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Jews had anticipated many of the postures of the modern period. Their painful brush with the aggressively modernizing society of Europe had led them into secularism, skepticism, atheism, rationalism, nihilism, pluralism, and the privatization of faith. For most Jews, the path to the new world that was developing in the West led through religion, but this religion was very different from the kind of faith we are used to in the twentieth century. It was more mythically based; it did not read the Scriptures literally, and was perfectly prepared to come up with new solutions, some of which seemed shocking in their search for something fresh. To understand the role of religion in premodern society we should turn to the Muslim world, which was undergoing its own upheavals during this early modern period and evolving different forms of spirituality that would continue to influence Muslims well into the modern period.
2. Muslims: The Conservative Spirit (#ulink_cc2fe19b-3894-5735-9c86-e85e2fa462d9)
(1492–1799) (#ulink_cc2fe19b-3894-5735-9c86-e85e2fa462d9)
IN 1492 the Jews had been one of the first casualties of the new order that was slowly coming to birth in the West. The other victims of that momentous year had been the Muslims of Spain, who had lost their last foothold in Europe. But Islam was by no means a spent force. During the sixteenth century it was still the greatest global power. Even though the Sung dynasty (960–1260) had raised China to a far higher degree of social complexity and might than Islamdom, and the Italian Renaissance had initiated a cultural florescence that would eventually enable the West to pull ahead, the Muslims were at first easily able to contain these challenges and they remained at a political and economic peak. Muslims comprised only about a third of the planet’s population, but they were so widely and strategically located throughout the Middle East, Asia, and Africa that at this moment, Islamdom could be seen as a microcosm of world history, expressing the preoccupations of most areas of the civilized world in the early modern period. This was also an exciting and innovative time for Muslims; three new Islamic empires were founded during the early sixteenth century: the Ottoman empire in Asia Minor, Anatolia, Iraq, Syria, and North Africa; the Safavid empire in Iran; and the Moghul empire in the Indian subcontinent. Each reflected a different facet of Islamic spirituality. The Moghul empire represented the tolerant, universalist philosophical rationalism known as Falsafah; the Safavid shahs made Shiism, hitherto the faith of an elite minority, the religion of their state; and the Ottoman Turks, who remained fiercely loyal to Sunni Islam, created a polity based on the Shariah, sacred Muslim law.
These three empires were a new departure. All three were early modern institutions, governed systematically and with bureaucratic and rational precision. In its early years, the Ottoman state was far more efficient and powerful than any kingdom in Europe. Under Suleiman the Magnificent (1520–66), it reached its apogee. Suleiman expanded westward, through Greece, the Balkans, and Hungary, and his advance into Europe was checked only by his failure to take Vienna in 1529. In Safavid Iran, the shahs built roads and caravansaries, rationalized the economy, and put the country in the forefront of international trade. All three empires enjoyed a cultural renewal on a par with the Italian Renaissance. The sixteenth century was the great period of Ottoman architecture, Safavid painting, and the Taj Mahal.
And yet, while these were all modernizing societies, they did not implement radical change. They did not share the revolutionary ethos that would become characteristic of Western culture during the eighteenth century. Instead the three empires expressed what the American scholar Marshall G. S. Hodgson has called “the conservative spirit,” which was the hallmark of all premodern society, including that of Europe.
(#litres_trial_promo) Indeed, the empires were the last great political expression of the conservative spirit and, since they were also the most advanced states of the early modern period, they can be said to represent its culmination.
(#litres_trial_promo) Today, conservative society is in trouble. Either it has been effectively taken over by the modern Western ethos, or it is undergoing the difficult transition from the conservative to the modern spirit. Much of fundamentalism is a response to this painful transformation. It is, therefore, important to examine the conservative spirit at its peak in these Muslim empires, so that we can understand its appeal and strengths, as well as its inherent limitations.
Until the West introduced a wholly new kind of civilization (based on a constant reinvestment of capital and technical improvement), which did not come into its own until the nineteenth century, all cultures depended economically upon a surplus of agricultural produce. This meant that there was a limit to the expansion and success of any agrarian-based society, since it would eventually outrun its resources and obligations. There was a limit to the amount of capital available for investment. Any innovation that needed large capital outlay was usually ruled out, since people lacked the means that would enable them to tear everything down, retrain their personnel, and start again. No culture before our own could afford the constant innovation we take for granted in the West today. We now expect to know more than our parents’ generation, and are confident that our societies will become ever more technologically advanced. We are future-oriented; our governments and institutions have to look ahead and make detailed plans that will affect the next generation. It will be obvious that this society of ours is the achievement of sustained, single-minded rational thought. It is the child of logos, which is always looking forward, seeking to know more and to extend our areas of competence and control of the environment. But no amount of rational thinking could create this aggressively innovative society without a modern economy. It is not impossible for Western societies to keep changing the infrastructure to make new inventions possible, since, by constantly reinvesting capital, we can increase our basic resources so that they keep pace with our technological progress. But this was not feasible in an agrarian economy, where people channeled their energies into preserving what had already been achieved. Hence the “conservative” bent of premodern society did not spring from any fundamental timidity but represented a realistic appraisal of the limitations of this type of culture. Education, for example, consisted largely of rote learning and did not encourage originality. Students were not taught to conceive radically new ideas, because the society could generally not accommodate them; such notions could, therefore, be socially disruptive and endanger a community. In a conservative society, social stability and order were considered more important than freedom of expression.
Instead of looking forward to the future, like moderns, premodern societies turned for inspiration to the past. Instead of expecting continuous improvement, it was assumed that the next generation could easily regress. Instead of advancing to new heights of achievement, societies were believed to have declined from a primordial perfection. This putative Golden Age was held up as a model for governments and individuals. It was by approximating to this past ideal that a society would fulfill its potential. Civilization was experienced as inherently precarious. Everyone knew that a whole society could easily lapse into barbarism, as Western Europe had done after the collapse of the Roman empire there in the fifth century. During the early modern period in the Islamic world, the memory of the Mongol invasions of the thirteenth century had still not faded. The massacres, the vast uprooting as whole peoples had fled before the approaching hordes, and the destruction of one great Islamic city after another were still recalled with horror. Libraries and institutions of learning had also been destroyed, and with them centuries of painstakingly acquired knowledge had been lost. Muslims had recovered; the Sufi mystics had led a spiritual revival, which had proved to be as healing as Lurianic Kabbalah, and the three new empires were a sign of that recovery. The Ottoman and Safavid dynasties both had their roots in the massive displacement of the Mongol era; both had originated in militant ghazu states, led by a chieftain warrior and often linked to a Sufi order, which had sprung up in the wake of the devastation. The power and beauty of these empires and their culture were a reassertion of Islamic values and a proud statement that Muslim history was back on track.
But after such a catastrophe, the natural conservatism of premodern society was likely to become more pronounced. People concentrated on recovering slowly and painfully what had been lost rather than on striking out for something new. In Sunni Islam, for example—the version of the faith practiced by most Muslims and the established religion of the Ottoman empire—it was agreed that “the gates of ijtihad (“independent reasoning”) had closed.
(#litres_trial_promo) Hitherto, Muslim jurists had been allowed to exercise their own judgment in order to resolve questions that arose in relation to theology and law for which neither the Koran nor established tradition had an explicit answer. But by the early modern period, in an attempt to conserve a tradition that had almost been destroyed, Sunni Muslims believed that there was no need for further independent thought. The answers were all in place; the Shariah was a fixed blueprint for society, and ijtihad was neither necessary nor desirable. Instead, Muslims must imitate (taqlid) the past. Instead of seeking new solutions, they should submit to the rulings found in the established legal manuals. Innovation (bidah) in matters of law and practice was considered as disruptive and dangerous in Sunni Islamdom during the early modern period as was heresy in doctrinal matters in the Christian West.
It would be difficult to imagine an attitude more at odds with the thrusting, iconoclastic spirit of the modern West. The idea of putting a deliberate curb on our reasoning powers is now anathema. As we shall see in the next chapter, modern culture developed only when people began to throw off this type of restraint. If Western modernity is the product of logos, it is easy to see how congenial mythos was to the conservative spirit of the premodern world. Mythological thinking looks backward, not forward. It directs attention to the sacred beginnings, to a primordial event, or to the foundations of human life. Instead of looking for something fresh, myth focuses on what is constant. It does not bring us “news,” but tells us what has always been; everything important has already been achieved and thought. We live on what was said by our ancestors, especially in the sacred texts which tell us everything we need to know. This was the spirituality of the conservative period. The cult, ritual practices, and mythical narratives not only gave individuals a sense of meaning that resonated with their deepest unconscious being, but also reinforced the attitude that was essential for the survival of the agrarian economy and its built-in limitations. As the Shabbetai Zevi fiasco showed so clearly, myth is not meant to initiate practical change. It creates a cast of mind that adapts and conforms to the way things are. This was essential in a society that could not sustain untrammeled innovation.
Just as it is difficult—even impossible—for people living in Western society, which has institutionalized change, to appreciate fully the role of mythology, so too it is extremely difficult—perhaps impossible—for people deeply and powerfully shaped by conservative spirituality to accept the forward-looking dynamic of modern culture. It is also supremely difficult for the modernist to understand people who are still nourished by traditional mythical values. In the Islamic world today, as we shall see, some Muslims are very concerned about two things. First, they abhor the secularism of Western society, which separates religion from politics, church from state. Second, many Muslims would like to see their societies governed according to the Shariah, the sacred law of Islam. This is deeply perplexing to people formed in the modern spirit, who, with reason, fear that a clerical establishment would put a brake on the constant progress that they see as essential to a healthy society. They have experienced the separation of church and state as liberating and shudder at the thought of an inquisitorial body closing the “gates of ijtihad.” In the same way, the idea of a divinely revealed law is profoundly incompatible with the modern ethos. Modern secularists regard the notion of an unalterable law imposed on humanity by a superhuman being as repellent. They regard law not as the product of mythos but of logos; it is rational and pragmatic, and must be changed from time to time to meet current conditions. A gulf, therefore, separates the modernist from the Muslim fundamentalist on these key issues.
In its heyday, however, the idea of a Shariah state was deeply satisfying. This was the achievement of the Ottoman empire, which drew legitimacy from its fidelity to Islamic law. The sultan was honored for his defense of the Shariah. Even though the sultan and the governors of the various provinces had their divans, the audience-chambers where justice was administered, it was the qadis who presided over the Shariah courts (which the Ottomans were the first to organize systematically) who were regarded as the real judges. Qadis, their consultants the muftis, and the scholars who taught Islamic jurisprudence (fiqh) in the madrasahs were all state officials in the Ottoman empire. They were as essential to the government as the military and administrative personnel. The inhabitants of the Arab provinces could accept the hegemony of the Turks because the sultan’s authority was mediated through the ulema, the religious scholars, who had the sacred authority of Islamic law behind them. The ulema were thus an important link between the sultan and his subjects, between Istanbul and the distant provinces. They could bring grievances to the sultan’s attention and had the power to call even him to order if he violated Islamic norms. The ulema could, therefore, feel that the Ottoman state was their state, and the sultans for the most part accepted the constraints put upon them by the clergy because the partnership enhanced their authority.
(#litres_trial_promo) Never before had the Shariah played such a prominent role in the daily affairs of state as it did in the Ottoman empire, and the success of the Ottomans during the sixteenth century showed that their fidelity to Islamic law had indeed put them on the right path. They were in tune with the fundamental principles of existence.
All conservative societies (as already noted) looked back to a Golden Age, and for the Sunni Muslims of the Ottoman empire this was the period of the Prophet Muhammad (c. 570–632 CE) and the four rashidun (“rightly guided”) caliphs who immediately succeeded him. They had governed society according to Islamic law. There had been no separation of religion and the state. Muhammad had been both prophet and political head of the community. The Koran, the revealed scripture that he brought to the Arabs in the early years of the seventh century, insisted that a Muslim’s first duty was to create a just, egalitarian society, where poor and vulnerable people were treated with respect. This demanded a jihad (a word that should be translated as “struggle” or “effort” rather than as “holy war,” as Westerners often assume) on all fronts: spiritual, political, social, personal, military, and economic. By ordering the whole of life so that God was given priority and his plans for humanity were fully implemented, Muslims would achieve a personal and societal integration that would give them intimations of the unity which was God. To fence off one area of life and declare it to be off-limits to this religious “effort” would be a shocking violation of this principle of unification (tawhid), which is the cardinal Islamic virtue. It would be tantamount to a denial of God himself. Hence, for a devout Muslim, politics is what Christians would call a sacrament. It is an activity that must be sacralized so that it becomes a channel of the divine.
Concern for the ummah, the Muslim community, is deeply inscribed in the “pillars” (rukn), the five essential practices of Islam, binding on every Muslim, Sunni and Shii alike. Where Christians have come to identify orthodoxy with correct belief, Muslims, like Jews, require orthopraxy, a uniformity of religious practice, and see belief as a secondary issue. The five “pillars” require each Muslim to make the shehadah (a brief declaration of faith in the unity of God and the prophethood of Muhammad), to pray five times daily, to pay a tax (zakat) to ensure a fair distribution of wealth in the community, to observe the fast of Ramadan as a reminder of the privations suffered by the poor, and to make the hajj pilgrimage to Mecca, if circumstances allow. The political health of the ummah is clearly central to zakat and the Ramadan fast, but it is also strongly present in the hajj, an essentially communal event, during which pilgrims wear a uniform white garment to underline the unity of the ummah and to obviate the differences between rich and poor.
The focus of the hajj is the cube-shaped shrine of the Kabah, situated in the heart of Mecca in the Arabian Hijaz. The Kabah was of extreme antiquity even in Muhammad’s day and may originally have been dedicated to Al-Lah, the High God of the Arabian pagan pantheon. Muhammad Islamized the ancient rites of the annual pilgrimage to the Kabah and gave them a monotheistic significance, and the hajj to this day gives Muslims a powerful experience of community. The structure of the Kabah conforms to the geometric pattern found by psychologist C. G. Jung (1875–1961) to have archetypal significance. At the heart of most ancient cities, a shrine established a link with the sacred which was regarded as essential to their survival. It brought the primal, more potent reality of the divine world into the fragile and insecure urban communities of mortal men and women. The shrine was described by such classical authors as Plutarch, Ovid, and Dionysius of Halicarnassus as either round or square, and was thought to reproduce the essential structure of the universe. It was a paradigm of the order that had brought the cosmos out of chaos and, by making it viable, had given it reality. Jung believed that it was not necessary to choose between the square and the circle; the geometric figure representing this cosmic order, the foundation of all reality, was, he believed, a square inserted into a circle.
(#litres_trial_promo) The rituals performed at this shrine reminded the worshippers of their duty to bring this divine order into their world of potential chaos and disaster, submitting themselves to the fundamental laws and principles of the universe in order to keep their civilization in being and prevent it from falling prey to illusion. The Kabah in Mecca conformed exactly to this archetype. Pilgrims run in seven ritual circles around the granite cube, whose four corners represent the corners of the world, following the course of the sun around the earth. Only by making an existential surrender (islam) of his or her whole being to the basic rhythms of life can a muslim (one who makes this submission) live as an authentic human being in the community.
The hajj, which is still the peak religious experience of any Muslim who makes the pilgrimage, was thus deeply imbued with the conservative spirit. Rooted in the unconscious world of the mythical archetype, like all true mythoi, it directs the attention of Muslims back to a reality that is so fundamental that it is impossible to go beyond it. It helps them at a more profound level than the cerebral, to surrender to the way things essentially are and not to strike out independently for themselves. All the rational work of the community—in politics, economics, commerce, or social relations—takes place in this mythical context. Situated at the heart of the city and, later, at the heart of the Muslim world, the Kabah gave these rational activities meaning and perspective. The Koran also expressed this conservative ethos. It insists repeatedly that it is not bringing a new truth to humanity, but revealing the essential laws of human life. It is a “reminder” of truths known already.
(#litres_trial_promo) Muhammad did not believe that he was creating a new religion, but was bringing the primordial religion of humanity to his Arabian tribe, which had never been sent a prophet before and had no scripture in their own language. From the time of Adam, whom the Koran sees as the first of the prophets, God had sent messengers to every people on the face of the earth to tell them how to live.
(#litres_trial_promo) Unlike animals, fish, or plants, who are natural muslims, since they submit instinctively to the divine order, human beings have free will and can choose to disobey it.
(#litres_trial_promo) When they have disregarded these basic laws of existence, creating tyrannical societies that oppress the weak and refuse to share their wealth fairly, their civilizations have collapsed. The Koran tells how all the great prophets of the past—Adam, Noah, Moses, Jesus, and a host of others—have all repeated the same message. Now the Koran gave the same divine message to the Arabs, commanding them to practice the social justice and equity that would bring them into harmony with the basic laws of existence. When Muslims conform to God’s will, they feel that they are in tune with the way things ought to be. To violate God’s law is regarded as unnatural; it is as though a fish were to try to live on dry land.
The stunning success of the Ottomans during the sixteenth century would have been regarded by their subjects as proof that they were making this surrender to these fundamental principles. That was why their society worked so spectacularly. The unprecedented prominence given to the Shariah in the Ottoman polity would also have been seen in the context of the conservative spirit. Muslims in the early modern period did not experience divine law as a curb on their freedom; it was a ritual and cultic realization of a mythical archetype which, they believed, put them in touch with the sacred. Muslim law had developed gradually in the centuries after Muhammad’s death. It was a creative enterprise, since the Koran contained very little legislation and, within a century after the Prophet’s demise, Muslims ruled a vast empire stretching from the Himalayas to the Pyrenees which, like any society, needed a complex legal system. Eventually, four schools of Islamic jurisprudence developed, all very similar and regarded as equally valid. The law was based on the person of the Prophet Muhammad, who had made the perfect act of islam when he had received the divine revelation. Eyewitness reports (hadith) were collected about the Prophet’s teaching and behavior, which, during the ninth century, were carefully sifted to ensure that Muslims had an authentic record of his sayings and religious practice (sunnah). The law schools reproduced this Muhammadan paradigm in their legal systems, so that Muslims all over the world could imitate the way the Prophet spoke, ate, washed, loved, and worshipped. By emulating the Prophet in these external ways, they hoped also to acquire his interior submission to the divine.
(#litres_trial_promo) In true conservative style, Muslims were conforming their behavior to a past perfection.
The practice of Muslim law made the historical figure of Muhammad into a myth, releasing him from the period in which he had lived and bringing him to life in the person of every devout Muslim. Similarly, this cultic repetition made Muslim society truly islamic, in its approximation to the person of Muhammad, who in his perfect surrender to God was the prime exemplar of what a human being should be. By the time of the Mongol invasions in the thirteenth century, this Shariah spirituality had taken root throughout the Muslim world, Sunni and Shii, not because it was forced on the people by caliphs and ulema, but because it did give men and women an experience of the numinous and imbue their lives with meaning. This cultic reference to the past did not, however, imprison Muslims in an archaic devotion to a seventh-century way of life. The Ottoman state was arguably the most up-to-date in the world during the early sixteenth century. It was, for its time, superbly efficient, had developed a new-style bureaucracy, and encouraged a vibrant intellectual life. The Ottomans were open to other cultures. They were genuinely excited by Western navigational science, stirred by the discoveries of the explorers, and eager to adopt such Western military inventions as gunpowder and firearms.
(#litres_trial_promo) It was the job of the ulema to see how these innovations could be accommodated to the Muhammadan paradigm in Muslim law. The study of jurisprudence (fiqh) did not simply consist in poring over old texts, but also had a challenging dimension. And, at this date, there was no real incompatibility between Islam and the West. Europe was also imbued with the conservative spirit. The Renaissance humanists had tried to renew their culture by a return ad fontes, to the sources. We have seen that it was virtually impossible for ordinary mortals to break with religion entirely. Despite their new inventions, Europeans were still ruled by the conservative ethos until the eighteenth century. It was only when Western modernity replaced the backward-looking mythical way of life with a future-oriented rationalism that some Muslims would begin to find Europe alien.
Further, it would be a mistake to imagine that conservative society was entirely static. Throughout Muslim history, there were movements of islah (“reform”) and tajdid (“renewal”), which were often quite revolutionary.
(#litres_trial_promo) A reformer such as Ahmad ibn Taymiyyah of Damascus (1263–1328), for example, refused to accept the closing of the “gates of ijtihad.” He lived during and after the Mongol invasions, when Muslims were desperately trying to recover from the trauma and to rebuild their society. Reform movements usually occur at a period of cultural change or in the wake of a great political disaster. At such times, the old answers no longer suffice and reformers, therefore, use the rational powers of ijtihad to challenge the status quo. Ibn Taymiyyah wanted to bring the Shariah up to date so that it could meet the real needs of Muslims in these drastically altered circumstances. He was revolutionary, but his program took an essentially conservative form. Ibn Taymiyyah believed that to survive the crisis, Muslims must return to the sources, to the Koran and Sunnah of the Prophet. He wanted to remove later theological accretions and get back to basics. This meant that he overturned much of the medieval jurisprudence (fiqh) and philosophy that had come to be considered sacred, in a desire to return to the original Muslim archetype. This iconoclasm enraged the establishment, and Ibn Taymiyyah ended his days in prison. It is said that he died of a broken heart, because his jailers would not allow him pen and paper. But the ordinary people loved him; his legal reforms had been liberal and radical, and they could see that he had their interests at heart.
(#litres_trial_promo) His funeral became a demonstration of popular acclaim. There have been many such reformers in Islamic history. We shall see that some of the Muslim fundamentalists of our own day are working in this tradition of islah and tajdid.
Other Muslims were able to explore fresh religious ideas and practices in the esoteric movements, which were kept secret from the masses because their practitioners believed that they could be misunderstood. They saw no incompatibility, however, between their version of the faith and that of the majority. They believed that their movements were complementary to the teaching of the Koran and gave them new relevance. The three main forms of esoteric Islam were the mystical discipline of Sufism, the rationalism of Falsafah, and the political piety of the Shiah, which we will explore in detail later in this chapter. But however innovative these esoteric forms of Islam seemed and however radically they appeared to diverge from the Shariah piety of the mainstream, the esoterics believed that they were returning ad fontes. The exponents of Falsafah, who tried to apply the principles of Greek philosophy to Koranic religion, wanted to go back to a primordial, universal faith of timeless truths, which, they were convinced, had preceded the various historical religions. Sufis believed that their mystical ecstasy reproduced the spiritual experiences of the Prophet when he had received the Koran; they too were conforming to the Muhammadan archetype. Shiis claimed that they alone cultivated the passion for social justice that informed the Koran, but which had been betrayed by corrupt Muslim rulers. None of the esoterics wanted to be “original” in our sense; all were original in the conservative way of returning to fundamentals, which alone, it was thought, could lead to human perfection and fulfillment.
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One of the two Muslim countries we shall be examining in detail in this book is Egypt, which became part of the Ottoman empire in 1517, when Selim I conquered the country in the course of a campaign in Syria. Shariah piety would, therefore, predominate in Egypt. The great university of al-Azhar in Cairo became the most important center for the study of fiqh in the Sunni world, but during these centuries of Ottoman rule Egypt fell behind Istanbul and lapsed into relative obscurity. We know very little about the country during the early modern period. Since 1250, the region had been governed by the Mamluks, a crack military corps composed of Circassian slaves who had been captured as boys and converted to Islam. The Janissaries, a similar slave corps, were the military backbone of the Ottoman empire. In their prime, the Mamluks led a vibrant society in Egypt and Syria, and Egypt was one of the most advanced countries in the Muslim world. But eventually the Mamluk empire succumbed to the inherent limitations of agrarian civilization and by the late fifteenth century had fallen into decline. However, the Mamluks were not entirely vanquished in Egypt. The Ottoman sultan Selim I conquered the country by making an alliance with Khair Bey, the Mamluk governor of Aleppo. As a result of this deal, Khair Bey was appointed viceroy when the Ottoman troops left.
At first, the Ottomans were able to keep the Mamluks in check, quashing two Mamluk uprisings.
(#litres_trial_promo) By the late sixteenth century, however, the Ottomans were just beginning to outrun their own resources. Severe inflation led to a decline in the administration and, gradually, after several revolts, the Mamluk commanders (beys) reemerged as the real rulers of Egypt, even though they remained officially subservient to Istanbul. The beys formed a high-ranking military cadre which was able to lead a rebellion of Mamluk troops in the Ottoman army against the Turkish governor and install one of their own number in his place. The sultan confirmed this appointment and the Mamluks were able to retain control of the country, apart from a brief period toward the end of the seventeenth century when one of the Janissaries seized power. Mamluk rule was unstable, however. The beylicate was divided between two factions and there was constant unrest and internecine strife.
(#litres_trial_promo) Throughout this turbulent period, the chief victims were the Egyptian people. During the revolts and factional violence, they had their property confiscated, their homes plundered, and endured crippling taxation. They felt no affinity with their rulers, Turkish or Circassian, who were foreigners and had no real interest in their welfare. Increasingly, the people turned to the ulema, who were Egyptians, represented the sacred order of the Shariah, and became the true leaders of the Egyptian masses. As the conflict between the beys became more acute during the eighteenth century, Mamluk leaders found it necessary to appeal to the ulema to ensure that their rule was accepted by the people.
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The ulema were the teachers, scholars, and intellectuals of Egyptian society. Each town had between one and seven madrasahs (colleges for the study of Islamic law and theology), which provided the country with its teachers. Intellectual standards were not high. When Selim I conquered Egypt, he took many of the leading ulema back to Istanbul with him together with the most precious manuscripts. Egypt became a backward province of the Ottoman empire. The Ottomans did not patronize Arab scholars, Egyptians had no contact with the outside world, and Egyptian philosophy, astronomy, medicine, and science, which had flourished under the Mamluk empire, deteriorated.
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But because they were a major channel of communication between the rulers and the people, the ulema became extremely powerful. Many of them came from the peasant class of fellahin, so their influence was considerable in the rural areas. In the Koran schools and madrasahs, they controlled the whole educational system; because the Shariah courts were the chief dispensers of justice, the ulema also had a monopoly of the legal system. Moreover, they held important political office in the divan,
(#litres_trial_promo) and, as the guardians of the Shariah, could also lead a principled opposition to the government. The great madrasah of al-Azhar was next to the bazaar, and ulema often had family links with the merchant class. If they wished to protest against government policy, a drumroll from the minaret of the Azhar could close the bazaar and bring the crowds onto the street. In 1794, for example, Shaykh al-Sharqawi, the rector of the Azhar, marched at the head of a mob to protest against a new tax, which, he declared, was oppressive and un-Islamic. Three days later, the beys were forced to rescind the tax.
(#litres_trial_promo) But there was no real danger of the ulema leading an Islamic revolution to replace the government. The beys were usually able to keep them in check by confiscating their property, and mob violence could not offer a sustained challenge to the Mamluk army.
(#litres_trial_promo) Nevertheless, the prominence of the ulema gave Egyptian society a distinctly religious character. Islam gave the people of Egypt their only real security.
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Security was at a premium in the Middle East by the late eighteenth century. The Ottoman state was now in serious disarray. The superb efficiency of its government in the sixteenth century had given way to incompetence, especially on the peripheries of the empire. The West had begun its startling rise to power, and the Ottomans found that they could no longer fight as equals with the powers of Europe. It was difficult for them to respond to the Western challenge, not simply because it occurred at a time of political weakness, but because the new society that was being created in Europe was without precedent in world history.
(#litres_trial_promo) The sultans tried to adapt, but their efforts were superficial. Sultan Selim III (ruled 1789–1807), for example, saw the Western threat in purely military terms. There had been abortive attempts in the 1730s to reform the army along European lines, but when he ascended the throne in 1789 Selim opened a number of military schools with French instructors, where students became acquainted with European languages and Western books on mathematics, navigation, geography, and history.
(#litres_trial_promo) Learning a few military techniques and a smattering of modern sciences, however, would not prove sufficient to contain the Western threat, because Europeans had evolved an entirely new way of life and thought, so that they operated on entirely different norms. To meet them on their own ground, the Ottomans would need to develop a wholly rational culture, dismantle the Islamic structure of society, and be prepared to sever all sacred links with the past. A few members of the elite might be able to achieve this transition, which had taken Europeans almost three hundred years, but how would they persuade the masses, whose minds and hearts were imbued with the conservative ethos, to accept and understand the need for such radical change?
On the margins of the empire, where Ottoman decline was most acutely felt, people responded to the change and unrest as they had always done—in religious terms. In the Arabian Peninsula, Muhammad ibn Abd al-Wahhab (1703–92) managed to break away from Istanbul and create a state of his own in central Arabia and the Persian Gulf region. Abd al-Wahhab was a typical Islamic reformer. He met the current crisis by returning to the Koran and the Sunnah, and by vehemently rejecting medieval jurisprudence, mysticism, and philosophy. Because they diverged from this pristine Islam, as he envisaged it, Abd al-Wahhab declared the Ottoman sultans to be apostates, unworthy of the obedience of the faithful and deserving of death. Their Shariah state was inauthentic. Instead, Abd al-Wahhab tried to create an enclave of pure faith, based on the practice of the first Muslim community in the seventh century. It was an aggressive movement, which imposed itself on the people by force. Some of these violent and rejectionist Wahhabi techniques would be used by some of the fundamentalist Islamist reformers during the twentieth century, a period of even greater change and unrest.
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The Moroccan Sufi reformer Ahmad ibn Idris (1780–1836) had quite a different approach, which also has its followers in our own day. His solution to the disintegration of life in the peripheral Ottoman provinces was to educate the people and make them better Muslims. He traveled extensively in North Africa and the Yemen, addressing the people in their own dialect, teaching them how to perform the ritual of communal prayer, and trying to shame them out of immoral practices. This was a grassroots movement. Ibn Idris had no time for Wahhabi methods. In his view, education, not force, was the key. Killing people in the name of religion was obviously wrong. Other reformers worked along similar lines. In Algeria, Ahmad al-Tigrani (d. 1815), in Medina, Muhammad ibn Abd al-Karim Sameem (d. 1775), and in Libya, Muhammad ibn Ali al-Sanusi (d. 1832) all took the faith directly to the people, bypassing the ulema. This was a populist reform; they attacked the religious establishment, which they considered to be elitist and out of touch, and, unlike Abd al-Wahhab, were not interested in doctrinal purity. Taking the people back to the basic cult and rituals and persuading them to live morally would cure the ills of society more effectively than complicated fiqh.
For centuries, Sufis had taught their disciples to reproduce the Muhammadan paradigm in their own lives; they had also insisted that the way to God lay through the creative and mystical imagination: people had a duty to create their own theophanies with the aid of the contemplative disciplines of Sufism. In the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, these reformers, whom scholars call “Neo-Sufis,” went one step further. They taught the common people to rely entirely on their own insights; they should not have to depend upon the scholars and learned clerics. Ibn Idris went so far as to reject the authority of every single Muslim sage and saint, however exalted, except the Prophet. He was thus encouraging Muslims to value what was new and to cast off habits of deference. The goal of the mystical quest was not union with God, but a deep identification with the human figure of the Prophet, who had opened himself so perfectly to the divine. These were incipiently modern attitudes. Even though the Neo-Sufis were still harking back to the archetypal persona of the Prophet, they seem to have been evolving a humanly rather than a transcendently oriented faith and were encouraging their disciples to prize what was novel and innovative as much as the old. Ibn Idris had no contact with the West, never once mentions Europe in his writings, and shows no knowledge of or interest in Western ideas. But the mythical disciplines of Sunni Islam led him to embrace some of the principles of the European Enlightenment.
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This was also the case in Iran, whose history during this period is better documented than that of Egypt. When the Safavids conquered Iran in the early sixteenth century, they made Shiism the official religion of the state. Hitherto, the Shiah had been an intellectual and mystical esoteric movement, and Shiis had as a matter of principle refrained from participation in political life. There had always been a few important Shii centers in Iran, but most Shiis were Arabs, not Persians. The Safavid experiment in Iran was, therefore, a startling innovation. There was no doctrinal quarrel between Sunnis and Shiis; the difference was chiefly one of feeling. Sunnis were basically optimistic about Muslim history, whereas the Shii vision was more tragic: the fate of the descendants of the Prophet Muhammad had become a symbol of a cosmic struggle between good and evil, justice and tyranny, in which the wicked always seem to get the upper hand. Where Sunnis have made the life of Muhammad a myth, Shiis have mythologized the lives of his descendants. In order to understand this Shii faith, without which such events as the Iranian Revolution of 1978–79 are incomprehensible, we must briefly consider the development of the Shiah.
When the Prophet Muhammad died in 632, he had made no arrangements for the succession, and his friend Abu Bakr was elected to the caliphate by a majority of the ummah. Some believed, however, that Muhammad would have wished to be succeeded by his closest male relative, Ali ibn Abi Talib, who was his ward, cousin, and son-in-law. But Ali was continually passed over in the elections, until he finally became the fourth caliph in 656. The Shiis, however, do not recognize the rule of the first three caliphs, and call Ali the First Imam (“Leader”). Ali’s piety was beyond question, and he wrote inspiring letters to his officers, stressing the importance of just rule. He was, however, tragically assassinated by a Muslim extremist in 661, an event mourned by Sunnis and Shiis alike. His rival, Muawiyyah, seized the caliphate throne, and established the more worldly Umayyad dynasty, based in Damascus. Ali’s eldest son, Hasan, whom Shiis call the Second Imam, retired from politics and died in Medina in 669. But in 680, when Caliph Muawiyyah died, there were huge demonstrations in Kufa in Iraq in favor of Ali’s second son, Husain. To avoid Umayyad reprisals, Husain sought sanctuary in Mecca, but the new Umayyad caliph, Yazid, sent emissaries to the holy city to assassinate him, violating the sanctity of Mecca. Husain, the Third Shii Imam, decided that he must take a stand against this unjust and unholy ruler. He set out for Kufa with a small band of fifty followers, accompanied by their wives and children, believing that the poignant spectacle of the Prophet’s family marching in opposition to tyranny would bring the ummah back to a more authentic practice of Islam. But on the holy fast day of Ashura, the tenth of the Arab month of Muharram, Umayyad troops surrounded Husain’s little army on the plain of Kerbala outside Kufa and slaughtered them all. Husain was the last to die, with his infant son in his arms.
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The Kerbala tragedy would develop its own cult and become a myth, a timeless event in the personal life of every Shii. Yazid has become an emblem of tyranny and injustice; by the tenth century, Shiis mourned the martyrdom of Husain annually on the fast day of Ashura, weeping, beating their bodies, and declaring their undying opposition to the corruption of Muslim political life. Poets sang epic dirges in honor of the martyrs, Ali and Husain. Shiis thus developed a piety of protest, centering on the mythos of Kerbala. The cult has kept alive a passionate yearning for social justice that is at the core of the Shii vision. When Shiis walk in solemn procession during the Ashura rituals, they declare their determination to follow Husain and even to die in the struggle against tyranny.
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It took some time for the myth and cult to develop. In the first years after Kerbala, Husain’s son Ali, who had managed to survive the massacre, and his son Muhammad (known respectively as the Fourth and Fifth Imams) retired to Medina and took no part in politics. But in the meantime, Ali, the First Imam, had become a symbol of righteousness for many people who were dissatisfied with Umayyad rule. When the Abbasid faction managed finally to bring down the Umayyad caliphate in 750, and established their own dynasty (750–1260), they claimed at first to belong to the Shiah-i Ali (the Party of Ali). The Shiah was also associated with some wilder speculations, which most Muslims regarded as “extreme” (ghuluww). In Iraq, Muslims had come into contact with an older and more complex religious world and some were influenced by Christian, Jewish, or Zoroastrian mythology. In some Shii circles, Ali was revered as an incarnation of the divine, like Jesus; Shii rebels believed that their leaders had not died but were in hiding (or “occultation”); they would return one day and lead their followers to victory. Others were fascinated by the idea of the Holy Spirit descending into a human being and imparting divine wisdom to him.
(#litres_trial_promo) All these myths, in a modified form, would become important to the esoteric vision of the Shiah.
The cult in honor of Husain transformed a historical tragedy into a myth that became central to the religious vision of Shii Muslims. It directed their attention to a ceaseless but unseen struggle between Good and Evil at the heart of human existence; the rituals liberated Husain from the particular circumstances of his time and made him a living presence; he became a symbol of a profound truth. But the mythology of Shiism could not be applied practically in the real world. Even when such Shii rulers as the Abbasids managed to seize power, the harsh realities of political life meant that they could not rule according to these lofty ideals. The Abbasid caliphs were highly successful in worldly terms, but once in power they soon dropped their Shii radicalism and became ordinary Sunnis. Their rule seemed no more just than that of the Umayyads, but it was pointless for true Shiis to rebel, since any revolution was of necessity brutally suppressed. Indeed, the myth of Husain seemed to suggest that any attempt to oppose a tyrannical ruler was doomed to failure, no matter how pious and zealous for justice it might be.
The Sixth Shii Imam, Jafar as-Sadiq (d. 765), realized this and formally abandoned armed struggle. He declared that even though he, as the Prophet’s descendant, was the only legitimate leader (Imam) of the ummah, his true function was not to engage in a fruitless conflict but to guide the Shiah in the mystical interpretation of scripture. Each Imam of Ali’s line was, he taught, the spiritual leader of his generation. Each one of the Imams had been designated by his predecessor, who had transmitted to him a secret knowledge (ilm) of divine truth. An Imam was, therefore, an infallible spiritual director and a perfect judge. The Shiah thus abjured politics and became a mystical sect, cultivating the techniques of meditation in order to intuit a secret (batin) wisdom that lay behind every single word of the Koran. The Shiis were not content with the literal meaning of scripture, but used the text as a basis for new insights. Their symbolism of the divinely inspired Imam reflected the Shii sense of a sacred presence, which a mystic experienced as immanent and accessible in a turbulent, dangerous world. It was not a doctrine for the masses, who might interpret it crudely, so Shiis must keep their spiritual as well as their political views to themselves. The mythology of the Imamate, as developed by Jafar as-Sadiq, was an imaginative vision that looked beyond the literal and factual meaning of scripture and history to the constant, primordial reality of the unseen (al-ghayb). Where the uninitiated could see only a man, the contemplative Shii could discern a trace of the divine in Jafar as-Sadiq.
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The Imamate also symbolized the extreme difficulty of incarnating God’s will in the flawed and tragic conditions of daily life. Jafar as-Sadiq effectively separated religion from politics, privatizing faith and confining it to the personal realm. He did this to protect religion and enable it to survive in a world that seemed essentially hostile to it. This secularization policy sprang from a profoundly spiritual impulse. Shiis knew that it could be dangerous to mix religion and politics. A century later, this became tragically evident. In 836, the Abbasid caliphs moved their capital to Samarra, some sixty miles south of Baghdad. By this date, Abbasid power was disintegrating, and though the caliph remained the nominal ruler of the whole Muslim world, real authority lay with the local amirs and chieftains throughout the far-flung empire. The caliphs felt that in these disturbed times they could not permit the Imams, the descendants of the Prophet, to remain at large, and in 848, Caliph al-Mutawakkil summoned the Tenth Imam, Ali al-Hadi, from Medina to Samarra, where he was placed under house arrest. He and his son, the Eleventh Imam, Hasan al-Askari, could only maintain contact with the Shiah by means of an agent (wakil) who lived in al-Karkh, the mercantile quarter of Baghdad, practicing a trade to deflect the attention of the Abbasid authorities.
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In 874, the Eleventh Imam died, probably poisoned at the behest of the caliph. He had been kept in such strict seclusion that Shiis knew very little about him. Did he have a son? If not, what would happen to the succession? Had the line died out, and, if so, did this mean that the Shiah was deprived of mystical guidance? Speculation ran rife, but the most popular theory insisted that Hasan al-Askari indeed had a son, Abu al-Qasim Muhammad, the Twelfth Imam, who had gone into hiding to save his life. It was an attractive solution, because it suggested that nothing had changed. The last two Imams had been virtually inaccessible. Now the Hidden Imam would continue to make contact with the people through his wakil, Uthman al-Amri, who would dispense spiritual advice, collect the zakat alms, interpret the scriptures, and deliver legal judgments. But this solution had a limited life span. As time passed beyond the point where the Twelfth Imam seemed likely to be still alive, Shiis became anxious once again, until, in 934, the current agent, Ali ibn Muhammad as-Samarri, brought the Shiah a message from the Hidden Imam. He had not died, but had been miraculously concealed by God; he would return one day shortly before the Last Judgment to inaugurate a reign of justice. He was still the infallible guide of the Shiah and the only legitimate ruler of the ummah, but he would no longer be able to commune with the faithful through agents, or have any direct contact with them. Shiis should not expect his speedy return. They would only see him again “after a long time has passed and the earth has become filled with tyranny.”
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The myth of the “occultation” of the Hidden Imam cannot be explained rationally. It makes sense only in a context of mysticism and ritual practice. If we understand the story as a logos, one that should be interpreted literally as a plain statement of fact, all kinds of questions arise. Where in the world had the Imam gone? Was he on earth or in some kind of intermediate realm? What kind of life could he possibly have? Was he getting older and older? How could he guide the faithful, if they could neither see nor hear him? These questions would seem obtuse to a Shii who was involved in a disciplined cultivation of the batin, or secret sense of scripture, which bypassed reason and drew on the more intuitive powers of the mind. Shiis did not interpret their scriptures and doctrines literally. Their entire spirituality was now a symbolic quest for the Unseen (al-ghayb) that lies beneath the flux of outward (zahir) events. Shiis worshipped an invisible, inscrutable God, searched for a concealed meaning in the Koran, took part in a ceaseless but invisible battle for justice, yearned for a Hidden Imam, and cultivated an esoteric version of Islam that had to be secreted from the world.
(#litres_trial_promo) This intense contemplative life was the setting that alone made sense of the Occultation. The Hidden Imam had become a myth; by his removal from normal history, he had been liberated from the confines of space and time and, paradoxically, he became a more vivid presence in the lives of Shiis than when he and the other Imams had lived a normal life in Medina or Samarra. The Occultation is a myth that expresses our sense of the sacred as elusive and tantalizingly absent. It is present in the world but not of it; divine wisdom is inseparable from humanity (for we can only perceive anything, God included, from a human perspective) but takes us beyond the insights of ordinary men and women. Like any myth, the Occultation could not be understood by discursive reason, as though it were a fact that was either self-evident or capable of logical demonstration. But it did express a truth in the religious experience of humanity.
Like any esoteric spirituality, Shiism at this date was only for an elite. It tended to attract the more intellectually adventurous Muslims, who had a talent and a need for mystical contemplation. But Shiis also had a different political outlook from other Muslims. Where the rituals and disciplines of Sunni spirituality helped Sunni Muslims to accept life as it was and to conform to archetypal norms, Shii mysticism expressed a divine discontent. The early traditions that developed shortly after the announcement of the doctrine of the Occultation reveal the frustration and impotence felt by many Shiis during the tenth century.
(#litres_trial_promo) This has been called “the Shii century” because many of the local commanders in the Islamic empire who wielded effective power in a given region had Shii sympathies, but this turned out to make no appreciable difference. For the majority, life was still unjust and inequitable, despite the clear teaching of the Koran. Indeed, the Imams had all been victims of rulers whom Shiis regarded as corrupt and illegitimate: tradition had it that every single one of the Imams after Husain had been poisoned by the Umayyad and Abbasid caliphs. In their longing for a more just and benevolent social order, Shiis developed an eschatology centering on the final appearance (zuhur) of the Hidden Imam during the Last Days, when he would return, battle with the forces of evil, and establish a Golden Age of justice and peace before the Final Judgment. But this yearning for the End did not mean that the Shiis had abandoned the conservative ethos and become future-oriented. They were so strongly aware of the archetypal ideal, the way things ought to be, that they found ordinary political life intolerable. The Hidden Imam would not bring something new into the world; he would simply correct human history to make human affairs finally conform to the fundamental principles of existence. Similarly, the Imam’s “appearance” would in a profound sense simply make manifest something that had been there all along, for the Hidden Imam is a constant presence in the life of Shiis; he represents the elusive light of God in a dark, tyrannical world and the only source of hope.
The Occultation completed the mythologization of Shii history which had begun when the Sixth Imam gave up political activism and separated religion from politics. Myth does not provide a blueprint for pragmatic political action but supplies the faithful with a way of looking at their society and developing their interior lives. The myth of Occultation depoliticized the Shiah once and for all. There was no sense in Shiis taking useless risks by pitting themselves against the might of temporal rulers. The image of an Imam, a just political leader who could not exist in the world as it was but had to go into hiding, expressed the Shiis’ alienation from their society. From this new perspective, any government had to be viewed as illegitimate, because it usurped the prerogatives of the Hidden Imam, the true Lord of the Age. Nothing could be expected of earthly rulers, therefore, though in order to survive, the Shiis must cooperate with the powers-that-be. They would live a spiritual life, yearning for a justice that could only return to earth in the Last Days “after a long time has passed.” The sole authority they would accept was that of the Shii ulema, who had taken the place of the former “agents” of the Imams. Because of their learning, their spirituality, and their mastery of the divine law, the ulema had become the deputies of the Hidden Imam and spoke in his name. But because all governments were illegitimate, ulema must not hold political office.
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Shiis thus tacitly condoned a total secularization of politics that could seem to violate the crucial Islamic principle of tawhid, which forbade any such separation of state and religion. But the mythology of this secularization sprang from a religious insight. The legend of the Imams, who had nearly all been assassinated, poisoned, imprisoned, exiled, and, finally, eliminated by the caliphs, represented the basic incompatibility of religion and politics. Political life belongs to the realm of logos; it must be forward-looking, pragmatic, able to compromise, plan, and organize society on a rational basis. It has to balance the absolute demands of religion with the grim reality of life on the ground. Premodern, agrarian society was based on a fundamental inequality; it depended upon the labor of peasants who could not share the fruits of civilization. The great confessional religions of the Axial Age (c. 700–200 BCE) had all been preoccupied with this dilemma and tried to grapple with it. Where there were insufficient resources, and where lack of technology and communications made it harder to impose authority, politics became more brutal and aggressively practical. It was, therefore, extremely difficult for any government to live up to the Islamic ideal or to tolerate the existence of an Imam, an embodiment of divine wisdom, who made its shortcomings so sadly evident. Religious leaders could admonish, criticize, and protest against flagrant abuses, but in some tragic sense the sacred had to be either marginalized or kept within bounds, as the caliphs had interned the Imams in the Askari fortress in Samarra. But there was nobility in the Shii devotion to an ideal which must be kept alive, even though, like the Hidden Imam, it was concealed and currently unable to operate in a tyrannical and corrupt world.
Even though the Shiah had become a mythological faith, that did not mean that it was irrational. In fact, Shiism became a more rational and intellectual version of Islam than the Sunnah. Shiis found that they were in agreement with the Sunni theologians known as the Mutazilites, who tried to rationalize the doctrines of the Koran. In their turn, the Mutazilites gravitated toward the Shiah. Paradoxically, the a-rational doctrine of the Occultation allowed the Shii ulema more freedom to exercise their rational powers in the pragmatic world of affairs than the Sunni ulema. Because the Hidden Imam was no longer available, they had to rely on their own intellectual powers. In the Shiah, therefore, the “gates of ijtihad” were never declared closed, as in the Sunnah.
(#litres_trial_promo) At first, it is true, Shiis did feel mentally hobbled when their Imam vanished, but by the thirteenth century, an eminent and learned Shii cleric was known precisely as a mujtahid, one who was deemed capable of the rational activity of ijtihad.
Shii rationalism was, however, different from our current secularized rationalism in the West. Shiis were often critical thinkers. The eleventh-century scholars Muhammad al-Mufid and Muhammad al-Tusi, for example, were worried about the authenticity of some of the hadith reports about the Prophet and his companions. They felt that it was not sufficient simply to quote one of these unreliable traditions in support of their doctrines but that clerics should use reason and logic instead; yet the rational arguments they produced would not convince a modern skeptic. Tusi, for example, “proved” the doctrine of the Imamate on the grounds that, since God is good and desires our salvation, it is reasonable to believe that he will provide us with an infallible guide. Men and women can work out for themselves the necessity for social justice, but a divine sanction makes this imperative more urgent. Even Tusi, however, found himself at a loss when it came to finding a rationale for the Occultation.
(#litres_trial_promo) But this was not disturbing to Shiis. Mythos and logos, reason and revelation, were not in opposition but simply different from one another and complementary. Where we in the modern West have discounted mythology and mysticism as a source of truth and rely on reason alone, a thinker such as Tusi saw both ways of thinking as valid and necessary. He sought to show that doctrines which made perfect sense while he was engaged in mystical meditation were also reasonable, in an Islamic context. The introspective techniques of contemplation provided insights that were true in their own sphere, but they could not be proved logically, like a mathematical equation that was the product of logos.
By the end of the fifteenth century, as we have seen, most Shiis were Arabs and the Shiah was especially strong in Iraq, particularly in the two shrine cities of Najaf and Kerbala, dedicated respectively to Imam Ali and Imam Husain. Most Iranians were Sunni, though the Iranian city of Qum had always been a Shii center, and there were significant numbers of Shiis in Rayy, Kashan, and Khurasan. So there were Iranians who welcomed the arrival of nineteen-year-old Shah Ismail, head of the Safavid order of Sufis, who conquered Tabriz in 1501, subdued the rest of Iran within the next decade, and announced that Shiism would become the official religion of the new Safavid empire. Ismail claimed descent from the Seventh Imam, which, he believed, gave him a legitimacy not enjoyed by other Muslim rulers.
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But this was obviously a break with Shii tradition. Most Shiis, known as “Twelvers” (because of their veneration of the twelve Imams), believed that no government could be legitimate in the absence of the Hidden Imam.
(#litres_trial_promo) How, then, could there be a “state Shiism”? This did not trouble Ismail, who knew very little about Twelver orthodoxy. The Safavid order, a mystical fraternity which had been founded in the wake of the Mongol invasions, had originally been Sufi but had absorbed many of the “extreme” (ghuluww) ideas of the old Shiah. Ismail believed that Imam Ali had been divine, and that the Shii messiah would return very soon to inaugurate the Golden Age. He may even have told his disciples that he was the Hidden Imam, returned from concealment. The Safavid order was a marginal, populist, revolutionary group, far removed from the sophisticated circles of Shii esotericism.
(#litres_trial_promo) Ismail had no qualms about setting up a Shii state, and, instead of trying to find a civilized modus vivendi with the Sunni majority, as Shiis had done since the time of Jafar as-Sadiq, he was fanatically opposed to the Sunnah. There was a new sectarian intolerance in both the Ottoman and the Safavid empires that was not dissimilar to the feuds between Catholics and Protestants that were developing in Europe at about this time. In recent centuries, there had been a détente between Sunnis and Shiis. But during the early sixteenth century, the Ottomans were determined to marginalize the Shiah in their domains, and, when Ismail emerged in Iran, he was equally determined to wipe out the Sunnah there.
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It did not take the Safavids long, however, to discover that the messianic, “extremist” ideology that had served them well in opposition was no longer suitable once they had become the establishment. Shah Abbas I (1588–1629) was determined to eliminate the old ghuluww theology, dismissed “extremists” from his bureaucracy, and imported Arab Shii ulema to promote Twelver orthodoxy. He built madrasahs for them in Isfahan, his new capital, and Hilla, endowed property (awqaf) on their behalf, and gave them generous gifts. This patronage was essential in the early days, since the ulema were new immigrants entirely dependent upon the shahs. But it inevitably changed the nature of the Shiah. Shii scholars had always been a minority group. They had never had madrasahs of their own but had studied and debated in one another’s homes. Now the Shiah was becoming establishment. Isfahan became the official scholastic center of the Shiah.
(#litres_trial_promo) Shiis had always held aloof from government before, but now the ulema had taken over the educational and legal system in Iran as well as the more specifically religious duties of government. The administrative bureaucracy was composed of Iranians who were still loyal to the Sunnah, so they were given the more secular tasks. A de facto split between the secular and religious spheres had developed in the government of Iran.
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The ulema, however, continued to be wary of the Safavid state; they still refused official government posts and preferred to be ranked as subjects. Their position was, therefore, quite unlike that of the Ottoman ulema, but was potentially more powerful. The generosity and patronage of the shahs had made the ulema financially independent. Where the Ottomans and their successors could always control their ulema by threatening to withdraw their subsidies or confiscate their property, the Shii ulema could not be cowed in this way.
(#litres_trial_promo) As Shiism spread among the Iranian people, they would also benefit from the fact that they, and not the shahs, were the only authentic spokesmen of the Hidden Imam. The early Safavids were strong enough to keep the ulema in check, however, and the clergy would not come fully into their own until the Iranian people as a whole were fully converted to Shiism in the eighteenth century.
But power corrupts. As the ulema became more at home in the Safavid empire, they also became more authoritarian and even bigoted. Some of the more attractive traits of the Shiah were submerged. This new hard line was epitomized by Muhammad Baqir Majlisi (d. 1700), who was one of the most powerful and influential ulema of all time. For centuries, Shiis had encouraged an innovative approach to scripture. Majlisi, however, was deeply hostile to both mystical spirituality and philosophical speculation, both of which had been the mainstay of the old esoteric Shiah. He began a relentless persecution of the remaining Sufis in Iran and tried to suppress the teaching of both the philosophic rationalism known as Falsafah and mystical philosophy in Isfahan. He thus introduced a profound distrust of both mysticism and philosophy that persists in Iranian Shiism to the present day. Instead of engaging in an esoteric study of the Koran, Shii scholars were encouraged to concentrate on fiqh, Islamic jurisprudence.
Majlisi also transformed the meaning of the ritual processions in honor of the martyrdom of Husain.
(#litres_trial_promo) These had become more elaborate: now camels draped in green were ridden by weeping women and children, who represented the Imam’s family; soldiers shot rifles in the air, and coffins representing the Imam and his martyred companions were followed by the governor, the notables, and crowds of men who sobbed and wounded themselves with knives.
(#litres_trial_promo) A highly emotional account of the Kerbala story, the Rawdat ash-Shuhada by the Iraqi Shii Waiz Kashift (d. 1504), was recited at special meetings known as rawda-khani (“recitals of the Rawdat”), while the people wailed and cried aloud. The rituals had always had a revolutionary potential, demonstrating as they did the willingness of the people to fight tyranny to the death. Now, however, instead of encouraging the masses to see Husain as an example, Majlisi and his clergy taught them to see the Imam as a patron who could secure their admission to paradise if they showed their devotion to him by lamenting his death. The rituals now endorsed the status quo, urging the people to curry favor with the powerful, and look only to their own interests.
(#litres_trial_promo) It was an emasculation and a degradation of the old Shii ideal; it also bowdlerized the conservative ethos. Instead of helping people to attune themselves to the basic laws and rhythms of existence, the cult was simply used to keep the masses in line. It was a development that showed in quite a different way how destructive political power could be to religion.
One of Majlisi’s chief targets was the school of mystical philosophy developed in Isfahan by Mir Dimad (d. 1631) and his pupil, Mulla Sadra (d. 1640), a thinker who would have a profound influence on future generations of Iranians.
(#litres_trial_promo) Mir Dimad and Mulla Sadra were both utterly opposed to the new intransigence of some of the ulema. They saw it as a total perversion of the Shiah, and, indeed, of all religion. In the old days, when the Shiis had searched for hidden meanings in scripture, they had implicitly acknowledged that divine truth was illimitable, fresh insights were always possible, and no single interpretation of the Koran could suffice. For Mir Dimad and Mulla Sadra, true knowledge could never be a matter of intellectual conformity. No sage or religious authority, however eminent, could claim a monopoly of truth.
They also expressed clearly the conservative conviction that mythology and reason were both essential for a full human life: each was diminished unless complemented by the other. Mir Dimad was a natural scientist as well as a theologian. Mulla Sadra criticized both the ulema, for belittling the insights of mystical intuition, and the Sufis, for decrying the importance of rational thought. The true philosopher had to become as rational as Aristotle, but must then go beyond him in an ecstatic, imaginative apprehension of truth. Both thinkers emphasized the role of the unconscious, which they depicted as a state existing between the realm of sense perceptions and that of intellectual abstractions. Previously, Sufi philosophers had called this psychic region the alam al-mithal, the world of pure images. It was a realm of visions, proceeding from what we would call the subconscious, which rise to the conscious level of the mind in dreams and hypnogogic imagery, but which can also be accessed by some of the exercises and intuitive disciplines of the mystics. Mir Dimad and Mulla Sadra both insisted that these visions were not just subjective fantasies but had objective reality, even if they remained impervious to logical analysis.
(#litres_trial_promo) Instead of discounting them as “imaginary” and, therefore, unreal, as a modern rationalist might do, we should attend to this dimension of our existence. It lies too deep for conscious formulation but has a profound effect upon our behavior and our perceptions. Our dreams are real; they tell us something; in our dreams we experience what is imaginary. Mythology was an attempt to organize the experiences of the unconscious into imagery which enabled men and women to relate to these fundamental regions of their own being. Today, people resort to psychoanalysis to gain similar insight into the working of the unconscious mind. The mystical school of Isfahan, spearheaded by Mir Dimad and Mulla Sadra, insisted that truth was not simply that which was logically, publicly, and legally perceived, but had an interior dimension that could not be apprehended by our normal waking consciousness.
This inevitably brought them into conflict with the new hard-line Shiism of some of the ulema, who drove Mulla Sadra out of Isfahan. For ten years he was forced to live in a small village near Qum. During this period of solitude, he realized that despite his devotion to mystical philosophy, his approach to religion had still been too cerebral. The study of jurisprudence (fiqh) or extrinsic theology could only give us information about religion; it could not yield the illumination and personal transformation that is the ultimate goal of the religious quest. It was only when he began seriously to practice the mystical techniques of concentration and descended deeply into the alam al-mithal within himself that his heart “caught fire” and “the light of the divine world shone forth upon me … and I was able to unravel mysteries that I had not previously understood,” he explained later in his great work al-Asfar al-Arbaah
(#litres_trial_promo) (The Four Journeys of the Soul).
