[Reader-list] Mullahs and Heretics (Tariq Ali)
Harsh Kapoor
aiindex at mnet.fr
Thu Feb 7 06:33:16 IST 2002
counterpunch.org
February 6, 2002
Mullahs and Heretics
By Tariq Ali
I never believed in God, not even between the ages of six and ten,
when I was an agnostic. This unbelief was instinctive. I was sure
there was nothing else out there but space. It could have been my
lack of imagination. In the jasmine--scented summer nights, long
before mosques were allowed to use loudspeakers, it was enough to
savour the silence, look up at the exquisitely lit sky, count the
shooting stars and fall asleep. The early morning call of the muezzin
was a pleasant alarm--clock.
There were many advantages in being an unbeliever. Threatened with
divine sanctions by family retainers, cousins or elderly relatives --
'If you do that Allah will be angry' or 'If you don't do this Allah
will punish you' -- I was unmoved. Let him do his worst, I used to
tell myself, but he never did, and that reinforced my belief in his
non--existence.
My parents, too, were non--believers. So were most of their close
friends. Religion played a tiny part in our Lahore household. In the
second half of the last century, a large proportion of educated
Muslims had embraced modernity. Old habits persisted, nonetheless:
the would--be virtuous made their ablutions and sloped off to Friday
prayers. Some fasted for a few days each year, usually just before
the new moon marking the end of Ramadan. I doubt whether more than a
quarter of the population in the cities fasted for a whole month.
Cafe life continued unabated. Many claimed that they had fasted so as
to take advantage of the free food doled out at the end of each
fasting day by the mosques or the kitchens of the wealthy. In the
countryside fewer still fasted, since outdoor work was difficult
without sustenance, and especially without water when Ramadan fell
during the summer months. Eid, the festival marking the end of
Ramadan, was celebrated by everyone.
One day, I think in the autumn of 1956 when I was 12, I was
eavesdropping on an after--dinner conversation at home. My sister,
assorted cousins and I had been asked nicely to occupy ourselves
elsewhere. Obediently, we moved to an adjoining room, but then
listened, giggling, to a particularly raucous, wooden--headed aunt
and a bony uncle berating my parents in loud whispers: 'We know what
you're like . . . we know you're unbelievers, but these children
should be given a chance . . . They must be taught their religion.'
The giggles were premature. A few months later a tutor was hired to
teach me the Koran and Islamic history. 'You live here,' my father
said. 'You should study the texts. You should know our history. Later
you may do as you wish. Even if you reject everything, it's always
better to know what it is that one is rejecting.' Sensible enough
advice, but regarded by me at the time as hypocritical and a
betrayal. How often had I heard talk of superstitious idiots, often
relatives, who worshipped a God they didn't have the brains to doubt?
Now I was being forced to study religion. I was determined to
sabotage the process.
It didn't occur to me at the time that my father's decision may have
had something to do with an episode from his own life. In 1928, aged
12, he had accompanied his mother and his old wet--nurse (my
grandmother's most trusted maid) on the pilgrimage to perform the
hajj ceremony. Women, then as now, could visit Mecca only if they
were accompanied by a male more than 12 years old. The older men
flatly refused to go. My father, as the youngest male in the family,
wasn't given a choice. His older brother, the most religious member
of the family, never let him forget the pilgrimage: his letters to my
father always arrived with the prefix 'al--Haj' ('pilgrim') attached
to the name, a cause for much merriment at teatime.
Decades later, when the pores of the Saudi elite were sweating
petro--dollars, my father would remember the poverty he had seen in
the Hijaz and recall the tales of non--Arab pilgrims who had been
robbed on the road to Mecca. In the pre--oil period, the annual
pilgrimage had been a major source of income for the locals, who
would often augment their meagre earnings with well--organised raids
on pilgrims' lodgings. The ceremony itself requires that the pilgrim
come clothed in a simple white sheet and nothing else. All valuables
have to be left behind and local gangs became especially adept at
stealing watches and gold. Soon, the more experienced pilgrims
realised that the 'pure souls' of Mecca weren't above thieving. They
began to take precautions, and a war of wits ensued.
Several years after the trip to the Holy Land my father became an
orthodox Communist and remained one for the rest of his life. Moscow
was now his Mecca. Perhaps he thought that immersing me in religion
at a young age might result in a similar transformation. I like to
think that this was his real motive, and that he wasn't pandering to
the more dim--witted members of our family. I came to admire my
father for breaking away from what he described as 'the emptiness of
the feudal world'.
Since I did not read Arabic, I could learn the Koran only by rote. My
tutor, Nizam Din, arrived on the appointed day and thanks to his
heroic efforts, I can at least recite the lines from the opening of
the Koran -- 'Alif, lam, mim . . .' -- followed by the crucial: 'This
book is not to be doubted.' Nizam Din, to my great delight, was not
deeply religious. From his late teens to his late twenties, he had
worn a beard. But by 1940 he'd shaved it off, deserted religion for
the anti--imperialist cause and dedicated himself to left--wing
politics. Like many others he had served a spell in a colonial prison
and been further radicalised. Truth, he would say, was a very
powerful concept in the Koran, but it had never been translated into
practical life because the mullahs had destroyed Islam.
Nizam Din soon realised that I was bored by learning Koranic verses
and we started to spend the allotted hour discussing history: the
nationalist struggle against British imperialism, the origins of
terrorism in Bengal and the Punjab, and the story of the Sikh
terrorist Bhagat Singh, who had thrown a bomb in the Punjab
Legislative Assembly to protest against repressive legislation and
the 1919 massacre of Jallianwallah Bagh. Once imprisoned, he had
refused to plead for mercy, but renounced terrorism as a tactic and
moved closer to traditional Marxism. He was tried in secret and
executed by the British in the Central Jail in Lahore, a 15--minute
walk from where Nizam Din was telling me the story. 'If he had
lived,' Nizam Din used to say, 'he would have become a leader the
British really feared. And look at us now. Just because he was a
Sikh, we haven't even marked his martyrdom with a monument.'
Nizam Din remembered the good times when all the villages in what was
now Pakistan had Hindu and Sikh inhabitants; many of his non--Muslim
friends had now left for India. 'They are pygmies,' he would say of
Pakistan's politicians. 'Do you understand what I'm saying, Tariqji?
Pygmies! Look at India. Observe the difference. Gandhi was a giant.
Jawaharlal Nehru is a giant.' Over the years I learned far more about
history, p0litics and everyday life from Nizam Din than I ever
learned at school. But his failure to interest me in religion had
been noted.
A young maternal uncle, who had grown a beard at an early age,
volunteered to take on the task. His weekly visits to our house,
which coincided with my return from school, irritated me greatly. We
would pace the garden while, in unctuous tones, he related a version
of Islamic history which, like him, was unconvincing and dull. There
were endless tales of heroism, with the Prophet raised to the stature
of a divinity, and a punitive Allah. As he droned on, I would watch
the kites flying and tangling with each other in the afternoon sky,
mentally replay a lost game of marbles, or look forward to the Test
match between Pakistan and the West Indies. Anything but religion.
After a few weeks he, too, gave up, announcing that my unbeliever's
inheritance was too strong.
During the summer months, when the heat in the plains became
unbearable, we would flee to the Himalayan foothills, to Nathiagali,
then a tiny, isolated hill resort perched on a ridge in a thick pine
forest and overlooked by the peaks. Here, in a relaxed atmosphere
with almost no social restrictions, I met Pashtun boys and girls from
the frontier towns of Peshawar and Mardan, and children from Lahore
whom I rarely saw during the winter became summer friends. I acquired
a taste for freedom. We had favourite hiding places: mysterious
cemeteries where the tombstones had English names on them (many had
died young) and a deserted Gothic church that had been charred by
lightning.
We also explored the many burned houses. How were they burned? I
would ask the locals. Back would come the casual reply. 'They
belonged to Hindus and Sikhs. Our fathers and uncles burned them.'
Why? 'So they could never come back, of course.' Why? 'Because we are
now Pakistan. Their home is India.' Why, I persisted, when they had
lived here for centuries, just like your families, and spoke the same
language, even if they worshipped different gods? The only reply was
a shrug. It was strange to think that Hindus and Sikhs had been here,
had been killed in the villages in the valleys below. In the tribal
areas -- the no--man's--land between Afghanistan and Pakistan --
quite a few Hindus stayed on, protected by tribal codes. The same was
true in Afghanistan itself (till the mujahedin and the Taliban
arrived).
One of my favourite spots in Nathiagali lay between two giant oaks.
From here one could watch the sun set on Nanga Parbat. The snow
covering the peak would turn orange, then crimson, bathing the entire
valley in its light. Here we would breathe the air from China, gaze
in the direction of Kashmir and marvel at the moon. Given all this,
why would one need a multi--layered heaven, let alone the seventh
layer that belonged to us alone -- the Islamic paradise?
One day, to my horror, my mother informed me that a mullah from a
neighbouring mountain village had been hired to make sure I completed
my study of the Koran. She had pre--empted all my objections. He
would explain what each verse meant. My summer was about to be
wrecked. I moaned, groaned, protested, pleaded and tantrumed. To no
avail. My friends were sympathetic, but powerless: most of them had
undergone the same ritual.
Mullahs, especially the rural variety, were objects of ridicule,
widely regarded as dishonest, hypocritical and lazy. It was generally
believed that they had grown beards and chosen this path not out of
spiritual fervour, but in order to earn a crust. Unless attached to a
mosque, they depended on voluntary contributions, tuition fees and
free meals. The jokes about them mostly concerned their sexual
appetites; in particular, a penchant for boys below a certain age.
The fictional mullah of the storytellers and puppet--shows who
travelled from village to village was a greedy and lustful
arch--villain; he used religion to pursue his desires and ambitions.
He humiliated and cheated the poor peasants, while toadying to
landlords and potentates.
On the dreaded day, the mullah arrived and, after eating a hearty
lunch, was introduced to me by our family retainer, Khuda Baksh ('God
Bless'), who had served in my grandfather's household and because of
his status and age enjoyed a familiarity denied to other servants.
God Bless was bearded, a staunch believer in the primacy of Islam,
and said his prayers and fasted regularly. He was, however, deeply
hostile to the mullahs, whom he regarded as pilferers, perverts and
parasites. He smiled as the mullah, a man of medium height in his
late fifties, exchanged greetings with me. We took our seats round a
garden table placed to catch the warming sun. The afternoon chorus
was in full flow. The air smelled of sun--roasted pine needles and
wild strawberries.
When the mullah began to speak I noticed he was nearly toothless. The
rhymed verse at once lost its magic. The few false teeth he had
wobbled. I began to wonder if it would happen, and then it did: he
became so excited with fake emotion that the false teeth dropped out
onto the table. He smiled, picked them up and put them back in his
mouth. At first, I managed to restrain myself, but then I heard a
suppressed giggle from the veranda and made the mistake of turning
round. God Bless, who had stationed himself behind a large
rhododendron to eavesdrop on the lesson, was choking with silent
laughter. I excused myself and rushed indoors.
The following week, God Bless dared me to ask the mullah a question
before the lesson began. 'Were your false teeth supplied by the local
butcher?' I enquired with an innocent expression, in an ultra--polite
voice. The mullah asked me to leave: he wished to see my mother
alone. A few minutes later he, too, left, never to return. Later that
day he was sent an envelope full of money to compensate him for my
insolence. God Bless and I celebrated his departure in the bazaar
cafe with mountain tea and home--made biscuits. My religious studies
ended there. My only duty was to substitute for my father once a year
and accompany the male servants to Eid prayers at the mosque, a
painless enough task.
Some years later, when I came to Britain to study, the first group of
people I met were hard--core rationalists. I might have missed the
Humanist Group's stall at the Fresher's Fair had it not been for a
spotty Irishman, dressed in a faded maroon corduroy jacket, with a
mop of untidy dark brown hair, standing on a table and in a
melodious, slightly breathless voice shouting: 'Down with God!' When
he saw me staring, he smiled and added 'and Allah' to the refrain. I
joined on the spot and was immediately roped into becoming the
Humanist rep at my college. Some time afterwards when I asked how he
had known I was of Muslim origin rather than a Hindu or a
Zoroastrian, he replied that his chant only affected Muslims and
Catholics. Hindus, Sikhs and Protestants ignored him completely.
My knowledge of Islamic history remained slender and, as the years
progressed, Pakistan regressed. Islamic studies were made compulsory
in the 1970s, but children were given only a tiny sprinkling of
history on a foundation of fairytales and mythology. My interest in
Islam lay dormant till the Third Oil War in 1990.[2] The Second Oil
War in 1967 had seen Israel, backed by the West, inflict a severe
defeat on Arab nationalism, one from which it never really recovered.
The 1990 war was accompanied in the West by a wave of crude
anti--Arab propaganda. The level of ignorance displayed by most
pundits and politicians distressed me, and I began to ask myself
questions which, until then, had seemed barely relevant. Why had
Islam not undergone a Reformation? Why had the Ottoman Empire not
been touched by the Enlightenment? I began to study Islamic history,
and later travelled to the regions where it had been made, especially
those in which its clashes with Christendom had taken place.
Judaism, Christianity and Islam all began as versions of what we
would today describe as political movements. They were credible
belief--systems which aimed to make it easier to resist imperial
oppression, to unite a disparate people, or both. If we look at early
Islam in this light, it becomes apparent that its Prophet was a
visionary political leader and its triumphs a vindication of his
action programme. Bertrand Russell once compared early Islam to
Bolshevism, arguing that both were 'practical, social, unspiritual,
concerned to win the empire of this world'. By contrast, he saw
Christianity as 'personal' and 'contemplative'. Whether or not the
comparison is apt, Russell had grasped that the first two decades of
Islam had a distinctly Jacobin feel. Sections of the Koran have the
vigour of a political manifesto, and at times the tone in which it
addresses its Jewish and Christian rivals is as factional as that of
any left--wing organisation. The speed with which it took off was
phenomenal. Academic discussion as to whether the new religion was
born in the Hijaz or Jerusalem or elsewhere is essentially of
archaeological interest. Whatever its precise origins, Islam replaced
two great empires and soon reached the Atlantic coast. At its height
three Muslim empires dominated large parts of the globe: the Ottomans
with Istanbul as their capital, the Safavids in Persia and the Mughal
dynasty in India.
A good place for a historian of Islam to start would be 629 ad, or
Year 8 of the new Muslim calendar, though that had yet to come into
being. In that year, 20 armed horsemen, led by Sa'd ibn Zayd, were
sent by Muhammad to destroy the statue of Manat, the pagan goddess of
fate, at Qudayd, on the road between Mecca and Medina. For eight
years Muhammad had tolerated the uneasy coexistence of the pagan male
god Allah and his three daughters: al--Lat, al--Uzza and Manat.
Al--Uzza (the morning star, Venus) was the favourite goddess of the
Quraysh, the tribe to which Muhammad belonged, but Manat was the most
popular in the region as a whole, and was idolised by three key
Meccan tribes that Muhammad had been desperately trying to win over
to his new monotheistic religion. By Year 8, however, three important
military victories had been won against rival pagan and Jewish
forces. The Battle of Badr had seen Muhammad triumph against the
Meccan tribes despite the smallness of his army. The tribes had been
impressed by the muscularity of the new religion, and Muhammad must
have deemed further ideological compromise unnecessary. Sa'd ibn Zayd
and his 20 horsemen had arrived to enforce the new monotheism.
The keeper of Manat's sanctuary saw the horsemen approach, but
remained silent as they dismounted. No greetings were exchanged.
Their demeanour indicated that they had not come to honour Manat or
to leave a token offering. The keeper didn't stand in their way.
According to Islamic tradition, as Sa'd ibn Zayd approached the
beautifully carved statue of Manat, a naked black woman seemed to
emerge from nowhere. The keeper called out: 'Come, O Manat, show the
anger of which you are capable!' Manat began to pull out her hair and
beat her breasts in despair, while cursing her tormentors. Sa'd beat
her to death. Only then did his 20 companions join him. Together they
hacked away until they had destroyed the statue. The sanctuaries of
al--Lat and al--Uzza were dealt with in similar fashion, probably on
the same day.
A seventh--century prophet could not become the true spiritual leader
of a tribal community without exercising political leadership and, in
the Peninsula, mastering the basics of horsemanship, sword--play and
military strategy. Muhammad had understood the need to delay the
final breach with polytheism until he and his companions were less
isolated. However, once the decision to declare a strict monotheism
was taken, no concessions were granted. The Christian Church had been
forced into a permanent compromise with its pagan forebears, allowing
its new followers to worship a woman who had conceived a child by
God. Muhammad, too, could have picked one of Allah's daughters to
form part of a new constellation -- this might even have made it
easier to attract recruits -- but factional considerations acted as a
restraint: a new religious party had to distinguish itself forcefully
from Christianity, its main monotheistic rival, while simultaneously
marginalising the appeal of contemporary paganism. The oneness of a
patriarchal Allah appeared the most attractive option, essential not
only to demonstrate the weakness of Christianity, but also to break
definitively with the dominant cultural practices of the Peninsula
Arabs, with their polyandry and their matrilinear past. Muhammad
himself had been the third and youngest husband of his first wife,
Khadija, who died three years before the birth of the Islamic
calendar.
Historians of Islam, following Muhammad's lead, would come to refer
to the pre--Islamic period as the jahiliyya ('the time of
ignorance'), but the influence of its traditions should not be
underestimated. For the pre--Islamic tribes, the past was the
preserve of poets, who also served as historians, blending myth and
fact in odes designed to heighten tribal feeling. The future was
considered irrelevant, the present all--important. One reason for the
tribes' inability to unite was that the profusion of their gods and
goddesses helped to perpetuate divisions and disputes whose real
origins often lay in commercial rivalries.
Muhammad fully understood this world. He belonged to the Quraysh, a
tribe that prided itself on its genealogy and claimed descent from
Ishmael. Before his marriage, he had worked as one of Khadija's
employees on a merchant caravan. He travelled a great deal in the
region, coming into contact with Christians, Jews, Magians and pagans
of every stripe. He would have had dealings with two important
neighbours: Byzantine Christians and the fire--worshipping
Zoroastrians of Persia.
Muhammad's spiritual drive was fuelled by socio--economic ambitions:
by the need to strengthen the commercial standing of the Arabs, and
to impose a set of common rules. He envisioned a tribal confederation
united by common goals and loyal to a single faith which, of
necessity, had to be new and universal. Islam was the cement he used
to unite the Arab tribes; commerce was to be the only noble
occupation. This meant that the new religion was both nomadic and
urban. Peasants who worked the land were regarded as servile and
inferior. A hadith (a reported saying of Muhammad's) quotes the
Prophet's words on sighting a ploughshare: 'That never enters the
house of the faithful without degradation entering at the same time.'
Certainly the new rules made religious observance in the countryside
virtually impossible. The injunction to pray five times a day, for
example, played an important part in inculcating military discipline,
but was difficult to manage outside the towns. What was wanted was a
community of believers in urban areas, who would meet after prayers
and exchange information. Unsurprisingly, peasants found it
impossible to do their work and fulfil the strict conditions demanded
by the new faith. They were the last social group to accept Islam,
and some of the earliest deviations from orthodoxy matured in the
Muslim countryside.
The military successes of the first Muslim armies were remarkable.
The speed of their advance startled the Mediterranean world, and the
contrast with early Christianity could not have been more pronounced.
Within twenty years of Muhammad's death in 632, his followers had
laid the foundations of the first Islamic empire in the Fertile
Crescent. Impressed by these successes, whole tribes embraced the new
religion. Mosques began to appear in the desert, and the army
expanded. Its swift triumphs were seen as a sign that Allah was both
omnipotent and on the side of the Believers.
These victories were no doubt possible only because the Persian and
Byzantine Empires had been engaged for almost a hundred years in a
war that had enfeebled both sides, alienated their populations and
created an opening for the new conquerors. Syria and Egypt were part
of the Byzantine Empire; Iraq was ruled by Sassanid Persia. All three
now fell to the might and fervour of a unified tribal force.
Force of numbers didn't come into it -- nor did military strategy,
although the ability of the Muslim generals to manoeuvre their camel
cavalry and combine it with an effective guerrilla--style infantry
confused an enemy used to small--scale nomadic raids. Much more
important was the active sympathy which a sizeable minority of the
local people demonstrated for the invaders. A majority remained
passive, waiting to see which side would prevail, but they were no
longer prepared to fight for or help the old empires.
The fervour of the unified tribes, on the other hand, cannot be
explained simply by the appeal of the new religion or promises of
untold pleasures in Paradise. The tens of thousands who flocked to
fight under Khalid ibn al--Walid wanted the comforts of this world
In 638, soon after the Muslim armies took Jerusalem, Caliph Umar
visited the city to enforce peace terms. Like other Muslim leaders of
the period, he was modestly dressed; he was also dusty from the
journey, and his beard was untrimmed. Sophronius, the Patriarch of
Jerusalem, who greeted him, was taken aback by Umar's appearance and
the absence of any attendant pomp. The chronicles record that he
turned to a servant and said in Greek: 'Truly this is the abomination
of desolation spoken of by Daniel the Prophet as standing in the holy
place.'
The 'abomination of desolation' did not remain for long in Jerusalem.
The strategic victories against the Byzantines and the Persians had
been so easily achieved that the Believers were now filled with a
sense of their own destiny. After all, they were, in their own eyes,
the people whose leader was the final Prophet, the last ever to
receive the message of God. Muhammad's vision of a universal religion
as precursor to a universal state had captured the imagination, and
furthered the material interests, of the tribes. When German tribes
took Rome in the fifth century, they insisted on certain social
privileges but they succumbed to a superior culture and, with time,
accepted Christianity. The Arabs who conquered Persia preserved their
monopoly of power by excluding non--Arabs from military service and
temporarily restricting intermarriage, but although willing to learn
from the civilisations they had overpowered, they were never tempted
to abandon their language, their identity or their new faith.
The development of medicine, a discipline in which Muslims later
excelled, provides an interesting example of the way knowledge
travelled, was adapted and matured in the course of the first
millennium. Two centuries before Islam, the city of Gondeshapur in
south--western Persia became a refuge for dissident intellectuals and
freethinkers facing repression in their own cities. The Nestorians of
Edessa fled here in 489 after their school was closed. When, forty
years later, the Emperor Justinian decreed that the school of
Neoplatonic philosophers in Athens be closed, its students and
teachers, too, made the long trek to Gondeshapur. News of this city
of learning spread to neighbouring civilisations. Scholars from India
and, according to some, even China arrived to take part in
discussions with Greeks, Jews, Arabs, Christians and Syrians. The
discussions ranged over a wide variety of subjects, but it was the
philosophy of medicine that attracted the largest numbers.
Theoretical instruction in medicine was supplemented by practice in a
bimaristan (hospital), making the citizens of Gondeshapur the most
cared for in the world. The first Arab who earned the title of
physician, Harith bin Kalada, was later admitted to the Court of the
Persian ruler Chosroes Anushirwan and a conversation between the two
men was recorded by scribes. According to this the physician advised
the ruler to avoid over--eating and undiluted wine, to drink plenty
of water every day, to avoid sex while drunk and to have baths after
meals. He is reputed to have pioneered enemas to deal with
constipation.
Medical dynasties were well established in the city by the time of
the Muslim conquest in 638. Arabs began to train in Gondeshapur's
medical schools and the knowledge they acquired began to spread
throughout the Muslim Empire. Treatises and documents began to flow.
Ibn Sina and al--Razi, the two great Muslim philosopher--physicians
of Islam, were well aware that the basis of their medical knowledge
derived from a small town in Persia.
A new Islamic civilisation emerged, in which the arts, literature and
philosophy of Persia became part of a common heritage. This was an
important element in the defeat by the Abbasids, the cosmopolitan
Persian faction within Islam, of the narrow nationalism of the Arab
Umayyads in 750. Their victory reflected the transcending of Arabism
by Islam, though the last remaining prince of the Umayyads, Abdel
Rahman, managed to escape to al--Andalus, where he founded a
caliphate in Cordoba. Rahman had to deal with the Jewish and
Christian cultures he found there, and his city came to rival Baghdad
as a cosmopolitan centre.
Caliph Umar's successors fanned out from Egypt to North Africa. A
base was established and consolidated in the Tunisian city of
al--Qayrawan, and Carthage became a Muslim city. Musa bin Nusayr, the
Arab governor of Ifriqiya (present--day Libya, Tunisia and most of
Algeria), established the first contact with continental Europe. He
received promises of support and much encouragement from Count
Julian, the Exarch of Septem (Ceuta in Morocco). In April 711, Musa's
leading lieutenant, Tarik bin Ziyad, assembled an army of 7000 men,
and crossed over to Europe near the rock which still bears his name,
Jabal Tarik (or Gibraltar). Once again, the Muslim armies profited
from the unpopul--arity of the ruling Visigoths. In July, Tarik
defeated King Roderic, and the local population flocked to join the
army that had rid them of an oppressive ruler. By the autumn, Cordoba
and Toledo had both fallen. As it became clear that Tarik was
determined to take the whole peninsula, an envious Musa bin Nusayr
left Morocco with 10,000 men to join his victorious subordinate in
Toledo. Together, the two armies marched north and took Zaragoza.
Most of Spain was now under their control, largely thanks to the
population's refusal to defend the ancien regime. The two Muslim
leaders planned to cross the Pyrenees and march to Paris.
Rather than obtain permission from the Caliph in Damascus, however,
they had merely informed him of their progress. Angered by their
cavalier attitude to authority, the Commander of the Faithful
dispatched messengers to summon the conquerors of Spain to the
capital; they never saw Europe again. Others carried on the struggle,
but the impetus was lost. At the Battle of Poitiers in October 732,
Charles Martel's forces marked the end of the first Muslim century by
inflicting a sobering defeat on the soldiers of the Prophet: naval
bases remained in the South of France -- at Nice and Marseille, for
example -- but, for now, Islam was largely confined to the Iberian
peninsula. A century later, the Arabs took Sicily, but could only
threaten the mainland. Palermo became a city of a hundred mosques;
Rome remained sacrosanct. Xenophobic northern Italians still refer to
Sicilians as 'Arabs'.
In 958, Sancho the Fat left his cold and windy castle in the Kingdom
of Navarre in search of a cure for obesity, and went south to
Cordoba, the capital of the western caliphate and, thanks to Caliph
Abderrahman III, Europe's main cultural centre. Its closest rival lay
in distant Mesopotamia, where a caliph from another dynasty presided
over Baghdad. Both cities were renowned for their schools and
libraries, musicians and poets, physicians and astronomers, mullahs
and heretics, and also for their taverns and dancing girls. Cordoba
had the edge in dissent. There, Islamic hegemony was not forcibly
imposed; there had been genuine debates between the three religions,
producing a synthesis from which native Islam benefited greatly.
The Great Mosque in Cordoba could only have been created by men who
had participated in the city's intellectual ferment. The architects
who built it in the eighth century understood that it was to
represent a culture opposed to the Christian one which chose to
occupy space with graven images. A mosque is intended as a void: all
paths lead to emptiness, reality is affirmed through its negation. In
the void, only the Word exists, but in Cordoba (and not only there)
the Mosque was also intended as a political space, one in which the
Koran might be discussed and analysed. The philosopher--poet Ibn Hazm
would sit amid the sacred columns and chastise those Believers who
refused to demonstrate the truth of ideas through argument. They
would shout back that the use of the dialectic was forbidden. 'Who
has forbidden it?' Ibn Hazm would demand, implying that they were the
ones who were the enemies of true faith. In Baghdad they spoke half
in admiration, half in fear, of the 'Andalusian heresy'.
It would be hundreds of years before this culture was obliterated.
The fall of Granada, the last Muslim kingdom in al--Andalus, in 1492
marked the completion of that process: the first of Europe's
attempted final solutions was the ethnic cleansing of Muslims and
Jews from the Iberian peninsula. When he visited Cordoba in 1526,
Charles I of Spain rebuked his priests: 'You have built what can be
seen anywhere and destroyed what is unique.' The remark was generous
enough, but Charles had not realised that the mosque had been
preserved at all only because of the church that now lay inside it.
At the beginning of the 11th century, the Islamic world stretched
from Central Asia to the Atlantic coast, though its political unity
had been disrupted soon after the victory of the Abbasids. Three
centres of power emerged: Baghdad, Cordoba and Cairo, each with its
own caliph. Soon after the death of the Prophet, Islam had divided
into two major factions, the Sunni majority and a Shia minority. The
Sunnis ruled in al--Andalus, Algeria and Morocco in the Maghreb,
Iran, Iraq and the regions beyond the Oxus. The Fatimid caliphs
belonged to the Shia tradition, which claimed descent from the fourth
Caliph, Ali, and his wife Fatima, the daughter of the Prophet. The
Fatimid caliphs had ruled parts of North Africa and lived in Tunisia
till a Fatimid expeditionary force under the command of the legendary
Slav General Jawhar captured Egypt, and Jahwar established a dynasty
complete with caliph and built a new city -- Cairo.
Each of these regions had different traditions, and each had its own
material interests and needs, which determined its policy of
alliances and coexistence with the non--Islamic world. Religion had
played a major part in building the new empire, but its rapid growth
had created the conditions for its own dismemberment. Baghdad, the
most powerful of the three caliphates, lacked the military strength
and the bureaucracy needed to administer such a large empire.
Sectarian schisms, notably a thirty--year war between the Sunni and
Shia factions, had also played their part. Key rulers, politicians
and military leaders in both camps had died in the years immediately
preceding the First Crusade. 'This year,' the historian Ibn
Taghribirdi wrote in 1094, 'is called the year of the death of
caliphs and commanders.' The deaths sparked off wars of succession in
both Sunni and Shia camps, further weakening the Arab world. The
notion of a monolithic and all--powerful Islamic civilisation had
ceased to have any purchase by the beginning of the 11th century, and
probably earlier.
In 1099, after a forty--day siege, the Crusaders took Jerusalem. The
killing lasted two whole days, at the end of which most of the Muslim
population -- men, women and children -- had been killed. Jews had
fought with Muslims to defend the city, but the entry of the
Crusaders created panic. In remembrance of tradition, the Elders
instructed the Jewish population to gather in the synagogue and to
offer up a collective prayer. The Crusaders surrounded the building,
set fire to it and made sure that every single Jew burned to death.
News of the massacres spread slowly through the Muslim world. The
Caliph al--Mustazhir was relaxing in his palace in Baghdad when the
venerable qadi[4] Abu Sa'ad al--Harawi, his head clean--shaven in
mourning, burst into the royal quarters. He had left Damascus three
weeks earlier, and the scene he encountered in the palace did not
please him:
How dare you slumber in the shade of complacent safety, leading lives
as frivolous as garden flowers, while your brothers in Syria have no
dwelling place save the saddles of camels and the bellies of
vultures? Blood has been spilled! Beautiful young girls have been
shamed . . . Shall the valorous Arabs resign themselves to insult and
the valiant Persians accept dishonour . . . Never have the Muslims
been so humiliated. Never have their lands been so savagely
devastated.
The Crusaders settled in the region in the course of the 12th
century, and many Muslim potentates, imagining that they were there
to stay, began to collaborate with them commercially and militarily.
A few of the Crusaders broke with Christian fundamentalism and made
peace with their neighbours, but a majority continued to terrorise
their Muslim and Jewish subjects, and reports of their violence
circulated. In 1171, a Kurdish warrior, Salah al--Din (Saladin),
defeated the Fatimid regime in Cairo and was acclaimed Sultan of
Egypt. A few months later, on the death of his patron Nur al--Din, he
marched to Damascus with his army and was made its Sultan. City after
city accepted his suzerainty. The Caliph was afraid that Baghdad,
too, would fall under the spell of the young conqueror. Though there
was never any question of his assuming the Caliphate itself --
caliphs had to be from the Quraysh, and Saladin was a Kurd -- there
may have been some concern that he would take the Caliphate under his
aegis, as previous sultans had done. Saladin knew this, but he also
knew that the Syrian aristocracy resented his Kurdish origins and
'low upbringing'. It was best not to provoke them, and others like
them, at a time when maximum unity was necessary. Saladin stayed away
from Baghdad.
The union of Egypt and Syria, symbolised by prayers offered in the
name of the one Caliph in the mosques of Cairo and Damascus, formed
the basis for a concerted assault against the Crusaders. Patiently,
Saladin embarked on an undertaking that had until then proved
impossible: the creation of a unified Muslim army to liberate
Jerusalem. The barbarousness of the First Crusade was of enormous
assistance to him in uniting his soldiers: 'Regard the Franj,' he
exhorted them. 'Behold with what obstinacy they fight for their
religion, while we, the Muslims, show no enthusiasm for waging holy
war.'
Saladin's long march ended in victory: Jerusalem was taken in 1187
and once again made an open city. The Jews were provided with
subsidies to rebuild their synagogues; the churches were left
untouched. No revenge killings were permitted. Like Caliph Umar five
hundred years before him, Saladin proclaimed the freedom of the city
for worshippers of all faiths. But his failure to take Tyre was to
prove costly. Pope Urban despatched the Third Crusade to take back
the Holy City, and Tyre became the base of its operations. Its
leader, Richard Plantagenet, reoccupied Acre, executing prisoners and
slaughtering its inhabitants. Jerusalem, however, could not be
retaken. For the next seven hundred years, with the exception of one
short--lived and inconsequential Crusader occupation, the city
remained under Muslim rule, and no blood was spilled.
The Crusades had disrupted a world already in slow decline. Saladin's
victories had temporarily halted the process, but the internal
structures of the Caliphate were damaged beyond repair, and new
invaders were on the way. A Mongol army from Central Asia led by
Timur (Marlowe's Tamburlaine) laid siege to Baghdad in 1401, calling
on the Caliph to surrender and promising that if he did so, the city
would be spared. Foolish and vain till the last, the Caliph refused,
and the Mongol armies sacked the city. A whole culture perished as
libraries were put to the torch, and Baghdad never recovered its
pre--eminence as the capital of Islamic civilisation.
Despite its presence in India, which its armies had first entered in
the eighth century, and, later, in north--western China, and despite
its merchant fleets trading in the Indonesian archipelago, in
southern China, and off the east and west coasts of Africa, Islam's
centre of gravity was by the 14th century moving in the direction of
the Bosphorus. On four occasions Muslim armies had laid siege to
Constantinople, the capital of Eastern Christianity. Each time the
city had survived. But from 1300, the frontier emirate of Anatolia
began slowly to eat into Byzantine territory, and in 1453 old dreams
were realised and the ancient city of Byzantium acquired its present
name: Istanbul. Its new ruler was Mehmet II, whose forebear, Uthman,
had founded the dynasty bearing his name over a hundred years earlier.
The Ottoman dynasty inaugurated its reign by opening a new Islamic
front in South--East Europe, just as Islamic civilisation was about
to collapse in the Iberian peninsula. In the course of the 14th
century, the Ottomans took Hungary, swallowed the Balkans, nibbled
away at the Ukraine and Poland, and threatened Vienna. Throughout the
15th and 16th centuries, a majority of Muslims lived under the rule
of the Ottoman, the Safavid (Persian) or the Mughal (Indian) empires.
The Sultan in Istanbul was recognised as Caliph by the majority and
became the caretaker of the holy cities of Mecca and Medina. Arabic
remained the religious language but Turkish became the Court
vernacular, used by the ruling family and administrative and military
elites throughout the Empire, though most of the religious,
scientific, literary and legal vocabulary was lifted from Persian and
Arabic. The Ottoman state, which was to last five hundred years,
recognised and protected the rights of Christians and Jews. Many of
the Jews expelled from Spain and Portugal after the Reconquest were
granted refuge in Ottoman lands and a large number returned to the
Arab world, settling not just in Istanbul, but in Baghdad, Cairo and
Damascus.
Jews were not the only privileged refugees. During the wars of the
Reformation German, French and Czech Protestants fleeing Catholic
revenge--squads were also given protection by the Ottoman sultans.
Here, there was an additional political motive. The Ottoman state
closely followed developments in the rest of Europe, and vigorously
defended its interests by means of diplomatic, trade and cultural
alliances with major powers. The Pope, however, was viewed with
suspicion, and revolts against Catholicism were welcomed in Istanbul.
Ottoman sultans began to feature in Eur--opean folklore, often
demonised and vulgarised, but the sultans themselves were always
conscious of their place in geography and history, as evidenced in
this modest letter of introduction sent by Suleiman the Magnificent,
who reigned from 1520 to
1566, to the French King:
I who am the Sultan of Sultans, the sovereign of sovereigns, the
dispenser of crowns to the monarchs on the face of the earth, the
shadow of God on Earth, the Sultan and sovereign lord of the White
Sea and of the Black Sea, of Rumelia and of Anatolia, of Karamania,
of the land of Rum, of Zulkadria, of Diyarbekir, of Kurdistan, of
Aizerbaijan, of Persia, of Damascus, of Aleppo, of Cairo, of Mecca,
of Medina, of Jerusalem, of all Arabia, of Yemen and of many other
lands which my noble fore--fathers and my glorious ancestors (may
Allah light up their tombs!) conquered by the force of their arms and
which my August Majesty has made subject to my flaming sword and my
victorious blade, I, Sultan Suleiman Khan, son of Sultan Selim, son
of Sultan Bayezid: To thee, who art Francis, King of the land of
France.
The tolerance shown to Jews and Protestants was rarely, if ever,
extended to heretics within Islam, however. The mullahs ensured that
punishment was brutal and swift. To deter heresies they jealously
safeguarded their monopoly of information and power, opposing all
moves to import a printing press to Istanbul. 'Remember Martin
Luther,' the qadi warned the Sultan. The Reformation could be
supported because it served to divide Christianity, but the very idea
of a Muslim Luther was unacceptable. The clerics knew the early
history of Islam and were determined not to repeat it.
Unlike Christianity, Islam had not spent its first hundred years in
the wilderness. Instead, its early leaders had rapidly found
themselves at the head of large empires, and a great deal of
improvisation had been required. According to some scholars, the
first authorised version of the Koran was published some thirty years
after the death of Muhammad, its accuracy guaranteed by the third
Caliph, Uthman. Others argued that it appeared much later, but
Koranic prescriptions, while quite detailed on certain subjects,
could not provide the complete code of social and political conduct
needed to assert an Islamic hegemony. The hadith filled the gap: it
consisted of what the Prophet had said at a particular time to X or
Y, who had then passed it on to Z, who had informed the author, who
in turn recorded the 'tradition'. Christianity had done something
similar, but confined it to four gospels, editing out or smoothing
over contradictions along the way. Scholars and scribes began
collating the hadith in the seventh and eighth centuries, and there
have been ferocious arguments regarding the authenticity of
particular traditions ever since. It is likely that more than 90 per
cent of them were invented.
The point is not their authenticity, however, but the political role
they have played in Islamic societies. The origins of Shi'ism, for
example, lie in a disputed succession. After Muhammad's death, his
Companions elected Abu--Bakr as his successor and, after his death,
Umar. If Ali, Muhammad's son--in--law, resented this, he did not
protest. His anger was provoked, however, by the election of the
third Caliph, Uthman. Uthman, from the Umayya clan, represented the
tribal aristocracy of Mecca, and his victory annoyed a loyalist old
guard. Had the new Caliph been younger and more vigorous he might
have managed to effect a reconciliation, but Uthman was in his
seventies, an old man in a hurry, and he appointed close relatives
and clan members to key positions in the newly conquered provinces.
In 656 he was murdered by Ali's supporters, whereupon Ali was
anointed as the new Caliph.
Islam's first civil war followed. Two old Companions, Talha and
al--Zubair, called on troops who had been loyal to Uthman to rebel
against Ali. They were joined by Aisha, the Prophet's young widow.
Aisha, mounted on a camel, exhorted her troops to defeat the usurper
at Basra, in what has come to be known as the Battle of the Camel,
but it was Ali's army that triumphed. Talha and al--Zubair died in
the battle; Aisha was taken prisoner and returned to Medina, where
she was placed under virtual house--arrest. Another battle took
place, in which Ali was outmanoeuvred by the Umayyads. His decision
to accept arbitration and defeat annoyed hardliners in his own
faction, and in 661 he was assassinated outside a mosque in Kufa. His
opponent, the brilliant Umayyad General Muawiya, was recognised as
Caliph, but Ali's sons refused to accept his authority and were
defeated and killed in the Battle of Kerbala by Muawiya's son Yazid.
That defeat led to a permanent schism within Islam. Henceforth, Ali's
faction -- or shiat -- were to create their own traditions, dynasties
and states, of which modern Iran is the most prominent example.
It would have been surprising if these military and intellectual
civil wars -- tradition v. counter--tradition, differing schools of
interpretation, disputes about the authenticity of the Koran itself
-- had not yielded a fine harvest of sceptics and heretics. What is
remarkable is that so many of them were tolerated for so long. Those
who challenged the Koran were usually executed, but many poets,
philosophers and heretics expanded the frontiers of debate and
dissent. Andalusian philosophers, for example, usually debated within
the codes of Islam, but the 12th--century Cordoban, Ibn Rushd,
occasionally transgressed them. Known in the Latin world as Averroes,
he was the son and grandson of qadis, and his other grandfather had
served as the Imam of the Great Mosque of Cordoba. Ibn Rushd himself
had been the qadi in both Seville and Cordoba, though he had to flee
the latter when the mullahs banned him from entering the Great Mosque
and ordered his books to be burned. These clashes with orthodoxy
sharpened his mind, but also put him on his guard. When the
enlightened Sultan Abu Yusuf questioned him about the nature of the
sky, the astronomer--philosopher did not initially reply. Abu Yusuf
persisted: 'Is it a substance which has existed for all eternity or
did it have a beginning?' Only when the ruler indicated his awareness
of ancient philosophy did Ibn Rushd respond by explaining why
rationalist methods were superior to religious dogma. When the Sultan
indicated that he found some of Aristotle's work obscure and wished
it to be explained, Ibn Rushd obliged with his Commentaries, which
attracted the attention of Christian and Jewish theologians. The
Commentaries served a dual function. They were an attempt to
systematise Aristotle's vast body of work and to introduce
rationalism and anti--mysticism to a new audience, but also to move
beyond it and promote rational thought as a virtue in itself.
Two centuries earlier, Ibn Sina (980--1037), a Persian scholar known
in the Latin world as Avicenna, had laid the basis for a study of
logic, science, philosophy, politics and medicine. His skills as a
physician led his employers, the native rulers of Khurasan and
Isfahan, to seek his advice on political matters. Often, he gave
advice that annoyed his patrons, and had to leave town in a hurry.
His Kanun fi'l--tibb ('Medical Canon') became the major textbook in
medical schools throughout the Islamic world -- sections of it are
still used in contemporary Iran. His Kitab al--Insaf ('Book of
Impartial Judgment'), dealing with 28,000 different philosophical
questions, was lost when Isfahan was sacked during his lifetime by a
rival potentate: he had lodged his only copy at the local library.
The stories of Ibn Hazm, Ibn Sina and Ibn Rushd demonstrate the
potential for semi--official thought during Islam's first five
hundred years. The last two, in particular, chafed at the
restrictions of religious orthodoxy, but like Galileo after them,
chose to live and continue their researches in preference to
martyrdom. Others, however, were more outspoken. The ninth--century
Baghdad heretic, Ibn al--Rawandi, wrote several books that questioned
the basic principles of monotheism. The Mu'tazilite sect, to which he
had once belonged, believed that it was possible to combine
rationalism and belief in one God. They questioned the Revelation,
rejected predestination, insisted that the Koran was a created and
not a revealed book, and criticised the quality of its composition,
its lack of eloquence and the impurity of its language. Only Reason
dictated obligation to God.[7] Ibn al--Rawandi went further still,
arguing that religious dogma was always inferior to reason, because
only through reason could one attain integrity and moral stature. The
ferocity of his assault first surprised, then united Islamic and
Jewish theologians, who denounced him mercilessly. None of his
original work has survived, and we know of him and his writings
mainly through Muslim and Jewish critics' attempts to refute his
heresies. However, he also makes a remarkable appearance in the work
of the poet--philosopher Abu al--Ala al--Ma'ari (973--1058), whose
epic poem Risalat al--Ghufran ('Treatise on Forgiveness'), set in
Paradise and Hell, has Ibn al--Rawandi berating God: 'Thou didst
apportion the means of livelihood to Thy creatures like a drunk
revealing his churlishness. Had a man made such a division, we would
have said to him: "You swindler! Let this teach you a lesson."'
The guardians of Islam during the Ottoman period knew this history
well and were determined to prevent any challenge to Muslim
orthodoxy. This may have preserved the dynasty, but it sank the
Empire. By keeping Western European inventions, ideologies and
scientific advances at bay, the clerics sealed the fate of the
caliphate. But in the view of the majority of Muslims, the Ottomans
had preserved the Islamic heritage, extended the frontiers of their
religion, and, in the Arab East, created a new synthesis: an Ottoman
Arab culture that united the entire region by means of a state
bureaucracy presiding over a common administration and financial
system. The Ottoman state, like other Muslim empires of the period,
was characterised by three basic features: the absence of private
property in the countryside, where the cultivator did not own and the
owner (the state) did not cultivate; the existence of a powerful,
non--hereditary bureaucratic elite in the administrative centres; and
a professional, trained army with a slave component.
By abolishing the traditional tribal aristocracy and forbidding the
ownership of landed estates, the Ottomans had preserved their
position as the only dynasty in the Empire, and the only repository
of a quasi--divine power. To combat dynastic threats, they created a
civil service recruited from every part of the Empire. The devshirme
system forced Christian families in the Balkans and elsewhere to part
with a son, who became the property of the state. He was sheltered,
fed and educated until he was old enough to train in the academy as a
soldier or bureaucrat. Thus Circassians, Albanians, Slavs, Greeks,
Armenians and even Italians rose to occupy the highest offices of the
Empire.
Traditional hostility to the ploughshare determined the urban bias of
the dynasties that ruled large tracts of the Islamic world, but to
what extent was this attitude also responsible for the absence of
landed property? This was not a local phenomenon: not one of the
caliphates favoured the creation of a landed gentry or
peasant--ownership or the existence of communal lands. Any
combination of these would have aided capital--formation, which might
have led to industrialisation, as it later did in Western Europe. The
sophisticated agricultural techniques employed by the Arabs in Spain
can be adduced to prove that working on the land was not taboo, but
these techniques were generally confined to land surrounding towns,
where cultivation was intense and carried out by the townsfolk. Rural
land was rented from the state by middlemen, who in turn hired
peasants to work on it. Some of the middlemen did become wealthy, but
they lived and spent their money in the towns.
In Western Europe, the peculiarities of the feudal system -- the
relative autonomy enjoyed by village communities organised round
communal lands, combined with the limited but real sovereignties of
vassals, lords and liege lords -- encouraged the growth of small
towns in the Middle Ages. The countryside still dominated, but
political power was feudal power -- that is, it wasn't centralised.
In the towns, trade and manufacturing was controlled by the guilds.
In this arrangement lay the origins of modern capitalism. The
subordination of the countryside in the Islamic world, with its a
rigidly dynastic political structure dependent on a turbulent
military caste, meant that the caliphates could not withstand the
political and economic challenge posed by Western Europe. Radical
nationalist impulses began to develop in the Ottoman lands as early
as the late 18th century, when Turkish officers, influenced by the
French Revolution and, much later, by Comte, began to plot against
the regime in Istanbul. The main reason that the Ottomans staggered
on till the First World War is that the three vultures eyeing the
prey -- the British Empire, tsarist Russia and the Habsburgs -- could
not agree on a division of the spoils. The only solution appeared to
be to keep the Empire on its knees.
The First World War ended with the defeat of the Ottomans, who had
aligned themselves with the Kaiser. As the triumphant powers were
discussing how to divide their booty, a Turkish nationalist force led
by Kemal Pasha (later Ataturk) staked its claim to what is now
Turkey, preventing the British from handing over Istanbul to the
Greeks. For the first time in its history, thanks to Ataturk, Islam
was without a caliph or even a pretender. Britain would have
preferred to defeat and dump Ataturk, while hanging on to the Caliph,
who could have become a pensioner of imperialism, kept for ceremonial
occasions, like the last Mughal in Delhi before the 1857 Mutiny. It
was the discovery of black gold underneath the Arabian desert that
provided the old religion with the means and wherewithal to revive
its culture while Britain created new sultans and emirs to safeguard
their newest and most precious commodity. Throughout the 20th
century, the West, to safeguard its own economic interests, supported
the most backward, despotic and reactionary survivals from the past,
helping to defeat all forms of secularism. As we know, the story is
unfinished.
Tariq Ali is a frequent contributor to CounterPunch. He is the author
of The Stone Woman. His new book The Clash of Fundamentalisms:
Crusades, Jihads and Modernity will be published in April by Verso.
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