Acknowledgments
Like any human work, I know that this book is not free from error. I ask the reader to forgive my ignorance. Whatever insights this text contains have only been possible through the help and guidance of others. I would like to take this opportunity to thank them.
First, I would like to express my gratitude to the Islamic scholars of Egypt and Malaysia. I have learned so much from all of them. Special thanks are due to Shaykh Ḥabīb al-Raḥmān Mohtisham, Shaykh Yāsir Fahmī, Professor Muḥammad al-Ṭāhir al-Mīsāwī, Professor Ibrāhīm Zayn, Shaykh Salāḥ Ḥasan Manṣūr, and Professor Muḥammad al-Dusūqī.
Second, I wish to thank all those who have given generously of their time and expertise to help me improve the manuscript at various stages of its development. These include Baber Johansen, Talal Asad, Arzoo Osanloo, Asad Ahmed, Morgan Liu, Malika Zeghal, David Powers, Flagg Miller, Carl Sharif El-Tobgui, Daniel Reza Jou, Payam Mohseni, Jonathan Brown, Aron Zysow, Hussein Agrama, Nada Moumtaz, Charles Hirschkind, and Andrew Shryock. Although my views are not always in agreement with these scholars, I owe a deep intellectual debt to all of them.
Special thanks are due to Steven Caton, Brinkley Messick, John Bowen, and Hayrettin Yücesoy. In addition to offering insightful comments and criticisms, they have been patient and encouraging mentors.
Special thanks are also due to Wael Hallaq, who has not only provided valuable scholarly feedback, but has shown me exceptional kindness.
Special thanks are additionally due to Anver Emon and four anonymous readers from Oxford University Press. Their comments and suggestions have greatly improved the manuscript. Without Emon’s patience as a series editor and guidance as a scholar, this book would not have been possible. I have also had the privilege of working with Jamie Berezin, who has been an exemplary editor distinguished by his professionalism and courteousness.
Third, I would like to acknowledge the generous financial support that I received from the Fulbright program and from Brandeis University’s Crown Center for Middle East Studies. I would also like to thank al-Azhar University and Cairo University for permitting me to conduct research on their campuses.
Finally, I wish to thank my parents for giving me the unstinting love, encouragement, and support that only a mother and father can. It is to them that I dedicate this work.
Introduction: Theoretical Orientation and Methodology
This book is concerned with cultural, legal, and religious traditions. It examines how knowledge of such traditions is transmitted through time. I focus specifically on the Islamic tradition, which is simultaneously a cultural, legal, and religious tradition. Many traditions contain rules, and hence transmitting a tradition frequently entails transmitting knowledge of its rules. The Islamic tradition centers on a corpus of rules known as “Islamic law” or “Sharīʿa.” These rules are commonly referred to as “Sharīʿa rules” (al-aḥkām al-sharʿiyya). I provide an analysis of Sharīʿa rules and the system of religious education which transmits knowledge of these rules.
I situate my analysis in relation to the system of higher religious education found in modern Egypt. Here, I draw on over two years of ethnographic fieldwork among formally trained Muslim religious scholars. The majority of the fieldwork took place between October 2009 and October 2011. It continued uninterrupted through the January 25th revolution, which toppled Egyptian president Ḥusnī Mubārak in early 2011. During this two-year period, I attended classes at al-Azhar University’s Faculty of Sharīʿa, Cairo University’s Dār al-ʿUlūm, and the network of traditional study circles operating in and around the al-Azhar mosque. These sites are all located in the city of Cairo. Together these sites constitute the most important venue for the transmission of religious learning in the contemporary Muslim world.1 I also passed a great deal of time with students and teachers outside of lessons. This enabled me to familiarize myself with their broader social and religious lives.
In terms of disciplinary orientation, this book is primarily meant as a contribution to the fields of anthropology and history. However, it also engages with relevant sociological scholarship. Some further clarification on these points will be helpful.
1 There is a wide variety of evidence for such an assertion. I base it in part on conversations with Muslim religious scholars in various countries across the world. Generally speaking, these religious scholars express the opinion that Egypt is uniquely significant. Moreover, they constantly reference the ideas and writings of Egyptian religious figures. Cairo is, of course, a center of Sunni (rather than Shiʿī) Muslim learning, but the overwhelming majority of contemporary Muslims are Sunni.
The Anthropology of Islamic Law. Aria Nakissa. © Aria Nakissa 2019. Published 2019 by Oxford University Press.
In the early twentieth century, texts provided a convenient dividing line separating the disciplines of anthropology and history. The (stereotypical) historian sought to construct an account of past societies based on the written texts which they had left behind. By contrast, the (stereotypical) anthropologist sought to construct an account of contemporary non-Western societies based on ethnographic fieldwork. Such fieldwork involved long-term residence in a non-Western society for the purpose of directly observing its practices and directly conversing with its members. Hence, whereas the historian relied upon texts, the anthropologist collected data not found in texts. Indeed, at this time, anthropologists focused primarily on “primitive” nonliterate societies without writing or texts. But matters were to change. Hence, in the latter half of the twentieth century, anthropologists embraced texts as a source of data, thereby unsettling (though not eliminating) the disciplinary boundary separating anthropology and history. Nevertheless, anthropology’s initial rejection of texts has left an enduring but problematic legacy.
One aspect of this legacy is anthropology’s limited openness to textual analysis. In this respect, there remain significant differences between anthropological studies and historical studies, especially where Islam is concerned. Historians who study religious ideas or institutions in Muslim societies are often referred to as “Islamicists” (or “Orientalists”). Whereas anthropological studies of Islam typically incorporate a handful of religious texts, Islamicist studies often provide in-depth analyses of sizable religious literatures (e.g., Tafsīr, Uṣūl al-Fiqh, Sufism). Such analyses frequently draw on dozens (if not hundreds) of Arabic primary source texts. Methodologically, the present book is best seen as a hybrid of anthropology and Islamicist history, taking its inspiration from Brinkley Messick’s seminal Calligraphic State (1993). Accordingly, the book combines ethnography with in-depth Islamicist-style analysis of Arabic religious texts. It will become clear that the present book is also deeply indebted to the writings of (anthropologist) Talal Asad and (Islamicist) Wael Hallaq, who have laid down key foundations for the future study of the Islamic legal tradition.
In advancing its arguments, the present book gives special attention to the sizable anthropological literature on Islamic law that has developed over the past four decades. This literature has sought to expand knowledge of Islamic law by providing ethnographic case studies of Sharīʿa courts and Islamic educational institutions in different parts of the world, including (but not limited to) Iran (Fischer 1980; Osanloo 2009), Morocco (Eickelman 1985; Rosen 1989), Yemen (Messick 1993), Mayotte (Lambek 1993), Kenya (Hirsch 1998), Malaysia (Peletz 2002), Indonesia (Bowen 2003), Egypt (Dupret 2007; Agrama 2012), Tanzania (Stiles 2009), Lebanon (Clarke 2012), Britain (Bowen 2016), and China (Erie 2016) (Also see Starrett 1998; Mir-Hosseini 1999; Asad 2003; Mahmood 2005; B. Silverstein 2011).
In addition to addressing key topics in the anthropology of Islam, the book also addresses key topics in legal anthropology. However, its methodological approach differs from that favored in many works of legal anthropology. Since the 1940s, legal anthropology has been associated with the study of “law in action”
through the so-called “trouble case” method (see Llewellyn and Hoebel 1941). This approach involves empirical research on individual disputes and legal problems, investigating how law and other mechanisms of “social control” are used to resolve them (see e.g., Gluckman 1967; Bohannan 1968; Comaroff and Roberts 1981; Moore 1986; Merry 1990). With respect to Islamic law, such research has typically centered on Sharīʿa courts.2
Nevertheless, over the past three decades, the trouble case method has faced mounting criticism (see Conley and O’Barr 1993; von Benda-Beckmann 2009). For instance, it is not obvious that studying individual cases provides the best means of grasping the sociological dynamics of a larger legal system. Moreover, legal discourses exert influence over human political, cultural, and intellectual life in an enormous variety of ways, most of which have little to do with issues of individual dispute resolution (see Kahn 1999; Sarat and Simon 2003; Erlanger et al. 2005). With these facts in mind, an increasing number of legal anthropologists have moved away from the trouble case method. This shift is particularly noticeable in recent research on Western legal systems. Instead of limiting itself to dispute resolution, such research addresses topics like pedagogy in Western law schools (Mertz 2007), the style and structure of legal documents (Riles 2001), and the dissemination of transnational legal norms (Merry 2006). I believe that this is a welcome development. To be sure, the trouble case method has value in some circumstances. Still, there is little reason it should be regarded as the defining feature of legal anthropology or of legal anthropological research on Islamic law. Hence, although the present book examines some legal disputes, it does not revolve around the trouble case method. Rather, following Mertz (2007), the book concentrates its attention on institutions of legal education. Although the present book offers an ethnographic study of legal/religious learning in the modern period, it has much to say about the premodern period as well. Accordingly, the book engages with Islamicist scholarship on premodern Islamic legal doctrine (e.g., Schacht 1967[1950]; Schacht 1965; Zysow 2013[1984]; Crone 1987; Calder 1993; Melchert 1997; Johansen 1998; Weiss 1998; Dutton 1999; Hallaq 2001; Yunis Ali 2000; Motzki 2002; Hallaq 2005; Lowry 2007; Vishanoff 2011; Gleave 2012; El Shamsy 2013; Sadeghi 2013; Ahmed 2016). The book likewise engages with Islamicist scholarship on premodern religious education (e.g., Makdisi 1981; Berkey 1992; Chamberlain 1994; Ephrat 2000).
While the present book focuses primarily on anthropological and historical scholarship, it also takes note of the smaller sociological literature on Islam and Muslim societies, giving special attention to studies informed by the ideas of Max Weber (Rodinson 1973; Turner 1974; Arjomand 1984; Stauth 1987; Salvatore 1997; Bamyeh 1999; Huff and Schluchter 1999; Abaza 2002; Zubaida 2003). By integrating relevant anthropological, historical, and sociological literatures, the book offers a comprehensive cross-disciplinary perspective absent from existing scholarship on Islam and Muslim societies. Such a perspective makes it possible
2 Examples are given above.
to critically engage with theoretical currents which run across the boundaries of these disciplines.
I. THEORETICAL ORIENTATION
In terms of theoretical orientation, the present book engages with two highly influential analytic frameworks; namely, hermeneutic theory and practice theory. “Hermeneutic theory” is a (loose) term that can be used to cover “hermeneutics,” “historicism,” “interpretive” social science, as well as elements of “action theory” and “phenomenological sociology.” These intellectual currents are all interconnected, sharing a common genealogy going back to the early nineteenth century. Hermeneutic theory (broadly defined) encompasses contributions from a range of philosophers, jurists, historians, sociologists, and anthropologists. Leading figures include Friedrich Schleiermacher, Friedrich Karl von Savigny, Johann Gustav Droysen, Wilhelm Dilthey, Max Weber, Alfred Schutz, Talcott Parsons, R.G. Collingwood, Emilio Betti, Hans-Georg Gadamer, Paul Ricoeur, Clifford Geertz, Donald Davidson3, Ronald Dworkin, and Quentin Skinner. Meanwhile, “practice theory” is a (loose) term that can be used to cover “historicist genealogy,” particular strains of “poststructuralism,” and forms of social analysis indebted to Aristotelian virtue ethics. Practice theory emerged in the 1970s and 1980s, subsequently assuming a dominant place in anthropological, sociological, and historical research. Leading proponents of practice theory (broadly defined) include Pierre Bourdieu, Michel Foucault, Anthony Giddens, Marshall Sahlins, Sherry Ortner, and Talal Asad.
Hermeneutic theory and practice theory are both concerned with the relationship between action and mind. However, they analyze this relationship in different ways. Hermeneutic theory emphasizes that actions reveal the mind. Hence, if a woman purchases vegetables, her action reveals that she has a desire for vegetables. Similarly, if she prays, her action reveals that she has a belief in God. In this sense, her actions are evidence of the content of her mind (i.e., her desires, beliefs, emotions, intentions, etc.). As we will see, hermeneutic theory suggests that human beings, by nature, seek to understand the minds of others. They acquire such understanding by intuitively and unconsciously inferring the content of others’ minds from the evidence supplied by others’ actions (which function as “signs”/“symbols”). This process deeply shapes social life, for it enables communication and the transmission of cultural knowledge.
Practice theory posits a different relationship between action and mind, emphasizing that repeated action (i.e., “practice”) alters the mind. Hence, through the repeated action of eating vegetables, a woman may develop a desire for vegetables. Similarly, through the repeated action of prayer, she may develop a
3 Even though Davidson is conventionally labeled an analytic philosopher, it is widely recognized that his work addresses key issues in hermeneutic theory. See Davidson 2001[1984]; 2001[1980]; Ramberg 2015.
belief in God. Likewise, through the repeated action of bike-riding she may develop knowledge of how to ride a bike (i.e., a skill, “practical knowledge”—and knowledge is conventionally located in the mind). Through these practices, the woman has acquired a desire, a belief, and a type of knowledge that she did not previously possess. Practice theory tends to speak of mind in terms of “subjectivity,” or in terms of the “dispositions” of a “habitus.” Here, dispositions/habitus denote mental content acquired through practice (although the concept of habitus blends notions of mind and body).
Practice theory pushes this line of analysis further by asserting that institutions of power prescribe particular forms of practice (i.e., “discipline”) to alter minds in particular ways. Hence, a government health organization may prescribe the practice of eating vegetables to instill a desire for vegetables in the population. Similarly, a church may prescribe the practice of prayer to instill a belief in God in the population. By altering minds, powerful institutions thereby exert influence and control over behavior. Hence, by instilling a desire for vegetables, a health organization creates a population which is inclined to eat vegetables. Similarly, by instilling belief in the Christian God, a church creates a population inclined to obey teachings ascribed to that God (e.g., in the Bible). The notion that institutions (“structure”) can alter people’s minds, and thereby influence (though not strictly determine) their future behavior/actions (“agency”) is central to practice theory—and this notion underlies practice theory’s efforts to conceptualize the temporally extended dialectical relationship between structure and agency.
For practice theory, human social life revolves around powerful institutions and their efforts to alter minds (and influence/control behavior) by prescribing practices. I will refer to practices of this type as “power-laden practices.” Building on the preceding perspective, leading proponents of practice theory (like Bourdieu and Foucault) have criticized hermeneutic theory for not paying attention to power-laden practices. Thus, for Bourdieu (1977:4, 21) hermeneutic notions (like Schutzian phenomenological sociology) are flawed in that they ignore the power of “objective” structures to generate “subjectivity” (i.e., mental content) through practice. Similarly, Foucault consciously distances himself from hermeneutic analysis (especially the idea that the analysis of a text should focus on determining the intentions/mental content of the text’s author) (Foucault 1998[1969]). Rather, Foucault suggests that the analysis of texts (i.e., “discourse”) and society should focus on power-laden practices (i.e., “discipline”) (1972;1995[1977];1990[1985]). Consequently, the rise of practice theory in recent decades has coincided with the increasing marginalization of hermeneutic theory within many fields of social research, including anthropology and history.
For practice theory, an emphasis on power-laden practices goes hand in hand with an interest in the “body” or “embodiment” (see esp. Bourdieu 1977; Foucault 1995[1977]; 1990[1985]). Thus, most practices involve the human body (i.e., the movement of body parts). For instance, the practice of bike-riding involves pedaling with the legs. The practice of prayer involves bowing one’s head
and reciting sacred formulae with one’s tongue and lips. For proponents of practice theory, hermeneutic theory’s neglect of power-laden practices leads to a neglect of the body. By contrast, practice theory seeks to place the body at the center of social analysis. For practice theory, the body is an object to be manipulated, trained, and remade through practices prescribed by powerful institutions. By seizing control of the body, powerful institutions seize control of the mind.
In assessing these theoretical developments, the anthropological contributions of Geertz and Asad deserve special attention. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Franz Boas and Alfred Kroeber worked to incorporate hermeneutic ideas into American anthropology (see Boas 1887; Stocking 1974; Bunzl 1996; Buckley 1996). However, between the 1960s and 1980s, Geertz emerged as the most influential anthropological proponent of hermeneutic ideas (i.e., “interpretive anthropology”; also see Agar 1980; Rabinow and Sullivan 1987; Clifford 1988:21–54; Lambek 1991; 2015). Geertz is especially well known for his writings on religion. Despite the existence of earlier colonial-era precedents (e.g., Edward Lane, Christiaan Snouck Hurgronje, Paul Marty), Geertz is widely credited with establishing the anthropology of Islam in the 1960s, publishing a number of ethnographic studies on Muslim religiosity in Indonesia and Morocco (1960; 1968; 1983). Between the 1970s and the 1990s, Geertz’s work shaped much anthropological research on Muslim societies (see, e.g., Rabinow 1977; Crapanzano 1980; Dwyer 1982; Hefner 1985; Rosen 1989; Fischer and Abedi 1990; Lambek 1993; also see Bowen 1993). However, Geertz’s writings have also attracted a great deal of criticism, and since the 1990s his ideas have fallen out of favor. Geertz’s work has been attacked on a variety of grounds (see Shankman 1984; Clifford and Marcus 1986; M. Schneider 1987). Yet, the most common criticism of Geertz has been that he ignores issues of power (Roseberry 1982; Ortner 1999).
Asad is Geertz’s foremost critic. Influenced by Foucault, Asad is a major anthropological proponent of practice theory, and has led efforts to apply insights from practice theory to the study of religion (generally) and to the study of Islam (specifically). As we will see, Asad attacks Geertz for ignoring power-laden religious practices and the body in favor of a concern with religious signs/symbols. For Asad, the study of religion/Islam should center on power, practice, and the body.
Over the past two decades, Asad’s ideas have come to dominate the anthropology of Islam, most evidently in research on the Middle East (Mahmood 2005; Hirschkind 2006; Hamdy 2009; Mittermaier 2011; Silverstein 2011; Agrama 2012). Moreover, Asad’s ideas have found a receptive audience outside of anthropology, greatly impacting interdisciplinary scholarship on Islam, especially among Islamicist historians (see, e.g., Zaman 2002; Salvatore 2009; Anjum 2012; Hallaq 2013; Katz 2013; Ahmed 2016; Farquhar 2017). Much of this interdisciplinary scholarship specifically centers on the “body” or “embodiment” (Kugle 2007; Bashir 2011; Ware 2014). The shift from Geertz to Asad within the anthropology of Islam reflects a broader shift in anthropology (and related fields) from hermeneutic theory to practice theory.
In the past, when insights from practice theory were less familiar, it made sense to give them heavy (or even exclusive) emphasis. And indeed, scholarship inspired by practice theory has greatly advanced our understanding of cultural, legal, and religious traditions. This is particularly true of recent practice theoretical work by Asad, Mahmood, and Hallaq, which has greatly advanced our understanding of the Islamic tradition. Nevertheless, at present, there is good reason to reject a narrow focus on ideas drawn from practice theory. For such an approach risks simply rehashing lines of analysis that have already been explored in depth.
In this book, I argue against the current trend toward marginalizing hermeneutic theory in favor of practice theory. This is because cultural, legal, and religious traditions (like Islam) have important dimensions which can only be addressed through hermeneutic theory, and which have typically been overlooked by proponents of practice theory. However, I not interested in championing hermeneutic theory at the expense of practice theory. Rather, I am interested in thinking about how these two frameworks can be brought together in a coherent and fruitful manner. More specifically, I am interested in thinking about how these two frameworks can be brought together in a manner which facilitates the analysis of traditions—especially traditions (like Islam) which contain rules.
In the next chapter, I further explain both hermeneutic theory and practice theory, showing how they can be brought together in a manner relevant to the Islamic tradition. However, at present, I would like to give the reader a preliminary understanding of how these two frameworks relate to my fieldwork.
II. HERMENEUTIC THEORY, PRACTICE THEORY, AND ETHNOGRAPHY
Throughout the book, I cite (somewhat reworked) excerpts from my fieldnotes in appropriate places. These excerpts appear in italics. The following excerpt gives the reader some sense of the environment in which my research was conducted:
The area surrounding Cairo’s famous al-Azhar mosque is crowded with tightly packed medieval buildings. The narrow corridors that wind haphazardly between them are crammed full of small shops and kiosks selling all variety of goods. A large number of shops deal in low-cost printed versions of medieval religious texts. Other businesses traffic in pickled vegetables, pungent meats, live chickens, perfumes, women’s garments, and household wares. The alleyways are filled with people haggling over prices and transporting merchandise using wagons and carts. Others sit on wooden chairs, sipping tea out of small glass cups, talking with customers and friends. Nestled in the midst of these bustling goings-on are innumerable mosques. No matter where one stands there is always a mosque within a five-minute walk. In some places, different mosques are immediately adjacent to one another. Certain mosques are large and impressive, but most are lesser in size. Some are no larger or more conspicuous than the modest shops that surround them.
The al-Farūq mosque is of middling proportions. It is a tall single-story rectangular structure. Constructed of smoothened yellowish-brown stone blocks, from the outside the mosque looks little different from its other ancient counterparts. Patrolled by mangy cats, the poorly paved back alley leading up to the mosque is strewn with refuse and buzzing with flies. Nothing about the area suggests anything special. But the location of the mosque and its modest exterior are deceiving. Entering the mosque reveals an uncommonly sumptuous interior. The floor is blanketed with a dozen large Oriental carpets of various patterns, mingling hues of blue, red, and white. A matrix of dull gray marble columns is interspersed through the middle of the building. Suspended above its center is an ornate bronze chandelier studded with tiny turquoise lamps. The walls of the mosque are decorated with alternating rectangular blocks of burgundy and white marble
Every Tuesday, at the time of the afternoon prayer (ʿAsr), the mosque is visited by Shaykh ʿAbdullah. Shaykh ʿAbdullah is a professor at al-Azhar University. He is one of the most respected authorities on Islamic law in Egypt. While the shaykh does some teaching within the university itself, he also gives periodic lessons open to the public at a number of select local venues. One of them is the al-Farūq mosque. Around 70 years old, Shaykh ʿAbdullah has a long grayish-white beard. He wears a special garb reserved for male graduates of al-Azhar. The garb has two primary components. First, there is a loose outer garment with widely flared sleeves. Known as a “jubba,”4 it resembles a long coat. Some jubbas have pinstripes. Others are plain. Their colors are always understated and solemn. Varying shades of gray, blue, and brown are typical. The garb also includes a particular kind of headwear. Known as an “Azhari turban,”5 it consists of a cap of red felt with a white cloth wound around its sides. The uppermost portion of the cap peeks out from above the area covered by the white cloth. It is pinched at the top, with a small blue or black tassel attached. The turban represents an Azhari scholar’s religious authority, and he will often take it off when he wishes to ceremoniously disclaim the attendant privileges.
The lesson begins as soon as Shaykh ʿAbdullah takes his place. He seats himself upon a squat wide-bottomed wooden chair fitted with a striped green cushion. The back of the chair is positioned against one of the mosque’s walls. A small table has been placed before it. The students who are present sit on the floor in front of the shaykh. Facing him, they are arrayed in a circular pattern. The shaykh’s chair is positioned on the edge of the circle. The area immediately before the shaykh is empty. In Arabic, this arrangement is known as a “ḥalaqa”6 or “study-circle.”
There are about 20 students in attendance. They range in age from the mid-20s to the mid-30s. All but one of them is male (the lone female in attendance sits off to the side, separate from the study-circle). Three-quarters of those present have beards and about half wear a type of robe-like garment known as a “jallābiyya.” Some wear traditional caps as well. The remainder of the students dress in Western clothing. Even though many of them are formally enrolled at al-Azhar University, none of them wear the special garb sported by Shaykh
4 Also known as a “kākūla.” 5 “Al-ʿimāma al-azhariyya.” 6 Also known as a “ḥalqa.”
ʿAbdullah. However, many are recognizable as up-and-coming religious authorities themselves. Some lead their own study-circles in other places.
Shaykh ʿAbdullah delivers his lesson by reading from a centuries-old legal text. As he proceeds through the work in a soft, calm voice he intermittently stops to comment upon its contents. Sometimes he even makes a humorous remark and laughs. The students follow along in their own printed copies of the text. After a time, an older heavy-set woman of rural origins comes in. She is carrying a large iron tray. On top of the tray are steaming glasses of intensely sweetened green tea. Everyone in attendance takes a glass, and the shaykh continues his commentary on the text. The lesson concludes after about an hour and a half. The shaykh takes general questions for about 15 minutes and then proceeds to rise from his seat. When he rises, so do the students. They file forward to kiss the top of his hand, as a sign of their respect and affection.
The shaykh slowly walks toward the exit, with all of the students thronging around him. They follow the shaykh outside the mosque as he makes his way through narrow corridors and back alleys. After a few minutes walking he finally emerges from the inner regions of the bazaar on to a major road. There is an old sedan waiting to meet him, with the driver sitting inside. The students give the shaykh their final goodbyes and help him into the front passenger seat. Two students open up the rear door of the car and take seats behind the shaykh. They will continue on with him, although it is unclear where they are headed. As the car rattles off, the week’s session draws to an end.
Shaykh ʿAbdullah’s students attend his lessons to acquire knowledge of Sharīʿa rules. How is this process to be understood? Islamic legal texts certainly play a role. As noted previously, the shaykh reads these texts to his students while offering clarificatory comments. But, as we will see, there is an additional nontextual dimension to Shaykh ʿAbdullah’s pedagogy. Hence, it is expected that the shaykh will set an authoritative example for his students by living in accordance with Sharīʿa rules. The shaykh practices these rules when he eats, worships, travels, and interacts with others. Meanwhile, students observe and imitate the shaykh. More specifically, they practice Sharīʿa rules based on the model provided by the shaykh. They thereby acquire knowledge of Sharīʿa rules.
For instance, before the lesson begins, Shaykh ʿAbdullah prays the afternoon prayer with his students. When the shaykh stands in prayer, he faces in the direction of Mecca. From this, students infer that there exists a Sharīʿa rule which requires Muslims to face Mecca when praying. Moreover, the shaykh drinks green tea when it is brought to him. From this, students infer that Sharīʿa rules permit the drinking of green tea. Finally, when women appear, the shaykh looks away from them. From this, students infer that there exists a Sharīʿa rule which requires males to look away from females. The students then imitate the shaykh’s actions, facing Mecca when praying, permitting themselves to drink green tea, and looking away from females. When students fail to properly practice Sharīʿa rules, the shaykh uses his power and authority to correct them.
This form of learning can be analyzed using practice theory. Recall that through the practice of bike-riding a person may develop knowledge of how to
ride a bike (i.e., a skill). Here we could say that through the practice of Sharīʿa rules, the shaykh’s students develop knowledge of how to (properly) practice Sharīʿa rules. Power also clearly enters into this process. After all, al-Azhar University is a powerful institution. Shaykh ʿAbdullah is part of this institution and shares in its power. As a representative of al-Azhar, he prescribes the practice of Sharīʿa rules, and he uses his power to correct students who deviate from these rules. We can push this practice-theoretical line of analysis still further. Hence, through the power-laden practice of Sharīʿa rules, Shaykh ʿAbdullah’s students not only acquire knowledge of how to practice Sharīʿa rules (i.e., a skill). They also acquire other mental content. For instance, through the practice of prayer (i.e., through practice of Sharīʿa rules on prayer), students develop belief in God.
In this way, we see how practice theory can be used as a theoretical framework for analyzing ethnographic data (e.g., Shaykh ʿAbdullah’s lessons). Yet, while I find such a framework helpful, it also has limitations. These limitations work to obscure the nature of Sharīʿa rules and Sharīʿa knowledge.
As we will see, for Muslim scholars, knowledge of Sharīʿa rules is knowledge of God’s mind (i.e., mental content). More specifically, knowledge of Sharīʿa rules is knowledge of God’s will/intentions, desires, and beliefs.
Thus, Sharīʿa rules embody God’s “will” or “intentions. Meanwhile, God’s will/ intentions are based on His desires and beliefs. For instance, there is a Sharīʿa rule which requires that Muslim men refrain from looking at women who are not their wives or relatives. This is known as “lowering the gaze” (i.e., ghaḍḍ albaṣar) (See Qurʾan [24:30]). In the view of Muslim scholars, it is God’s “will” or “intention” that Muslim men lower their gaze. Moreover, God’s will/intention is based upon God’s desires and beliefs. Thus, God desires to prevent extramarital sex. Moreover, God believes (i.e., “knows”) that if a man looks upon a woman he may be tempted to pursue extramarital sex with her. Hence, it is possible to say the following: God desires to prevent extramarital sex, and He believes (i.e., knows) that if men look at women, they will be tempted to pursue extramarital sex. Therefore, it is God’s will/intention that men lower their gaze. Hence, the Sharīʿa rule embodies God’s will/intention, which is based upon God’s desires and beliefs. Accordingly, knowledge of the Sharīʿa rule is knowledge of God’s will/intention, as well as the desires and beliefs upon which it is based.
The preceding points have implications for how we analyze Shaykh ʿAbdullah’s lessons. Practice theory suggests that the shaykh’s students acquire knowledge of Sharīʿa rules by observing and imitating the shaykh (i.e., by modeling their practice on his example). But although this line of analysis is valid, it also obscures an important fact. In reality, the shaykh’s students are not simply acquiring knowledge of “Sharīʿa rules.” At a deeper level, they are also acquiring knowledge of God’s mind. More specifically, they are acquiring knowledge of God’s will/intentions, beliefs, and desires.
For example, when women appear, Shaykh ʿAbdullah lowers his gaze. What do students infer from this? At one level, they infer that there exists a Sharīʿa rule which requires that men lower their gaze. But at a deeper level, students infer
that it is God’s will/intention that men lower their gaze. Moreover, it can be argued that students make additional inferences about God’s mental content. Hence, they may also infer that God desires to prevent extramarital sex, and that God believes (i.e., knows) that if men look at women they will be tempted to pursue extramarital sex. This gives rise to an interesting but perplexing phenomenon. The students observe Shaykh ʿAbdullah’s actions, and from these actions they infer God’s mental content (i.e., His intentions, beliefs, desires).
This basic phenomenon is hardly limited to Islamic learning. Consider a Russian general and his soldiers. If we see the soldiers marching toward the French capital Paris we might infer that the general intends to attack Paris. We might further infer that the general desires to force France to surrender, and that the general believes France will surrender if Paris is attacked. Thus, just as we infer God’s mental content from Shaykh ʿAbdullah’s actions, we infer the general’s mental content from his soldiers’ actions. Similarly, we might infer the mental content of a factory owner from the actions of his/her workers, and we might infer the mental content of an architectural planner from the actions of his/her builders.
I will argue that the preceding phenomenon plays an important role in many (or perhaps all) cultural, legal, and religious traditions. I will also argue that the phenomenon can only be understood through hermeneutic theory. This is because hermeneutic theory provides a way of grasping how actions (e.g., Shaykh ʿAbdullah’s actions) reveal minds (e.g., God’s mind).
Insights from hermeneutic theory are not only helpful in analyzing the nontextual dimension of Islamic legal education (e.g., how students learn from Shaykh ʿAbdullah’s actions). These insights are also helpful in analyzing the textual dimension of such education. Hence, we will see that the texts used in Islamic legal education do not simply lay out a list of explicit verbal rules (e.g., “Face Mecca in Prayer,” “Lower the Gaze”). On the contrary, these texts report the actions of pious Muslim authorities like the Prophet Muḥammad, ʿUmar, and Abū Ḥanīfa (e.g., in Hadith reports and āthār). For instance, it might be reported that the Prophet or Abū Ḥanīfa lowered his gaze in the presence of women. From the actions of these authorities the reader makes inferences about the mind of God (e.g., it is God’s will/intention that men lower their gaze, God desires to prevent extramarital sex). Consequently, there is a parallel between (1) inferences made from the observed actions of figures like Shaykh ʿAbdullah, and (2) inferences made from the textually reported actions of figures like the Prophet Muḥammad and Abū Ḥanīfa. I suggest that this parallel is of fundamental importance in the analysis of Islamic learning and legal doctrine. Although the parallel is overlooked by practice theory, I will argue that it can be understood using hermeneutic theory. Once again, this is because hermeneutic theory provides a way of grasping how actions reveal minds—whether these actions are directly observed or reported in texts.
The foregoing points indicate the need for a new perspective on Islamic legal doctrine and religious learning. According to such a perspective, knowledge of Sharīʿa rules consists in knowledge of God’s mental content. Knowledge of God’s
mental content is inferred from actions, whether these actions are directly observed or reported in texts. This process is analogous to the process whereby we infer knowledge of a general’s mental content from the actions of his soldiers. It can be said that practice theory, taken alone, does not suffice for analyzing how knowledge of Sharīʿa rules is transmitted in Shaykh ʿAbdullah’s lessons. Recourse to hermeneutic theory is also necessary. Hence, it becomes necessary to integrate practice theory and hermeneutic theory. I would suggest that in achieving such integration, we help bridge the gap between anthropological and Islamicist approaches to Islamic law. After all, contemporary anthropological approaches are indebted to practice theory. Meanwhile, Islamicist approaches are frequently concerned with the sorts of issues addressed by hermeneutic theory (e.g., “How do Muslim jurists determine the will/intentions of God?,” “How do Muslim jurists analyze Hadith reports and other texts reporting the actions of religious authorities?”). Consequently, in integrating hermeneutic theory and practice theory, conceptual resources are provided for scholars who wish to work between anthropological and Islamicist approaches. I would count myself among this group of scholars.
III. METHODOLOGICAL REMARKS
Before closing out this introductory chapter, I would like to briefly touch on a few methodological issues. The first concerns whether it is valid to make broad generalizations about the (Sunni) Islamic tradition. One view is that generalizations of this type are fundamentally problematic. Proponents of this view emphasize (correctly) that there exists substantial temporal and geographic variation in Muslim religiosity. For instance, it is common to distinguish between different periods in Islamic legal history (e.g., a formative period from the seventh to tenth centuries, a classical period from the tenth to twelfth centuries, a postclassical period from the twelfth to nineteenth centuries).7 It is likewise common to distinguish between the types of religiosity found in different regions of the Muslim world (i.e., the Middle East and North Africa, Sub-Saharan East and West Africa, Central Asia, South Asia, and Southeast Asia).8 In light of the preceding facts, some scholars have asserted that it is inappropriate to speak of a coherent Islamic tradition (see, e.g., El-Zein 1977; Gilsenan 1982; Al-Azmeh 1993). Such scholars dismiss general claims about an Islamic tradition as insufficiently nuanced, “essentialist,” and ignorant of Islam’s enormous historical diversity (i.e., there are “Islams” rather than an “Islam”). It is also asserted that general claims about an Islamic tradition are problematic because they are, by nature, prescriptive rather than merely descriptive. According to this line of
7 For works addressing legal change and periodization in Islamic legal history see Johansen 1988; Hallaq 2001; Burak 2015.
8 For works that discuss regional differences in Islamic religiosity see Laffan 2011; Ware 2014; Ahmed 2016.
reasoning, general claims are frequently based on politically dominant/elite/ orthodox forms of Islam, and imply that other forms of Islam are inauthentic or illegitimate. Scholars committed to the preceding perspective hold that good academic work concerns itself with local and historically specific forms of Islam. The most respectable and scholarly of claims are those which are most modest and extensively qualified.
I do not deny the value of studies which focus on local and historically specific forms of Islam. However, I do not believe that this style of scholarship is the only legitimate one. Scholars like Talal Asad (1986) and Shahab Ahmed (2016:113–404) have challenged the view that it is inappropriate to speak of a coherent Islamic tradition. While Asad and Ahmed acknowledge substantial temporal and geographic variation in the Islamic tradition, they hold that this tradition exhibits a type of coherence because its different currents share a general orientation; namely, they all take the Qurʾan and (perhaps) the Hadith reports as fundamental (though not necessarily exclusive) sources of religious knowledge (see Asad 1986:14; Ahmed: 345–356). Although this is a radical oversimplification of Asad and Ahmed’s views, it captures a key insight found in their work.
Building on the preceding insight, I would posit that, broadly speaking, different currents of the Islamic tradition take (either explicitly or implicitly) the Qurʾan, the Prophet Muḥammad, and past religious scholars as fundamental sources of religious knowledge. This fact does not preclude substantial variation in forms of Islamic religiosity. Nevertheless, it engenders certain widely shared transhistorical and transregional patterns in Islamic education and legal thought. I am concerned with patterns of this kind, and in describing them I will make a number of general claims about the Islamic tradition. I qualify these claims to some extent, and I recognize that some scholars would prefer to see them qualified still further. Nevertheless, I do not believe that maximal qualification is necessarily a virtue. Maximal qualification is useful when delineating local and historically specific forms of Islam, but it can also obscure broader patterns which are also worthy of attention.
I realize that generalizing about broader patterns will invite criticism from scholars who are methodologically committed to the view that wide generalizations are inherently problematic, and that the sole aim of proper Islamicist scholarship is to precisely delineate local and historically specific forms of Islam. However, to my mind, scholarship on Islam can give attention both to broader patterns as well as local and historically specific forms. In fact, the present book attempts to do exactly this. In other words, it attempts to discern broad patterns within the Islamic tradition, while also examining a local and historically specific form of Islam in modern Egyptian religious education.
I am inclined to say that this book makes credible generalizations about the Sunni Islamic tradition. However, it could be asserted, more cautiously, that the book makes credible generalizations about a dominant current of religiosity within the Sunni Islamic tradition. Ultimately, I want to leave it to the reader to evaluate my arguments and then decide how to best understand the book.
