Translated from the Urdu text. Similarly Fatawa-yi Imdadiya, Vol. IV, p. 58, cited by al-Qadiri 1972 (1992), pp. 169–70. 122 http://www.albalagh.net/general/rabi-ul-awwal.shtml, 30 August 2012. 123 Rida Khan (2005d), pp. 148–9. 124 ʿAttar[a], p. 4. 125 ʿAttar[a], pp. 14–15. 126 ʿAttar[a], p. 6. 127 Ammar (2001a), pp. 89–98, cf. Halevi (2007). 128 Cf. http://www.madani.16.forumer.com/viewtopic.php?t=1713, 30 August 2012. 129 Cf. Sanyal (1996a), p. 119. 130 Rida Khan (2007b), p. 19; (Rida Khan [2007b], p. 17). 131 Rida Khan (2007b), pp. 17–22. 132 Rida Khan (2007e), p. 9. 133 Rida Khan (2007e), p. 13. 134 Rida Khan (2007e), p. 20. 135 Ammar (2001b), p. 18. 136 Qasmi (2008), pp. 98–9. 137 Ammar (2001a), pp. 107–10. 138 Ammar (2001a), pp. 80–4.

Notes 1 39 140 141 142 143 144 145

1 46 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 1 58 159

1 60 161 162 163 164 165 166

167 168

269

Rida Khan (2005c), p. 53. Qasmi (2008), p. 61. For further details see: Sanyal (2008), pp. 26–41 and Sanyal (1996a), pp. 72–7. Cf. Qadiri (2007). Sanyal (2008), p. 31. A popular biography is Noori (2007). Noori (2007), p. 3. Cf. Hadi al-Qadri (2001), pp. 11–12: Rida Khan’s first fatwa argued that a man shall not marry the woman, who was breastfeeding him while he was a baby. Noori (2007), p. 7. Noori (2007), p. 13. Noori (2007), pp. 13–14. Sanyal (1998), p. 654. Sanyal (1996a), p. 135. Noori (2007), pp. 23–5. Noori (2007), p. 27. On the Sunni Daʿwat-i Islami see Gugler (2010). Nuri (n.d.), p. 6. Sanyal (1998), p. 645. Amjad ʿAli (2007). Sanyal (2008), p. 25. http://www.dawateislami.net/book/detail/318/volume/779/writer/32/ ur#section:writer_0.0, 4 September 2012. Alam (2008), p. 46 and Sanyal (2008), p. 31. Misbahi (2000), p. 20, cit. in Sanyal (2008), p. 33: ‘[Amjad Ali] told him, ‘I am sending you to Mubarakpur to perform a religious service ….’ He protested: ‘Sir, I don’t want a job …’ [Amjad Ali] said: ‘Who said anything about a job? I’m talking about service. I’m sending you to Mubarakpur. Don’t think of what you will get. All you have to do there is religious service.’ For further details see Sanyal (2008), pp. 31–40, 42–4. Sanyal (1996a), pp. 92–3, 307. Sanyal (1996a), pp. 307–14. Qadiri (1978) edited speeches from all three Sunni conferences. http://www.alahazrat.net, 30 August 2012. Rida Khan (2000), pp. 29–31. Cf. Baraka (2005), pp. 9–23. The Raza Academy in Stockport published more than fifty translations of the works of Rida Khan in English, additional to about fifteen titles about him. Baraka (2005), p. 7. In 1984 they published an English version of the Kanz al-Īmān. All in all the Raza Academy published more than a hundred books. Cf. Zarquani (2006) and (2005).

270

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1 69 For examples see al-Qadiri (1972), p. 277. 170 Al-Qadiri (1993), p. 22, translated from the Urdu text.

Chapter 10 1 The so-called Barewli tradition was articulated as a reaction to reform movement criticism, especially emanating from Deoband, by the erudite scholarship and charismatic personality of Ahmed Riza Khan of Rae Bareilly (1856–1921). Ahmed Riza Khan was able to mobilize the tariqas and traditional Muslims who maintained loyalty to them, by drawing upon the resources of the ʿulamaʾ to use their status and scholarship to consciously advocate a mediatory, custom-laden Islam closely linked to the intercession of the Prophet and shrine-based pirs both living and dead. 2 Muhammad Raza (1993), Islam in Britain: Past, Present and Future, Leicester: Volcano Press, p. 10. 3 William Maley (2001), Fundamentalism Reborn? Afghanistan and the Taliban, London: C Hurst & Co., p. 14. 4 http://www.satp.org/satporgtp/countries/pakistan/terroristoutfits/ssp.htm. 5 Sareen Sushant (2005), The Jihad Factory: Pakistanʼs Islamic Revolution in the Making, Har Anand Publications, p. 282. 6 Olivetti Vincenzo (2002), Terror’s Source: The Ideology of Wahhabi-Salafism and its Consequences, Birmingham: Amadeus Books, pp. 69–70. 7 Olivetti includes Sunnis and Shiʿas belonging to the four Sunni madhhabs (Hanbali, Hanafi, Maliki and Shafiʿi) and the two major Shiʿa madhhabs (Ja’faris and Zeidis), and inclusive of the ‘mystical brotherhoods’ (Sufis/sunni and students of ʿirfan/Shiʿa) as constituting orthodoxy in the Islamic world historically until 1900 (pp. 10–12). 8 p. 35. 9 ‘Blueline’, http://www.shiachat.com/forum/topic/234914174-whats-the-differencebetween-deoband-wahhabisalafi/ posted 8 October 2006 and accessed 10 December 2013. 10 Anon, Imam Ahmed Raza Academy, ‘Who are these Deobandi/Wahabi people and what is the Tablighi Jamaat?’ http://www.raza.org.za/articles_wahabi_people. html, accessed 10 December 2013. 11 Ahmetbaba http://www.sunniforum.com/forum/showthread.php?81932-Whoare-Deobandi-Barlevi-Wahabi-Salafi, posed October 2011 and accessed 10 December 2013. 12 Bennett Clinton (2012), ‘Conclusion: South Asian Sufis, Devotion, Deviation and Destiny’, in Clinton Bennett and Charles Ramsey (eds), South Asian Sufis, London: Continuum, pp. 288–9.

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13 p. 289. 14 Werbner Pnina (2012), ‘Du’a: Popular Culture and Powerful Blessings at the ‘Urs’’, in Clinton Bennett and Charles Ramsey (eds), South Asian Sufis, London: Continuum, pp. 83–94. 15 Bennett Clinton (2012), ‘Introduction: South Asian Sufis – continuity, complexity and change’ in Powerful Blessings at the ‘Urs’, in Clinton Bennett and Charles Ramsey (eds), South Asian Sufis, London: Continuum, p. 7. 16 Werbner, p. 85. 17 Quoted in Fatawa Rahimiyyah (Eng. Trans.), vol. 1, pp. 9–10 from ʿulamaʾ -e-Deoband ka Maslak. 18 Fatawa Rahimiyyah (Eng. Trans.), vol. 1, p. 58. 19 http://www.deoband.org/about-2/, accessed 10 December 2013. 20 Interview with Mufti Azizur Rahman, Deoband, 4 January. 21 Interview with Maulana Abdul Haq Sambhali, Darul Uloom Deoband, 5 January 2010. 22 Interview with Mufti Wasi Ahmad at Mahad Al Anwar Deoband, 5 January 2010. 23 Interview with Mufti Saeed Palanpuri at Ustad Hadith Darul Uloom, Deoband, 5 January 2010. 24 Interview with Maulana Qasimi, Rector of Darul Uloom Deoband Waqf, 3 January 2010. 25 Asad Talal (1986), The Idea of the Anthropology of Islam, Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press; republished in Qui Parle (2009). 26 Interview with Maulana Qasimi. 27 Geaves Ron (2000), The Sufis of Britain, Cardiff: Cardiff Academic Press. 28 Interview with Maulana Qasimi. 29 Interview with Ghulam Nabi at Thana Bhavan, the Khanqah of Maulana Ashraf Ali Thanvi on 13 January 2010. 30 Interviews with Maulana Abdul Haq and Maulana Ruknuddin, murids of Hazrat Ml Mufti Mehmood Asad Gangohi, 3 January. 31 Interview with Maulana Qasimi. 32 Interview with Ghulam Nabi. 33 Interview with Maulana Ruqnur Deen, teacher of Hadith and Tafsir in Deoband and a khalifa of Maulana Abrarul Haqq, a khalifa of Maulana Thanvi, 5 January. 34 Interview with Maulana Qasimi. 35 Interview with Maulana Niamatullah Azmi, Ustad Hadith Darul Uloom Deoband 6 January. 36 Interviews with Maulana Abdul Haq and Maulana Ruknuddin. 37 Interview with Ghulam Nabi. 38 Interview with Azizur Rahman. 39 Interview with Maulana Abdul Haq Sambhali. 40 Interview with Azizur Rahman.

272

Notes

41 Interview with Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi, teacher in the khanqahh in Raipur of Hazrat Shah Abdul Rahim Raipuri Saheb, 6 January. 42 Interview with Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi, teacher in the khanqahh in Raipur of Hazrat Shah Abdul Rahim Raipuri Saheb, 6 January. 43 Interview with Maulana Ruqnur Deen. 44 Interview with Mufti Saeed Palanpuri – Ustad Hadith Darul Uloom Deoband 6 January. 45 Interview with Maulana Niamatullah Azmi. 46 Interview with Maulana Dr Nomen, an early graduate of Dar al-Ulum Deoband in Deoband 3 January. 47 Interview with Maulana Qasimi. 48 Interview with Hassan ul Hashmi, Dar ul-Uloom Deoband 7 January. 49 Interview with Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi. 50 Interview with Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi. 51 Interview with Maulana Niamatullah Azmi. 52 Green Nile (2012), Making Space: Sufis and Settlers in Early Modern India, Oxford: Oxford University Press, p. 1. 53 R. A. Geaves (2005), ‘The Heart of Islam in the Indian subcontinent’, in A. King and R. Stockton (eds), The Intimate Other, New Delhi: Orient Longman. 54 M. Titus (1979), Indian Islam – A Religious History of Islam in India, New Delhi: Munshiram Mandiharial, p. 160. 55 M. Ikram (1964), Muslim Civilisation in India, New York: Columbia University Press, p. 172. 56 M. Mujeeb (1966), The Indian Muslims, London: George Allen & Unwin, p. 246. 57 M. Haq, Anwural (1972), The Faith Movement of Maulana Muhammad Ilyas, London: G.Allen & Unwin, p. 130. 58 M. Karandikar (1968), Islam in India’s Transition to Modernity, Bombay: Orient Longmans, p. 127. 59 Interview with Maulana Mufti Wasi Ahmad. 60 Interview with Maulana Mufti Wasi Ahmad. 61 Interview with Maulana Mufti Wasi Ahmad. 62 Interview with Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi. 63 Interview with Mufti Wasi Ahmad. 64 Interview with Maulana Qasimi. 65 Interview with Mufti Wasim Ahmad. 66 Interview with Mufti Azizur Rahman. 67 Interview with Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi. 68 Interview with Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi. 69 Interview with Mufti Palanpuri. 70 Interview with Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi.

Notes 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80

Interview with Mufti Wasi Ahmed. Interview with Mufti Wasi Ahmed. Interview with Niamatullah Azmi. Interview with Niamatullah Azmi. Interview with Mufti Azizur Rahman. Interview with Mufti Azizur Rahman. Interview with Ruqnur Deen. Interview with Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi. Interview with Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi. Geaves Ron (2012), ‘The Symbolic Walls of Deoband’, International Journal of Islam and Christian–Muslim Relations, 23(3) (July): 315–28. 81 Talal Asad (1986), p. 10. 82 Geaves Ron (1996), Sectarian Influences within Islam in Britain, Community Religions Monograph Series, Leeds: University of Leeds, p. 151.

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Interviews Maulana Abdul Haq, murid of Hazrat Ml Mufti Mehmood Asad Gangohi. Maulana Abdul Haq Sambhali, Saharanpur. Maulana Abdul Haq Sambhali – Darul Uloom Deoband. Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi, teacher in the khanaqah in Raipur of Hazrat Shah Abdul Rahim Raipuri Saheb. Maulanal Iftikharul Hasan Khandelvi, Senior Khalifa of Maulana Raipuri and first cousin of Muhammad Ilyas. Maulana Najmul Hasan Thanvi, Thana Bhavan, – khanaqah of Maulana Ashraf Ali Thanvi. Maulana Niamatullah Azmi - Ustad Hadith Darul Uloom Deoband. Maulana Qasimi, Rector of Darul Uloom Deoband Waqf. Maulana Ruknuddin, murid of Hazrat Ml Mufti Mehmood Asad Gangohi. Maulana Ruqnur Deen, teacher of hadith and tafsir in Deoband and a khalifa of Maulana Abrarul Haqq, a khalifa of Maulana Thanvi. Mufti Azizur Rahman, Deoband. Mufti Saeed Palanpurii – Ustad Hadith Darul Uloom Deoband. Mufti Wasi Ahmad (Mahad Al Anwar Deoband). Ghulam Nabi, Thana Bhavan, khanaqah of Maulana Ashraf Ali Thanvi. Saheb Maulana Ahmad, son in law of Mufti Abdul Qayyum Raipuri.

Index ʿAbd al-ʿAziz ibn ʿabd al-Qadir al-Jilani  71, 86 ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani  71–90, 98, 152, 173 Abduh, Muhammad  11, 15, 23, 27, 45 Afghani, Jalal al-Din Asadabadi  11, 23 al-Afifi, ʿAbd al-Razzaq  35 Ahbashiyya  17 Ahl-i Hadith  11, 12, 15, 23, 24, 25, 119, 133–45, 149, 159, 162, 164, 193 Ahl-i Hadith-i Bangala  133 Ahsaʾi, Ahmad  19, 27 Akbaris  19, 27 ʿAlam Baba  129, 130 al-Albani  35 ʿAli, Mir Nasir  131 Aligarh  150 al-Alusi, Nuʾman  15, 24 Amir al-muminin  93, 97 Amjad ʿAli, Muhammad  187 Ansar al-Islam  26 Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya  34, 35, 36, 40, 43, 44 al-Astarabadi, Muhammad  19 Atatürk  59 see also Kemal, Mustafa Aul  120, 121 Azhar University  39, 51 Azzam, Abdallah  17, 24 Babar ʿAli, Muhammad  135, 136 al-Badawi, Sayyid  39, 41, 56 Bakhtiyar Kaki  143 al-Bakri, Mustafa  19, 27 al-Banna, Hassan  16, 25, 28, 65, 98 Barelvi, Ahmad  20, 23 Barelvis  152, 153, 171–89, 204–9 Baʿth Party  75, 76 Baul  120, 121, 131 bayʾa  96, 126, 137, 199–200, 215 Becker, Carl Heinrich  53, 56 Bektash, Hacci  60, 61

Bektashiyya  60 Benedict XVI (pope)  175 bidʿa  82, 84, 128, 133, 137, 154, 160, 161, 163, 164, 178, 182 Bihari, Zafar al-Din  173 bin Laden, Osama  11, 13, 17, 24, 36 Blair, Tony  111 Boutchichiyya  91, 93–6, 98, 106, 107, 108, 116 British Muslim Forum  112 Bulle Shah  206 Bush, President George W.  108, 109, 111 Chishtiyya  16, 23, 112, 119, 120, 122, 124, 129, 142–3, 145, 152, 195 Cordoba House  110 al-Darqawi, Ahmad al-Arabi  19, 27 Darqawiyya  23 Data Mahbub Shah Wali  129, 130 Dayem Shah  129 Deobandis  134, 149, 191–216 dharb al-dirbasha  83 dhikr  16, 28, 73, 77, 78, 79, 84, 89, 95, 133, 191, 198, 200, 204, 215 Dhuʾl-Nun Misri  47 al-Duri, Izzat Ibrahim  74, 75 Emre, Yunus  61 Erbakan, Necmettin  29 Erdogan, Recep Tayyip  29 Fakirs  119–45, 205 fana  124 Faraizi movement  131 Fatimids  82 al-Fawzan, Salih bin Fawzan  35 al-Fiqqi, Muhammad Hamid  35, 40, 42 Gangohi, Rashid Ahmad  171, 177, 185, 198, 209 Gellner, Ernst  105, 115

300

Index

Ghazali, Abu Hamid  48–55, 77, 98 Ghazipour, Hafiz Abdullah  134 Goldziher, Ignaz  47, 53, 55, 57 Gölpinarlı, Abdülbaki  61 Guru Nanak  206 hadir o nazir  182 al-Hallaj, Mansur  35, 44, 52, 53, 54 al-Hamla al-Imaniyya  74 al-Haqqani, Shaykh Nazim ʿAdil  29, 109 Hasafuyya  23 Hassan II of Morocco  97, 106, 107 Hizbʾüt Tahrir (Liberation Party)  65 Hussein, Saddam  26, 74, 75, 175 Ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhab  13, 18, 54, 105, 130, 172, 193 Ibn ʿArabī  14, 16, 17, 19, 23, 30, 35, 40, 52, 54, 69, 154, 205–6 Ibn al-ʿAtaʾillah al-Sakandari  40 Ibn Baz  35 Ibn Hanbal  52 Ibn Idris, Ahmad  18, 19, 27 Ibn al-Jawzi  72 Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya  10, 30, 35 Ibn Taymiyya  10, 15, 19, 25, 30, 35, 40, 41, 42, 51, 54, 55, 77 idkhal al-tawab  183 ihsan  196, 197, 200, 215 ijtihad  22, 159, 160 ʿilm al-ghayb  181 Ilyas, Muhammad  191 Imdadullah, Shaykh Haji  192, 208 insan-i kamil  124 ʿIraqi, Fakhr al-Din Ibrahim  205 jahiliyya  13 Jamaʿat al-ʿadl wʾal-ahsan (Morocco)  91, 97 Jamaʿat-i Islami  11, 12, 16, 23, 133, 145 Jazaʾiri, ʿAbd al-Qadir  17, 20, 23, 27 Jerrahiyya  110, 116 al-Jili, ʿAbd al-Karim  205 Junayd  47 Justice and Charity (Morocco)  97–9, 106, 116 Justice and Development Party (Morocco)  101–2 Justice and Development Party (Turkey)  62

Kaʿba of the heart  122 al-Kabbani, Shaykh Hisham  29, 109, 112 Kashani, Muhsin Fayd  19 Kasnazaniyya  72, 74 al-Kawakibi, ʿAbd al-Rahman  15 Kelly, Ruth  112 Kemal, Mustafa  60 see also Atatürk Khalid, Shaykh  19, 20 Khalidiyya  20 khalwa/khilwa  19, 47 Khalwatiyya  19, 20 Khan, Ahmad Rida of Bareilly  148, 153, 158, 164, 167–9, 171–3, 176–80, 183–8, 208, 210 Khan, Sir Sayyid Ahmad  15, 23, 131, 149, 150, 152, 161, 162 Khatmiyya  105 khirqa  44, 73 Khomeini, Ruhollah  11, 13, 17, 24 Kirmani, Shah ʿAbdullah  142 Köprülü, Mehmet Fuad  61 Kotku, Shaykh Zahid  29 Kuftaro, Shaykh Ahman  28 Lings, Martin  105 Mahdi (Muhammad Ahmad)  20, 27 Mahdists  105 al-Maliki, Nouri  73 Manichaeism  45, 47 al-Maqdisi, Abu Muhammad  17, 24 maʿrifa  128, 129, 132, 133, 137, 177 marriage  46 masculinity  46 al-Mawdudi, Aʿlaʾ  16, 23, 65, 133, 152 mawlid al-nabi  80, 81, 82 Mevlevis  60 milad al-nabi  172, 183, 209–11 Minhaj al-Qurʾan  153 Mohamed VI of Morocco  93, 96, 98, 100, 107, 108, 114 Mohsin al-Din Ahmad  131 Mubarak, Hosni  33, 57, 114 Muin al-Din Chishti  130, 142, 143, 152 Muslim Brothers/Brotherhood  9, 10, 12, 14, 16, 23, 25, 26, 55, 98, 101, 194

Index al-Nabhani, Taqiuddin  66 al-Nadwi, Abuʾl-Hasan ʿAli  16, 23 Nanatawi, Muhammad Qasim  171, 177, 209 Naqshbandiyya  11, 15, 19, 20, 21, 23, 26, 27, 29, 74, 113, 116, 152, 195, 206 Nasser, Gamal ʿAbd al-  57 Nayeb Shah  129 Nazim, Shaykh  112, 116 Nicholson, R. A.  53, 55, 57 Nizam al-Din Awliya  143 nur  181, 215 Nursi, Said  64 Osmania University  150, 154, 164 Ozak, Muzaffar  110 Ozal, Turgut  29 Özkan, Ercümend  59, 64–70 Pipes, Daniel  109 Pool of Nectar  120 Qadiriyya  20, 71, 119, 122, 148, 154, 195 al-Qaʾida  26, 71, 92, 107, 194 qalandars  205 Qasim, ʿAbd al-Karim  74 qawwali  136, 137 al-Qushayri  43, 44 Qutb, Sayyid  11, 12, 17, 24, 28, 65 rabita  19, 24 Rauf, Feisal  109, 110, 111, 112, 115 Rida, Rashid  11, 13, 16, 23, 28 Rumi, Jalal al-Din  17, 60, 61 Sadra, Mulla  17, 19, 30 sahwa  14 al-salaf al-salih  10 samaʿ  154 Samarqandi, Qazi Rukn al-Din  120 Sanusiyya  20 Shadhiliyya  19, 20, 23 Shakir, Ahmad  35 Shamanism  62 Shamil, Imam  20 Shariʿati, ʿAli  13, 17, 24 Shariʿatullah  131 Shaykhis  19 Shiʿa  73, 76, 85

301

Siddiqi, Muhammad ʿAbd al-Qadir  148, 149, 153–69 Siddiqi, Muhammad Anwar al-Din  148, 153, 163–8 Siddique, Shaykh Abu Bakr  137 Sidi Hamza  94–7 Sidi Mounir  95 Simnani, Ala al-Dawla  206 Simnani, Sayyid Ashraf Jahangir  120 al-Sindhi, Shaykh  15 Sirhindi, Shaykh Ahmad  168, 206–8 subha  29 Sufi Muslim Council (UK)  112 Suhrawardiyya  119, 122, 195 Tablighi Jamaʿat  152, 178, 191, 192, 193 Talabani, Jalal  72 Taliban  193 tamjid  83–4 Tanta  42 taqwa  47 tawhid  40, 51, 54 taʿwiz  184 al-Tayyib, Shaykh Ahmad  114 Thanwi, Ashraf ʿAli  177, 181, 191, 200 Ülken, Hilmi Ziya  61 ʿurs  128, 136, 137, 152, 182, 184, 187, 209–11 al-ʿUthaymin  35 ʿuzlaʾ  47 wahdat al-shuhud  52, 206 wahdat al-wujud  52, 69, 205–6 Wahhabis  10, 11, 13, 14, 15, 17, 18, 27, 34, 55, 113, 175 al-Wakil, ʿAbd al-Rahman  33–57 Waliullah, Shah  18, 19, 27, 172, 206–8, 215 wasila  180 wilayat al-faqih  13 Wuliyaniyya  87, 88 Yassine, Shaykh ʿAbdessalam  97, 98, 99, 106, 116 Yogis  120, 127 zakat  85–6, 200 Zindapir, Shaykh  193 al-zuhd  45–8, 52, 54, 56