It’s clear that God is getting tired
They worked so hard to keep that child alive under the rubble
For six days until she was rescued
But then They couldn’t save her from that 2000-pound bomb
It’s clear that God is getting tired
They spent so much energy keeping a mother and her twins healthy
Through an entire pregnancy and birth amidst a genocide
But as They took a breather thinking that the hard work was over
All three were killed in an airstrike
It’s clear that God is getting tired
They worked around the clock keeping a man who had lost three limbs alive
And it seemed that he was out of the woods
When the hospital was bombed and the building collapsed on top of him
It’s clear that God is getting tired
The prayers are not even reaching Them anymore
There’s just so many that They have simply given up
Like when you reach a certain level in Tetris
And the blocks start coming so fast
And for a time, you frantically move around the pieces in an attempt to maintain a semblance of control
Until at some point you just put up your hands in defeat
Recognizing that the end is inevitable and there is nothing more you can do
It’s clear that God is getting tired
That God is tired
That God has been tired for twenty horrifying months
For 76 horrifying years
God is tired and defeated and They’ve decided that it’s time
To vacate Their home in the sky and move down to a tent in Gaza
God is there now
Ready to die alongside Their people
In Israel’s next airstrike
Thandi Gamedze is a South African educator, theologian, cultural worker, and poet based at the University of the Western Cape’s Desmond Tutu Centre for Religion and Social Justice as a Senior Researcher. Her doctoral research was transdisciplinary, bringing together the worlds of education and theology to better understand the role churches play in both upholding and challenging dominant power relations relating to race, gender, and class. Thandi’s interests include black theology, liberation theology, social justice, education, and the arts – particularly poetry. She has broad experience working across multiple sites, including churches, universities, high schools, and community organisations.
A “Refugees Welcome” sign spray painted on the eastern side of the Malet Street Gardens, Bloomsbury, London Borough of Camden. Via Wikimedia Commons.
“It’s a genocide that’s taking place that you people don’t want to write about,” said President Trump to reporters on May 12, 2025, “but it’s a terrible thing that’s taking place.” You might have thought he was talking about Gaza where more than 54,000 Palestinians have been killed—including 16,000 children—and much of the coastal strip has been destroyed by Israel’s military assault, but you would be wrong. Instead, the Trump Administration, without evidence, has posited a “genocide” of Afrikaners, the White South African minority who are now the sole new “refugees” being resettled to the United States amidst an otherwise complete shutdown of the U.S. refugee admissions program. This, despite a judge’s February order blocking the program’s suspension based on a lawsuit filed by faith-based groups.
How has this come about, how does it connect to the broader contexts of the Trump administration’s policies on immigration and Palestine/Israel, and what can we learn from the responses of religious organizations and leaders?
Resettlement Agencies and Religious Leaders Respond
When the news broke that the Episcopal church, long tied to South Africa through the leadership of Archbishop Desmond Tutu, would end its partnership with the federal refugee resettlement program, Vice President Vance had one word in his re-tweet of the story: “crazy.” However, when faced with the prospect of receiving no refugees from dire contexts such as Afghanistan while having to resettle individuals facing no appreciable imminent threat, it is no surprise that the Episcopal church balked. As Presiding Bishop Sean Rowe said, “the idea that we would be somehow resettling Afrikaners at this point over other refugees, who have been vetted and waiting in camps for months or even years, is unfathomable to us.”
His view reflects that of more than 150 White South African Christian leaders who signed a statement rejecting Trump’s claims of White victimization in South Africa. “The narrative presented by the US government is founded on fabrications, distortions, and outright lies. It does not reflect the reality of our country and, if anything, serves to heighten existing tensions in South Africa,” the statement said.
Around 2000 people gathered in downtown Minneapolis to rally in support of immigrants and refugees on February 11, 2017. Via Wikimedia Commons.
Some resettlement organizations, such as the U.S. Committee for Refugees and Immigrants, agreed to resettle the Afrikaners, “hopeful” that it indicated intention to restart the U.S. refugee program. Other faith-based groups wrestled with the issue or provided only limited support. Church World Service supported one family with remote services, while voicing frustration with the administration’s actions; Catholic Charities of the Diocese of Arlington assisted with processing some travel expenses at the state of Virginia’s request. Other organizations did not take part: Jewish Family and Community Services East Bay in California refused to participate; their director called it a “stunt.” A major national coalition focused not on rejecting Afrikaners but rather on leveraging their resettlement to get the broader program back: “It’s time for the Trump administration to honor our nation’s commitment to the thousands of vulnerable refugees that the United States has abandoned,” said John Slocum of Refugee Council USA, comprised of more than forty organizations.
The U.S. Catholic Church had already ended its cooperative agreement on refugee resettlement with the federal government; it is suing the Administration for its suspension of funds for the program. Bishop Seitz, head of the Bishops’ committee on migration, has also spoken out about this new resettlement policy, incredulous that a “new channel is open to white Afrikaners” while at the same time the U.S. is “closing the door for people who are poor and starving.”
A May 27 amicus brief filed by Jewish, Christian, and Muslim organizations in support of the original faith-based lawsuit challenging Trump’s refugee ban outlined theological arguments from their different traditions that put “service to the stranger—refugees, immigrants, neighbors—at the core of their practices and systems of belief.” Several used the word “obligation” to describe this work as something inextricably bound to their understanding of themselves as people of faith. At the heart of refugee resettlement is a call to accompaniment, a walking with those most vulnerable and on the margins. While refugees are often measured in the millions, the process of resettlement is a sacred and tactile work of encounter: collecting car seats and kitchen items; driving a family to the social security office; hearing stories of loss, terror and alienation. To prioritize groups that are not most in need is an affront to fundamental commitments and convictions. Thus, it is not unexpected that the resettlement of Afrikaners has been met with a combination of resistance, dismay, and redoubled advocacy by so many of the faith-based organizations and leaders confronted with this new policy.
“Refugees” Who Don’t Fit the Definition
The United Nations High Commission for Refugees, usually involved in the referral and vetting of refugees, was not part of the screening process for Afrikaners. Based on international law and a 1951 refugee convention, refugees are people forced to flee, unable to return to their own country because of “feared persecution as a result of who they are, what they believe in or say, or because of armed conflict, violence or serious public disorder.” Afrikaners are a far cry from fitting this definition.
At the heart of refugee resettlement is a call to accompaniment, a walking with those most vulnerable and on the margins.
“This is the land of milk and honey if you’re white,” says South African political scientist Piet Croucamp, who like many experts as well as Afrikaner farmers, argues there is no credence to the claim of “White genocide.” Afrikaners, descendants of Dutch colonists who first settled in Africa in the 1600’s, remain economically ascendant long after the fall of the apartheid government they led from 1948–1994. All indicators point to ongoing inequality; for instance, despite being just 8% of the population, White people occupied 65.9% of top management posts as compared to 13.8% of Black people in 2022. While economic privilege does not shield any group from other kinds of oppression, farm killings of White South Africans remain statistically low in the context of the country’s overall crime problem and high murder rate, which affects all races and especially Black South Africans who continue to bear the brunt of violence.
Somali-British poet Warsan Shire describes the experience of a refugee as one of desperation. “No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark, you only run for the border when you see the whole city running as well,” she writes in the opening stanza of the poem “Home.” In my collaboration with immigrant and refugee organizations in Northeastern Pennsylvania and through a community oral history project, I have heard many hard stories in which being designated a refugee was simply a matter of survival. Chandra Sitaula, a Bhutanese refugee who faced persecution as part of the “Lhotshampas” minority, was expelled to Nepal after having relative status as a landowner. As he shared, “it is not [a] choice for us to become refugees.”
Resettled refugee Ushu Mukelo recounted how he and his father and brother ended up in a Ugandan refugee camp after a rebel group attacked their village in the Democratic Republic of Congo during its brutal civil war. “Our mom [was] killed. We lost everything…because of war…we were forced to flee, to save our lives.” In contrast, Afrikaner refugees were seen at the Johannesburg airport with carts full of suitcases; no one was running for their lives.
Moving Afrikaners to the Front of the Line
In February, Catholic Vice President J.D. Vance argued, drawing on a Catholic concept of “ordo amoris,” that love is ordered toward family and neighbors first in such a way that justifies this administration’s immigration crackdown. Many Catholics, including Pope Francis and then-soon-to-be Pope Leo XIV, pushed back—not to say that we don’t owe love to our family but rather that such love is not exclusive or scarce. Pope Francis wrote to the U.S. Bishops criticizing the administration’s immigration policies, exhorting Catholics “not to give in to narratives that discriminate against…our migrant and refugee brothers and sisters,” and clarifying that “Christian love is not a concentric expansion of interests that little by little extend to other persons and groups.” Then-Cardinal Prevost shared a now famous tweet stating simply that “JD Vance is wrong: Jesus doesn’t ask us to rank our love for others,” referencing the title of a National Catholic Reporter article critiquing the vice president.
Now, a couple of months later, Vance and others have found it in their hearts to show love for the stranger—just not by advocating for the Black, Brown or poor and persecuted ones of all backgrounds that have long come through the refugee resettlement program, but rather by moving White South Africans to the front of the line. The decision to accept Afrikaners comes amidst a backdrop of targeting immigrants of color—denying refugee admission for Afghan, Congolese, and other populations who were poised to enter; ending humanitarian parole for Venezuelans, Haitians and others; and marking for deportation unauthorized immigrants who have come to this country predominantly from Central and South America and Mexico—wrongly associating a lack of lawful status with criminality.
At a May 21 meeting with South African President Cyril Ramaphosa, President Trump doubled down on his claims of widespread Afrikaner suffering, using erroneous evidence. As proof of mass killings of White people, he showed his guest images that proved to be humanitarian aid workers lifting body bags in the Democratic Republic of Congo, not South Africa. As Gareth Newham, of the Institute for Security Studies in South Africa which tracks violent crime, has shared: “if there was any evidence of either a genocide or targeted violence taking place against any group based on their ethnicity…we would be amongst the first to raise (the) alarm and provide the evidence to the world.” Such expertise has had no bearing on Trump’s perspective.
Trump’s History with “Anti-White” Racism
Trump has been interested in the Afrikaners’ alleged plight of systematic persecution for years as part of his and his allies’ obsession with the manufactured cause of anti-White racism. Trump has had a longstanding cozy relationship with White supremacy and beliefs in White victimhood, which are the undercurrent of his mantra to “make America great again” and which have also brought him in contact with the views of South Africa’s Far Right—views shared by his outgoing appointee Elon Musk. This preoccupation began during Trump’s first term when he directed then Secretary of State Pompeo to investigate the South African government’s “land and farm seizures” from White farmers based on alarmist and inaccurate reporting by Tucker Carlson.
At particular issue for Trump now is a January 2025 law (Expropriation Act) that seeks to address unequal land ownership in South Africa and is cited in the February executive order promoting resettlement of Afrikaners. Apartheid had banned Black South Africans from owning land for decades and forcefully removed Blacks from their land. As a result, White South Africans continue to hold the vast majority of land; they make up 7% of the population but own 72% of private farmland. The 2025 law allows for limited state expropriation of land for a “public purpose” with compensation offered in some, but not all cases, in a process subject to judicial scrutiny. No land has yet been seized under the Act. It is important to note that according to Catholic social teaching, expropriation of land is sometimes called for. In Populorum Progressio, para. 24, Pope Paul VI wrote: “If certain landed estates impede the general prosperity because they are extensive, unused or poorly used, or because they bring hardship to peoples or are detrimental to the interests of the country, the common good sometimes demands their expropriation.”
Broader Contexts: The Palestine Factor
The administration’s February executive order also cut aid and assistance to South Africa based in part on policy differences on Palestine. In particular, the order cited that “South Africa has taken aggressive positions towards the United States and its allies, including accusing Israel, not Hamas, of genocide in the International Court of Justice.” Indeed, South Africa led the charge to bring international action against Israel’s assault on Gaza. In the end, the ICJ’s preliminary opinion in January 2024 ruled that Palestinians’ rights to protection from genocide were plausibly at risk and Israel should take steps to prevent genocide. Since then, many experts including Holocaust scholars and Amnesty International have concluded that a genocide is taking place in Gaza. In fall 2024, Pope Francis also urged further investigation into whether Israel’s Gaza military campaign constitutes a genocide.
Demonstration in Paris for an immediate ceasefire in Palestine and Lebanon. October 5, 2024. Via Flickr User Jeanne Menjoulet. CC BY 2.0
As part of their motivation for bringing the case and for their solidarity with the Palestinian people, South African leaders cited their country’s history of repression and violence, human rights abuses and the crime of apartheid. For its part, the U.S. under the Biden Administration called South Africa’s case “meritless,” refusing to reckon with how U.S. and Israeli policies had so devalued Palestinian lives. The Trump administration has now further upped the ante with its retributive stance toward the South African government. They see no irony in their willingness to recognize a “White genocide” in South Africa, with no evidence, while supporting ongoing atrocities by Israel in Gaza; indeed, President Trump is colluding in such wrongdoing with his own plan, which coincides with Israel’s, to ethnically cleanse Palestinians from the coastal enclave.
Conclusion: A Call to Solidarity
June 20th is the annual global celebration of World Refugee Day. Since January 20th, the Trump Administration has indefinitely paused refugee resettlement; that is, until it opened U.S. doors to Afrikaners. Daily, Palestinians are being killed, displaced, starved and deprived of humanitarian aid and basic rights by Israel. The resettling of Afrikaners and the shunning of South Africa makes a mockery of two important things: refugee resettlement based on international norms and the claim of genocide, which has been unfolding not in South Africa, but in Gaza. By making this move, the Trump Administration demonstrates that it does not care about either. Faith communities and all people of goodwill must continue to do their part to provide friendship, solidarity, and welcome to local refugee and immigrant communities and to raise their voices for a permanent Gaza ceasefire and a just peace in Palestine/Israel.
Julie Schumacher Cohen is a PhD student in Political Science at Temple University in the areas of American and comparative politics and political theory, focusing on issues of religion and politics, polarization and conflict, and forced displacement and territorial rights. Long involved in Israel-Palestine peacebuilding, she is a member of the Catholic Advisory Council of Churches for Middle East Peace, where she previously served as Deputy Director. Julie is also Assistant Vice President for Community Engagement and Government Affairs at The University of Scranton where her local engagement involves collaboration with refugee and immigrant communities. Her op-ed, “Catholics Must Oppose Detention of Mahmoud Khalil,” was published by the National Catholic Reporter on March 26, 2025.
In contemporary South Africa the legacy of apartheid remains inscribed in the social, economic, and political fabric of everyday life. Apartheid was not merely a system of governance; it was a legal and theological order meticulously constructed to secure and maintain White economic exploitation. Racial domination was characterized by White supremacy and paired with the apparatuses of structural, cultural, and institutional violence. These apparatuses served as instruments to sustain and legitimize an economy that enriched a White minority at the direct expense of the Black majority. This racist and oppressive regime received support from successive United States political administrations of the time, often justified using the strategic imperatives of Cold War geopolitics. A notable example was the Reagan administration’s policy of “constructive engagement,” which resisted sanctions and provided both rhetorical and material support to the apartheid regime. The administration advocated for quiet diplomacy despite growing evidence of systemic human rights abuses. Such policies served to reinforce the apartheid state’s resilience and perpetuate its oppression.
Apartheid was not merely a system of governance; it was a legal and theological order meticulously constructed to secure and maintain White economic exploitation.
It is against this historical backdrop that the Trump administration’s decision to designate White Afrikaners as refugees eligible for US resettlement takes place. Some of these Afrikaners were either too young to have actively contributed to the apartheid-era economy before 1990, or were born after its formal end. Yet they still continue to materially and politically benefit from its enduring legacy. Such a resettlement policy represents a staggering inversion of justice. This policy reframes historical beneficiaries of racial domination as victims of persecution, and in doing so, distorts the very foundations of international refugee norms.
White Victimhood as Policy
The narrative of White South African victimhood has circulated in far-right and White nationalist circles since the dismantling of apartheid in 1994. What once was fringe rhetoric has now been granted the imprimatur of US state policy. The result is a deeply racialized moral economy in which whiteness is centered as the locus of vulnerability, deservingness, and innocence. Centering White people in this way stands in stark contrast to the marginalization of racialized communities facing direct, structural, and institutional violence, such as besieged Palestinians in Gaza or Black and Brown asylum seekers at the US border. Their suffering is minimized, dismissed, or outright denied. This policy shift is not just morally suspect, it is a legal and humanitarian distortion.
The international definition of a refugee, codified in the 1951 Convention Relating to the Status of Refugees and its 1967 Protocol Relating to the Status of Refugees, hinges on a credible, well-founded fear of persecution, typically by the state or by actors the state cannot or will not control. By these criteria, there is no evidence to support the classification of Afrikaners as a persecuted minority. Farm attacks in South Africa, while tragic, are part of broader social crises that affect all South Africans and are not evidence of state-sanctioned or systemic persecution of Afrikaners. Granting refugee status to Afrikaners in this context stretches the legal definition of “refugee” beyond recognition. It suggests that ideological motives, rather than legal merit or factual grounding, are driving this policy.
What once was fringe rhetoric has now been granted the imprimatur of US state policy. The result is a deeply racialized moral economy in which whiteness is centered as the locus of vulnerability, deservingness, and innocence.
The narrative that Afrikaners are the targets of a genocidal campaign lacks credible empirical support and has been propagated primarily by far-right and White nationalist networks, both within South Africa and internationally. This narrative has gained political currency through repetition rather than through legal or factual merit. According to the South African Police Service (SAPS), the vast majority of victims of violent crime in the country are Black South Africans, who make up over 80% of the population. For example, in the 2022–2023 reporting period, over 25,000 murder victims were recorded, the overwhelming majority of whom were Black, while farm-related murders, including White farmers, accounted for fewer than 1% of total homicides. The disproportionate emphasis on White farmer victimhood obscures this broader and far more deadly reality. When refugee policy is manipulated to selectively highlight the grievances of White populations while ignoring the systemic and ongoing victimization of Black communities, it not only distorts humanitarian priorities but also erodes the moral legitimacy of asylum law itself. In effect, such policies weaponize the language of compassion and entrench racial hierarchies, while simultaneously undermining global commitments to justice and protection for the truly persecuted. This is not merely a failure of implementation, it is symptomatic of a deeper structural condition.
The Architecture of Racialized Humanitarianism
The global refugee situation today does not operate as a neutral apparatus guided solely by need or vulnerability. Instead, it is shaped by what scholars such as Didier Fassin calls “humanitarian reason,” a form of moral reasoning that is profoundly influenced by histories of race, power, and cultural proximity to dominant geopolitical actors. This uneven moral calculus is not a theoretical abstraction, it manifests in the stark disparities in how refugee claims are received, evaluated, and acted upon across different racial and national contexts. For instance, Haitian and central American migrants fleeing endemic violence are often summarily expelled from US borders; Muslims escaping war zones endure “extreme vetting” that treats them with suspicion rather than compassion; and Black and Brown asylum seekers are routinely framed not as vulnerable human beings, but as potential threats to national security. These responses are not simply failures of policy but reflect a deeper ethical crisis in our collective capacity to recognize the full humanity of the “Other.” In such a context, the call to justice requires more than legal reform; it demands a reorientation of moral vision, one that foregrounds empathy, equity, and our shared responsibility to the displaced.
Afrikaner horsemen celebrating the centenary of the Great Trek, an important event for Afrikaner nationalism, in 1938. Via Wikimedia Commons.
In this light, the recent embrace under the banner of humanitarian protection of White South Africans—who are descendants of a settler-colonial elite—is not merely curious, it is telling. It signals how the global refugee apparatus, far from being a disinterested sanctuary for the vulnerable, often operates as an instrument for reaffirming longstanding racial and civilizational hierarchies. This phenomenon is reinforced by what Sara Ahmed terms “the politics of white innocence,” a discursive formation that constructs whiteness as intrinsically virtuous, perpetually endangered, and inherently worthy of care and protection. Within this framework, the suffering of racialized “Others” must be made exceptional, spectacular, and legible according to dominant sensibilities to warrant even minimal compassion. Even then, recognition remains precarious and conditional.
What humankind witnesses, then, is not a failure to uphold humanitarian ideals, but the presence of a deeply embedded ideology of racialized gatekeeping. As Didier Fassin and Ilana Feldman have shown, humanitarian reasoning frequently privileges White suffering, extending empathy and protection in ways that mirror existing geopolitical alignments and racial logics.
The contrast is stark: while Latinx, Haitian, Muslim, and African asylum seekers are met with walls, vetting, and suspicion, White South African farmers are offered expedited refuge, and their claims are amplified through narratives of persecution that resonate with western anxieties. This is not the impartial operation of international law, it is a selective moral economy masquerading as compassion, demanding a deeper reckoning with the structural injustices that shape who is seen, who is saved, and who is sacrificed. This selective empathy becomes even more glaring when placed in the context of South Africa’s recent legal and moral stand at the International Court of Justice.
Context: Gaza and South Africa’s ICJ Case
South Africa’s position has been criticized in western political discourse due to its principled advocacy on behalf of Palestinian civilians. Rather than being acknowledged as a legitimate appeal to international norms, this advocacy has been framed as extremist or ideologically motivated. Instead of supporting South Africa’s moral stand, the United States has responded punitively. At the same time, the US extends refuge to members of South Africa’s former White elite, thereby reinforcing a racialized narrative of victimhood that undermines the foundations of international justice and amplifies settler-colonial grievance.
In this inversion, Palestinians facing exterminatory violence are denied recognition as victims, while Afrikaners with economic power and global mobility are cast as refugees, hollowing out the meaning of this legal and ethical category. This is not neutrality, it is ideological violence masked as policy. It is not humanitarianism, it is the racial management of refuge, calibrated to preserve geopolitical alliances and US domestic White grievances rather than to uphold international law or moral consistency.
The Trump administration’s decision to extend refugee status to White Afrikaners cannot be viewed as an isolated humanitarian gesture. Rather, it reads as a politically motivated maneuver designed to undermine and delegitimize South Africa’s standing on the global stage. The symbolic gesture of offering sanctuary to members of a former settler-colonial elite, at the precise moment South Africa invokes international law on behalf of a besieged and dehumanized population, amounts to an act of moral deflection. It is an attempt to reframe South Africa’s pursuit of justice as ideologically suspect, while displacing the language of victimhood onto a racialized and geopolitically convenient constituency. In doing so, the United States not only obfuscates the genocidal reality in Gaza but reinforces a global double standard in the application of humanitarian norms and legal accountability.
The symbolic gesture of offering sanctuary to members of a former settler-colonial elite, at the precise moment South Africa invokes international law on behalf of a besieged and dehumanized population, amounts to an act of moral deflection.
Nowhere is this moral dissonance more visible than in the simultaneous disregard for the humanitarian catastrophe unfolding in Gaza. As thousands of Palestinian civilians are subjected to indiscriminate bombardment, displacement, and widespread destruction, their appeals for international protection are met with silence or skepticism. In stark contrast, White Afrikaners, who face no comparable threat of persecution, are granted sanctuary and framed as victims. This juxtaposition underscores the extent to which global refugee policy is shaped not by legal consistency or human rights commitments, but by a racialized logic that stratifies suffering and selectively dispenses empathy.
The Trump administration’s amplification of an unfounded narrative of “White genocide” in South Africa, while simultaneously ignoring or obfuscating credible evidence of genocidal violence in Gaza, exemplifies what scholars describe as moral inversion, a process in which the oppressor is rendered innocent and the oppressed are rendered suspect.
Such selective outrage is not merely hypocritical; it enacts what Gayatri Spivak terms epistemic violence: the active erasure of the subaltern’s suffering through institutional denial, deflection, and distraction. This is not a failure of the system to protect; it is the success of a system calibrated to defend racial and geopolitical dominance under the guise of universal humanitarianism. Against this backdrop of systemic erasure and moral distortion, acts of resistance that reclaim international legal and ethical standards are not only necessary, they are urgent.
South Africa’s Stand: Reasserting Moral Authority
Within this broader context of moral and legal distortion, South Africa’s decision to initiate proceedings against Israel at the International Court of Justice (ICJ) represents a notable reassertion of international legal norms and ethical responsibility. This intervention is not merely a procedural invocation of the Genocide Convention; it is a political act rooted in the nation’s historical consciousness. Having experienced the institutionalized brutality of apartheid, South Africa possesses a unique moral authority and an acute sensitivity to the mechanisms of racialized state violence. Its legal challenge reflects both a principled commitment to international accountability and a refusal to remain complicit through silence.
This stance has not been without consequences. It has provoked diplomaticbacklash, subjected South Africa to economic pressure, and triggered efforts to delegitimize its position through various media and political narratives. Nonetheless, the clarity with which South Africa has articulated its case signals a rare consistency between lived historical experience and contemporary foreign policy. It affirms the foundational principle that international law must be applied impartially, that human rights protections cannot be reserved for the geopolitically expedient or racially proximate. The irony, therefore, is profound. The United States, once a defender of apartheid South Africa, now extends refuge to some of that regime’s historical beneficiaries, while simultaneously targeting and discrediting a democratic nation acting in defense of an occupied and besieged people in Gaza. This juxtaposition exemplifies the selective application of moral concern and highlights the urgent need for a more consistent and equitable global human rights framework.
Having experienced the institutionalized brutality of apartheid, South Africa possesses a unique moral authority and an acute sensitivity to the mechanisms of racialized state violence.
This paradox reflects the operation of what critical scholars have termed differential humanity, a system in which recognition of suffering is unevenly distributed according to geopolitical interests and racialized hierarchies. It exemplifies how global humanitarian norms continue to be shaped by colonial inheritances, strategic silences, and epistemic exclusions. In this light, the selective legitimization of certain asylum claims over others demands not only legal critique but an ethical reckoning with the racialized architecture of international protection.
Conclusion: Reclaiming the Moral Center
The contradictions in today’s refugee regime are not mere policy failures, they reflect a deeper moral disorder. When humanitarianism is co-opted to privilege the powerful and abandon the oppressed, we are not simply misapplying asylum law, we are dismantling its ethical foundation.
To preserve even a shred of legitimacy, the category of “refugee” must remain tethered to verifiable need and grounded in objective, universally consistent implementation of refugee criteria. It must not be wielded as a political instrument, nor hoarded as a racial entitlement. When refuge becomes the privilege of the powerful rather than the shield of the vulnerable, we are not merely distorting the ideals of humanitarianism, we are dismantling them.
November 4, 2023. London’s Trafalgar Square protest in solidarity with Palestinians. Via Wikimedia Commons.
The selective valorization of White suffering, while Palestinians in Gaza face annihilation and Black asylum seekers are met with suspicion, reveals a system calibrated to preserve global hierarchies under the guise of humanitarian concern.
In a world increasingly desensitized to the inversion of truth, the acts of speaking honestly, naming injustice, and defending the truly persecuted are not no longer optional; they are moral imperatives. And ultimately, they are spiritual imperatives. Every sacred tradition calls upon us to bear witness to truth, to stand with the marginalized, and to resist the desecration of human dignity. In the face of modernity’s dislocations and moral confusion, such clarity is not only a prophetic responsibility but a deeply spiritual calling, a sacred act of devotion rooted in justice
A. Rashied Omar is associate teaching professor of Islamic studies and peacebuilding in the Keough School’s Kroc Institute for International Peace Studies at the University of Notre Dame. He also is a fellow of the Ansari Institute for Global Engagement with Religion. In addition to being a university-based researcher and teacher, Omar serves as imam (religious minister) at the Claremont Main Road Mosque in Cape Town, South Africa, and a trustee of the Institute for the Healing of Memories in South Africa
In academic work on and among the organizations that carry out peacebuilding across the globe, there is a common refrain one hears about the opposition between “theory” and “practice” in addressing conflict. For practitioners seeking to build peace in difficult circumstances, theories about the causes of conflict can appear as a luxury of scholars who conduct their work without having to bear the consequences of it among real people. For theorists, those who practice peacebuilding in the field without engaging in theoretical reflection on it risk unwittingly supporting institutions and systems of knowledge that maintain the oppression of marginalized groups.
Atalia Omer’s Decolonizing Religion and Peacebuilding disrupts this binary. Focusing on the pitfalls of theory without practice and practice without theory, she makes the case that reframing religious peacebuilding as a decolonial praxis which confronts the realities faced by those on the ground is the best path forward. For Omer, decolonial theory offers resources for thinking through how colonial structures—including neoliberalism, secularism, and the “world religions” paradigm—continue to operate in the background of many well-intended peacebuilding projects. This risk of continuing peacebuilding without challenging these structures is that peacebuilding practices will be co-opted by neocolonial forces and people’s suffering will continue. On the other hand, however, Omer worries that decolonial theory risks obscuring the agency of on-the-ground peacebuilders who might have no other choice than to engage with a peacebuilding industry constructed by colonizing powers.
In fieldwork in the Philippines and in Kenya, Omer documents the intersection of the peacebuilding industry with the challenges faced by those who have suffered the recent scars of communal conflict and the longer scars left by colonialism. What she finds is that it is necessary for those invested in decolonial visions of justice, as Omer herself is, to listen to those on the ground. The result of such listening, she says, is that “something more” than what neoliberal and colonial paradigms would predict results from peacebuilding (20). This something more, Omer later refers to “decolonial openings.” Here, in spite of being born out of the hegemonic forces of colonialism and empire, peacebuilders find ways of connecting that exceed those boundaries: “Such openings include the love and friendships generated through relational but also intra subjective peace islands where people overcome hate, mistrust, and suspicion” (253).
In his response to Decolonizing Religion and Peacebuilding, Robert Orsi goes to the heart of the philosophical, theological, and ethical challenges that Omer’s book raises. Orsi contends that the decolonial openings Omer references betray a kind of secular vision of religious peacebuilding that the book otherwise resists. By naming this decolonial opening as indicative of an ethics, religion is reincorporated into a secular/Enlightenment worldview. Orsi argues that global warming and other worldwide crises are likely to increase migration to the US and Europe, places which have built their wealth via colonial enterprises in the now developing world. To meet these people where they are, he contends, will require more than a welcoming ethics, but a willingness by those in the Global North to welcome new gods.
K. Christine Pae, meanwhile, explores Omer’s distinction between “doing religion”—i.e. instrumentalizing it for advancing specific peacebuilding goals—vs. “knowing religion”—i.e. having a deep understanding of historical religious traditions and their interpretations. She does so by reflecting on how these conceptualizations fit into her own work among a peacebuilding group of former sex workers in South Korea. She explores how their understanding of Christianity was shaped by their ostracization by Korean Christian churches and how this shapes their peacebuilding praxis. She also reflects on the role of syncretism in religious peacebuilding and the potential for Omer’s project to be part of the construction of transnational feminist knowledge.
J. P. Reed considers the conceptualization of agency with which Omer works in the book. He wonders, in particular, about how the possibility of revolutionary change fits into Omer’s understanding of agency. He then turns to a consideration of Omer’s treatment of intersectionality along with her relationship to the philosophical tradition of pragmatism. In putting the latter into conversation with Omer’s argument, Reed seeks to excavate what he sees as the philosophical assumptions that guide Omer’s thinking.
Finally, Emma Tomalin lays out key takeaways from Omer’s book for those working in Faith Based Organizations (FBOs). For Tomalin, Omer’s findings suggest a renewed focus on listening to on-the-ground-faith actors and critically reflecting on the structure and assumptions that guide FBOs. Tomalin’s essay is a helpful reminder that theory and practice are indeed necessary partners in advancing religious peacebuilding.
DecolonizingReligion and Peacebuilding asks the peacebuilding industry to look inward about the assumptions it makes about religion and its broader location within the ideological contours that shape modernity. The latter include neoliberal economic policies, secular assumptions about the usefulness (or lack thereof) of religion, and colonial political and epistemological structures. By grounding this inward reflection in fieldwork where NGOs are actively engaged in peacebuilding practices, Omer threads the needle between theory and practice that challenges narratives that seek to treat either as pure and/or untouched by the other.
Joshua S. Lupo is the Assistant Director of the Contending Modernities research initiative. In this role, he serves as the editor and writer for the Contending Modernities Blog and the classroom coordinator for the Madrasa Discourses program. He has published articles and reviews in Sophia, Soundings, Critical Muslim, Reading Religion, and Religious Studies Review. With CM Co-Director Atalia Omer, he is the co-editor of Broken Solidarities: Feminism, Race, and Transnationalism (Notre Dame Press, 2022) and Religion, Populism, and Modernity: Confronting White Christian Nationalism and Racism (Notre Dame Press, 2023). His current book project is titled After Essentialism: A Critical Phenomenology for the Study of Religion.
Nine empty spaces with torn sepia remnants where the earliest photographs of Sikhs and their ruler, Duleep Singh, had once been, by John McCosh, Art Library, ca.1884. Via Wikimedia Commons.
My book, too, tries to learn without closure, without conviction, by asking about loss and sovereignty. In particular, I focus on Maharaja Duleep Singh and his struggle, during the 1880s, to restore Sikh rule, the lost Khalsa Raj, in what is today northern India and northeastern Pakistan. The book explores Singh’s efforts, and the responses of the Sikh community to those efforts, in order to highlight how a people articulated loss (military, political, and psychological). I show how a people responded to loss not by seeking to recover the past but seeking to remake the past. Loss was not loss and the past was not—and is not—an inert object awaiting reclamation. If, however, the past is not a static object awaiting scholarly analysis, then the task cannot be mere recovery of an indigenous theory of loss. My examination of Duleep Singh and his attempted revolt against British colonial rule thus highlights the ambiguities that emerge in both Singh himself and the images of Singh that circulated as Sikhs contested and challenged representations of Singh as well as of the colonial state. There is, I argue, no “real” Duleep Singh nor an authentic story to tell. The book is thus, perhaps strangely, a historical narrative that refuses to historicize: Duleep Singh, suspended, exceeds all placement.
Protest
Since Duleep Singh exceeds placement, the book also troubles linear temporality—a lesson that Nirvikar Singh rightly focuses on. He turns to the “aftermath” in Punjab, an ongoing question of loss and sovereignty that he sees in the Anandpur Sahib Resolution—a list of demands made by the Shiromani Alkali Dal in 1973—but also in the movement for Khalistan, that is a sovereign place for Sikhs. Often enough, such alternative claims are rendered pathological by historians: a failure to understand that key distinction between past and present that drives history as a discipline. Central to this temporality is the entry into national citizenship, which is an entry into political modernity. Any protest or revolt that defies the telos of the nation then becomes a problem. We only have to turn to the media spectacle as well as academic research around the farmer’s protests in Punjab to see the issue. One assumption that has remained sedimented was that the protests were tied to the territorial limits of the nation-state and exhibited a more robust Indian citizenship than typically displayed. When there appeared challenges to that hypothesis, there were accusations that certain segments of the Sikh community were trying to “hijack a protest.”
Consider the raising of the Nishan Sahib (exalted mark, Sikh “flag”) at the Red Fort on Republic Day, January 26th, 2021, during the protest. The questions around what this mark and act signified circulated rapidly, especially as the act became tied to Khalistan and a rejection of the Indian nation-state. For many, however, radical Sikhs were “hijacking” the protest against the ostensible aims of the protest itself that sought to create a better and more inclusive nation. And so, such an attempt to declare sovereignty came to be seen as a violation of the non-violent essence of the protest, what Anshu Malhotra termed, “the path of Gandhian ahimsa or non-violence,” which, as we know, is central in defining Indian national interest at home and abroad. Anti-nationalism, in conclusion, was simply a brand, a false demarcation, created by the government and media to discredit a peaceful protest.
There is, I argue, no “real” Duleep Singh nor an authentic story to tell. The book is thus, perhaps strangely, a historical narrative that refuses to historicize: Duleep Singh, suspended, exceeds all placement.
But when it comes to peasant revolts historically, the limits of the nation are widely understood. The peasant in South Asia has received considerable attention, most formidably by the Subaltern Studies Collective—a tradition of writing central to my book precisely because it has retheorized the emphasis on the nation-form. As Partha Chatterjee writes, there is “the need for a critique of both colonialist and nationalist historiographies by bringing in the peasantry as a subject of history, endowed with its own distinctive forms of consciousness and making sense of an acting upon the world on its own terms” (160). But the peasant’s “own terms” that spilled much historiographical ink are today oddly reduced to national citizenship. It is assumed that the nation has achieved hegemonic status, even though Chatterjee and others have cautioned against such assumptions. To give one example: Chatterjee writes that subaltern “participation in [nationalist politics] seemed to be marked by radical breaks and often reversals” (160). If hegemony is a process of ceaseless contestation, as Stuart Hall contends, then the very form of the nation remains in question; we must continue to remember those breaks and reversals. With this in mind, can we then listen to the “sometimes playful, sometimes rueful” poems that are “oriented toward a collective calamity,” like the ones that Zunaira Komal attends to in a psychiatry ward in Azad Kashmir (556)? Yet such a listening is not possible when the nation-state remains the privileged point for our analysis.
Refusal
The problem then is not violent Sikhs hijacking the protest, but rather our inability to refuse the enveloping of the Indian nation-state of our political and historical imagination. It is our inability to refuse the meta-logic of Akhand Bharat. It is Harini Kumar who turns to refusal in her response. If reading and writing are translations, then perhaps the refusal of my book is a refusal to provide a relevant translation. What does it mean to be relevant? This is a problem for scholars of the Sikh tradition. Once the Sikh tradition was standardized as an object of knowledge in the 19th Century, interventions further legitimated and reproduced that very object, delimiting, but also inviting, possible intervention. Yet even though standardization occurred, and the Sikh tradition became an object of knowledge production, this standardization did not ensure relevance. To be relevant was an especially important task in the 19th Century since the search for an enduring truth was replaced “with the search for enduring relevance” in which one had to be adequate to the historical moment. And to be relevant was to be Indic, which is to say, Aryan, and also then Christian.
We must then continue to ask the Christian question. To claim Sikhs are relevant historically, politically, spiritually—the claim that Sikhs are a major world religion—would be to uphold a Christian translation, a “pure translation” between body and spirit, a seamless exchange, between transcendence and immanence. In it, karah prashad—sanctified halva distributed in a gurdwara as a mark of hospitality—would be a transaction between God and the sangat, an offering of mercy that clears the murk. We know to make strange concepts relevant might be “too comforting”, if we follow Talal Asad (275). And that comfort comes from being restrained. For such a relevant translation requires one to deliver oneself “into the grasp of the Christian strategy, bound hand and foot” as Jacques Derrida has it in his extended reading of The Merchant of Venice (199). Perhaps, in contrast to our desire for these controlled connections and transactions, a restricted and bounded economy, we also need room of the irrelevant, the waste, the obscure, the noise—although it is probably wise to refuse to submit one’s work to the American Historical Review since submissions must engage the “common interests of the historical discipline as a whole.” To refuse such common interest—what I want to call relevance—would be to desire without end, without closure—to center the impossible, against relevance in Adam Stern’s pithy phrasing. It would be an attempt to think about a refusal to respond, if we work with Kumar’s brilliant reading.
Hostile Archives
Refusing the refusal, however, Purnima Dhavan centers an important and necessary proposition in her reading of impossibility: perhaps “there is room to embrace the ethics of the vision in this book while still historicizing profusely and even counter-historicizing.” Historicization, Dhavan contends, is not a reduction, but only if we center multiplicity and the “profusion of perspectives” including “multiple smaller Sikh chiefs, soldiers, women, and many non-Sikh communities.” We thus need to consider, Dhavan writes, alternative archives and manuscript traces that are yet unexplored. And the problem is perhaps the archive I consult—a hostile colonial one. “Is this hostile archive the only repository for such questions?” asks Dhavan. Her response is stark: “The subaltern will never speak if the only archives through which we seek to engage with the ‘mute eloquence of [one] who is not heard’[1] is hostile to that voice.” Dhavan’s conclusion is similar to Nile Green’s reply to Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak’s formidable yet oft-mocked question, can the subaltern speak? Green’s response is simple enough: “The answer, of course, is yes, but not necessarily in English,” he writes (851, n. 25).
The phrase “mute eloquence of one who is not heard” is from Jacques Rancière’s critique of the Marxist desire for a working-class essence. As he asks, “Is it possible that the quest for the true word compels us to shush so many people? What exactly is the meaning of this evasion that tends to disqualify the verbiage of every proffered message in favor of the mute eloquence of one who is not heard?” (11). Rancière’s important argument dispels the emphasis on “work” as a positive reference, grounded in experience. I tried to learn from Rancière because I was concerned that “impossibility” too came to function as a mute eloquence, as an “essence,” in which the Lacanian real comes to stand outside or inside history itself. As Joan Copjec rightly notes, one must not “make the mistake of imagining the real as an inert void a stark limit. Lacan pictures the real as teeming with emptiness, as a swarming void” (96). The real, the impossible, “has no place of [its] own either outside history, in some eternal realm or waiting room, or within history itself” (97). Instead, we are left with an impossible gap that is kept open, in which the real is a “certain disturbance or dislocation in the order of historical being” (97). And my book attempts to grapple with this uncanny space in which the very question of a speaking or unspeaking subaltern is rendered insignificant, since analysis hinges on an internal alienness in the subject itself. Such alienness, estrangement, demands we be careful, as Spivak reminded us long ago, of how radical critique is marked with the “danger of appropriating the other by assimilation,” especially by historians who promise a pure translation (308).
Archives too host strangers and enemies—a sign of their hospitality. And the hospitality of the archive raises, of course, a question of sovereignty. As Derrida writes, “No hospitality, in the classic sense, without sovereignty of oneself over one’s home, but since there is no hospitality without finitude, sovereignty can only be exercised by filtering, choosing, and thus by excluding and doing violence” (55). In what Allen Feldman declares the double bind to hospitality, we find “the conditions of entry can never be allowed to subvert the given laws of habitus, of archival emplacement,” but only furthers the re-mapping of sovereignty (194). Consider Dhavan’s own appeal for more archives alongside the hostile ones. There is indeed power in selecting the guests; it is a form of conditional hospitality which turns hospitality into hostility, though it is better to consider their complicity in which hospitality always harbors hostility.
Archives too host strangers and enemies—a sign of their hospitality.
Perhaps then we can say that all archives are hostile (as are historians, as are peer-reviewers). If so, then the non-hostile archives that Dhavan wants us to explore might appear as such precisely because the condition of entry into them is already delimited. The terms of this delimitation, in their availability to historical inquiry, unsurprisingly uphold the norms of historical practice today; plurality and multiplicity are no remedy to the dominion of History. Or of the archive. “The archive,” Gil Anidjar teaches us, “is hardly remedial, or even a palliative to the ills of loss and the dream of a better, all-inclusive, or more plural archive, which is the very dream of history as total history (and histories), only denies this further” (129). Tell me your stories—even the story of how I conquered you—historians say. Even if we burned the archive that we collect, as Elizabeth Povinelli considered doing, we would still preserve an archival trace. “I would have to burn my own history, never have existed; and theirs as well” (169).
Secular Historiography
Perhaps then the goal is not to determine which archive is the least hostile, but rather to consider the policing that secular historiography performs, as Randeep Singh Hothi directs us to examine. Why do we always need more voices, traces, and archives? What does such inclusion, connection, and assimilation promise? What theological temporalities are left behind in such a historical form, as Basit Kareem Iqbal has asked us (526)? Hothi rightly centers the “secularist anxieties of historiographical practices, whose struggles to recuperate the fluidity of pre-colonial identities is meant to offer an alternative to religious nationalisms.” We can call such anxiety a temporality of Salvation—a history, as Stéphane Mosès writes, that “is defined as a process, a long march from the Incarnation to the Parousia” (57). It is redemptive return, then, that marks secular anxieties, which are elevated Christian ones.
In this Christian anxiety, the native is returned to History and taught, by the historian, how to mourn, how to deal with loss (Anidjar, 158). Which is to say, Anidjar continues, “history is a civilizing mission that refigures mourning by denying it” (158). Yet for a more unconditional hospitality to take place we would, says Derrida, “have to accept the risk of the other coming and destroying the place, initiating a revolution, stealing everything or killing everyone” (71). Hospitality then always entails a risk, a risk of even reading, what has been called, the hostile archive—a reading which we can “lead us to judgements that aren’t always rationally defensible” as Joan W. Scott writes (147). It might also entail asking another set of questions, including a question Robert C. Young asked—“for why, after all, ‘History’ at all” (55)? But also Trinh T. Minh Ha’s queries: Why separate history from story? Why indulge in accumulation and facts (119)? And, moreover, we must remember, as Denise Ferreira da Silva has already examined, the ontoepistemological position of homo historicus.
Why do we always need more voices, traces, and archives? What does such inclusion, connection, and assimilation promise?
Against such redemption that seeks to discover the richness of shared life in a past and future to come—the promise of plural and multiple voices of the archive—my book heeds a lesson from my teacher, Omnia El Shakry. She reminds us to preserve a distance in relation to a gap, while “encircling it; highlighting the modalities in which other traditions have brought this abyss, this gap or béance into view,” which after all, El Shakry continues, is “the purview of psychoanalysis, theology, and by extension, one might argue, critical history” (174).
Information
manmit singh asks about critique and relevance as well in their exceptional reading of the book. singh argues that when we inhabit a tradition, we must rethink our desire for a reified “definition” about it such as “the essentializing claim that Sikhi is egalitarian.” Such a move, singh argues, risks reproducing duality in the Sikh tradition while also reducing Sikhi into “a static repository to mine for answers or evaluate perceived failures.” The problem is compounded when it comes to gender and sexuality, as singh explores. Again, this is a problem tied to knowability; as Ali Altaf Mian puts it, “What is modern about sexuality is neither the bodily acts nor the personal inclinations associated with sexual identities but rather how the term ‘sexuality’ is often deployed to render erotic desire as something knowable” (108). Rather than tying critique to the knowable, in my own book, I leaned on a lesson I learned from Talal Asad, for whom critique is a site of persuasion, “learning how to do something properly” (410). And when we are learning, “criticism is an activity rooted in and directed at what binds people to their forms of life, not simply an expression of ‘rational argument’” (410). singh too persuades by turning to speculation and negotiation, rather than rational argument and the knowability of sexuality. For them, “this shift enables a rethinking of critique outside of its reliance on loss and scarcity towards a heuristic of abundance.”
Yet persuasion is difficult, as singh rightly notes—especially when new media, Wendy Hui Kyong Chun writes, are “crisis machines” in which crises “promise to move users from the banal to the crucial by offering the experience of something like responsibility; something like the consequences and joys of ‘being in touch’” (75). And yet, Chun continues, “the decisions we make…seem to prolong crises rather than end them, trapping us in a never-advancing present” (76). We remain at an impasse although the updates continue; persuasion at a hold as crisis proliferates. It would also do well here to recall that, for Asad, authority is critical, especially for learning proper behavior in a tradition. This is an authority routed through “the unavoidability of human uncertainty,” the unavoidability of irrelevant translations (60). Yet in our world marked by a mode of power that Colin Koopman labels “infopower”—an episteme of data exercised through formats—information, rather than authority and practice, becomes central to a tradition (160). One’s response, in other words, is always bound to information rather than the “sensibilities, habits, and relationships” that constitute a tradition (Asad, 95). Yes, one can refuse to speak, but “we remain captivated by an image of life as insufficient to itself and therefore requiring a scaffolding of argumentation and rational defense,” as Charles Hirschkind has said (472). It is an argumentation and rational defense bound, now, to information.
Conclusion
How does one respond then? How does one assume responsibility? It is to ask a difficult question of inheritance, but one that cannot be answered with appeals to more archives nor to more information. Instead, it might be to persevere rather than fixate or stabilize. Such was the aim of my book: to inhabit a desire in which the goal was not to create intelligible objects by providing an answer to the question “Who am I?” or “Who is Duleep Singh?” through a robust and vigorous methodology. Rather, the book encircled something that is missed but impossible to forget: that which is at the heart of Duleep Singh but also excluded from him. This strangeness, this abyss, represents the possibility of breaking with shared or recovered premises and engaging instead with more difficult questions about justice and ethics.
[1] This error appears in my book. Alas, I failed and “one” was not included.
Rajbir Singh Judge is Assistant Professor of History at California State University, Long Beach. He specializes in the intellectual and cultural history of South Asia with a particular emphasis on Punjab and the Sikh tradition. His book, Prophetic Maharaja: Loss, Sovereignty, and the Sikh Tradition in Colonial South Asia was published by Columbia University Press in 2024.
To write history in a typical fashion is to attempt to wrestle meaning from contingency. It is to take the details of an archive and give them a narrative form that can be held onto and relayed to others. This form of writing assumes coherence and stability govern our shared human existence and that it is the duty of the historian to reconstruct the past in a way that steadies the present. In this sense, the typical historian is not ideologically neutral, but instead invested in a particular worldview. It is one that seeks to cover over the messiness of the past to calm our nerves in the present.
As Rajbir Singh Judge shows in his theoretically and historically layered volume, Prophetic Maharaja: Loss, Sovereignty, and the Sikh Traditionin South Asia, these ideals around the purpose of the history arose simultaneously with the forces of colonialism and nation-building. This ideology has extended into history writing on 19th and 20th century South Asia. As Singh puts it, “Rather than contend with the constitutive nature of loss that makes history necessarily incomplete, scholars excavate history to settle the syncretic past (its fluidity) and the communalist present (its rigidity)” (22). By focusing on the loss of the Khalsa Raj—that is, an independent Sikh state in what is today portions of Northern India and Eastern Pakistan—and the possibilities of its return in the figure of Duleep Singh, Judge develops a different approach to historical methodology. This is a methodology that does not theorize but instead follows the “various rhythms of loss” (13). Utilizing psychoanalysis as a theoretical guide to dwell with loss, Singh draws us into the webs of meaning that circulated around Duleep Singh as he attempted to return to the Punjab region from England so as to reclaim sovereignty over the land where the majority of Sikhs lived. From the letters of Singh himself, to the communications between colonial officials, and to newspaper records, Judge details the wrangling over the meaning of Duleep Singh among his contemporaries without himself ever settling on the meaning of Duleep Singh.
In her response, Purnima Dhavan praises Judge’s critique of the practice of history, yet wonders if there might yet be room for historization that does not lead to the ethical problems that follow from the desire to attain “narrative coherence.” Part of creating such a history requires drawing on archives that lie outside the colonial gaze—the perspectives of regular Sikhs living in the areas in question. For Dhavan, to let go of a singular narrative around Duleep Singh, which she agrees with Judge we should do, does not require that we discard all narrative. It rather requires that we expand the scope of who is included within it.
manmit singh meanwhile, brings to their examination of Judge’s text a concern with queer and feminist Sikh studies. singh finds points of connection between queer critiques of biological determinism with Judge’s untangling of the thread of a coherent Sikh identity. By seeing Sikhs as queer subjects, singh shows how Judge’s study not only challenges the colonial desire to fix Sikh identity so as to control it, but also the colonial desire to fix gender so as to control it. Key to both queer and Sikh discourse is an emphasis on dissolving the subject, albeit towards different ends. By reading these discourses together, then, new horizons of liberation become possible to imagine.
In his engagement with Judge, Nirvikar Singh traces some of the key political developments in the Punjab region where Duleep Singh hoped to reestablish the Khalsa Raj. One of Singh’s important contributions is in bringing this political history into the present. In particular he argues that the thriving of Sikhs today will depend not only on the revitalization of the Sikh tradition’s concern with ethics and justice but also with addressing the material economic concerns of the region. He cautions that focusing on Sikh sovereignty in the Punjab will not address the challenges the people in the region face.
Randeep Singh Hothi unpacks the notion of loss and the “loss of loss” as it is developed by Singh. He contends that this notion of loss makes possible creative reimaginings for community life and tradition that would otherwise be excluded. This is because the meaning of the lost object itself becomes a matter of debate within the community that has no resolution. But this resolution, for Hothi, points to the positive outcome of continued debate and learning within the community.
Harini Kumar, finally, brings out the relationship between Judge’s methodology and ethics. She argues that Judge refuses to stay within the disciplinary boundaries demarcated by the discipline of history. She contends that this move mirrors the refusal among some anthropologists of Indigenous groups to make their “data” available to the wider academy. This refusal represents an ethics that respects the sovereignty of those who might be threatened when the content of their societies are theorized in the language of the academy, and therefore the intuitional order of the western nation-state.
Centered around the themes of protest, archival research, secular historiography, and the limits of persuasion for effecting political change in our currently political atmosphere, Judge’s response engages closely with each contribution to this symposium.
In times of political and social upheaval, it is tempting to retreat to the past for certainties. Popular historical narratives, especially, attempt to offer “lessons” from the past that we can use to make criticisms of the present. What Judge suggests, however, is that the past never contains the certainties we like to project onto it, and thus that the present is unlikely to contain them either. If a political theory might be imagined that emerges from Judge’s account it would be the agonism that never rests on stable taxonomic distinctions or moralized tales of the past. Rather it would be one that begins, as Hothi suggests, in engaging and listening to those with whom we share a community.
In this way, Judge’s book rejects the modernist progressive narrative, which pins our hopes on an idyllic future, and the conservative reactionary responses to that narrative, which pins our hopes on a mythic past. Judge, instead, forces us to grapple with the everyday and the ordinary as sites of contestation.
Joshua S. Lupo is the Assistant Director of the Contending Modernities research initiative. In this role, he serves as the editor and writer for the Contending Modernities Blog and the classroom coordinator for the Madrasa Discourses program. He has published articles and reviews in Sophia, Soundings, Critical Muslim, Reading Religion, and Religious Studies Review. With CM Co-Director Atalia Omer, he is the co-editor of Broken Solidarities: Feminism, Race, and Transnationalism (Notre Dame Press, 2022) and Religion, Populism, and Modernity: Confronting White Christian Nationalism and Racism (Notre Dame Press, 2023). His current book project is titled After Essentialism: A Critical Phenomenology for the Study of Religion.
Hafsa Kanjwal’s Colonizing Kashmir: State-Building under Indian Occupation challenges our assumptions both about who counts as a colonizer and what the practice of colonization entails. Many histories of colonization in the Indian subcontinent exclusively focus on the British as colonizers and the Indigenous peoples as the colonized. This is of course necessary, as the colonization of Kashmir by India cannot be understood apart from this history. Hafsa Kanjwal asks, however: What happens when the postcolonial state itself becomes an agent of colonization and not merely one of its victims?
Through extensive archival research on the early years following the partition between India and Pakistan, Kanjwal shows how the nascent Indian government, led by the supposedly tolerant and pluralistic India National Congress, replicated colonial forms of governance in the region of Jammu and Kashmir, a land whose people have their own unique blend of religious, cultural, and political practices. It did so primarily through what Kanjwal, drawing on Neve Gordon, calls “the politics of life.” Through such politics, the “Indian government and Kashmir’s client regimes propagated development, empowerment, and progress to secure the well-being of Kashmir’s population to normalize the occupation for multiple audiences” (9). To focus on such a politics is not to discount the brutal oppression that has come to Kashmiris at various points when they have sought to secure their own self-determination. It is rather to draw our attention to the various, and often less visible, ways in which power is wielded to maintain control over occupied peoples. In examining the rule of Sheikh Abdullah and Bakshi Ghulam Mohammad during the time following the 1948 partition that created the independent states of Pakistan and Indian, Kanjwal demonstrates how power operates in ways that cruder models of domination would otherwise exclude, including via the circulation of media, educational reform, economic aid, and more.
The three contributions to this symposium reflect on different features of “the politics of life” that is central to Kanjwal’s book. Ather Zia draws on her own research to go deeper on the gendered politics of Kashmiri identity. As Zia notes, Kashmiri men are often stereotyped as hypermasculine and militant, while women are depicted as exotic figures of beauty. These stereotypes strip Kashmiris of their humanity and justify the continued Indian occupation. Even feminism, she argues, has been coopted by the Indian government to further cement its domination in the region.
Amen Jaffer, meanwhile, examines the shaping of Kashmiri subjectivity under occupation. In focusing on modes of governing Kashmiris through a politics of life, Jaffer worries that Kanjwal leaves out the agency of Kashmiris who had to balance their desire for self-determination with simple survival. Such an account, he contends, would enrich Kanjwal’s investigation
Matthew Schutzer, finally, draws on his own research among Adivasi, or “schedule tribes,” in India to show how the Indian state, as in Kashmir, developed stereotypes around marginalized communities in order to justify their dispossession. Schutzer suggests that this dispossession reveals the concrete ways that sovereignty operates within the social sphere, which notably extends beyond the “exceptionalist” political theological framework of Carl Schmitt and Giorgio Agamben.
When leaders of powerful countries brazenly proclaim that the dispossession of land by those decimated by war will result in their being “thrilled”, we see how the fantasies of empire continue to wreak havoc on the marginalized. Kanjwal shows how claims and actions among current and former colonial powers, while now nearing absurdity, have not been only the purview of right-wing populists, but often their “liberal” political opponents as well. In doing so, she reminds us of the way structures of governmentality often reach across internal partisan lines when it comes to maintain the boundaries of the state.
Joshua S. Lupo is the Assistant Director of the Contending Modernities research initiative. In this role, he serves as the editor and writer for the Contending Modernities Blog and the classroom coordinator for the Madrasa Discourses program. He has published articles and reviews in Sophia, Soundings, Critical Muslim, Reading Religion, and Religious Studies Review. With CM Co-Director Atalia Omer, he is the co-editor of Broken Solidarities: Feminism, Race, and Transnationalism (Notre Dame Press, 2022) and Religion, Populism, and Modernity: Confronting White Christian Nationalism and Racism (Notre Dame Press, 2023). His current book project is titled After Essentialism: A Critical Phenomenology for the Study of Religion.
Image from 2008 protest at celebrations of 60th anniversary of Isarel’s founding. Via Flickr User Hossam el-Hamalawy. CC BY 2.0.
The Heritage Foundation provoked widespread outrage with the publication of their Project 2025, a policy agenda that targets immigrants and trans people, attacks abortion access, proposes to erode voting rights, censors curricula, and prohibits protest and free speech. Less public attention has been given, however, to the Heritage Foundation’s additional document titled “Project Esther.” The document outlines a strategy for dismantling the Palestine solidarity movement in the United States by deploying false claims of antisemitism and terrorism against the movement. It lays out a sweeping program of surveillance, propaganda, deportation, and criminalization. We can only imagine that after deploying these right-wing tactics on defenders of Palestinian liberation, they will target other movements of social justice with similar campaigns of violence, and the Trump administration appears to be manifesting this extremist vision now.
Project Esther appropriates the story of Queen Esther, the Jewish heroine who saved the Jewish people from extermination; Jews commemorate her story during the spring holiday of Purim. While the Heritage Foundation calls Project Esther their “National Strategy to Combat Antisemitism,” their program does precisely the opposite. Rather than protecting Jews from antisemitism, Project Esther deploys antisemitic conspiracy theories mixed with the false claim of “defending” Jews as a smokescreen to attack the Palestinian liberation movement. While this movement is diverse, we know these attacks will be used to disproportionately target Palestinian, Muslim, and Arab people, non-citizens first among them, as well as organizations representing them. Project Esther aims at nothing less than the full-scale dismantling of the Palestine solidarity movement as a crucial ingredient of the racist anti-immigrant policies unleashed simultaneously, and it invokes the defense of the Jewish people as rhetorical human shields in order to do so.
In that, the Heritage Foundation is not alone. Rather, the appropriation of Esther is the next chapter of a genocidal vision that has historically manipulated this Biblical text in an effort to tie Christian Nationalists to Jewish Zionists.
Jewish settlers in the occupied West Bank have long exploited Purim to escalate violence against their Palestinian neighbors, from Baruch Goldstein’s 1994 Ibrahimi mosque massacre up to the Huwara pogrom in 2023. Jewish terrorists have reactivated exterminationist interpretations of the Book of Esther in an effort to provide religious justifications for their genocidal ideologies. It would thus be too simplistic to say “This is not Judaism.” Whether in Palestine or the United States, the far right projects fanatical religious interpretations of Esther onto Palestinians and their allies, and translates them into political projects of ethnic cleansing, expulsions, political repression, and terror in real-time. Project Esther uncovers the international entanglements and global proportions of how fascistic forces use what they call “antisemitism” for the advancement of their own antisemitic agendas.
Rather than protecting Jews from antisemitism, Project Esther deploys antisemitic conspiracy theories mixed with the false claim of ‘defending’ Jews as a smokescreen to attack the Palestinian liberation movement.
Christian Nationalists also have a long history of appropriating the figure of Esther as an ideal of womanhood, a woman who both engages in political action while remaining, in their interpretations, subservient to male authority around her. Diana Hagee—wife of notorious antisemite and founder of Christians United for Israel, Pastor John Hagee—taught teenagers to view Esther as a “bride of Christ who prepared her body and soul for total submission.” More recently, the phrase “for such a time as this,” drawn (and from Jewish perspective, decontextualized) from Esther 4:14, has become a shibboleth for Christian Nationalist calls for “spiritual warfare,” including calls to violence. Much like the report itself, the invocation of Esther in the report’s title seeks to smuggle in far-right Christian Nationalism under the guise of Jewish safety.
Resisting these apocalyptic misuses of Judaism for settler violence, anti-Zionist Jews in the United States have joined Palestinian-led coalitions to spend the past 16 months organizing our communities to recognize and resist a genocide unfolding before our eyes. Throughout this time, powerful constituencies have repeated the bald lie that this genocide in Gaza was an operation enacted to ensure Jewish safety. From Benjamin Netanyahu, Bezalel Smotrich, and Itamar Ben-Gvir to US entities, including institutions claiming to represent American Jews and university administrations, we have heard “Jewish safety” invoked in the service of committing genocide, while those speaking against genocide have been slandered as antisemites. As writer, attorney, and analyst Dylan Saba has pointed out, the Heritage Foundation’s Project Esther simply promises the increased use of defamation, criminalization, and deportation to dismantle the Palestine solidarity movement.
As Jews, we denounce Project Esther’s manipulation of our community’s experiences of oppression and our cultural identity for a racist, anti-Palestinian project that seeks to shore up the US-Israel alliance. We write now to reclaim our heritage and biblical traditions from Christian nationalists who invoke Jewish protection only to advance a White supremacist, misogynist, imperial, and anti-LGBTQIA+ agenda that further endangers Jewish peoples in the U.S. and abroad. In disingenuously speaking for Jews, the Heritage Foundation attempts to deny Jewish agency, and to install Christian Nationalists as the proper arbiters of the Jewish past and our Jewish present. The Heritage Foundation undermines Jewish voices by acting as if Jews cannot advocate for ourselves or that we speak with a single voice. It wrongly positions itself as the authority on Jewish identity, safety, and vulnerability. Moreover, it claims Jews must be separated from others for our protection, when this isolation actually serves their own agenda. While they explicitly state that they seek Jewish partners to assist in achieving their political goals of repressing dissent and mandating allegiance to Zionism and US patriotism, no collaboration with Jewish people or Jewish institutions can hide the basic White nationalism, Christian fundamentalism, and antisemitism that are the well-known provenance of the Heritage Foundation.
Against Project Esther’s efforts to marginalize and silence anti-Zionists, we insist on our presence and our voices. We insist that Jewish people in our diversity and heterogeneity, not Christian Nationalists, determine Jewish belonging and interpret how our histories of displacement, threat, and violence inflect our lived experiences and principles in this moment. And we insist that the Heritage Foundation and other far-right groups (including those self-identified as Jewish) represent the real threat to Jewish liberation and human rights writ large. Ours is a liberatory struggle that takes shape in combination and in concert with overlapping movements against White supremacy, settler colonialism, and fascism.
We begin this statement, collectively written by the Academic Council of Jewish Voice for Peace, with our objection to the Heritage Foundation—a Christian Nationalist organization—deciding what is best for the Jewish people and what constitutes antisemitism, especially when the definition they offer equates anti-Zionism with antisemitism. We note with alarm that the Heritage Foundation’s proposal manifests, for example, in Donald Trump’s executive order 13899, signed on January 30, 2025, with the Orwellian title “Additional Measures to Combat Antisemitism.” This executive order is already being used to criminalize not only protests in solidarity with Palestine, but even simple displays of Palestinian culture, like a flag or a keffiyeh. The Department of Justice’s sweeping “investigations” into alleged antisemitism on college campuses and the aggressive efforts to deport Mahmoud Khalil in retaliation for his political activism demonstrate how Project Esther’s blueprint for suppression is already being implemented through governmental mechanisms of surveillance and punishment. This is the eliminationist agenda of Project Esther at work, one that invokes “Jewish safety” in an effort to banish the very existence of Palestinians and Palestinian culture from the public sphere.
Our analysis exposes the Heritage Foundation’s deceptive claim to “combat” antisemitism, while emphasizing the antisemitism inherent in Christian Zionism: Project Esther repeats and fortifies antisemitic tropes which are simply transferred from Jews to the Palestine solidarity movement. The very notion of a “Hamas Support Network,” a term the authors of the document have contrived to vilify us, redeploys an antisemitic conspiracy theory whereby a hidden cabal is purported to secretly control political opposition and social justice movements; it is also a falsehood, presuming as it does that all struggles for the Palestinian people are lined up behind Hamas. Their rhetoric refuses to honor the complexity of the movement for Palestinian freedom and constitutes a slur against all those who are exercising constitutional rights of freedom, affiliation, and expression. Ominously, Project Esther proposes the criminalization and deportation of protestors, abridging rights and principles fundamental to the Constitution. It also recommends the targeting and possible firing of faculty who express viewpoints in support of Palestine. This constitutes an attack on institutions of learning, particularly higher education. Project Esther proposes a surveillance and repression of curricula, media, and non-profit organizations for any mention of “Hamas support”—its code for support for Palestinian liberation.
In disingenuously speaking for Jews, the Heritage Foundation attempts to deny Jewish agency, and to install Christian Nationalists as the proper arbiters of the Jewish past and our Jewish present.
State repression has been directed against Palestinian people and their political allies for some time. But Project Esther differs from the uneven patchwork of campus crackdowns, deportations, and visa denials in decades past. The legal architecture proposed by Project Esther would be partially executed under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act (RICO) against protesters in the Palestine solidarity movement. This act was created in 1970 to combat organized crime and convict mafia bosses. It has been used historically against leftist groups, and was used recently to bring false money laundering charges against “Stop Cop City” protesters in Atlanta, Georgia. Further, in November 2024, the US House of Representatives passed the “Stop Terror-Financing and Tax Penalties on American Hostages Act,” also known as the “Non-Profit Killer Bill,” which promises to revoke the tax-exempt status of any organization that provides “material support” to terrorism. While the bill did not become law in the 118th Congress (2023–25), we expect that it and similar bills seeking to criminalize the Palestine solidarity movement will return under the current Congress. If all support for Palestine is now branded as support for Hamas, and Hamas is considered a terrorist organization, then it follows that any and all support for Palestine could be prosecuted under this proposed implementation.
The charge of “support” for Palestine remains overbroad and vaguely defined. We have already seen the grave consequences of this logic play out across institutions of higher education. Students are being disciplined for holding silent study-ins in their campus libraries. Professors are being banned from their own classrooms and having their syllabi interrogated by administrators because of their participation in nonviolent protests. Some have even been fired for sharing the words of Palestinian poets on their personal social media pages. Minor infractions like unauthorized postering or protests are being met with expulsion and even felony charges. And schools are being investigated for allowing students to wear keffiyeh and Palestinian flags on their graduation regalia. Should Project Esther’s vision come to pass, any educational support, demonstrations, or even expressions of Palestinian identity could be construed as support for “terrorism” and punishable.
We conclude this post by noting that Project Esther misunderstands the history of Esther, whose legacy we reclaim for the living Jewish tradition of anti-Zionism. We join in a rich tradition of Jews who interpret the story as a feminist tale from which we can glean ethical precepts: rejecting demonization, opposing genocide, and standing for principles of equality among peoples.
Project Esther: A Christian Nationalist Project
Project Esther purports to be a document about ensuring Jewish safety. Despite this, few Jews were consulted in the drafting of this document. The project’s co-chairs—Pastor Mario Bramnick and Luke Moon—are self-identified Christian Nationalists whose support for Israel stems from their belief that Jewish presence in the Holy Land will precipitate the End Times. Historically, this merger of philosemitism (the professed love or admiration for Jews) and antisemitism has undermined Jewish belonging in America, as our exile to Israel is viewed as necessary for the Second Coming of Christ.
While Bramnick and Moon included participants from a handful of smaller, far-right Jewish organizations in Project Esther, they excluded larger Jewish organizations—even those on the right with strong ideological overlap with the Heritage Foundation. This exclusion is evident in both the document’s language and policy recommendations, which reflect a broad Christian Nationalist framing rather than concerns emerging from American Jewish communities.
We note with particular alarm how the embrace of Project Esther and broader claims of supporting Israel are actively being used to shield Trump’s appointment of multiple White supremacists, Christian Nationalists, and avowed antisemites in the highest offices of the land. To give just a few examples: Darren Beattie, a frequent speaker at White supremacist events, has been nominated as undersecretary of state; Trump’s FBI Director, Kash Patel, has repeatedly appeared on Holocaust denier podcasts; Trump’s Secretary of Defense, Pete Hegseth, is on record declaring “We want our nation to be a Christian nation”; Trump has appointed Sebastian Gorka, who has been linked with Hungarian Nazi organizations, as senior director for counterterrorism; and Elon Musk infamously gave the Nazi salute twice while standing in front of the Seal of the President of the United States during Trump’s inauguration. Project Esther provides cover for these White supremacists and Christian Nationalists to advance their own antisemitic and Islamophobic agendas.
Project Esther and the Architecture of Repression
The Project Esther document begins with the accusation that the entire pro-Palestine movement is composed of direct supporters of Hamas and are therefore terrorists and should be treated as such. As they write: “The virulently anti-Israel, anti-Zionist, and anti-American groups comprising the so-called pro-Palestinian movement […] are part of a highly organized, global Hamas Support Network (HSN) and therefore effectively a terrorist support network.” The document declares this mission from the outset: “to dismantle the infrastructure that sustains the HSN and associated movements’ antisemitic violence inside the United States of America within 12 to 24 months.” Their goal is specifically to dismantle movement infrastructure on this accelerated timeline. In order to do this, the Heritage Foundation proposes assembling a broad coalition of actors and organizations across government, civil society, and academia to enact this campaign of political repression in every sector of American society. They intend to “exploit fissures” and “generate strategic dilemmas” so that pro-Palestine activists “feel extreme discomfort” and “capitulate to our pressure campaign.” They intend to pursue lawfare and political repression through “the Foreign Agents Registration Act (FARA); the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act (RICO); and counterterrorism, hate speech, and immigration laws.”
Gaza Solidarity Sukkah organized by Jewish Voice for Peace. Courtesy of Jewish Voice for Peace.
They declare that “an effective strategy and campaign focused on the HSN will level a decisive blow against both antisemitism and anti-Americanism.” While the report never defines anti-Americanism (and antisemitism is simply defined as any and all criticism of Israel or support for Palestinian survival), the implication throughout the document is clear that any strand of left-wing thought, any organizing against oppression or exploitation is, in true McCarthyite fashion, anti-American. Their intent is not only to limit pro-Palestine activism, but to use attacks on Palestine solidarity to also strike out at fields such as Critical Theory, Ethnic Studies, and Gender and Women’s Studies, university initiatives including but not limited to DEI, and movements like migrant justice and Black Lives Matter, all alleged to be elements of this “anti-American ideology.” The slippage between focusing on the Palestine movement and general “anti-Americanism” is one of the many indications in this document that the repression formula they develop here will eventually find its way to targeting all movements for social justice.
They articulate a set of 11 “desired end states” (ES), each more harrowing than the last. We highlight just a few here: Their number one priority (ES1) takes aim at the U.S. education system, specifically at universities. Coming on the heels of several years of attacks on so-called “Critical Race Theory,” the Heritage Foundation sees academia as a primary target. ES3 attempts to block “access to U.S. open society”; elsewhere in the document, the following rights are described as characteristics of US open society: the freedom of assembly, first amendment rights of political affiliation, the right to free movement, and an open press. By attempting to block access to these fundamental political rights, the Heritage Foundation is specifically laying out a blueprint for complete political repression. They also hope that pro-Palestine organizations will lose access to the US economy (ES4) and to any form of political representation (ES5), no matter how paltry. They then call for the US Executive Branch to adopt a strategy to pursue “legal and criminal prosecutions” (ES6) with the goal of activists’ communications being disrupted (ES7) and therefore being “unable to conduct or sustain demonstrations and protests” (ES8).
The document lays out 19 “desired effects” (DEs). The first five all concern universities: “purging” pro-Palestinian “propaganda” from curricula (DE1), getting all anti-Zionist faculty and staff “removed or fired” (DE2), removing all access of pro-Palestinian organizations to all campuses (DE3), removing access of “foreign” members of these organizations from campuses (DE4), and limiting the donations to schools from organizations with ties to Palestine (DE5). Off campus the desired outcomes include collecting and presenting evidence of the Palestine movement’s “criminal activity” (DE9), being kicked off of all social media (DE10), the loss of any means of public communication (DE11), as well as the loss of internal communications (DE12). They foresee that this will result in the inability of the movement to coordinate actions (DE13), that permits for demonstrations will be denied (DE14), and hence that people will not join them (DE15). We have already seen these aspirations shape the current administration’s thinking, with Executive Order 13899 threatening everything, from the withholding of funds to universities that tolerate pro-Palestine activism, to threats of criminal prosecution against the movement, to efforts to deport non-citizens who engage in dissent.
The document lays out 28 necessary conditions (NCs) to achieve these outcomes: discrediting Palestinian liberation both off-campus (NC1) and on-campus (NC2); requiring that all curricula provide a “both sides” approach (NC3); undermining the credibility of pro-Palestine faculty and staff (NC4) so their employment is terminated (NC5); declaring all Palestine organizing in violation of campus principles (NC6) leading to such organizations loss of campus affiliations (NC7); finding foreign students and faculty in violation of their visas (NC8 and 9) leading them to either leave the US (NC10) or get deported (NC11); and targeting their ability to use social media (NC 20, 21, 22). Their goal is to undermine trust among the organizations in the movement (NC23), and this is a crucial piece of the strategy.
Even before Trump’s inauguration, too many universities have already adopted this agenda, firing faculty for extramural speech, interfering in their syllabi, and banning organizations like Students for Justice in Palestine and Jewish Voice for Peace. These are fundamental violations of academic freedom and basic Constitutional Rights. We call on universities to recognize the threat posed by Project Esther and Project 2025 and take concrete action.
Not In Our Name
The equation of Zionism and Judaism is always a heinous act of political erasure of the complexity and history of Judaism and of diverse Jewish perspectives on Zionism and Israel, but it is especially egregious coming from the Heritage Foundation, a notoriously Christian Zionist organization. The Heritage Foundation is attempting to give itself the authority to determine who is authentically Jewish and who—by embracing the Jewish traditions of tzedek (justice), tikkun olam (repairing the world), and social activism in supporting freedom and justice in Palestine, has “abandoned” their ties to Judaism. As Jewish anti-Zionists, we reject this narrow definition of Jewish people, and instead claim our place in the struggle for “a world where many worlds fit.” We believe that Jewish liberation must be a struggle waged alongside all racialized and colonized people across the globe, especially Palestinians. Constructing Israel as “the only safe place for Jews” suggests that other governments do not have an obligation to all their citizens to protect against discrimination–Jews among them. As critical scholars of Zionism have long surmised, the Zionist drive for the “ingathering of the exiles,” materialized in the Law of Return, is a strategy both for the colonization of Palestine and for Jewish assimilation into the global colonial order. The Heritage Foundation’s Project Esther directly subscribes to this vision.
In speaking back against this narrative, we cast our lot with Queen Esther—a woman who lived amongst other peoples, not apart from them, who stood for essential principles of cohabitation and equality.
We object to the Heritage Foundation’s production of this document and its effective adoption and implementation as state practice under the Trump regime. Likewise, we oppose any Jewish institutions that support this blatantly antisemitic form of Zionism. Despite its pretense to “combat antisemitism,” Project Esther never addresses antisemitism, nor the fundamental White supremacist ideologies upon which antisemitism rests. Instead, it weaponizes the notion of Jewish oppression—defined through a conflation of antisemitism and anti-Zionism—to promote a conspiracy theory about the grassroots Palestine solidarity movement. The Heritage Foundation claims that the “ideology and actions” of Jewish Voice for Peace, Students for Justice in Palestine, and American Muslims for Palestine—progressive grassroots organizations that oppose apartheid and genocide—“directly challenge and attempt to undermine the American values that are fundamental to our way of life, our nation’s success, and our future.” In characterizing our movement against colonial violence as a “terrorist” movement, the Heritage Foundation proposes to upend reality. It is the US-Israeli alliance, not grassroots human rights organizations advocating for an end to Israeli genocide, that are producing mass death in Gaza and across Palestine.
In the midst of the ongoing Israeli genocide in Gaza, which many have named the “first livestreamed genocide in human history,” the Israeli state claims to act on behalf of all Jews. From afar we witness daily acts of ethnic cleansing, as the Israeli army has killed dozens and even hundreds of Palestinian adults and children each day for more than a year. The Israeli state produces conditions of deprivation and misery so profound as to comprise a textbook example of the “destruction of a society” that Jewish scholar Raphael Lemkin coined the term genocide to name. Let us state what should appear obvious: this mass violence does not counter antisemitism at all; indeed it reanimates long-standing anti-Jewish sentiment and inspires new forms of antisemitic prejudice. Hiding behind the lie of “saving” Jews, Israeli violence continues and makes anew a history of settler genocide. Genocide does not and cannot make anyone safer. We are all made more unsafe in a world where the wholesale destruction of a people is rationalized. As Jews in particular, we denounce the attempt to commit genocide in the name of our safety. As Jews, we declare, “Not in our name!”
JVP Grand Central Station action. October 27, 2023. Courtesy of Jewish Voice for Peace.
In the wake of October 7th, 2023, a renewed “War on Terror” began, with the US-Israeli alliance galvanized for further efforts to control land and resources, starting with the most intense bombing campaign of the 21st century. This mass destruction relies on a cultural strategy of White supremacy, which uses a Christian notion of antisemitism to justify the fight against it and so to run cover for US-Israeli exceptionalism. Project Esther is a right-wing offensive meant to squelch people power and democratic speech rights in order to usher in ever-more authoritarian state power in which the state perpetually renews its weaponry. Despite its purported aim of addressing antisemitism, Project Esther instead reinforces harmful antisemitic ideologies while repackaging them in contemporary language. To understand this dynamic, it’s important to examine the historical context of antisemitism and how Project Esther perpetuates these patterns.
Project Esther’s methodology eerily mirrors the conspiracy theories it claims to combat. It constructs a narrative about a supposed network of Jewish funders orchestrating anti-Zionist organizations, baselessly linking these groups to Palestinian militant operations. This framework not only attempts to delegitimize criticism of Israeli policies but also dangerously resurrects antisemitic tropes about hidden Jewish influence, especially fiscal, and global conspiracy.
The term “antisemitism” emerged in late 19th-century Europe to describe the views of German nationalist thinkers who portrayed Jews as an alien presence fundamentally incompatible with European society. Rather than addressing the profound societal changes of the era—including the breakup of empires, the rise of nation-states, the decline of religious authorities, mass migration, and the impact of industrial capitalism—antisemitic ideologues scapegoated Jewish communities for these upheavals.
This narrative built upon centuries-old stereotypes of Jews as subversive forces within European Christian society. The widespread circulation of fraudulent documents like The Protocols of the Elders of Zion in the 1920s further promoted the false notion of a global Jewish conspiracy. These works portrayed Jews as an inassimilable threat to western civilization, encompassing supposed racial, economic, and cultural dangers.
Where the infamous late nineteenth-century “Protocols” fabricated an elaborate Jewish global conspiracy, Project Esther invents the equally fictional “Hamas Support Network” (HSN), already mentioned above. The document describes this purported network using language that echoes classical antisemitic stereotypes, speaking of “vast networks of activists and funders” pursuing “insidious” goals to undermine democracy and capitalism. Just as the “Protocols” depicted Jews as dedicated to the wholesale destruction of western civilization, Christianity, and capitalism, Project Esther portrays the equally fictional “HSN” as an existential threat to American values and way of life.
The document’s portrayal of the “HSN” as having penetrated and subverted major American institutions mirrors one of the most pernicious aspects of the “Protocols—the notion of hidden Jewish infiltration of society’s power centers. Where the “Protocols” claimed Jewish agents had secretly gained control of banking, media, and government to advance a global conspiracy, Project Esther similarly depicts “HSN” operatives as having covertly embedded themselves throughout Congress, universities, civil society organizations, and news outlets to promote an anti-Israel/anti-American agenda. This parallel extends beyond mere structure into rhetoric; both texts employ images of “infiltration,” “penetration,” and “subversion” to suggest that these supposed networks have compromised vital institutions from within. Just as the “Protocols” portrayed Jews as masters of deception who could appear outwardly respectable while secretly undermining society, Project Esther characterizes “HSN” members as skilled manipulators who have gained influential positions while concealing their true aims. This recycling of classic antisemitic tropes about shadowy infiltrators corrupting societal institutions is particularly troubling given how such conspiracy theories have historically been used to justify persecution against Jews. This structural similarity in conspiracy theorizing demonstrates how antisemitic frameworks can be repurposed, targeting non-Jewish “others” while maintaining their essential characteristics.
Project Esther continues this tradition of marginalization while presenting itself as a solution to antisemitism. Instead of addressing antisemitism as one form of bigotry among many, it promotes the same exceptional treatment of Jewish communities that characterized historical antisemitism. The project advocates for Jewish separation from broader society, now reframed as relocation to Israel, while defending Israel’s status as an ethno-nationalist state. This reveals the convergence and intersection of White Christian Nationalism and Christian Zionism, a movement that predated Jewish Zionism and has many more adherents. For example, Christians United for Israel (CUFI) has over 11 million members, a population greater than the entire Jewish population in the United States.
The project advances what could be termed a “double ethnic cleansing” agenda. First, it seeks to convince Jews that they are fundamentally unsafe in America, creating an atmosphere of fear designed to encourage their emigration to Israel. Second, it envisions an Israel without its indigenous Palestinian population, promoting a colonialist narrative that denies Palestinian rights and humanity. Both of these maneuvers attempt to incite Jewish people to fear, priming Jewish people to become subjects of militarized state-nationalism both in Israel and the US. Importantly, all of this once again assumes that all Jews have a historical link with European antisemitism. This homogenizing understanding of Jewishness discounts Sephardic, Mizrahi, Ethiopian,and Russian Jewish people, as well as their cultures and histories.
Instead of addressing antisemitism as one form of bigotry among many, Project Esther promotes the same exceptional treatment of Jewish communities that characterized historical antisemitism.
At its core, Project Esther represents continuity of a historic, strategic alliance between Christian Nationalists and Zionists who manipulate antisemitism for ideological purposes. By portraying diaspora Jews as perpetually endangered, these groups pressure Jewish communities to embrace an ethno-nationalist agenda that presents Israel as the only viable haven for Jewish survival. This narrative deliberately ignores the interconnected nature of various forms of oppression, including racism and Islamophobia, instead treating Jewish identity in isolation. It fails to see that no one form of racism can be fully overcome without overcoming all racisms. Indeed, Project Esther activates and thrives on Islamophobia and anti-Arab and anti-Muslim racism.
Equally troubling is the document’s homogenization of Jewish identity and experience. As Arab-Jewish scholars such as Ella Shohat have argued, the rich histories of non-European Jews have been elided through a Eurocentric framing that routes all forms of Jewish identity through European antisemitism. In this project “Zionist historiography” comes to “consist… of a morbidly selective ‘tracing the dots’ from pogrom to pogrom as evidence of relentless hostility toward Jews in the Arab world, reminiscent of that encountered in Europe” (6). Such erasures are deeply ahistorical; they also silence criticisms of the Israeli state’s racism and eugenic projects against its non-European Jewish subjects (See also Sahar Mandour and The Palestinian Feminist Collective). This Eurocentric homogenization of “the Jew” functions as a lynchpin of Israeli settler colonialism because, as Moshé Machover elucidates, this move consolidates a central feature of political Zionism: “that the totality of Jews the world over is a single national collectivity—a people (ethnos).” Put simply, without this homogenization, the grammar of the ethno-nationalist state would fall apart.
By presenting Jews as a monolithic entity with uniform interests and perspectives, Project Esther systematically denies the diversity of Jewish thought and practice—especially regarding Zionism and Palestine—and instead weaponizes concerns for Jewish safety in order to further its ideological agenda. This silences rich histories of Jewish resistance to Zionism, as well as histories of interwoven lives of Jews, including Mizrahi and Arab Jews, and their Muslim and Arab neighbors in the region, creating the mythology of an “eternal” Arab/Jewish conflict upon which Israeli aggression rests. This approach attempts to silence Jewish voices that dissent from its narrative, to gatekeep only that identity which serves specific political goals rather than the broader Jewish communities’ interests in living in a world dedicated to equality. This erasure not only marginalizes Jews who resist its narrow vision but also perpetuates a false dichotomy between Jewish identity and criticism of Zionist policies.
Perhaps most alarmingly, Project Esther’s emphasis on fabricated threats actively distracts us from real antisemitic violence and discrimination, which comes not from the movement for Palestinian freedom but from the very right-wing Christian Nationalist groups that are the driving force behind the Heritage Foundation’s Project 2025. It was Christian Nationalists and White supremacists who, after all, marched on the University of Virginia campus on August 11th, 2017 chanting “blood and soil” and “Jews will not replace us” before killing Heather Heyer in a car attack, beating Black bystanders, and directing a mob to burn down the town’s only synagogue in downtown Charlottesville the next day. This deflection instrumentalizes concerns over Jewish safety by failing to address the true sources of antisemitism in contemporary society while redirecting attention away from actual threats facing Jewish communities. In 2017, as so often in US history, the threat of antisemitism converged with White supremacist nationalism, naming Jewish as well as Black and Brown communities as threats to the White nation.
Project Esther’s approach to interfaith relations is similarly problematic. While claiming to promote Jewish-Christian alliance, it actually reinforces traditional Christian supersessionist narratives that have historically contributed to antisemitism, and still do. A crucial example is the Evangelical Christian vision that holds an eschatological interpretation of the Bible and sees the Jewish colonization of Palestine as a stepping stone to expedite the second coming of Christ. Organizations such as CUFI are supported by openly homophobic, racist, and antisemitic political characters such as John Hagee, Nikki Haley, Ron DeSantis, and Mike Pence. Not surprisingly, the same people are also known for their anti-Arab and anti-Muslim racism. This dynamic reveals how the document’s supposed advocacy for Jewish interests is subordinated to broader ideological goals that actually works against Jewish and other communities’ interests and safety.
Ultimately, Project Esther exemplifies how antisemitic frameworks can persist and even thrive within ostensibly philosemitic or philo-Zionist discourse. Rather than genuinely combating antisemitism, it redirects and reconfigures antisemitic elements to serve right wing, ethno-nationalist, anti-democratic political ends. This underscores the urgent need for authentic approaches to addressing antisemitism—approaches that reject both the instrumentalization of Jewish identity and the perpetuation of exclusionary narratives.
The New Red Scare
Project Esther is not just an elevation of rhetoric nor an expressive document; it is a blueprint for a new Red Scare. We must remember that the Second Red Scare, sometimes inaccurately referred to as “McCarthyism” as it preceded and lived on far after the notorious Senator from Wisconsin, was, as historian Ellen Schrecker phrased it, “the most widespread and longest wave of political repression in U.S. history” (x). The Second Red Scare ramped up in earnest in the late 1940s and continued apace until the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) was politically and legally challenged by the New Left in the 1960s. In the decade plus of its existence, the Red Scare affected a vast cultural change in the U.S., turning socialism from perhaps a radical and subversive political position to one considered treasonous and dangerous. Through legal means much like the RICO Act and today’s “Non-Profit Killer Bill,” left wing labor unions, community organizations, academic organizations, anti-racist coalitions, and of course, communist organizations, were either disbanded or driven underground, with many thousands of their members serving jail time and/or deportation, to say nothing of the tens of thousands who lost their jobs and faced public harassment and violence. A vibrant, active, multi-tendency working class left was irrevocably shattered, leaving, as Joel Kovel put it, a “black hole” at the center of the American Century.
The legal architecture of the Second Red Scare consisted primarily of three laws: the Internal Security Act, the Alien Registration or Smith Act, and the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1952, or McCarran-Walter Act. These acts each linked speech and protest to criminal conspiracy. The Internal Security Act forced communist-aligned organizations to register and then, once registered, made it a felony to support a “dictatorship” in the U.S. The second and third laws similarly criminalized belief, allowing for the jailing and deportation of those who “advocated” the “overthrow of the United States government by force and violence.” In practice this meant that supporting communism, or even advocating for the reading of Marx, could land someone in jail or disband an organization for giving—as we would say now—“material support” for the overthrow of bourgeois rule. Needless to say, such persecutions were heavily racialized, with African American and Jewish leftists suffering the most.
Project Esther is not just an elevation of rhetoric nor an expressive document; it is a blueprint for a new Red Scare.
Project Esther makes similar rhetorical and legal moves. Stating that the “HSN” is “supported by activists and funders dedicated to destroying capitalism and democracy” and has the “support and training of America’s overseas enemies,” Project Esther threatens Jewish Voice for Peace and Students of Justice in Palestine with legal disbanding, defunding, and even criminalization of individuals and organizations engaged in dissent. That there is no evidence for such claims does not matter, nor did it matter that in the 20th century, the Communist Party, the Jewish People’s Fraternal Order, the Civil Rights Congress, the American Committee for the Protection of the Foreign Born, the Council on African Affairs, and countless other organizations were not plotting to overthrow the United States—they were all either banned or harassed into near or total collapse. As historian Rachel Ida-Buff phrased it, “The Palestine solidarity movement is the new Communist Party: the shadowy and ubiquitous internal enemy that justifies the broad and brutal repression of past and current McCarthyisms.”
This may not be remembered now, but the Left resisted the policies, such as it could, during the Second Red Scare. Noncompliance was a conscious strategy on the part of HUAC defendants. As noted socialist Albert Einstein wrote in 1953, “non cooperation” with HUAC was “revolutionary,” and the defendant should be “prepared for jail and economic ruin. . . . for the sacrifice of his personal welfare in the interest of the cultural welfare of the country.” If defendants complied with HUAC, Einstein followed, then they “deserve nothing better than the slavery which is intended for them.” Such resistance did not save many of the defendants, but left the spark for the New Left a generation later. Many of the members of both Students for a Democratic Society and the Black Panther Party, among an array of organizations of their era, made “anti-anti-communism” a central element in their resistance to the Cold War order. We must remember the actions of our Left forebears in resistance to such oppression, and stand in solidarity with other activists who likewise may be targeted.
Reclaiming Esther against Project Esther
For the past 400 years and more, European Christian men have produced an antisemitic, racist, and sexist image of Jewish women, known as the figure of the “Jewess” in modern literature. The paradigmatic Jewish heroines of the Torah have provided Christian-dominated European and US culture with their “stereotyped sex-object par excellence,” as Jewish feminist literary scholar Livia E. Bitton argues. Versions of Queen Esther, who won her place at the king’s side through triumph at a beauty contest that was refused by his previous wife, Vashti, have featured prominently in such antisemitic discourse. But, like so many women who survive the conflagrations of patriarchy, Esther’s knowledge and power grew over time, and she became a political and spiritual leader—and a fighter for collective Jewish survival—because of, and not in spite of, her skilled navigation of gendered and sexualized institutions.
Pietro Paolini, The Intercession of Esther with King Ahasuerus and Haman. Public Domain. Via Wikimedia Commons.
Alongside generations of Jewish feminists, we now lovingly reclaim the figure of the beguiling Jewish seductress, whose powers of beauty and sexuality contribute to her assumption of power. We know that we are not in Esther’s moment of potential annihilation of Jewish people, as the Heritage Foundation, like Netanyahu’s cabinet, and so many contemporary forces would have us believe. Such fear-mongering is quintessential to racist statecraft, and has embedded itself into the current war on terror logic that hinges on philosemitic lies about the “protection” of Jews, among others. Against this propaganda, we offer a different recognition. We know that many Jewish people are now faced with a different threat: the threat of alienation from Jewish community and belonging. We oppose traditional institutions that purport to speak for Jewish communities, but manipulate religious texts and principles to advance genocidal statecraft and colonial conquest. We refuse this corruption of our cultural and spiritual heritage, which makes our own institutions and sometimes even our own communities unrecognizable to us as Jews.
The Heritage Foundation has no entitlement to represent the protection or salvation of Jewish people, or any people. As we have demonstrated here, their attempt to vilify and shame anti-Zionists merely exposes the antisemitism at the heart of their nationalist will to dominance. Against this Christian Zionist attempt to hijack our own struggle against our experiences of prejudice and oppression so that they can secure state power, we proclaim: the Heritage Foundation has no Project Esther. Instead, we represent the living legacy of Esther. As Jewish anti-Zionists, we will fight for the survival of a different image and a different historical role for the Jewish people. Neither colonizers nor props for state violence and repression, we are proud, anti-Zionist Jews engaged in collective struggle for justice, peace, and the survival of a plural and interdependent humanity.
The opinions expressed in this post are solely those of the individual authors and do not represent the official opinions of the Contending Modernities research initiative, the Kroc Institute for International Peace Studies, the Keough School of Global Affairs, the University of Notre Dame, or their faculty and staff.
In The Muslim Difference: Defining the Line between Believers and Unbelievers from Early Islam to the Present, Youshaa Patel outlines what he terms a “genealogy of Muslim difference” (4). He traces how Muslim scholars, the ‘Ulamā, since Islam’s inception, articulated what it means to be uniquely Muslim as opposed to Christian, Jewish, Zoroastrian, pagan, etc. These differences are sometimes expressed at the level of doctrinal difference—for example, concerning the unity of God—and sometimes concern seemingly smaller differences, like the types of clothing one does or does not wear. These various forms of difference are treated by Patel with equal concern, for both are significant ways of distinguishing one form of identity from another, and both are realized in embodied historical actors. The admonition to not “imitate” and to retain one’s difference is traced by Patel through various on-the-ground interpretations of the “imitation Hadith,” which says, “Whoever imitates a people becomes one of them.” While often carrying a negative valence in the interpretive tradition, several of Patel’s interlocutors show in this symposium that it need not necessarily carry that meaning. Sometimes imitation is the way to cultivate a particular character or disposition.
As noted already, Patel resists treating Muslim difference solely in terms of abstract philosophical or theological disputes between Muslim and non-Muslim communities. To do so would assume that disembodied discourses govern the lives of concrete historical actors. This problematic approach, he contends, reflects a western Protestant bias that “creates rigid (and artificial) dichotomies between belief and practice, texts and things, subject and object” (25). The former terms, often, are conceptualized as eternal and existing outside the rumble tumble of history. At the twilight of our secular age, these biases remain no less present—despite claims that they have been overcome—since this age was in part born from European Protestant Christianity, as numerous scholars cited by Patel have shown. Patel’s genealogy, for this reason, remains relevant not only to Islamic studies scholars, but scholars of religion, secularism, and modernity more broadly who seek alternative ways to conceptualize difference. Even as we witness turns to the “postsecular” and the “postliberal” as alternatives to the political and social world of modernity, we should remain alert to the way previous biases take on new forms while retaining the same flawed assumptions.
One of the key interventions that Patel makes into the discourse on Muslim difference is to suggest that imitation, by itself, is not negatively charged. Anna Bigelow brings this feature of Patel’s book out when she trains her attention on Chapter 6, “A Person Belongs with the One He Loves.” She describes the significance of thinking about Sufi models of emulation as not only objects of study, but as interlocutors who might help us unpack the ethical significance of imitation. Uniquely, Bigelow points out, the Sufis that Patel analyzes reveal imitation as a mode of self-cultivation the result of which might prove to be redemptive.
Ashwak Hauter, meanwhile, puts Patel’s history into conversation with her own ethnographic fieldwork among Muslim physicians and patients. She focuses especially on afiya, which are the “ethico-religious virtues” that guide Muslim physicians. Difference here is marked by the way physicians seek to incorporate Islamic ways of understanding into their medical practice, rather than simply imitate the practices of doctors in the US and Europe. This notion of difference, Hauter contends, is deeply embedded in the Islamic tradition, penetrating into the difference between the self and the soul. Such theologically robust understandings of difference make possible a “field of possible exchange, recognition, and innovation.”
Martin Nguyen switches the register of engaging difference from the “cultural” or “religious” to the broader level of the human species. On Nguyen’s account, we are programmed, as human animals, for difference. The danger is when we place ourselves at the center of humanity and inscribe the differences we see in others with a negative connotation. To recognize one’s own “inhumanity,” Nguyen contends, is necessary if we are to deflate the triumphalism that attends to those in power who reject or ignore difference.
Haroon Sidat, finally, draws on Patel’s work to better understand his own experience of working among imams in the UK as part of his ethnographic fieldwork. He notes how he was transformed as he imitated the imams with whom he was working. This transformation, he makes clear, is one that cultivated a unique ethical and religious worldview in him. In this way, Sidat shows how imitation is not of relevance only for those we “study,” but also for our own moral cultivation.
Patel, in his response, takes up the themes engaged with by his interlocutors, focusing especially on the ethically ambiguous nature of imitation as understood within the historical Islamic tradition. He ends his piece by suggesting that his wider goal in the book is to make possible a positive vision of “Muslim difference” that neither rejects nor assimilates to the west. Indeed, his hope is to offer resources for building a “Muslim modernity” from the sources that have sustained the tradition.
Taken together, these essays represent the many paths of inquiry that Patel’s book opens up, whether that be in how we conduct fieldwork, think about the problem of difference philosophically, or understand the aims of the study of religion. As we continue to grapple with the rise of populism, oligarchy, and nationalism across the globe, Patel’s study of religious difference reminds us that imitation and difference are multilayered and contain the potential for influencing various forms of political and social life.
Joshua S. Lupo is the Assistant Director of the Contending Modernities research initiative. In this role, he serves as the editor and writer for the Contending Modernities Blog and the classroom coordinator for the Madrasa Discourses program. He has published articles and reviews in Sophia, Soundings, Critical Muslim, Reading Religion, and Religious Studies Review. With CM Co-Director Atalia Omer, he is the co-editor of Broken Solidarities: Feminism, Race, and Transnationalism (Notre Dame Press, 2022) and Religion, Populism, and Modernity: Confronting White Christian Nationalism and Racism (Notre Dame Press, 2023). His current book project is titled After Essentialism: A Critical Phenomenology for the Study of Religion.
The Mackenzie Delta where each year the Mackenzie River empties melted snow and ice into the arctic ocean.
There are concepts in the field of religion that have solidified, like water into ice, into a definitive, if not permanent, shape. In the conversations featured here between Barbara Sostaita, author of Sanctuary Everywhere, and Dana Lloyd, author of Land is Kin, several of these concepts—sovereignty, the sacred, religious freedom—are melted back down into a more fluid form. The result is that they are allowed to flow into passageways previously unimaginable, whether in applying the concept of the sacred to practices of resistance or to understanding Indigenous ways of relating to land and the people who occupy it. My reflections here build on the questions and answers raised by Sostaita and Lloyd in their interviews with one another and specifically highlight the conceptual innovations in their interventions into the study of religion, coloniality, and modernity.
Retheorizing the Sacred
In the same spirit as scholars like An Yountae and J. Kameron Carter, Sostaita understands the sacred—which the concept of sanctuary is linguistically linked to—as that which interrupts our normal ways of understanding the world. The sacred is a potential disrupter of hegemonic forms of domination such as White supremacy, heteronormativity, and neoliberalism. The people Sostaita accompanies in her book challenge the authority of border control agents to determine who does and who does not belong and who is and who is not worthy of value. They plant crosses where people have died migrating across the border; they give food and water to those ICE would prefer remain hungry, desperate, and easier to detain; they house those who would otherwise face death under unbearable conditions. As highlighted in Lloyd’s interview with Sostaita, such a study by nature meanders from place to place, topic to topic, in an effort to avoid fixing on one or another particular account of what is or is not sacred, the latter being a project in which the state is often invested. Sostaita, mirroring her subjects, is always on the move with the sacred, discovering and rediscovering it in unlikely places.
Sostaita traces her account of the sacred through classical theoretical sources such as Emile Durkheim, Georges Bataille, and others who saw the sacred as disruptive of the ordinary and thus a powerful means by which to challenge the status quo and traditional authorities. Of course, in the study of religion the sacred has often been understood as a uniquely conservative, even reactionary, force. For Mircea Eliade, one of the most influential twentieth century historians of religion, the sacred does interrupt our day-to-day experiences, but it does so in order to reestablish a premodern order to society. If scholars following in Sostaita’s genealogy seek to evoke the sacred in order to challenge modernity’s hierarchies, Eliadean-influenced scholars evoke it in order to reestablish a premodern hierarchy. For Sostaita, sacrality’s fluidity is to be embraced, whereas for Eliade it is to be resisted.
This challenge to the ordinary that the sacred represents in both Sostaita and Eliade is nonetheless one that scholars have mostly abandoned, as Sostaita briefly notes in the book and reiterates in the interview. Beginning with J.Z. Smith and becoming most pronounced in the work of Russell McCutcheon, the construction of notions of the sacred have been understood to stem from the specific interests of those defining the term rather than any essential content the term might represent. The sacred most often has served to universalize Protestant Christian visions of religion and their accompanying liberal humanitarianism. Thus its “analytical” value is seen as suspect and lacking in rigor.
For Sostaita, sacrality’s fluidity is to be embraced, whereas for Eliade it is to be resisted.
But scholarly critiques, like the concepts with which they engage, can become too set in stone, too resistant to new formations, especially when guilds and conferences are structured around either their preservation or deconstruction. Sostaita reminds us that a fluid conceptualization of the sacred need not serve reactionary purposes. Indeed, it might afford quite the opposite. This is a possibility that those who critique Eliade and other “historians of religion” foreclose when they treat the sacred as immutably tied to its previous formulations. The critique of the sacred, in this case, is parasitic upon what is critiqued. For critics of the sacred and its defenders, the concept is less like ice and more like stone.
Religious Freedom and Indigenous Sovereignty
Sostaita’s approach to the sacred is rooted in her desire to make sense of the actions of those she spent time with in the Sonoran desert during her fieldwork. Oftentimes, the sacred is a term she applies to their actions even when it is not one they themselves apply. It is a pragmatic tool used to analyze actions rather than an ontological claim about the reality of the sacred. Lloyd, in a slightly different vein, investigates the very real way religion and the sacred have been mobilized in the legal realm to manage and control Indigenous peoples and their land. Focusing on the Lyng Supreme Court case, she brings to light the way “religious freedom” was mobilized by Indigenous plaintiffs and government defendants alike to claim sovereignty over a portion of land that the national forest service hoped to build a road on in order to transport timber. The case was won by the Indigenous plaintiffs at the lower level on religious freedom grounds, but lost at the Supreme Court when it ruled that the government’s property rights superseded the right to religious freedom for the Indigenous population. In the majority opinion, Justice O’Connor made clear that the Indigenous claim to the land went beyond the religious freedom that the constitution was required to protect. In separating religion from the Indigenous worldview, Justice O’Connor in effect subjected it to an alien US/European colonial framework. As Lloyd makes clear in her interview, this framework is also ontological. As Sostaita’s questions and Lloyd’s response to them help unpack, treating Indigenous claims as ones that are “religious,” and therefore a matter of private belief, has the effect of Protestantizing Indigenous beliefs and removing claims to sovereignty over land from the conversation. In other words, it frames the conversation in such a way that the Indigenous worldview is excluded from the start.
But Lloyd also goes beyond this framework to show how resistance to practices of land theft by the US government require using, at times, the settler colonial framework of sovereignty and religious freedom. The Yurok people, she shows, use concepts like the sacred and religious freedom strategically, often to successful ends. What Lloyd shows then, like Sostaita, is that the concepts of religious freedom, the sacred, and sovereignty are not frozen in their genealogical ice mold. Rather, they are terms that hold possibilities for resignifying and reimagining. A binary framework that would see Indigenous and governmental claims to sovereignty as exclusive would be unable to account for this kind of creative agency among Indigenous actors.
What Lloyd shows then, is that the concepts of religious freedom, the sacred, and sovereignty are not frozen in their genealogical ice mold. Rather, they are terms that hold possibilities for resignifying and reimagining.
In the study of religion, modernity, and secularism, there is no shortage of attempts to frame the secular/religion binary and the modern/premodern binary as a good/bad binary, with the value attached to them dependent upon the motives of those employing the terms. Yet, by focusing on what the sacred does, as each of these books seeks to do, we see that that there are multiple ways of contesting authority, often in subtle ways that challenge those in power. In this manner, Lloyd and Sostaita show us how we might move beyond the sacred/profane binary that both its defenders and critics are parasitic upon. By treating such concepts as heuristics that are contingent upon the particular circumstances in which they are applied, they loosen the constraints of modern/colonial frameworks and chart new arroyos down which they may travel.
Joshua S. Lupo is the Assistant Director of the Contending Modernities research initiative. In this role, he serves as the editor and writer for the Contending Modernities Blog and the classroom coordinator for the Madrasa Discourses program. He has published articles and reviews in Sophia, Soundings, Critical Muslim, Reading Religion, and Religious Studies Review. With CM Co-Director Atalia Omer, he is the co-editor of Broken Solidarities: Feminism, Race, and Transnationalism (Notre Dame Press, 2022) and Religion, Populism, and Modernity: Confronting White Christian Nationalism and Racism (Notre Dame Press, 2023). His current book project is titled After Essentialism: A Critical Phenomenology for the Study of Religion.
Barbara Sostaita (BS): Hi Dana! I’m so excited to chat about Land is Kin and your reading of the Lyng case. Can you open our conversation by sharing an overview of your project and its arguments, and perhaps the different conceptions of land you engage with in the book—land as home, property, sacred, wild, kin?
Dana Lloyd (DL): Thanks, Barbara! Yes, I’m thrilled for our conversation to continue. At the center of Land Is Kin is a place known as the High Country. It is a forest of Douglas fir trees taller than 300 feet, where pre-human ancestors called woge reside, Indigenous doctors train, and medicine is made and gathered. It is the sacred homeland of the Yurok, Karuk, Hupa, and Tolowa Nations, but it is managed by the U.S. government as the Six Rivers National Forest, among the Siskiyou Mountains in Northern California.
In the 1980s, the Yurok, Karuk, and Tolowa Nations argued in court against cutting 733 million board feet of the trees in the High Country over 80 years, as well as against completing the final six-mile section of a logging road known as the G-O Road because it was supposed to connect the towns Gasquet and Orleans. They argued that what the forest service referred to as developing the High Country would irreparably damage their ability to practice their religion in the area, and that free exercise of religion was promised to them by the U.S. Constitution and by the American Indian Religious Freedom Act (1978). The case went all the way up to the U.S. Supreme Court, and while the nations won in the lower courts, in the Supreme Court, where the case is known as Lyng v. Northwest Indian Cemetery Protective Association(1988), they lost.
Given that the Supreme Court only hears 70 cases a year, which make about 10% of the cases brought in front of it, I was surprised to learn that a case about six miles in the middle of a forest made the cut, and even more surprised that the nations lost. In order to answer my questions about Lyng I needed to do two things. The case has been argued, decided, and studied as a case about religious freedom—there are hundreds of law review articles dissecting the nuances of Justice O’Connor’s majority opinion, and every first-year law student in the United States reads it for class—but I needed more context: I especially wanted to see what the testimony and evidence in the original trial were about. I also needed a new theoretical framework with which to think about the case, and I found that thinking of it as a case about Indigenous sovereignty was more productive than thinking of it as a case about religious freedom. And centering sovereignty meant centering land.
I argue in the book that Native American sacred sites cases, especially when the sites are owned by the U.S. government, pit against each other ideas about land as sacred and land as property as mutually exclusive. When this is the case, in a competition between property and religion, property is always going to win, because property is the paradigmatic right and land is the paradigmatic property. But when I read Lyng in its context, I saw that land played other roles in the case as well. While the plaintiffs talked about the High County as their home and as their kin, their lawyers had to focus on the place as sacred and wild, but the forest service and the justices saw it as no more than government property. My reading of the case shows that all these ideas about land could actually live together (just as they do in your own reading of the Sonoran Desert, Barbara). Ultimately, I argue that a multi-faceted understanding of land could lead to a more just treatment of it (and of its people).
(BS): Thanks, Dana. I want to dwell on your emphasis on Indigenous sovereignty. You elaborate on this argument in chapter two of Land is Kin. I was really struck by the ways you unsettle binaries, inhabiting a “third space” (I might call this nepantla). You write that “land can be simultaneously understood as property and as other things that ostensibly contradict the idea of land as property;” you trouble the religious freedom framework that sees religion as either public or private and the “false choice” of having to choose between “acknowledging Indigenous sovereignty with the consequence of destructing the sovereignty of the occupying state; or continuing to deny Indigenous sovereignty.” Can you share more about how you engage with categories or frameworks that might be seen as contradictory or at odds with each other and how you dwell in this in-between, particularly regarding “sovereignty?” What does this approach make possible?
(DL): Thanks for this fantastic question, Barbara. I came to this project thinking that Lyng is a case about Indigenous sovereignty rather than religious freedom. But I thought the case was about sovereignty because the question at its heart was who had the power to decide the fate of the High Country (sovereignty of people over lands). I ultimately understood that I needed a new conception of sovereignty, as partnership with the land (the land decides people’s fate just as much as we decide her fate, if not more so). A few things happened along the way that helped me to see how the different binaries at play in the case fall apart. The more I talked to Yurok (and other Indigenous) lawyers and activists, the more I realized that they don’t only use religious freedom strategically (as opposed to using it out of genuine belief in the idea of religious freedom), they also use sovereignty strategically, when talking at the United Nations, for example. Sovereignty, as they told me, is a western, colonial concept just as much as religion is. So the opposition I had imagined between religious freedom and Indigenous sovereignty as two different theoretical frameworks started losing its significance. As I worked on the book, other binaries started seeming less meaningful as well. Each chapter tells the story of a sphere that has been used as a colonial tool (property, for example, but also the wilderness discourse, religion, and kinship) but also demonstrates how Indigenous peoples have used these spheres as sites of resistance. Ultimately, settler law itself becomes a site of resistance, where Yurok and Karuk testimonies can be seen as bringing Yurok and Karuk ceremony, Yurok and Karuk law, into the settler courtroom.
Furthermore, if we think of this case (of the relationship between Yurok and Karuk people and the High Country) in terms of rights, the outcome of Lyng seems devastating. But as Native American Studies scholar Cutcha Risling Baldy (Hupa, Yurok, Karuk) writes, these peoples still gather medicine in the High Country, enacting what she calls “bio-cultural sovereignty.” If at the beginning of working on this project I thought of it all in terms of struggle, I can now see that collaboration also opens up possibilities (the dam removal from the Klamath River is a result of the tribes working together with the states of California and Oregon; the Yurok Tribal Court coordinates a lot of its cases with state and county courts, successfully getting people out of the federal system). In this sense, the binary notion of sovereignty (according to which the sovereignty of the nation-state and Indigenous sovereignty are mutually exclusive) is harmful.
Excavators clear the Iron Gate Dam from the Klamath River. Via Wikimedia Commons.
I want to think, even more broadly, about decolonization in the sense of land return. Decolonization also becomes more possible when we give up binary thinking. I love Elisha Chi’s work on these questions, and how she demonstrates that many things we may not think of as successful #landback initiatives actually are exactly that. And so, even though when I end the book with the Klamath River dam removal I don’t write about it as an instance of #landback, I do want to offer it here as such.
(BS): Yes!! To build on that previous question and your answer, I was in awe of how multivocal your book is—you engage with the words and voices of lawyers, expert witnesses, and Yurok and Karuk witnesses (which, as you point out in the first chapter, are not mentioned in the Supreme Court decision at all), among others. As you introduce us to these different voices, it becomes clear that you are also introducing us to different ontologies. Can you share more about what it meant as a scholar and writer to engage with (and bring together) these different, though partially connected, worlds?
(DL): This is such a great question! My friend and colleague Cecilia Titizano writes that decolonization requires us to stop reducing ontological conflicts into merely epistemological ones.[1] She’d say that underlying cases like Lyng is an ontological dispute over the nature of reality. Specifically, it is a dispute over the nature of the sacred, as we see (perhaps even more robustly) in your own book, Barbara. For the Supreme Court justices, including Justice Brennan who wrote the dissenting opinion in Lyng, what we have here is an epistemological difference: the Yurok, Karuk, and Tolowa peoples consider the High Country to be sacred. No one is asking whether or not the land is actually sacred, and this is in line with the legal framework of “sincerely held belief.” There is no dispute that the plaintiffs in the G-O Road case believe, sincerely, that the High Country is sacred. And therefore the only question the courts are concerned with is that of access—does the forest service’s development plan prohibit those who consider the land sacred from accessing it in order to perform religious ceremony? If the answer is negative, if there is no prohibition, there should be no problem with executing this development plan.
But the Yurok and Karuk witnesses are saying something different. Their argument is not about their belief system. The High Country is sacred, regardless of who considers it so, and doing what the forest service wants to do there has consequences. As the Theodoratus Report (the main piece of evidence submitted in court) explains, “‘improper’ removal [of the trees from the High Country] is likely to bring extremely bad luck or disease to the offender (whether he/she be a believer or a non-believer).” I like witness Chris Peters’s explanation of why constructing a logging road in the High Country is problematic: to demonstrate why asphalt does not belong there he offers an analogy: “last night a woman . . . prayed for us, and to do that effectively, she had to take off everything that was a white man’s stuff, jewelry and things like that, to engage the powers that she has. In the same respect here, you are bringing into a spiritual area something that is foreign to that area, and it is an intrusion.” Peters explains the ontological dispute and at the same time brings into the conversation colonial invasion. Asphalt does not belong in the High Country because it desecrates it; asphalt does not belong in the High Country because it is the White man’s asphalt. The road does not belong in the High Country because White settlers do not belong in the High Country. It is the Yurok, Karuk, and Tolowa home that the government proposes to invade, and it is only in this context that we can fully understand the G-O Road case.
To go back to Titizano, what she calls “the coloniality of the real” negates the presence of multiple ontologies and transforms them into many cultures (multiculturalism), reducing ontological conflicts into merely epistemological ones. Only “western” ontology is considered universal. Reducing what Peters describes as Yurok and Karuk ontology (one might say, theology) into a cultural belief ultimately helps to justify colonial invasion. And so Land Is Kin wants to read all the stories about land that we hear in Lyng (both the colonial-legal story and the Indigenous story) as multiple ontologies that can co-exist.
(BS): I have learned so much from your book and this exchange, Dana. For the last question, I want to turn to your last chapter and conclusion. Here, you write about a 2019 resolution passed by the Yurok Tribal Council that extended rights to the Klamath River and about a project authorized in 2022 to remove four dams from the Klamath River, clearing hundreds of miles of salmon habitat. In these sections, you engage with questions of rights, responsibilities, and obligations—continuing, as you have throughout the book, to unsettle false binaries and insist on multiplicity. I’m interested in hearing more about the role of land in nurturing or pursuing rights and kinship. You write about water’s refusal to “adhere to state, municipal, or reservation boundaries.” You refer to the “agency of place” and to “land as a protagonist.” Ultimately, you suggest, “If we started this book’s journey with the human right to use the land … we are ending it with the rights of the land itself.” How is land active, alive, present, and engaged in the struggles you write about in Land is Kin?
(DL): I end the book with the Yurok Tribal Council’s 2019 recognition of the Klamath River as a legal person, and I see it as an assertion of Yurok sovereignty, which is tied, importantly, with the Yurok’s fulfillment of their obligation to care for the river. But I want to emphasize here that recognition, legal or otherwise, is not what makes the river (or land more generally) into a person. Land is alive, and its agency does not depend on recognition by human beings. The fact that the High Country has not been domesticated (or “developed,” as the forest service thinks of it), that it has maintained its integrity through two hundred years of colonial invasion, including the Lyng case, suggests as much.
Klamath Basin Tribes and allies from commercial fishing and conservation organizations stage a rally at the bi-annual meeting of the international hydropower industry in 2006. Via Wikimedia Commons.
The witnesses in the G-O Road trial describe instances when they were called to go to the High Country to talk with the Great Spirit (some say they have received warnings from the Great Spirit, that something bad would happen if they don’t go). Since the question of accessibility (or inaccessibility) of the High Country is central to the case, the judge asks witness Chris Peters what happens if one gets a calling, or a warning, during wintertime, when snow makes it impossible to walk into the High Country. Peters responds: “It would depend on the individual. The individual may die. Bad things may happen to his family, members of his family could die.” The judge keeps questioning: would a person try anyway? Even knowing that you can’t make it? and Peters explains that it depends on a person’s persistence: “If your children were dying, you might attempt to do that.” I think this exchange contains everything we need to know about land’s agency and about kinship. The Great Spirit might call you to go to the High Country, and nevertheless, the High Country might kill you for trying to get there. If it is your family you are trying to protect, you might attempt a visit to the High Country even knowing you will likely fail; indeed, you might try even knowing it will probably kill you. We could see an analogy here to the Lyng case itself: knowing that they are doomed to lose in a settler court—indeed, knowing that such a loss may have serious consequences for future Indigenous sacred sites cases—the Yurok, Karuk, and Tolowa people are doing everything they can to protect the High Country as their kin.
And even though the Lyng case was lost, the High Country is still free. The Klamath River is running free now, after the largest dam removal project in U.S. history was completed in 2024. I think that these triumphs have a lot to do with the people declaring and executing their sovereignty, but I think that the High Country and the Klamath River are also working here to free or heal themselves (and their people). I think about my own children. Often, when they struggle to achieve something, the knowledge that I’m there with them is enough for them to succeed on their own. I have responsibility to care for them, but they have the agency, and capacity, to try and succeed. And of course, they take care of me as well. When I think about the relationship between the Yurok people and the High Country or the Klamath River as kinship, this is the kind of reciprocity I think about. Thanks, Barbara, for helping me see my own work with new eyes here.
[1] Cecilia Titizano and Dana Lloyd, “The Bankruptcy of the Category of Religion: A Decolonizing Approach,” Journal of the Council for Research on Religion, vol. 5 no. 3 (forthcoming).
Barbara Sostaita (she/ella) is a scholar of religion and global migration, and an Assistant Professor in Latin American and Latino Studies at the University of Illinois Chicago. Her book, Sanctuary Everywhere: The Fugitive Sacred in the Sonoran Desert (Duke University Press, 2024), colludes with migrants melting the border’s steel bars through excess touch, artists summoning the migrant dead, and activists leaving water in the Sonoran Desert—in defiance of prevention through deterrence, in celebration of life that transgresses walls and bans.
Dana Lloyd (DL): Dear Barbara, I am thrilled to begin this conversation about your book, Sanctuary Everywhere, and some of our mutual interests. I’d like to start by inviting you to unpack the broad argument of your book and relay some of the key interventions it makes in the field.
Barbara Sostaita (BS): Dana, I want to open by naming how important it was for me to form part of the theories of land working group that you and Evan Berry convened a couple of years ago. Being in conversation with you and other participants deepened my engagement with land, inviting me to think more capaciously about the Sonoran Desert and its more-than-human forms of life. Since our collaborations with each other begin with land, I want to start by situating sanctuary as emerging through sets of relations—between and among the living and dead, the human and more-than-human, the past and present, the sacred and profane. Sanctuary, then, is fragile and fleeting, emergent and mobile. I began this project by proposing that sanctuary is not a singular place, and that this practice cannot be confined to one location, that is, a church, city, university, restaurant, hospital, or safe house. But that does not mean that sanctuary does not emerge through and engage with land. I really like how Hugo Canham describes Mpondoland and Mpondo theory in his book Riotous Deathscapes, and it applies to sanctuary, too—“Located, but in motion” (14).
Sanctuary Everywhere traces the ways people on the move—migrants, activists, artists—engage in fugitive practices of care. It turns to four scenes: (1) moments when land and its more-than-human formations refuse or defy the enforcement strategy known as Prevention Through Deterrence, (2) when incarcerated migrants pursue illicit or forbidden touch inside detention centers, (3) when a deported nurse tends to the wounds and spiritual needs of migrants in Nogales, Sonora, and (4) when the desert’s dead restlessly haunt the living and refuse closure from humanitarian workers. It is an ethnography focused on the Sonora-Arizona borderlands, not because the border is the only site of immigration enforcement but instead because there is a long history of fugitive activity in this region. From Chinese migrants who crossed the Sonoran Desert covertly during the era of Asian exclusion to enslaved Africans who fled south to evade capture, the Sonoran Desert is—to quote Samuel Truett—a “fugitive landscape.”
I always struggle with questions about my interventions because I see myself more as a curator or maybe even a medium—an intermediate or someone who relays messages between worlds. The word “sanctuary” comes from sanctus or the sacred. And in this book, I hope to encourage scholars to think about the sacred as unruly, disruptive, and dangerous to the everyday—a fugitive movement that unsettles the profane, or everyday. The sacred refuses to recognize boundaries. It restlessly seeks escape from the profane world of policing, militarization, and bordered nation-states. In writing about the sacred, I draw inspiration from abolitionist thinkers and practitioners who are laboring towards defunding, disrupting, and dismantling the present and who see abolition not as an arrival but as an ongoing practice and process. Extending Georges Bataille’s and Michel Foucault’s theories of transgression, I consider sanctuary and the sacred as life-transforming disruptions of immigration enforcement operations, as these vibrant and ephemeral moments that interrupt the everyday. As, to draw inspiration from Angela Davis, a practice of experimentation in refusing the everyday and ordinary. If this is an intervention, it is also an inheritance. One that comes from the Black Radical Tradition and from scholars like M. Jacqui Alexander and Gloria Anzaldúa, who have made it possible for me to think of the sacred as on the move.
(DL): Thanks for this, Barbara. Reading your book, I could hear echoes of our conversations from a couple of years ago, conversations that had a similar impact on my own thinking.
In some ways, your book begins where mine ends. You talk about meandering as your method but also as the land’s (or water’s) method of resisting authority—especially state authority. I end my book with the story of the Klamath River, and how rivers are especially helpful in challenging the binary notion of sovereignty—only nation-states can be sovereign—because they do not obey state borders. I end my book with the removal of four dams from the Klamath River and you write in your first chapter that “[e]ven the dams that allegedly tamed the wild river have a life span. Concrete wears down. The water will flow again” (46).
In your answer above, you speak about sanctuary as a set of relations, but in the book, you also write about land as a set of relations. I read your “meandering method” as perhaps your way to enter into a relationship with the land of the Sonoran Desert.
So I’m especially eager to hear you talk more about this method, as your own method, as the desert’s method, and about the relationship between the two.
(BS): What a beautiful connection between our two books. Your reflections on sovereignty are precisely why I was also drawn to meandering. My method was in part inspired by Nicole Antebi’s meander maps of the Río Bravo, which trace how the water interrupted and even disturbed Mexico’s and the United States’ efforts to establish fixed borders in the aftermath of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. She shows how the river constantly refuses the state’s designs and instrumental aims. The meandering of the river, to me, pointed to how land and its many more-than-human formations defy the ambitions of states, capitalists, and “settler-conquistadors” (to cite Tiffany Lethabo-King) to tame or operationalize their sacred energies. The Sonoran Desert moves—from dry washes that fill with water during monsoons to jumping cholla that latch onto skin or clothing and javelinas that leave behind seeds as they cross borders.
The author, Barbara Sostaita, carries a cross to be planted into the Sonoran desert. Image courtesy of Alex Morelli.
When writing the book, I wanted the prose to honor these movements as well as the movements of people—which unfold alongside and through land. The people I met in the Sonora-Arizona borderlands were constantly on the move (or being moved)—traversing the desert’s underground passages, being smuggled to detention centers, relocating from one humanitarian shelter to another, visiting the sites where migrant remains were found, over and over again. As I suggest in the book, migrants and their collaborators are not fixed in place, and neither are the words on the page. My meandering method points to these detours and precarious itineraries. It honors the exit routes that humans and more-than-human forms of life pursue, their restless and unsettling movements. Meandering is a sacred movement, one that escapes comprehension and exceeds intelligibility.
I’m so grateful that you identified the meandering method as an attempt to seek or pursue relation with the desert. Like my theorization of sanctuary, relation too refers to a practice, not a destination.
I wanted the text to show that I, too, am on the move—as an ethnographer, writer, and migrant. I meander from scene to scene, inviting the reader along as I join humanitarian water drops, plant crosses for migrants, attend my citizenship ceremony, and return to Argentina for the first time in over twenty years. Édouard Glissant refers to relation as a “modern form of the sacred,” as chaotic, unruly, endlessly under construction–“a disorder one can imagine forever” (16, 133). In a sense, my meandering method owes a lot to his understanding of relation and his conceptualization of errantry—as movement that does not and cannot settle, that is circular and ongoing. At points, my chapters dwell on the paradoxes and ambiguities of practices of sanctuary without reaching a definitive conclusion or cohesive argument. I also write about the ethnographic task as one that will always be unfinished. For me, this comes from Glissant and his insistence on relation.
(DL): Thank you. If your meandering method is about relations, then your theoretical framework seems to be about relations as well. I love the idea of sanctuary as practice—could you unpack it for us? Your second chapter—”The Detained”—broke my heart, but I don’t think that was your intention. You theorize sanctuary, through instances of contraband touch in migrant detention centers, as abolitionist care work, but as we see later in the book, sanctuary and care travel with migrants across borders (“Chapter 3: The Deported”), and it is not limited to living people either (“Chapter 4: The Dead”). I guess what I’m asking is to hear more about sanctuary as a practice of care and about your relational theoretical framework.
(BS): When I began researching this book in 2017, Donald Trump had recently assumed the presidential office, and, in response, organizers across the country (and elsewhere in the Americas) were taking up the tradition of sanctuary. I learned about sanctuary homes and restaurants. I read a press release by Pueblo Sin Fronteras—a group that organizes migrant caravans—demanding Mexico declare itself a “sanctuary country” for migrants traversing its vertical borderlands. And I spoke with activists from the 1980s Sanctuary Movement (including Reverend John Fife), who explained that sanctuary continues to inform the work of organizations like the Tucson Samaritans and No More Deaths. My first questions were: Why this particular tradition? In what ways is sanctuary portable? And then, when I began to hear about the Trump administration targeting groups like No More Deaths—raiding their humanitarian camp in the desert, arresting their volunteers—and about the experiences of migrants who described living in sanctuary as a form of confinement or even incarceration, I started wondering about the limits of this tradition when it is imagined as a fixed place of protection. In the face of widespread surveillance, policing, and militarization and in a context where borders exist as “mobile technologies” (to cite my colleagues Jonathan Inda and Julie Dowling), sanctuary cannot be confined to a stable or singular place.
A section of the border wall along the US-Mexico border. Image courtesy of Alex Morelli.
Instead, I propose that sanctuary is a practice and process—never guaranteed nor settled. María Puig de la Bellacasa is helpful here, describing care as the “concrete work of maintenance,” as work that entails ritual and repetition and involves touch and labor (5). As a practice, sanctuary is emergent and creative, endlessly being made and remade. In the book, I think seriously about the etymology of this practice—which comes from the Latin sanctus, meaning sacred. And though many in religious studies have let go of the binary of the profane and sacred, I find it really useful for thinking about taboos, prohibitions, transgression, and immanence or intimacy. What I find really interesting about the sacred is that it’s kept separate from the profane because of its potential to disturb and unsettle the everyday, and because sacred beings and forces move. They are slippery, contagious, unstable, precarious, and even fickle. Notably, sanctus refers to a place, person, or object that has been made sacred, that has been dedicated, consecrated, and set apart. The sacred must be made, over and over again.
In the chapter you mention, “The Detained,” I consider how migrants confined in detention centers defy prohibitions on touch. I think about touch as sacred–positive and negative, healing and harming, alluring and threatening. I consider how scholars like Émile Durkheim theorize the sacred as contagious, as eager to spread through touch and proximity. There are countless taboos on touch in the prison—even for visitors like me. In the last chapter, “The Dead,” I introduce readers to Álvaro Enciso, who plants crosses for migrants who died attempting the border crossing. He describes his project as one that “defaces” and “disturbs” the desert. For me, sanctuary emerges in these moments when taboos are disrupted, when migrants and other activists transgress prohibitions, even if only momentarily. In this way, I propose that fugitive sanctuary is at odds with law and order, incompatible with charters and petitions. When we try to instrumentalize sanctuary and incorporate it into our world of policy and procedure, we are striving to tame or master a practice that is inherently out of grasp or reach. But sanctuary exceeds us.
Lastly, I don’t think my intention was for the second chapter to break your heart. But it was to invite you to enter into a kind of intimacy with my collaborators. I did want the prose to touch you.
(DL): Yes, it has touched me; indeed, the whole book touched me, and I think it is mainly because of your relationships with your protagonists—Eva, Juana, the dead whose names you recite at the end of chapter 4—and since so much of our conversation has been about relations, I’d like to invite you to reflect on your protagonists and about the relationships you have developed with them during your work on the book. You opened our conversation by saying you see yourself as a kind of medium. I think I could hear your own voice very clearly as I was reading the book, but I also appreciate this notion of the author as a curator or medium. Maybe you could tell us a little bit about balancing story (channeling the voices of your interlocutors) and analysis (bringing in your scholarly lens) in your writing?
(BS): What draws me to ethnography is the capacity for developing relationships with people who not only reaffirm but often challenge my ideas or presumptions. For example, when I first visited Juana at St. Barnabas, I didn’t really expect to hear her describe the violences of sanctuary and how they were felt on her body—the pressure of the ankle monitor squeezing her leg, the lower back pain caused by her stillness and inactivity while confined to the church. I try to show the reader glimpses of moments when other people intervene in my analysis—like Tristan Reader warning me not to “delocate” sanctuary or Panchito chastising me for not taking photographs while conducting fieldwork. The analysis, in that sense, is relational. My scholarly lens emerged alongside the stories people told me and the arguments they themselves formed about their work. And that goes both ways—I know that Álvaro, for example, has shifted some of the language he uses to describe the desert in response to a lunchtime conversation we had about my first chapter and land’s refusals.
We learn from and theorize in conversation with each other. I did often bring in my scholarly analysis—like, once, as we were planting a cross for the dead, Álvaro showed me a cross that migrants had turned into a shrine. While crossing the desert, people had left behind coins, votive candles, and garlic bulbs, likely hoping for safe passage. I told Álvaro that this scene reminded me of what Elaine Peña in Performing Piety calls “devotional labor.” He really appreciated that term, which encouraged me to use it in the book. There were other moments during fieldwork when he said something, like describing his work as desecration, which inspired me to turn to Michael Taussig and his theories of defacement. Álvaro may not have expected me to use that word—desecration—as I did, as a sacred practice (he first saw it as the opposite of sacred), but I really enjoyed chasing these unexpected turns and theoretical meanders.
I saw myself in Álvaro—in his care for language and poetics, in his sense of being in-between, never having fully arrived in the United States yet not identifying with his homeland either. With Eva, though our situations were completely different—she was incarcerated, and I was conducting fieldwork—I understood and even shared her solitude. I met her weeks after moving to Arizona. At the time, I had no friends, family, or colleagues nearby. We kept each other company. Panchito drew me in—magnetic, charming, verbose. Spending time with him in Nogales was like being a celebrity’s groupie, and—as he says in the book—he saw me as another person in need, like the poor and wounded he tends to as a nurse. Distance makes maintaining these relationships very difficult and as I begin work on my next projects, I’ve decided that I won’t begin projects outside of the place where I live moving forward. Relationships demand presence and consistency. But I think (or at least I hope) that, in the relationships I developed in the field, we could all contribute to each other’s lives—to offer each other sanctuary, if only briefly.
Barbara Sostaita (she/ella) is a scholar of religion and global migration, and an Assistant Professor in Latin American and Latino Studies at the University of Illinois Chicago. Her book, Sanctuary Everywhere: The Fugitive Sacred in the Sonoran Desert (Duke University Press, 2024), colludes with migrants melting the border’s steel bars through excess touch, artists summoning the migrant dead, and activists leaving water in the Sonoran Desert—in defiance of prevention through deterrence, in celebration of life that transgresses walls and bans.
RAWA protest rally against Taliban in Peshawar (1998). Image via Wikimedia Commons. CC BY 3.0
In late 2022, Tamana Zaryab Paryani, an Afghan woman in exile, initiated a hunger strike, demanding that the international community formally recognize gender apartheid as a crime against humanity . This act of defiance embodies the ongoing struggle against the Taliban’s regime that systematically erases women from public life. Her actions, alongside other protests in national and diasporic spaces, continue a legacy of resistance that Afghan women began in the ’90s during the Taliban’s first regime. This transcends mere opposition to physical and political oppression; it’s also a profound form of epistemic resistance, which includes challenging dominant forms of knowledge and producing counter-knowledge to assert their own perspectives.
Despite their hypervisibility in 2001—when the U.S. invasion of Afghanistan was justified as a mission to “liberate” Afghan women, these same women’s narratives were ignored during 2019 U.S.-Taliban peace negotiations, and further marginalized under the Taliban’s regime since 2021. Historically, gender rights have been used as symbolic markers of progress in imperial “modernizing” projects, while Afghan women’s voices have often been co-opted to align with broader geopolitical interests. Thus, Afghan women’s lack of epistemic authority—their exclusion from producing and controlling the knowledge about their own situation—remains one of the most glaring injustices. Yet, even under the Taliban’s oppressive regime, Afghan women continue to reclaim their authority through diverse forms of defiance and by creating alternative frameworks to the imperial desire of war-making, namely the call to codify gender apartheid as a crime against humanity under international law.
Addressing the systemic nature of “gender apartheid” demands a comprehensive response that confronts the imperial legacies, inequalities of power, and militarization that sustain this oppression. This post calls for a radical rethinking of advocacy and legal frameworks, one that holds the Taliban and the international powers accountable for the structural forces that continue to shape and impact Afghan women’s lives. It invites rigorous academic inquiry to understand how the term can practically address the root causes of Afghan women’s repression. Without such critical analysis, we risk repeating the cycle of reductive engagement that has consistently failed Afghan women.
The Legacy of “Empowerment” and the Rise of Gender Apartheid: A New Legal Framework
The “success” of “women’s empowerment” in Afghanistan has often been reduced to superficial metrics, serving as symbols of progress within a neoliberal agenda. Feminist scholars like Lila Abu-Lughod critique such approaches, arguing that western discourses frequently impose a monolithic imperialist framework of “modernity” on non-western women, neglecting their complex socio-political and cultural histories. This framing obscures Afghan women’s agency by reducing their struggles to checkbox exercises under the guise of inclusivity.
With the Taliban’s oppressive policies, including the recent Law on the Promotion of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice, banning Afghan women’s voices in public, the widespread violations of Afghan women’s rights have reached a critical juncture. Thus, the term “gender apartheid” has regained traction in national and diasporic circles.
The ‘success’ of ‘women’s empowerment’ in Afghanistan has often been reduced to superficial metrics, serving as symbols of progress within a neoliberal agenda
Modeled after the concept of racial apartheid, the naming of which was crucial in dismantling institutionalized racial oppression in South Africa, “gender apartheid” offers a powerful legal framework for addressing the systemic oppression of individuals based on their gender identities. While existing legal mechanisms like the Rome Statute offer a framework to prosecute gender persecution, its application is often slow and underutilized. Gender apartheid, instead, captures the structural and continuous nature of gendered discrimination—not as isolated acts of persecution but as an organized system that meets the legal threshold of apartheid.
The call to codify gender apartheid has gained significant support from UN experts, international organizations, and recently, the European Parliament, highlighting historical progress in pushing for legal recognition over imperialistic war-making. Theoretically, codifying gender apartheid would trigger a stronger obligation on states, providing them with specific legal tools to fulfill their international commitments on gender discrimination. It would demand greater accountability from the international community, which has defaulted to a policy of inaction in Afghanistan, even as the Taliban regime erodes human rights, particularly those of women.
The notion of apartheid carries a symbolic and political weight, as seen in its application to racial apartheid in South Africa. Apartheid is recognized as a jus cogens norm—a fundamental principle of international law that is non-derogatory. By codifying gender apartheid, the international community could invoke a powerful form of “shame” politics, forcing states to respond to the ongoing violations. States like Iran, Russia, Pakistan, China, and others that have maintained relationships with the Taliban would face increased pressure to align their foreign policies with human rights standards so as not to be seen as complicit with an apartheid regime. This means that recognizing gender apartheid has the potential to create a global social movement that could isolate regimes like the Taliban, preventing the normalization of systematic gender oppression.
Critical Considerations on Codifying Gender Apartheid
While gender apartheid’s recognition offers a transformative framework for addressing systemic oppression, its practical implications warrant careful consideration. Thus, the enthusiasm surrounding this term should be tempered with a critical perspective on its potential limitations:
Gender Apartheid as a “Celebrity Term”
The codification of gender apartheid carries the risk of being reduced to a symbolic gesture within international legal and humanitarian discourse. Feminist scholars critique the commodification of women’s struggles within neoliberal frameworks of development. Here, concepts like “empowerment” and “gender equality” have often been depoliticized and co-opted for imperialist agendas, particularly within the context of the “saving Muslim women” discourse. Historically, this narrative has been used to frame military and political actions as benevolent efforts to liberate women. However, this framing often reinforces colonial attitudes and Orientalist representation of Muslim women.
In this context, the term “gender apartheid” risks becoming yet another “celebrity term”—a label loosely used to attract attention and political capital without addressing the entrenched structural forces perpetuating Afghan women’s oppression. This dynamic reflects the broader feminist critique of projectization, where women’s struggles are repackaged as consumable narratives and development projects for international visibility, serving neoliberal interests while remaining detached from the lived experiences of those they are intended to help.
Instead of bluntly defining Afghan women’s current conditions in yet another colonial term, the movement advocating for gender apartheid’s codification (the movement) must interrogate how the language and frameworks surrounding this term may perpetuate the very power dynamics they seek to challenge. It’s vital to clearly articulate their demands and expected outcomes of this process, ensuring that this concept is grounded in the realities of Afghan women within the country. Its use must also be accompanied by a long-term commitment to addressing the structural conditions of Afghan women’s oppression.
Practical and Legal Challenges of Enforcement
Codifying gender apartheid may face resistance from states unwilling to expand the scope of international human rights law, preventing any addition to their international responsibilities. Practically, gender apartheid’s codification is a long effort with no specific timeframe, due to the normative heavy lifting that it requires. Accordingly, the UN Special Rapporteur on Afghanistan suggests continuing to hold the international community and the Taliban accountable for their responsibilities via any available legal avenues, calling it an “all tools” approach.
Even if gender apartheid is successfully codified in a timely manner, its enforcement presents significant legal and practical challenges. Among others, the ICC, as the institution responsible for adjudicating cases of gender apartheid, has been critiqued for its limited reach and efficacy. Legal scholars have pointed out that the ICC’s focus on prosecuting individuals, rather than addressing systemic violence, limits its ability for structural change.
Freedom for Afghan Women and Girls march, London 2022. Image via Flickr User Steve Eason. CC BY-NC 2.0
Considering that the politics of shame is a critical aspect of the crime of apartheid, it’s essential to assess what additional “shaming” could achieve in the context of the already isolated Taliban regime. Historically, shaming has been a double-edged sword; while it can sometimes catalyze change by highlighting human rights abuses, it can also deepen the ideologies of those in power. The Taliban’s claims of legitimacy through their interpretation of “Islamic traditions”—though viewed as a façade to maintain control—can reinforce their narratives and possibly bolster support. Consequently, increased external pressure may not lead to the meaningful reforms expected, but instead compel the Taliban to double down on their positions, using condemnation as a rallying point to further entrench these ideologies among their “followers.” This dynamic illustrates the complexity of shaming as a strategy, raising critical questions about its practical effectiveness in confronting a regime that can leverage its ideological stance to resist change.
These challenges are compounded by the limitations of international legal mechanisms in addressing the structural conditions giving rise to gender oppression. In the case of gender apartheid, for a meaningful impact to occur, the legal structure and its enforcement need to move beyond symbolic prosecutions and meaningfully address the broader systems of inequality that sustain gender-based oppression. One possible solution is for the movement to focus its advocacy on a more comprehensive effort, thus making clear that international legal efforts should be complemented by policies that address the root causes of gender apartheid, including imperialism, capitalism, economic inequality, militarization, and patriarchal norms.
The Instrumentalization of Gender Apartheid in International Law
The codification of gender apartheid may become instrumentalized within the international legal order. As international law is not a neutral tool but one deeply embedded in historical power relations that can reinforce existing hierarchies, this would raise concerns about the use of international law for purposes other than justice. This critique is central to feminist concerns about how international legal interventions often serve geopolitical interests rather than addressing the root causes of gender oppression.
Legal scholars have critiqued how international law is often instrumentalized by powerful states to advance their own political and economic interests, rather than achieving justice for marginalized groups. They argue that international legal frameworks, including those aimed at protecting women’s rights, are frequently co-opted by hegemonic powers to legitimize military interventions, economic sanctions, or political pressure, often under the guise of humanitarianism. Without careful safeguards, the legal recognition of gender apartheid could be used to selectively exert political pressure aligned with the goals of powerful nations, while overlooking other instances of systemic gender oppression. As seen in international responses to human rights abuses in countries like Saudi Arabia or Iran, there is often inconsistency in how violations of women’s rights are addressed, depending on the strategic value of the state in question.
In the case of gender apartheid, for a meaningful impact to occur, the legal structure and its enforcement need to move beyond symbolic prosecutions and meaningfully address the broader systems of inequality that sustain gender-based oppression.
To avoid such instrumentalizations, it’s crucial to ensure that international legal efforts are grounded in solidarity with Afghan women. This means actively involving diverse groups of Afghan women in the drafting, interpretation, and implementation of legal instruments related to gender apartheid. Furthermore, building coalitions with feminist and resistance movements can help create a more effective front that resists the co-optation of women’s rights for political ends. The analysis of patriarchal systems must engage with transnational and postcolonial feminist frameworks, which highlight how imperialism not only shapes geopolitical landscapes but also perpetuates gender hierarchies. Transnational solidarities should focus on challenging patriarchal structures and the imperialist systems that sustain them, ensuring that legal interventions serve the interests of justice rather than geopolitical strategies. Establishing accountability mechanisms that monitor the application of international law can prevent its misuse, promoting transparency in its enforcement.
A New Era for Afghan Women’s Struggle
The struggles of Afghan women and their diasporic comrades should move beyond mere advocacy for codifying gender apartheid as a crime and encompass a more comprehensive critique that highlights the continuous role of imperial powers in perpetuating Afghanistan’s crisis despite the existence of numerous international legal principles and commitments.
While the Afghan women’s movement has drawn western attention to codifying gender apartheid, this often leads to symbolic collaboration without fundamentally altering geopolitical strategies, like enabling political upheavals for broader strategic interests. Thus, the movement must interrogate the discourse around gender apartheid and clarify its demands and expected outcomes, challenging superficial allyships that ignore deeper geopolitical complexities.
Transnational solidarities should focus on challenging patriarchal structures and the imperialist systems that sustain them, ensuring that legal interventions serve the interests of justice rather than geopolitical strategies.
If the call for codifying gender apartheid leads to further isolation of the Taliban’s regime, ending the international aid, or imposing broad-based sanctions, one must critically assess the impacts on women’s lives inside Afghanistan. Such consequences are likely to exacerbate their suffering under extreme Taliban oppression on a daily basis. Historically, in most cases of isolation and broad-based sanctions, such as with Iran, regimes often survive while the people continue to suffer. The South African regime, often cited as an inspiration, is more of an exception than the rule. While international sanctions were a vital factor in dismantling apartheid, this success was due to a unique confluence of factors. South Africa’s economy was highly integrated into global trade systems, making it particularly vulnerable to sanctions, unlike regimes like the Taliban, which have less dependency on international markets.
Moreover, South Africa’s internal resistance movement, including robust labor unions and grassroots activism, played a pivotal role in sustaining pressure from within, something that many isolated regimes do not experience to the same degree. Additionally, the apartheid regime lacked the same level of strategic regional and international support that the Taliban command. Thus, the Taliban are often insulated from the effects of sanctions, allowing them to persist while the populations suffer the brunt of economic hardships. Therefore, the movement must deeply engage with the historical and geopolitical nuances and consider whether such strategies align with their goals. To move beyond the current status quo, there is a need to foster collaborative spaces with Afghan women, where they can articulate their demands in their own ways and terms, free from the pressure of conforming to colonial expectations, language, and frameworks.
The challenge lies in producing a discourse that does not merely echo reductive modes of Western feminisms and binaries of backward versus progressive, secular versus religious, but instead offers a radical rethinking of what advocacy and solidarity can entail. Thus, it’s essential for the Afghan women’s movement to strategically integrate gender apartheid into a broader, multidimensional advocacy approach. By doing so, the movement can enhance its adaptability, ensuring that it remains effective in its pursuit of meaningful change.
Tahmina Sobat is a Ph.D. student in the Gender, Women, and Sexuality Studies Department at the University of Minnesota-Twin Cities. She earned her law degree from Herat University in 2015 and later completed an LLM in International Human Rights Law at the University of Notre Dame in 2020. Continuing her academic journey, she earned a second master’s degree in Gender and Women Studies through a Fulbright Scholarship at Minnesota State University, Mankato.
Sobat’s interdisciplinary research centers on transnational feminist theory, epistemic violence, the politics of representation, and peacebuilding. Her dissertation, titled “Puzzling Complicity and Paradoxical Representation: Elite Afghan Women within Feminist Empire,” examines the complexities of representation among elite Afghan women. Her recent publications include: “Afghan Women and the Struggle for Transnational Feminist Solidarity” and “What Did the US War and Exit Do for Afghan Women’s Rights?” published in the Gender and Policy Report at the University of Minnesota-Twin Cities.
Mount Horeb, Sinai, November 7, 2011. Via Wikimedia Commons.
The title of my essay plays on the famous book by Judith Plaskow, which requires Jews to return to Sinai (the site of God’s Covenant with the Israelites when the Torah was given) and reread the tradition through a feminist hermeneutical prism. After the Gaza genocide, Jews ought to stand again at Sinai and ascertain how to reenter a covenant with God, one another, and now with Palestinians, a reentry that will depend on righting wrongs. This reentry after Gaza entails centering Palestinian ethical claims upon Jews. It is a reparative covenant with God and Palestinians; such a covenant cannot be made without the presence of both. Returning to Sinai after Gaza amounts to a restorative justice praxis. In other words, this return, or teshuva in Hebrew (which also means atonement), would signify a decolonial move (not a metaphor!), an acknowledgment of harms dating back over a century, and accountability for past injustice. It requires imagining future horizons that do not replicate injustice and unjust structures undergirded by selective and harmful hermeneutics.
In her resignation letter from the Biden administration (the first such public letter by a Jewish appointee), which was released on Nakba Day in May 2024, Lily Greenberg Call referred to Biden as “making Jews the face of the American war machine. And that is so deeply wrong.” “Jewish safety cannot—and will not—come at the expense of Palestinian freedom,” she continued. “Making Jews the face of the American war machine makes us less safe.” In her reference to the question of “Jewish safety,” Greenberg Call disrupts the discursive manipulation of antisemitism, conflating Israel with Jews and rendering Palestinian life subsequently ungrievable. In her reference to “making Jews the face of the American war machine,” Greenberg Call names the persistence of imperial political, cultural, and economic forces in the dynamics that unfold on the ground in Palestine/Israel. Greenberg Call, in other words, illuminates the convergence of weaponized violence and (neo)imperial politics. To identify how weaponized antisemitism serves imperial designs is not to take away the agency of Jews in their colonization of Palestine and the racialized structures of dispossession and elimination they put in place.
Passover during a Time of Despair
The giving of the Torah at Sinai occurred after the Israelite exodus from slavery under the pharaoh and before entry into the land of Canaan (where other communities had lived). Since the Jewish holiday of Passover, which celebrates God’s intervention on behalf of the Israelites to liberate them from the pharaoh, occurred amid the sixth month of the Israeli genocidal assault in Gaza, many Jews in Palestine solidarity circles felt despair. They did not know how they could celebrate Jewish liberation at a time when the utter un-freedom and destruction of Palestinians occurred in their name. Palestinian un-freedom has long been justified as necessary for the protection of a political entity that claims to embody Jewish liberation and redemption. In light of this despair, a small group of American rabbis and Jewish Israeli activists orchestrated an action that drew on the Jewish imperative to feed the hungry during the Passover seder. Carrying bags of rice and flour and other food items, the delegation of rabbis and Jewish Israeli activists walked toward the gates of Gaza. They sang passages from the seder conveying the imperative of feeding the hungry. The military police quickly stopped them and seven were arrested. Rabbi Brant Rosen, one of the American rabbis detained, wrote about the absurdly tragic reason for his arrest in a piece for The Nation: “The Americans were told, bluntly, that they were being held for ‘attempting to bring food into Gaza.’” The famine generated by Israel amounts to a war crime. The rabbis’ symbolic action, drawing upon the Jewish script of the Passover Seder, represents the reclaiming of Jewish meanings from the jaws of cruelty and violent ideology. This motif has permeated Jewish protest and, during the Gaza genocide Passover, has reconnected Jews to Sinai and the Exodus story. As public intellectual Naomi Klein argued, it reflects a breaking free from the shackles of idolatry. At a Seder in the Streets of New York City in April 2024, after saying the traditional blessing over the bitter herbs, Klein meditated on Zionism as the Golden Calf Jews have been worshipping. She called on Jews to undergo an exodus from this idolatrous captivity. In this meditation, Klein conveys the general sentiment of the movement of Jews critical of Zionism: “We cannot be free until Palestinians are free.” Young Jewish American activists have chanted this saying in marches and at university encampments across the US and Europe. However, as those Passover actions happened with urgency, in mourning, and through an effort to shutter the Golden Calf of Zionism to re-access the Jewish tradition—historically, through direct accountability to Palestinians—other Jews actively attacked humanitarian trucks and destroyed food en route to Gaza. These are the Jews who long ago left Sinai.
Landlords’ Theology
Those who deliberately and repeatedly attacked humanitarian convoys embody a landlords’ theology (see also Rouhana). “Landlords’ theology” refers to how the Jewish tradition is deployed as a land title to authorize Jewish domination and supremacy along with a prolonged process of “Judaizing” historic Palestine. The latter is achieved by uprooting Palestinians through settler colonial processes. They believe themselves to be in the “Promised Land,” an illusionary redemptive space predicated on eternal violence and domination. To read the bible as a land title reveals, as Amnon Raz-Krakotzkin has argued, the colonization of Judaism by the Christian imagination. The enactment of this imagination and Jews’ “return” to Zion (undergirded by a presumption that Jews were not really from Europe) has carried with it the seeds of two genocides, the Shoah and Gaza (as the culmination of the Nakba that pre-dated 1948).
Activists in a new movement called The Faithful Left, which came into being following the consolidation of a fascist-settler coalition during the election cycle of 2022, reject the theology of landlords, arguing that only God is sovereign. In doing so, they reclaim the Jewish tradition from its violent desecration. They seek to re-access the gentler Judaism of the diasporas and, with it, a virtue ethics that defines norms for interpersonal and intercommunal relationships. Anti-occupation Jewish Israeli religious activist Mikhael Manekin, for example, wrote in Haaretz amid the Gaza genocide about his rejection of the ascendance of a Judaism that sacralizes starvation, domination, and war. He expressed disdain for Rabbi Dov Lior, who sanctioned the looting of aid to Gaza, framing it as a sacred act that could trump keeping the Shabbat. Manekin writes: “For Lior, blocking aid to a starving population, even against the wishes of the Israeli military and an extreme right-wing government, is a more crucial religious commandment than keeping the Sabbath.” Another, Rabbi Eliyahu, the Chief Rabbi of Tzfat, even wrote a prayer for the looters and those who prevent humanitarian aid from reaching the victims in Gaza. This rabbinic sanctioning, for Manekin, is deeply troubling. He further writes: “The very idea of violating the Sabbath to create more hunger and as a means of punishment or coercion is alien to Jewish rabbinic tradition and would undoubtedly have baffled our sages. However, in Israel, it is an increasingly mainstream ethical position. To be a good Jew is to put the collective punishment of Palestinians ahead of basic observance.” Manekin calls to reclaim Jewish ethical traditions in the face of this desecration of the tradition. Manekin’s and The Faithful Left’s intervention embodies what I have called “critical caretaking,” which refers to a peacebuilding methodology that centers a historicist demystifying of religiopolitical scripts. However, rather than remaining in the privileged location of critique, “caretaking” conveys hermeneutical work, in this case, on the ground and from within the sources of the Jewish tradition itself in order to rewrite religiopolitical scripts.
To read the bible as a land title reveals, as Amnon Raz-Krakotzkin has argued, the colonization of Judaism by the Christian imagination.
In a second annual conference of The Faithful Left held in February 2024, religious Zionists who served during the genocidal assault on Gaza met behind closed doors to discuss the contradictions they experienced between their actions and their understanding of Jewish ethics. They rejected how the Jewish tradition had become drafted into a discourse that posits “the more violent you are and believe in the war, the more Jewishly authentic you are, and the more you speak of peace, the more you are assimilated into the West” (my translation). This directly opposes the centering of the Amalek discourse and the downgrading of many other resources within the Jewish tradition as “weak” and “diasporic.” The Faithful Left sees itself as challenging from within the sources and institutions of religious Zionism, i.e., the supremacist and violent interpretations of Jewish power. In doing so, they stay “at home” in the discourse of religious Zionism, even as they challenge some of its tenets. In prioritizing this feeling of being “at home,” however, they are unable to provide the necessary, more foundational, critique of religious Zionism.
What this examination of the discourse within the Faithful Left reveals is that theology after Gaza that seeks to make Jewish power nicer and more consistent with presumed Jewish values as operationalized within a “Jewish home” is not the same as standing again at Sinai and retelling the story from the perspective of its victims. The latter is as a hermeneutical praxis of repair. The returning religious Zionist soldiers who felt inconsistently Jewish as they donned their uniforms and became instruments in a genocidal war involving Jewish narratives of revenge never shattered the Golden Calf, the “sacralization of Jewish safety/security,” as Nadera Shalhoub Kevorkian illuminates in her work.
Theology after Gaza that seeks to make Jewish power nicer and more consistent with presumed Jewish values as operationalized within a ‘Jewish home’ is not the same as standing again at Sinai and retelling the story from the perspective of its victims
Hence, Jewish ethics after the Gaza genocide has to dismantle this Golden Calf and its illusions of agency, redemption, and freedom. Both manifestations, the gentler of the “faithful left” and the grotesque of the looting landlords, do not interrogate Zionism as a political theology whose focus on homemaking and homecoming (redemption) has meant the uprooting and erasure of Palestinians. Literally, turning Palestinian homes into rubble. Therefore, even if mostly not conceptualizing their agency as theological or religious, anti-Zionist Jewish activists who center the Nakba as an ongoing structure that has now escalated into a genocide, in effect, do theology when they don’t do theology. They do theology when they unlearn Zionist mythology about the Nakba and subsequently concretely imagine Palestinian return (such as Zochrot), or when they engage in anti-colonial binational translation, seeking to reclaim Arabic or Persian as Jewish languages and cultures. They enact a restorative political theology of unlearning supremacy and reclaiming how to be Jewish in the space outside a settler colonial and supremacist frame. A restorative political theology, therefore, is “theological” when it unlearns supremacist Euro-Zionism and what Solo Baron called Zionist “lachrymose history.” This process requires a counter-archival retraining of the political imagination which identifies, together with Ella Shohat, for example, the intersecting geographies of Arab-Jewish and Palestinian dislocation, as well as Indigenous Peoples’ genocides associated with modernity/coloniality. Unlearning Zionism, in other words, means excavating Judaism from the debris of Gaza and Zionist historiographical epistemic destruction.
Back to Sinai
Rabbi Lynn Gottlieb, a Jewish American who has been in the Jewish/Palestine solidarity space since 1966, like Naomi Klein, spoke recently (responding to a talk I delivered at UC Davis in May 2024) about how, upon descending from the mountain, Moses—who was enraged by the idolatrous behavior of the Israelites whose impatience for their liberation and entry into the “Promised Land” led them to worship the Golden Calf—shattered the tablets upon which the Ten Commandments were inscribed. Speaking while the genocide against Gaza is still ongoing, Rabbi Lynn said that the shards of the tablets represent the current reality of the Jewish tradition. Is it possible to put it back together?
Rabbi Lynn’s image of reconstituting the tradition from the shattered Tablets is striking because of its similarity with the kabbalistic notion of Shevirat Hakelim or the “Breaking of the Vessels.” Shevirat Hakelim or tzimtzum (contraction) refers to how, to make room or space for creation, God or Ein Sof (the infinite, “without an end”) contracted to create an empty space into which God sent light, which initiated the creation process. Seven of the ten sefirot, or vessels, were shattered by the power of the light. Their shards entangled with divine sparks descended into the abyss. This act of creation entangled with the breaking of the vessels denotes the utter disharmony of creation, making room for the human agency of repair or tikun olam.
Speaking while the genocide against Gaza is still ongoing, Rabbi Lynn said that the shards of the tablets represent the current reality of the Jewish tradition. Is it possible to put it back together?
In the kabbalistic discourse, the brokenness of Jews interconnects with the brokenness of the world. However, over the centuries, tensions emerged between more particularistic and more universal interpretations of tikun olam. For Rabbi Lynn, the repair of Judaism means its decolonization (or an exodus from slavery in the false idol of Zionism), and this process will go hand-in-hand with decolonizing Palestine. Jews need to grapple historically through a restorative un-theology (rather than mythologically) with the blood-soaked debris in Gaza as utter profanity. The most urgent political question for Jews in Palestine/Israel therefore is also a theological one, even if they see themselves as atheist or not religious: How can I be Jewish in this space but not a settler colonialist supremacist? It requires us to stand again at Sinai.
University encampment. Photo credit: Helene Furani.
Background Introduction
Amidst the genocidal onslaught on Gaza over nearly the past year, universities have pondered whether, and how, to respond. From student protests calling for boycott and divestment, to faculty organizing, to administrative repression, universities around the world have been a site of contention and debate.
What should the role of the university be in the face of genocide? What does the university’s mission demand? And what responsibilities do university leaders have in the current climate?
These questions could be addressed to any university, but in the letter that follows, they are addressed to an Israeli university, particularly to Tel Aviv University, to its president, Professor Ariel Porat, from one of its Palestinian faculty,[1]Professor of anthropology Khaled Furani.
This letter is part of a conversation following the arrest and release of Palestinian Hebrew University Professor Nadera Shalhoub-Kevorkian. On April 30, 2024, seventy-three current and former Palestinian academics at Israeli institutions of higher education sent a letter to the Association of University Heads in Israel (VERA). This body is comprised of the presidents of nine universities, including Ariel University in the occupied West Bank.
That letter holds the universities collectively accountable for the campus atmosphere of repression and retribution that contributed to their colleague’s arrest. It asks VERA to issue a statement demanding that charges be dropped against Professor Shalhoub-Kevorkian and to uphold her safety, academic freedom, and right to free speech. Only days earlier, VERA had issued a public statement expressing concern with “Violent Demonstrations and Anti-Semitism on US Campuses.”
In their letter, the Palestinian academics include as an action generating a lack of safety the referencing of ‘Amalek, a biblical people that the Israelites are enjoined to decimate, referring, in part, to this language appearing in a speech given by Porat at Tel Aviv University (TAU) on November 7, 2023. The International Court of Justice has cited such language as incitement to genocide.
VERA did not issue a public statement in response to the academics’ letter. Porat’s response amounted to directly writing to seven faculty at his institution who had signed the letter. In his letter, Porat defends his reference to ‘Amalek and his record of upholding academic freedom, inviting the faculty to contact him directly should they ever feel unsafe.
Despite spending the academic year in Germany, Furani felt threatened at a distance, personally, for his Palestinian academic community, and for his family members in Gaza. He spent many months thinking about how to express this lack of safety to Professor Porat and about how to ask that he, in his role as a university president, lead toward safety and dignity for all in the land. Upon his safe return home from his sabbatical, Professor Furani sent the following letter to Professor Porat. Footnotes have been added to the original for clarification.
The Letter
August 31, 2024
Dear Ariel (if I may),
There is a prophetic tradition (hadith), far away from modern liberalism and close to the ethical precepts of ancient Judaism, whereby the Prophet Muhammad reminds us that the best of striving (jihad) is speaking with justice (haq) before an unjust authority (sultan ja’ir). In this letter I strive to speak just so, about what you are owed, including my understanding of what you yourself owe. I pray that truth (haqiqa) remains my companion in every word. Please forgive me if I inadvertently deviate from it and please strive to listen deeply when you hear it.
Ultimately, I write this letter to beseech you to be more conscious and attentive toward leadership, so that you may remember truth and make decisions founded upon it, rather than unthinkingly follow decisions made for you. Nothing less than this task is necessary for leading. And in our diluvian times, leading, genuine leading, is required if we are to emerge from the flood. You, indeed all of us, must decide where we stand in this blood-drenched land in need of recovery of justice, freedom, and equality for all lives between, and beyond, the River and the Sea.
I owe you an appreciation, an apology, and this very letter. Appreciation, because to this day, I carry with me the ethically profound human touch of your personal call on a Saturday morning over three years ago to make sure that my family and I were safe in our neighborhood as throngs of Jewish thugs (with “the tolerance” of state security) threatened Palestinian Haifa.[2]
I also appreciate the ways in which you stand out among your peers in seeking to ensure your faculty’s personal safety, and also to protect certain civil liberties, responsibilities which other university presidents seem all too willing to abdicate. As you commit to these types of freedom, you also stand out in your manifest desire to listen. It is your desire to listen that made it possible for me to write this letter. It reverberated all the way over to my sabbatical abroad. My physical distance undoubtedly hindered my ability to follow and fully appreciate what you have been doing day by day to safeguard these types of freedom.
I owe you an apology for writing this letter in English, a language that is native to neither of us. For reasons that lie with you, Arabic is not an option. For reasons that lie with me, neither is Hebrew. Although I am working on recovering my relation to a native Hebrew, whose no fault it is that modern Zionism colonized it, at this moment I must, the world being what it is, resort to the foreign, and yes colonial, language of this letter, so that words may flow from my heart to yours.
I now turn to what you owe as a university leader. You owe us, Palestinian faculty and the wider Palestinian community to which we belong, and also and essentially yourself, a more genuine sense of, and a truer commitment to, safety (aman). I am referring to a safety native to the land, enduring and encompassing all peoples, neither false nor prejudicial. You have kindly and keenly asked us to contact you should we ever feel endangered. I am doing this now. Shocking as it may seem, my need for safety also stems from a danger present at times in your words as well as in your silence, in your actions and in your non-actions.
Your resort to the annihilationist language of ‘Amalek, however analogical your intention, constitutes danger. Your recruitment of funds for students drafted for reserve service in an army whose leaders are charged with war crimes and crimes against humanity constitutes danger. Your mustering of campus resources for ideological, surveillance, strategic, and other forms of support in service of slaughter in Gaza masquerading as self-defense constitute danger.
Your utter silence on the destruction of higher education in Gaza presents danger. Your failure to institute on campus a deep introspection that examines how we arrived at the calamity befalling the land, the peoples on it and beyond it—and not merely since last October, nor since the last couple of years or decades, but for at least the past century—also constitutes danger.
Separation fence. Photo Credit: Helene Furani.
Your vocal challenge of attacks on democracy while remaining utterly silent on this democracy’s attacks on human life, including its brutal occupation of a people, presents danger.[3] Questioning the legitimacy of the current government, while keeping unquestionable your nation-state’s foundational violence—endemic to any colonial state—presents danger. This danger amounts to the tragic hindrance of your ability to hear and to see the ways in which you are made to help perpetuate a certain violence even as you earnestly combat another.
You might begin recognizing this disparity by listening to your very language. As you seek to protect “democracy” and its “rule of law” you participate in normalizing this law’s violence. You normalize this violence when sounding like the state. Like it you call the current iteration of a vast tragedy “war.” In this so-called “war,” you seem to attribute “murder” and “terror” exclusively to “the other side,” but never to your state. Who commits “illegal violence” and what “legal violence” and even “law” amount to seem set and set beyond the frame of questioning.
Both the substance and the agent of terror are made to appear self-evident, rather than merited subjects of critical learning, our foundational task at the university. The task of learning that engenders clarity of thinking becomes more, not less, vital for the university’s integrity when that university depends on a state. Indeed, it is fateful when, out of a history of colonialism, that state seeks to numb, confuse, and normalize its occupying powers, and malign any and every form of resistance to those powers, even the most non-violent, as “terror.”
Allowing state violence to hide in what counts as “normal” or “legal” undermines your very striving for my safety. Worse still, your sense of “safety” itself becomes a form of endangerment every time it turns blind to, and tunes out, state violence. No humanitarian impulse can remain safe under the inhuman and dehumanizing power of the modern state. Treated as self-evidently “legal,” this state violence is bound to turn reality lethal for all, for citizens from this or that “sector” and for non-citizens alike.
Ultimately, when you fear violence that is against “the law” yet normalize the violence of “the law,” my safety is not the only casualty. Yours is too. The danger to safety here lies not in some abstract inconsistency but in a real ethical one. It is a safety in which you can properly hear, see, and sense our common world. If you stand outside the safety of an ethical landscape, then neither us nor your leadership nor the university you are charged with leading can be assumed to be safe.
Where do you and your leadership stand, within or outside of an ethical landscape? Do you lead from moral agency or are you pursuing a hollow non-leadership, or something in between? Sadly, instead of seeing you lead, I see you as being led. Instead of “making history” by “stepping outside” of it, you appear to surrender to its vagaries. Should you dare to examine and self-examine what may appear self-evident and to question, as a steady form of knowing, what may appear scary, then we can be assured that you are leading. When you dare to take steps, not merely ahead of your homologues but wherever necessary, even stand alone, then we know that you are leading.
Ultimately, when you fear violence that is against “the law” yet normalize the violence of “the law,” my safety is not the only casualty. Yours is too.
The “aloneness” of genuine leadership requires you to find a place outside the matrix dominating your society, that is, outside of Zionism. When you remember what Zionism wants you to forget, that this land was never empty and that all peoples on it from the River to the Sea, are all equally deserving of life and of mourning over it when lost, then we know that you are leading. When you transcend the glitter of sanctioned words and venture toward justice for all, then we know that you are leading. When you recognize that the dangers derived from “coordinating” (Gleichschaltung)[4] with and for the state exceed those threatened when questioning its hubris, then we know that you are leading.
Rather than seeking to end the historic confusion of Jewish safety with Jewish supremacy and the conflation of Jewish freedom, or any freedom, with sovereignty, you have helped perpetuate a fatal confusion. This fatal confusion has brought a European poison to Palestine, at times to combat European toxins and at other times to spread them, while masquerading as a theriac.
This European poison, modelled after, while capitulating to, fateful European nationalism and xenophobia, is modern Zionism. Allured to drink from this supposed theriac and by spreading its drinking, you join thoughtless condemnation of what could bring you and your society back to sobriety, indeed to health and to freedom.
Your leadership has our university go on, in frenzy, fighting against the academic boycott,[5] for example, rather than strive toward understanding, which is distinct from justifying, its motivations and aspirations. While wanting to be democratic, your leadership treats the non-violent boycott movement as demonic. Why not instead leaderly encourage what thinking—because it is thinking, all the more so at an institution entrusted with it—requires on this matter as on any other: to think it through and debate it?
Often, we, Palestinians, have been asked about where or who our Mandela might be. Despite this question’s many flaws, it has value in that it can easily be turned around. As you seek to lead, please attune your ears, open your eyes, and ask from your heart with due humility and remembrance: from whence and under what conditions could an Israeli Jew emerge as a de Klerk? If and when you are ready to recognize that it is “the drink” itself and not only “the drunkard” (a minister here, or a prime minister there) then genuine leadership could await you.
Do you want to stay on board a chariot of death, recharging it with Zionism, and irrecoverably lead our peoples in this land toward an abyss, or will you summon the courage to steer us away from colossal descent?
Let us recall, when entrusted to lead a university, you are entrusted to safeguard its foundational mission to pursue learning unhindered. Our university, like other universities around the world today, has been entrusted with safeguarding one of the greatest capacities given to humans: to think. Through thinking we learn to perceive truth and discern it from falsehood, along with beautiful from ugly and good from bad, and crucially, acting from failing to act for justice.
This mission is why, when you preside over a university, you are poised to save, or destroy, bodies and souls, of persons as well as of polities. More than merely training our thinking away from perdition in this world, if committed to striving to the ideal of justice for all—not only for some—a university can chart new and previously unknown paths for existence.
In reality, TAU violates this original entrustment, as would any university anytime it participates in a state’s domination of a people. TAU currently, and rightly so, refrains from serving as an obvious arm of the state’s policing, surveillance, or prosecution. Yet it seems quite comfortable, rather eager, to dutifully join its ideological arm, through TAU’s commitment to “hasbara” efforts. Instead of allowing in some light, instead of welcoming new or difficult or “heretical” voices, TAU goes on to participate in your state’s denial of Palestine. This denial is not simply of a past on whose literal ruins TAU exists, namely on al-Sheikh Muwwanis. It has to do with a future that all peoples of this land, no matter the state, could and should enjoy with their progeny and without privileging one people over another.
Your recent conference focusing on the future demonstrates perception of one and only thing: a state.[6] You see a single state and those assimilated by it, but not the multiplicity of peoples, their histories and futures, banished by it. Numbed by the state while imagining its future, TAU holds Palestinians in the realm of suspicion. They are singularly invoked as the object of “security” experts. Just like the state itself, nothing and no one seems higher for you than the state, not its people nor any people.
Instead of allowing in some light, instead of welcoming new or difficult or “heretical” voices, TAU goes on to participate in your state’s denial of Palestine.
Voices for justice, for truth, and for reconciliation are rising up loud and clear from around the world, and even on your own campus, so that we may all, Israelis, Palestinians, and more, re-found our joint existence, outside Zionism’s dominion in this land, yet such voices seem to meet your condemnation. You refuse to hear them. Indeed, you malign them. This denial by someone entrusted with thinking becomes ever more stupefying in the face of the rapid fraying of existence of both peoples, if not of the world entire.
A university that participates in the crushing of another people’s freedom cannot possibly remain a university, for it robs freedom thrice: first from the people its state dominates, second from the people claimed by the state as its own, and third from thinking. Can a university that abnegates its own freedom be called, properly speaking, a university?
Ultimately Ariel, it comes down to whom you want to serve as you lead a university. It has been said that one cannot serve two masters, only one. Strikingly, you seem to be caught in the service of three at once: knowledge, market, and the state. The perception available to your heart is quite likely torn and fragmented in the torrent of attention they each demand from you. Stepping back to perceive the whole, as any leading—including of one’s own existence—requires, must be rather difficult. Under this triple servitude, your perception might be smashed to smithereens as readily as a grain under a grindstone.
You are rightly indignant about a government that you find noxious for a healthy life, a life to which all creation, without exception, is entitled. Yet you have not allowed yourself the possibility that the current government is merely the latest concoction of the state’s steady and stupefying secretion of poisons. This stately poison has kept flowing, no matter the government, no matter the prime minister who came and went. There is nothing that you may say about the current government and its members that cannot justifiably be said about your state for the entirety of its life: paranoid, lying, deceiving, manipulating, thuggish, divisive, corrupt, massively destructive of human bodies and souls, and, of course, perpetuating a denial that numbs the senses necessary to recognize it all.
Only now, the masks and walls designed to obscure this poison are disintegrating, along with the sealed-off cellar that aims to hide its casualties. Somehow and somewhere, you surely know that this cellar has been there all along. It is known to many Israelis as occupation. Anyone alert and daring to peek can see behind its literal walls offering a false safety and freedom and find an abyss. Now the abyss along with its poison is catching up with you and perhaps the whole world as well.
A cactus blooms. Photo Credit: Helene Furani.
Ariel, you have indeed led in reminding that a time of calamity can also be a time of recovery. But will you, amidst the continuing slaughter, lead with courage, notwithstanding the risk and fear, to a recovery from the dominion of modern Zionism? What needs to be renewed, outside and before this Zionism, is a way of living together in this land that embraces all. And we should be able, inshallah, to re-learn it. Peoples have lived together and found refuge in this land for millennia. For the sake of our children, grandchildren, and the world entire, we cannot allow a single century to undo all those that came before it. We cannot allow a modern Zionist un-learning of this rooted history to deracinate the historical living together in and with the land.
A free university must begin to relearn to belong to this place, rather than this land to “us.” It would see that no one and nothing needs to be hemmed into serrated and clashing identities, as demanded by the state’s false promise of “security.” If it is not too late, certainly before the utter ruination of the university as a beacon of learning, I hope that you realize that only one of the three masters you serve can and must be served at a university. You know which one.
Before too late, please do the reckoning that allows you to perceive that what ultimately the state cares for is its own life, not the lives of its citizens nor of the “world Jewry” it purports to defend, let alone the subjects of its terror in the sealed-off cellar, now exposed for all those who care to see. Before too late, ask yourself in what ways you, as a citizen of the state, have been party to a deal with a Mephisto falsely promising manna.
A free university must begin to relearn to belong to this place, rather than this land to ‘us.’
In the instance of a Jewish state, it means, perhaps above all else, the bartering of a profoundly ethical tradition, committed to justice, the best foundation of any and all governance, for a non-ethical institution (the state), which sells both justice and ethics on the altar of its own life, believing in its inviable perpetuity. What is more, being a modern state, your state has duped you into a false sense of safety and into a fake sense of belonging. It has duped you into a sense of freedom, including freedom from violent death, despite how violent, militarized, and nuclear it has become.
At stake therefore is more than learning at an institution, that is, the university, whose vital mission is to safeguard learning. At stake is our existing and belonging on this land and beyond it. Beware that as they damage learning, the state and the market also damage existing. So please open your eyes and attune your ears and ask with your heart: what have I not been seeing, hearing, and feeling, when my horizon is only the stupefying idol of the state and its stupefying images of riches?
You must have had enormous patience and power if you have made it to these lines in this letter. At the end of this exhortation, let us recall that God commands that we govern with justice, justice for ourselves and for others. To forget this is to forget a crucial message from Amos 5:26–27 who warned against the perils of images we make for ourselves. I pray that you heed his advice for recovering a perception of justice: “You also carried your king, Sikkuth, and your idol, Chiun, the star of your gods, which you made for yourselves, and I will exile you beyond Damascus…” [7]
The land, including its prophets and poets, has taught us an important lesson about the self-deceptive, self-destructive pursuit of seductive power and wealth: Crusaders’ castles have no durability here. What lasts grows in and from the land, like za’atar, sage, and olive trees, and the people who cherish them. If you recover your perception for justice, I trust that you will help open a path for a joint healthy life like that lived by the land’s enduring flora, and not by the transient and deserted castles crumbling in its midst.
Sincerely,
Khaled
Notes
[1] Palestinian faculty at Israeli institutions of higher education all hold Israeli citizenship.
[2] In May 2021, what is commonly known as habbat al-karamah (Arabic for “dignity uprising”) was instigated by heightened Israeli assaults on al-Aqsa Mosque and al-Sheikh Jarrah neighborhood in East Jerusalem.
[3] Professor Ariel Porat has been a vocal proponent of the pro-democracy movement challenging attempts at “judicial reform.”
[5] Professor Porat has called on his faculty to assist in thwarting the academic boycott. Relatedly, on May 21, 2024, VERA issued a statement in response to the Conference of Rectors of Spanish Universities’ decision to join the academic boycott.
[6] Professor Porat convened a conference on June 19, 2024 titled “Israel’s Future.”
[7] The original letter gives the original Hebrew verse. This English translation is based on the New King James version.
Khaled Furani is a Professor of Anthropology in the Department of Sociology and Anthropology at Tel-Aviv University. He researches and teaches in the areas of language, literature, secularism, the history of anthropology, theology, sovereignty, and Palestine. His current research focuses on the relation between reason and revelation. He co-edited, with Yara Sa'adi-Ibraheem, Fi Jawf al-Hut: Tajarub Filasteeniyyah fi al-Jami'aat al-Israeliyyah [Inside the Leviathan: Palestinian Experiences at Israeli Universities](Jerusalem: Van Leer Jerusalem Institute & Dar Leila, ‘Akka, 2022 [in Arabic]).
Codex Ephraemi Rescript, in the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris. This manuscript contained a medieval saint’s life written over text from a Biblical text, which is therefore difficult to decipher. Via Wikimedia Commons.
As a Christian social ethicist, I reflect on the issues of war and peace with an assumption that Christians live in two conflicted understandings of time: linear and palimpsestic. These two perspectives have shaped Christian discourse on God, Jesus, war, peace, and apocalypse. The linear frame sees time as one-directional from the past to the future. In contrast, M. Jacqui Alexander conceptualizes time as “neither vertically accumulated nor horizontally teleological.” Alexander frames time as a palimpsest, “a parchment that has been inscribed two or three times, the previous text having been imperfectly erased and, therefore, remaining still partly visible” (190). A palimpsest brings the past into the present and the future and casts the future into the present and the past. It leads one to scrutinize what has been erased, what has been rewritten on the text, and what traces will remain. War stories and memories move between these two frames of time, evoking and triggering the memories and traumas of different wars. It is based on this conceptualization of temporality that I approach the Israeli war on Gaza, searching for peace in the remains of war ruins. More specifically, in a world where no one knows peace free from war, is it possible to imagine a theology of peace that can sustain Christians of conscience in a firm belief in the God of peace, bring global citizens together in resistance to militarized violence, and renew our creative and strategic skills in building peace?
Memories of War across Time and Space: Gaza and Korea
The escalated war on Gaza is not an isolated, unique event. Instead, as the war has been revealed in the media since October 7, 2023, global spectators have processed it through their (collective) memories and experiences of other wars. In my case, Gaza evokes memories of the Korean War, known as the forgotten war in the United States. The full-blown Korean War broke out in June 1950 and ended in July 1953 when the United States/United Nations and the China-North Korea alliance reached an armistice agreement. The war killed as many as four million people, mostly Korean civilians. Although the Demilitarized Zone and the U.S. military’s presence in South Korea are constant reminders of the ongoing Korean War, I had no direct physical experience of the war. Nonetheless, like many Koreans and Korean Americans, I have emotionally and psychologically experienced the effects of the war because of transgenerational memories and trauma that have been passed on to me.
In the summer of 2012, I visited Nablus in the West Bank of Palestine as part of a political tour group organized by the Green Olive Collective. The tour exposed the participants to realities in the West Bank and the Negev desert. When my group walked through the ruins from the Second Intifada (2000–2005), memories of the Korean War were relayed: bombed buildings, half-fallen walls with bullet holes, and broken armored vehicles. The ruins were confined to a tiny area close to the city center. Although the day tour allowed me to explore the beauty of Palestinian art and culture, after facing the war ruins left by the Israeli military, I realized that I had walked through one of the world’s most militarized zones, if not a war zone. Palestinians have made their lives on the remains of war ruins and continue to constantly be exposed to one militarized episode of violence after another.
Damage in Gaza Strip during October 2023. Via Wikimedia Commons.
Grace Cho insightfully argues that “the trauma of militarized violence can traverse boundaries of time and space so that the effects of military bombing … can at once be embodied in two seemingly distinct geographical and historical locations,” such as Palestine in 2024 and Korea in 1950 (57–58). Cho’s argument allows me to see the war on Gaza as the reminiscence of the Korean War, or the Korean War as an evocation of a future Gaza. By studying a “one-hundred-year war” against Palestinians, I could investigate the Korean War and its necropolitical logic (politics of death) more critically. As Achille Mbembe argues, war is “a means of achieving sovereignty as much as a way of exercising (its) right to kill” (66). The Korean War allowed the Allied Forces, mainly the U.S. Armed Forces, to exercise their unregulated killing of Korean civilians, regardless of their political affiliations. Subsequently, the war structured a post-war Korean society and caged it in a permanent state of warfare.
“Brutality” may not justly describe the intense level of atrocities done to the collective body of Koreans. Like Palestinians in Gaza, Koreans experienced “fire and fury” seventy-four years ago. U.S. airstrikes and napalm bombings wreaked havoc on major cities in North Korea, such as Pyongyang, Sinuiju, Wonsan, and Hamheung. These cities had no standing buildings left at the end of the Korean War. The secret U.S. military files declassified in the early 2000s suggest that the U.S. armed forces knowingly killed civilians, including women, children, and refugees, even in the southern Korean peninsula. They justified these killings with the logic of preventing possible insurgencies by communists disguised among refugees or hiding in villages (aka “human shields”). The U.S. military considered all Koreans as (potential) communist enemies to be eliminated. A similar logic is manifested in Gaza. Suppose that mutilated, killed, and burnt bodies and towns during the Korean War illustrated the U.S.-led fear and hatred of dehumanized communists while the collective Korean body was equated with communism. In that case, Palestinians’ debilitated bodies and devastated Gaza City, Khan Yunis, and Rafat are equated with religiously motivated terrorists by the Israeli government and its global allies.
War Logic
The present moment of the war on Gaza is accessible through traces of the Korean War because of not only the intensity of militarized violence but also the imperial logic behind the war and sovereignty’s impromptu response to armed violence. Indeed, like the U.S. Air Forces in the Korean War, the Israeli airstrikes and saturated bombing on every part of Gaza debilitated Palestinian civilians and their schools, homes, houses of worship, and hospitals. As Sharon Welch argues, “Cruelty can be intoxicating,” and, therefore, “the use of violence, even for noble ends, can spark excessive violence” (38). Images from Gaza since October 7, 2023, resonate with the shock doctrine used in many wars, such as those in Korea, Vietnam, Afghanistan, the Pacific Gulf, Iraq, and more.
The genocidal aspects of the said wars are linked with colonial history in those regions and, more specifically, racial, cultural, and religious prejudices against formerly colonized people of color or colonizers’ sense of moral superiority. According to Jodi Kim, like the war in Vietnam, the Korean War could have been seen as a newly emancipated third world country’s anticolonial nationalist conflict; instead, the United States hijacked the war to consolidate its power in Asia Pacific, interpreting the war as part of communist attacks on the free capitalist world. Subsequently, the Korean War would enable the United States to intervene in various wars in a post-colonial world based on its geopolitical interests. Similarly, Israel and the United States have portrayed Palestinians’ various violent and nonviolent endeavors to reclaim their self-governance and sovereignty as religiously motivated terrorist attacks against liberal democratic states.
Korean Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) from the South Korean side. Via Wikimedia Commons.
The war on Gaza has effaced memories of nonviolent peacemaking, making Palestinians, Jews of conscience, and global citizens in solidarity with Palestinians irrelevant in Israeli–Palestinian relations. For this reason, I encounter the ghosts of the Korean War in Gaza. Although the war on Gaza does not identically align with the Korean War, they share the historical roots of the colonial and Cold War logic and the prioritization of U.S.-centered international security over human security. The Korean War and the Nakba erupted in the global transition from territorial colonialism to neo-colonialism. More than seven decades later, Gaza still demonstrates the tenacity of territorial colonialism; the contemporary Korean peninsula meanwhile is marred with competition and conflict augmented by neocolonial empires (i.e., U.S., Japan, China, and Russia) and sub-empires (i.e., South Korea).
A Theological Reflection on Time: Memories of War and Peace
The logic of war relies on linear thinking about time: the beginning, the middle, and the end, the latter of which creates a clean slate for a new beginning. This logic aligns with the ideology of Christian triumphalism that depicts Jesus Christ as the mighty warrior who will accomplish the ultimate victory over evil and end human history. Christian triumphalism is an apocalyptic and Manichean vision that is shared among many evangelicals who see this world as a constant battlefield. For these Christians, violence is necessary and even holy because it eradicates evil and makes possible the creation of a new world. Christian triumphalist ideology interprets the death and resurrection of Jesus as a military tactic to win over evil. Emilie Townes points out the historical infusion of Christian triumphalism in American imperial desire. If the United States were called to become a new Jerusalem, City on the Hill, its theo-political responsibility would destroy one evil after another until the final battle. Christian triumphalism has been alive for many years in U.S. domestic and foreign policies. For instance, the United States justified the Korean War as a means to defeat “godless communism,” just as U.S. military campaigns in the Middle East often invoked the name of a Christian god.
Whenever militarized violence erupts, the linear time frame recalls past episodes of violence. Yet, memories of war and only partially erased stories of massacres and genocide constantly haunt linearly remembered war stories. Within this linear frame, peace is imagined only following war, violence, and killing. As a result, peace is often defined as an absence of armed conflict (negative peace) or as attainable only through military power. In a palimpsestic time, however, peace is always alive, creating multiple meeting points for past, present, and future peace activists. God’s time is palimpsestic, just as the name of Jesus Christ is invoked at the Eucharistic table, where the living and the dead are all invited, sharing meals in solidarity to realize God’s peace and justice or paradise on earth. The peace of Christ at the Eucharist is manifested through sharing bread and wine rather than through bloody crucifixion in the hands of the Roman Empire.
Memories of war and only partially erased stories of massacres and genocide constantly haunt linearly remembered war stories. Within this linear frame, peace is imagined only following war, violence, and killing.
A palimpsestic approach traces peace as it is embodied and practiced by ordinary people who have left cracks in the imperial history of war. Palestinian Christian activists such as Jean Zaru illuminate nonviolent peacemaking as an embodied practice rather than a theory, principle, or noble idea. Zaru interweaves her multiple social identities of being an Arab, Palestinian, Quaker, and a woman with practicing nonviolence as a practical way of everyday living. Her aim is to achieve justice and peace without losing the practitioner’s integrity. Memories of Gaza are not simply about killed, mutilated, and debilitated bodies of Palestinian women, men, and children but also their persistent resistance to Israel’s militarized violence.
Different war stories should be read together critically, comparatively, and relationally. By doing that, we can interrogate the complexities of militarized violence and the banality of evil. Peace is never erased from human history but is often hidden and palimpsestic. Even if peace activism is documented, peace activists’ embodied spirituality, steadfastness, and imagination cannot be captured in written documents. This embodied peace only remains in our memories, which can be accessible only when we consciously embody it. If we can ever talk about a theology of peace in Gaza and in Korea, this theology is grounded not in the remains of the war ruins but in the palimpsest of peace.
Keunjoo Christine Pae is professor of religion/ethics and women's and gender studies and chair of the Religion Department at Denison University, Granville, Ohio. As a Christian social ethicist, she specializes in transnational feminist ethics, ethics of peace and war, spiritual activism, sexual ethics, and Asian/Asian American feminist theologies. Many of her publications take U.S. military prostitution in South Korea as a critical site for producing feminist knowledge concerning militarized violence, faith-based popular resistance, and a theology of peace. She has authored A Transpacific Imagination of Theology, Ethics, and Spiritual Activism (Palgrave Macmillan, 2023) and edited with Boyung Lee, Embodying Antiracist Christianity: Asian American Theological Resources for Just Racial Relations (Palgrave Macmillan, 2023). Her edited volume with Kathleen Talvacchia, Searching for the Future in the Past: Renewing Feminist Theological Voices was published in 2024.
On August 5, 2024 Students cheering the victory at the Raju sculpture at Dhaka University area after the fall of Sheikh Hasina. Photo courtesy of Sudeepto Salam. Used with permission.
Bangladesh stands at a crossroads, experiencing what many call a “second liberation” after the ignominious exit of Sheikh Hasina, its long-serving ruler. Hasina’s 16-year authoritarian streak ended abruptly in August 2024 after a month of student-led protests triggered by a non-partisan resistance against quota reforms for government jobs. These protests have now led to the formation of an interim government headed by Nobel Laureate Dr. Muhammad Yunus. This new administration faces the challenge of guiding Bangladesh towards better governance and participatory elections, although no election timetable has been set.
As Bangladesh transitions from autocracy to popular governance, it faces numerous political, social, economic, and legal challenges. Yet, many Bangladeshi youth remain cautiously optimistic about this moment’s potential to build a better future. These street-hardened young men and women, who often bore the brunt of Hasina’s oppressive regime, are now poised to create a system that prioritizes human dignity, equality, and fundamental rights—marking a sharp break from repression, corruption, and nepotism of the past.
The Bangladeshi youth have every reason to be hopeful. Their country, with the world’s eighth-largest population, also boasts the seventh-largest youth demographic globally. This newfound zeal for active participation in social, political, and economic processes empowers them to drive democratic reform, social justice, and economic stability. Bangladesh’s students have initiated a successful revolution, drawing lessons from movements like the 2011 Arab Spring. Now, its administrators must learn from the failures of those past movements to ensure lasting change.
Reasons for Hope
In a recent address to the nation, Professor Yunus placed renewed trust in Bangladesh’s youth. He and his team of advisors seem to recognize the critical role these young people will play in rebuilding the country and driving proposed reforms. If there was ever a time for Bangladesh to affirm the power of its own people over foreign or capitalist influences, it is now. Fulfilling these promises may also require drafting a new constitution—a demand gaining traction among legal experts and intellectuals. Many Bangladeshis believe that the 1972 constitution, tarnished by opportunistic amendments, no longer reflects the aspiration of the Bangladeshi people or adequately safeguards their rights.
On August 4, 2024 students and others took to the streets in Dhaka to demand the resignation of Sheikh Hasina. Image courtesy of Kaler Kantho. Used with permission.
Bangladesh’s recent experiences provide valuable insights for politicians, policymakers, rights advocates, and scholars of Islamic politics. With a population of 171 million, 91% of whom are Muslim, Islamic political parties have wielded notable influence since the 1990s, when the country began its transition into democracy. Despite this influence, electoral politics have been largely dominated by two secular centrist blocs—the Bangladesh Nationalist Party (BNP) and the Awami League. During this period, support for Islamic parties ranged between 5% and 15%, with Jamaat-e-Islami (JI) historically leading the Islamic political bloc, while Hefazat-e-Islam (HI) emerged later as a pressure group, closely supported by madrasa students and teachers.
Islamic parties in Bangladesh faced challenges even before Sheikh Hasina’s return to power in 2009. Frequently overshadowed by the two dominant political parties, they struggled to balance religious and democratic ideals, often failing to find a viable middle path. When Hasina returned to power in 2009, she exploited this situation by separating secular and religious factions within the opposition and implemented a divide-and-rule strategy to weaken them. She frequently branded her adversaries as extremists, despite their status as legally registered political parties within an electoral democracy.
The Impact of Hasina’s Authoritarian Rule
Sheikh Hasina’s administration systematically targeted and prosecuted both BNP and JI leaders after 2009, with a particular focus on JI. Between 2012 and 2014, the administration used the International Crimes Tribunal (ICT) to neutralize JI’s leadership, handing down death sentences that were widely criticized as politically motivated. The BNP, then JI’s coalition partner, also suffered, with one of its former members of parliament executed by the tribunal. Other Islamic parties were similarly targeted. In May 2013, Sheikh Hasina’s security forces violently dispersed a Hefazat-e-Islam sit-in using live ammunition, resulting in numerous fatalities. Human Rights Watch reported that at least 150 people were killed by security forces in Bangladesh between January and May 2013 alone.
On August 2, 2024, students in the High Court Area of Dhaka demanded the resignation of Sheikh Hasina with a single-point agenda. Photo courtesy of Sudeepto Salam. Used with permission.
A particularly dark episode during Hasina’s tenure was the 2009 Border Guards Bangladesh (formerly Bangladesh Rifles, or BDR) massacre, in which 74 people, including 57 army officers, were killed. BDR soldiers launched a brutal assault on army officers and their families at their headquarters in Pilkhana, Dhaka, resulting in extensive casualties. The violence persisted for over 48 hours, with minimal intervention from the Hasina government. Instead of coordinating rescue operations with military officials, Hasina and her advisors opted to negotiate with a faction of the BDR personnel. Moreover, her decision to grant a general amnesty during the crisis allowed many perpetrators to escape, further exacerbating the situation. This incident significantly eroded the army’s trust in Hasina and her party.
Under Hasina’s rule, Bangladesh experienced a troubling culture of impunity, characterized by judicial murders and enforced disappearances. Since 2009, security forces have been implicated in over 600 enforced disappearances, with only around 100 individuals returned alive, and some detainees remained missing for years. Two recent cases highlight this pattern—a Supreme Court lawyer and a retired Brigadier General, both sons of former JI leaders, were abducted by plainclothes police in 2016 and only released in 2024, following Hasina’s departure.
How the Youth Revolt Took Shape
The current generation of Bangladeshi youth, who never experienced a free and fair election, were frustrated by high unemployment and an inequitable quota system in government jobs. As of 2024, 56% of these positions were filled based on quotas rather than merit, with nearly 30% reserved for descendants of freedom fighters—a small segment of the population. University students were particularly aggrieved by allegations that Hasina’s party officials exploited these positions for personal and political gain. Additionally, an executive order from 2018 abolishing the quota system was overturned by a High Court ruling in June 2024, leading students to question Hasina’s sincerity on the issue. In March 2024, the Dhaka University administration prohibited students from holding a Qur’an recitation ceremony, obstructing their religious practices. This led to increasing frustration among the students.
On August 5, 2024 people entered the premises of the Bangladesh National Parliament House. Dhaka, Bangladesh. Photo courtesy of Kaler Kantho. Used with permission.
The student-led protests that evolved into a nationwide civil disobedience campaign in Bangladesh offer valuable lessons for global nonviolent resistance. The movement was notable for its nonpartisan and inclusive approach, with leaders focusing on solidarity around common issues. The protesters were deliberate in avoiding any religious motivations for their demands, contrasting sharply with attempts by Hasina’s administration and allies to portray the revolt as a conservative Islamist movement against a secular state, blaming Jamaat-e-Islami for the unrest. Hours before her abdication, Hasina ordered a ban on JI and its student wing, Islami Chhatra Shibir, without providing specific allegations. In an interview, Syeda Rizwana Hasan, a current advisor to the interim government, praised the movement’s broad-based support, noting that it encompassed students from diverse religious and ethnic backgrounds:
This [was] not a Muslim students-led movement; it was a movement that had students from the Hindu community, Christian community, and indigenous people.
The student leaders demonstrated a keen understanding of the broader national context and carefully designed their protest. Despite pressures to call for Sheikh Hasina’s resignation, they initially focused on demanding that she fulfill her prior commitments. Only after seeing widespread popular support did they escalate their demands. As one young female activist aptly captured the prevailing sentiment:
There is no way we can go back [to the status quo]; the police may be chasing us now, but it is freedom that lies ahead.
The strategic acumen of the student leaders was clear as they maintained pressure despite setbacks. In late July, when six top leaders were detained and forced to halt the protests abruptly, the next tier of leaders quickly stepped in to continue the demonstrations until the first group was released. Capitalizing on this momentum, they announced a “Long March to Dhaka,” originally planned for August 6 but moved to August 5 in anticipation of victory. Hasina’s security forces struggled to keep up, and the Army, which had supported the police with live ammunition against protesters, eventually withdrew and informed Hasina that soldiers would no longer enforce the curfew. This shift provided the unarmed students and protesters with the critical respite they needed.
Looking to Bangladesh’s Future
In the wake of Hasina’s downfall, questions have emerged about why the regime failed to foresee its collapse. Even Indian intelligence was caught off guard by the erosion of Hasina’s control over her security forces and the shifting political dynamics in Bangladesh. For those who did not closely follow the youth movement or were disillusioned by the perceived lack of social commitment among Gen Z, doubts remain about the true catalysts of this revolution. How did Bangladeshi youth manage to overcome dysfunctional politics, a near-silenced civil society, and widespread fear to shape their destiny? Was religion a factor? Were foreign influences involved? In this piece, we have argued that the student leaders emphasized a political vision centered on life, dignity, and economic justice rather than sectarian religious goals. Beyond that, we will now explore the impact of another significant factor: India’s outsized role in Bangladeshi politics.
In analyzing the dynamics of the revolution, foreign factors, particularly India’s support for Hasina, emerge as a crucial element. Many Bangladeshi youth viewed Hasina as a symbol of Indian dominance and sought to assert their nation’s independence. While their revolution was primarily driven by demands for employment, freedom of expression, and the right to protest, it was also fueled by a resolve to combat the corruption linked to India’s steadfast backing of Hasina’s regime. Both the BJP and Congress in India backed Hasina’s Awami League, largely disregarding the significant support for the BNP. Additionally, the youth were keenly aware of India’s role in endorsing and providing diplomatic cover to three contentious national elections in Bangladesh —2014, 2018, and 2024—two of which were boycotted by the main opposition and all of which were widely criticized as fraudulent.
Despite these external factors, it was the Bangladeshi youth who were the true driving force behind this revolution. Initially led by students from both private and public universities, the movement quickly grew to include young people from across the country and diverse socio-political backgrounds. United, these youth fearlessly engaged in a struggle rooted in opposition to the quota system, in whose undoing they found the seeds of their country’s freedom.
On August 8, 2024 Nobel laureate Dr. Muhammad Yunus took the oath as the head of the interim government at Bangabhaban. Photo courtesy of Kaler Kantho. Used with permission.
Prapti Taposhi, a student activist, succinctly captures the stakes: “With great powers comes great responsibility.” The interim government, now including two student advisors, faces the formidable task of navigating deep political divisions and stabilizing the nation. Key challenges include addressing systemic corruption, restructuring institutions, and ensuring that the revolution’s gains lead to a more just and equitable Bangladesh. Student leaders have called for a thorough overhaul of the political system, demanding accountability from future administrations. Given Hasina’s extensive control over state institutions—including the judiciary, bureaucracy, police, and military—meaningful reform will likely require a thorough re-evaluation of the administrative apparatus, potentially involving the removal of Hasina’s appointees. For Bangladesh, anything less may prove inadequate.
The military’s top brass have so far aligned with the new government’s efforts, while the role of India, the regional hegemon, remains uncertain. The Indian government is expected to adopt a cautious yet strategic approach in its dealings with Bangladesh in the coming months, as indicated by recent comments from the Indian Prime Minister. Additionally, the Bangladeshi government may request India’s extradition of Sheikh Hasina, who faces impending murder charges. Despite the challenges ahead, Bangladesh appears to have weathered a dramatic political storm, thanks to its guardian youth. One hopes that these youth will also steer the country to safety.
Mohammed Boshir Uddin is a journalist and educator based in Dhaka, Bangladesh. He holds graduate degrees in theology and social work from Shahjalal University of Science and Technology, Sylhet. He is also a participant in the University of Notre Dame's Madrasa Discourse Program. Currently, Bashir serves as a Sub Editor at Kaler Kantha, a national newspaper based in Dhaka. In addition, he teaches and coordinates curriculum for Darul Arqam, a premium Bangladeshi institution affiliated with Al Azhar University in Egypt. Bashir’s debut book, Master O Kata Tarer Golpo, was published in 2017, and his upcoming book, Partition, Independence, and Ulama of India, is set to be released in 2025.
Helal Mohammed Khan is a Lecturer of Justice and Peace Studies at Georgetown University. He earned his Ph.D. in Peace Studies and Anthropology from the University of Notre Dame, Indiana, where he also served as a Postdoctoral Teaching Scholar at the Center for Social Concerns. Helal holds graduate degrees in Islamic & Middle Eastern Studies from the University of Edinburgh (UK), Social & Cultural Anthropology from the University of Leuven (Belgium), and Defence Studies from Bangladesh’s National University. Helal's doctoral research focused on the Rohingya refugees from Myanmar who resettled in the American cities of Chicago, Milwaukee, and Fort Wayne. He is currently working on a book project provisionally titled “The Abling Refugee and Regimes of Cooperation: The Burmese Rohingya in the American Midwest.”
War – 10/9/2023 (first in the series) by Marc H. Ellis. Used with permission.
For the eight months prior to Marc Ellis’s death on June 8, 2024, the war in Gaza had been raging. Though cancer ravaged his body, he continued to post on Facebook before he felt too weak to do so. His posts described his disgust and lament over the war, his reflections on life and death, his illness and treatment, and the dreams he had. Sometimes, they were like a long stream of consciousness. After Israel began bombing the Gaza Strip, Ellis also documented his responses to the war through painting. These posts had just one word, “war,” and the date with the accompanying painting below. He took up photography and painting during his later years. I imagine that when words failed, only art and the canvas could express the palimpsest of his moods and emotions.
As a Jew growing up in the United States, Ellis took up the plight of Palestinians and developed a Jewish liberation theology in solidarity with them. He argued that Jewish liberation could not be achieved without the liberation of Palestinians. For him, Jews cannot use the painful history of the Holocaust to justify the displacement, dispossession, killing, and harassment of another people.
It is a pity that Ellis did not live to see the liberation of Palestinians, but instead witnessed Gaza’s history taking a dark turn. His persistence and dedication to a cause that cannot be achieved in his lifetime reminds me of a Chinese saying, “知其不可為而為之” (Do something even though one knows it is impossible). This saying was originally used to describe Confucius, who persisted in persuading society to accept his moral values, even though he knew it was futile. Later, it was used to mean that when one decides to do something, one should consider whether it is right or wrong, not possible or impossible. One may not achieve the goal, but the process matters. One acts according to one’s conscience, though one may not succeed. Ellis worked with Jews of Conscience, and his decades of speaking truth to power inspired postcolonial theologians who fought for noble but distant goals.
War – 3/31/24 (Easter Sunday) by Marc H. Ellis. Used with permission.
I first met Ellis when he delivered a lecture on the day of Yom Kippur in 1991 at Union Theological Seminary. He spoke about his Jewish upbringing and explained his Jewish liberation theology. I remember leaving the lecture hall admiring his courage to speak truth to power. I had renewed respect for the Jewish tradition, which has continuously raised prophets who speak to the human condition. Jewish prophets offered wisdom and solace when the people were weak and oppressed, and caution and admonition when they had gained power but deviated from God’s commandment for justice.
A few years after I listened to Ellis, I began to study postcolonial thought because Hong Kong, where I was born and grew up, was going to be returned from the British to the Chinese in 1997. Some of my reflections and writings have been published in Postcolonial Imagination and Feminist Theology and other works. I argued that theology in the past centuries has been impacted by modernity/coloniality, and that an essential task facing theology is to decolonize the mind and free Christianity from colonizing bias and structures.
Although Ellis did not identify himself as a postcolonial theologian, his thoughts contributed to the study of religion and empire, dispossession, diaspora, exile, the global prophetic, and interreligious solidarity—themes that postcolonial scholars care about. He spoke highly of the work of Edward Said, a Palestinian-American pioneer in postcolonial theory. Ellis wrote, “Said functioned as a contemporary prophet for Jews, warning us that our newfound power has become a form of idolatry” (139). He also contributed to a volume celebrating Said’s legacy of emancipation and representation. In turn, Said affirmed Ellis’s work and appreciated his activism for Palestinians.
Said argued that Palestinians have the power and right to narrate their own stories because many of the reports and writings on Palestinian people, culture, and history are biased and skewed. In a certain sense, much of Ellis’s published work, commentaries, Facebook posts, and paintings are attempts to claim the power to narrate an alternative understanding of Jewish identity, history, and theology that is different from Zionism and collusion with the State of Israel. His fidelity to the prophetic tradition of Judaism and his outspoken stance made him a target of the Jewish establishment. He became an exile in his own community. Like the prophets of old who were rejected—Hosea, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel—many Jewish people did not accept Ellis.
His fidelity to the prophetic tradition of Judaism and his outspoken stance made him a target of the Jewish establishment. He became an exile in his own community.
As a postcolonial theologian, I admired most his courage to attack what he coined “Constantinian Judaism.” Postcolonial and decolonial scholars and theologians have challenged the ways Constantinian Christianity has colluded with colonialism, imperial expansion, White supremacy, genocide, and the plunder of the earth. Ellis insisted that the collusion with state power is not limited to Christianity, for other religious traditions are not immune. Thus, there is Constantinian Judaism, Constantinian Islam, and so forth. He rejected the equation of Judaism with Zionism and challenged the view that if one does not support the policies of the State of Israel, one is antisemitic.
Ellis’s theological and political analysis provides methodological insights that are helpful for postcolonial theologians. He drank deep in the well of his Jewish tradition. He searched broadly for wisdom and inspiration from the Torah and other parts of scripture. He dialogued and debated with his teachers, such as Richard Rubenstein. He interrogated the works of Jewish luminaries—Ellie Wiesel, Martin Buber, Abraham Joshua Heschel, Hannah Arendt, and Emmanuel Levinas—to answer the question, “Are Jews destined to become conquerors and oppressors? Or, with our history in mind, can we change directions?” (11). Ecumenical in his thinking, Ellis read broadly outside the Jewish tradition and consulted the works of Latin American theology, feminist theology, Black theology, and other global theological movements. He demonstrated that those who are prophets withing their tradition and hence marginalized and in exile in their communities have much to learn from one another and with which to support one another.
Ellis rejected the equation of Judaism with Zionism and challenged the view that if one does not support the policies of the State of Israel, one is antisemitic.
Ellis shared the postcolonial position that identities are not rigid and should not be constructed in static and binary ways. The relationship between the self and the Other is fluidly constructed according to changing political and social situations. A binary understanding of colonizers and colonized, oppressors and oppressed, White and colored, masculine and feminine, and Israelis and Palestinians hardens the minds and closes off possibilities for solidarity. An identity in flux allows adaptations to new situations and opens to future possibilities.
Kwok Pui Lan with Marc H. Ellis. Photo courtesy of the author.
Even when hope seems impossible, one practices defiance and daily acts of resistance. Ellis was constantly on the move: jotting down his thoughts on napkins, envelopes, and scraps of paper, writing journals, using social media to express his take on current events, writing voluminously, traveling to lecture around the world, responding to his critics, passing his legacy on to his sons, keeping Sabbath, studying the Torah, meeting visitors, painting, answering emails and requests, and visiting his “Chapel of Love” in nature near his beloved beach.
Ellis’s unfinished work will be carried on by his students and others who have learned and been touched by his life, scholarship, and activism. Confucius reportedly had seventy-two students who mastered his thought and helped to develop the Confucian tradition. I am certain Ellis has more students and admirers in the internet age who will continue to follow his model and do the impossible. His student Santiago Slabodsky learned from him about being a public intellectual and taking risks. He wrote, “Dr. Ellis was one of the intellectuals who was able to sustain a deep, audacious, and indefatigable commitment to structural critique and true care for the individual human beings he encountered.” Jessica Wai-Fong Wong, an undergraduate student who took Ellis’s class, said that Ellis’s teaching and prompting helped her confront the idolatry of Whiteness. “Marc Ellis is the first prophetic voice to challenge the hold that whiteness had over my heart and my thoroughly racialized theo-political imagination” (49). As Ellis had helped her, she now tries to debunk the White mythologies in her students’ minds.
Even when he was dying, Ellis did not believe history is destiny, for it is open to change, though sometimes slower than we have hoped. Reflecting on the aftermath of October 7 in early spring of 2024, Ellis concluded his blog with the following: “History is open. It varies between nightmare and closeness. One never knows when a path forward will open. Those who want it closed will work toward that end. Those who seek an opening must continue on. It is our fidelity that we must pursue, with others. It is the only path we have.”
“Not in My Name” poster held during a protest the American Israel Public Affairs Committee annual meeting in Washington DC, March 26, 2017. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
When Kamala Harris nominated Tim Walz for vice president, the New York Times ran a curious headline: “Harris’ Choice of Walz Over Shapiro Mollifies the Left but Misses a Chance to Reassure Jews.” As a headline (later slightly altered), it less reports on the news than it puts forward a telling chain of significations and oppositions. Why would Jewish voters need reassurance from Democrats? Are American Jews part of the left wing of the Democratic Party, or its opposition? What conflict is there between the Democratic Party’s left and the Jewish community? In short, in a sentence in which the opposition to “left” should be “right” or perhaps “center,” the word “Jew” has instead been substituted.
In his lecture “Old and New Identities,” Stuart Hall makes the observation that one has to be “positioned somewhere in order to speak” (72). The construction of identities is not only based in one’s history or communal belonging, but also in politics and ideology. Hall charts the decline of “class based” identities in the west and the decline of socialist movements alongside the rise of pan-African identities in the Caribbean such as “Blackness” as part of the global decolonial movements (75). In that new category, Hall suggests, he was called upon in his adulthood as very different kind of subject than he was in his youth in Jamaica.
Something rather similar, if also inverted, has been taking place within the category of “Jewishness” in the last several decades in the west. While “Jewishness,” at least since the advent of Christianity, has been constituted by a figural meaning beyond its halachic definition (which defines Jewish identity as being a member of the Jewish religion and/or a descendent of a Jewish mother), its meaning at least since the 19th century had been for a century rather stable. The Dreyfus Affair may be remembered as the beginning of modern political antisemitism; it is also marks one beginning of late 19th and early 20th century identity politics.
As historian Stephen Wilson pointed out, the Dreyfus trial was not immediately perceived as political. It was only after Emile Zola and several other prominent French intellectuals came out in defense of the Jewish artillery officer that socialist parties and liberals took up Dreyfus’s case as a cause. In response, the Right mobilized a populist campaign of anti-Jewish pogroms and street battles. As the French writer and socialite Baroness Steinheil commented, the trial “is no longer between Dreyfusards and anti-Dreyfusards, but between the Republic and enemies of the Republic, between radicals and socialists on one hand, and Royalists and ‘anti-Semites’ on the other” (102). That Dreyfus himself was neither a radical nor a reactionary mattered very little: he and his “identity” had been abstracted, or perhaps conscripted, into an ideology: “antisemitism” was now an explicitly political conflict, taken up by the Right and the Left on opposite sides, for the first time European history.
As is well known, the association of Jews and the Left long precedes Dreyfus, going at least as far back as the French Revolution. After the revolution, the new government recognized Jews as full citizens, a first for a European state. And of course, long after the Dreyfus Affair, Jews themselves embraced, if not liberalism, radicalism, with a large and vibrant Jewish presence in the American socialist and labor movements from late 19th century to the Cold War, along with over-representations of Jews in the Bolshevik Revolution and in left parties in South Africa, Argentina, and Brazil.
Indeed, after the Enlightenment began the dominant antisemitic image of the Jew was transformed from a Christ-killer to a secular revolutionary: one who bears the perversions of modernity, whether in the form of global capitalism or communism. According to Paul Hanebrink, the imagery of the Judeo-Bolshevik often simply translated Christian iconography of the Jewish devil to a secular force of social evil: for instance, in the anti-communist propaganda poster featuring a satanic, red-fleshed Leon Trotsky on top of a mountain of skulls. The Jewish financier and the Jewish communist both embody and concretize the abstractions of capitalism and state management together.
Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, separated by heavy wire screen as they leave U.S. Court House after being found guilty by jury. Via Wikimedia Commons.
Since the early 1970s however, there has been a steady campaign led by key organizations in the putatively liberal Jewish establishment to remake the concept of antisemitism and by extension, Jewish identity. In 1974, Arnold Forster and Benjamin Epstein of the ADL issued its opening salvo in what would become a decades long attempt by the Jewish establishment to equate anti-Zionism with antisemitism. Their argument in the influential The New Antisemitism (1974) had two parts: the first, that Israel is “the collective Jew,” in Antony Lerman’s phrasing, a representative of the Jewish people concretized into a state. Rather than view Israel as a military power and client of the world’s first truly global hegemon, the United States, Israel was framed as a schlemiel among nations: a target for the unquenched rage the world still bares against Jews. And perhaps more insidious still, The New Antisemitism made a subtle but important substitution: the Jewish state was now a figure for the global Jewish people; indeed, the former subsumed the latter.
Rather than view Israel as a military power and client of the world’s first truly global hegemon, the United States, Israel was framed as a schlemiel among nations: a target for the unquenched rage the world still bares against Jews.
It’s important to note how much of a change the framing was: rather than understand the foundation of Israel as a conflict over land or geopolitical power, Forster and Epstein framed it as a question of Jewish identity. Israeli wars, including against the British, the 1948 and 1956 Arab-Israeli Wars, and the ethnic cleansing of Palestine’s indigenous inhabitants were historically framed as political questions over national identity, land, and citizenship. When Hannah Arendt wrote “Zionism Reconsidered” in 1944, she articulated the conflict as between the “Arab peoples” and European settlers—not antisemites against Jews (344). Likewise, there have been attempts by Netanyahu to retroactively blame Jerusalem’s grand mufti Haj Amin al-Husseini for the Holocaust. Such claims are not uttered because they are believable, but because they fit an uncomfortable past into a new framework.
While the association of antisemitism and anti-Zionism is not new and is no longer news, with everyone from Jewish university presidents to anti-Zionist students to politicians and intellectuals smeared with the term for their criticism of Israel, such a construction has not only changed the discourse around Zionism, it has dramatically changed who and what is considered legibly Jewish, and thus what Jewishness has come to mean.
Perhaps most famously, the attack on Jeremy Corbyn while he was leader of the Labour Party in Britain not only targeted Corbyn as an antisemite, but also mobilized a new definition of Jewishness as a collective interest. This campaign denied Corbyn elected office; as importantly it reframed Jewish interest: Jews are supporters of the status quo and enemies of the Left. That this construction was primarily disseminated by non-Jewish activists and media personnel did not matter: the Jew as anti-communist and upholder of Western (neo)liberalism was complete.
Jeremy Corbin at a rally in solidarity with Palestine on May 15, 2021. Image via Flickr user: Revolutionary Communist Party. CC BY 2.0.
This brings us back to Josh Shapiro. He was clearly not the first Jewish presidential or vice-presidential candidate to be denied his Party’s support. For example, in dramatic fashion, Bernie Sanders was denied by the Democratic Party establishment during the 2020 primary. Yet this did not raise concerns in the New York Times or among Democratic Jewish commentators such, as Eli Klein. One can neither argue that Sanders does not publicly identify as Jewish, nor that Sanders lacks his own loyal base of Jewish supporters, from “Jews for Sanders,” to the progressive Jewish magazine Jewish Currents, from IfNotNow to the Jewish caucus of the Democratic Socialists of America. This difference between the Jewishness of Sanders’s candidacy and Shapiro’s has less to do with who is more Jewish; it has a great deal to do with the way the idea of Jewishness has been constructed in the last few decades. Or perhaps, to channel Hall, how Jews have been positioned to speak.
Increasingly, media outlets from The New York Times to Fox News the New York Post have run stories on the defection of American Jews from the Democratic Party over the Democrats’ selection of Walz over Shapiro. In another headline on the topic, the NYT speaks of “heightened concerns” Jews have over the decision; the NYP states frankly that Jews are abandoning the Democrats for the GOP over Shapiro; Fox News reports that Walz is a “far left nightmare” for “Jewish organizations.” The assumption in all of these stories is not only that Jews care only about Israel, but also that Jews are a singular ethnic force of conservativism within the Democratic Party.
This difference between the Jewishness of Sanders’s candidacy and Shapiro’s has less to do with who is more Jewish; it has a great deal to do with the way the idea of Jewishness has been constructed in the last few decades.
A problem with this construction is that few American Jews seem to agree. Not only has the overwhelming Jewish identification with the Democratic Party remained stable as of April of 2024 according to Pew, the nomination of Tim Walz has been reported to be very popular among Jewish Minnesotans. Walz is also the vice presidential pick most aligned with mainstream American Jewish values, especially on reproductive rights, gun control, and an expanded welfare state. It also needs to be said that Israel is consistently ranked as a low priority among 96 percent of Jewish voters—behind climate change, the economy, antisemitism, and health care. And further, it is no secret that the consensus over Israel in the Jewish community has long since ended: one-third of American Jews believe Israel is committing genocide; 60 percent of American Jews believe that the Biden administration should embargo arms to Israel; over one quarter of American Jews see Israel as an apartheid state. If one selects for younger Jews, the number is closer to half.
And while it is arguable whether Walz is a “leftist,” what is of note is the way American Jews are deployed as wedge constituency by media outlets from the nominally liberal Times to the conservative Fox News and Post. This is an intensification, or perhaps a concretization, of the “The New Antisemitism” thesis. While Shapiro’s Zionism is far more virulent than Walz’s—he infamously likened Palestine solidarity protesters to the “Ku Klux Klan”—there is no suggestion that Walz is an anti-Zionist, let alone that he supports calls to embargo weapons for Israel. Thus Jews have gone from a constituency less formed by a support of Zionism, to a constituency marked by an ethno-conservativism. While the choice of Walz over Shapiro was overdetermined, it is clear that Walz was perceived as the more progressive of the two and was more suitable to the left wing of the Democratic Party. Any shift to the left in the Democratic Party is framed no longer simply as a threat to wealthy donors or tax cheats, but also to Jews as an entire people. In this reading, it is Walz’ s and Corbyn’s leftism that is more dangerous to the Jewish community than Boris Johnson or Donald Trump’s antisemitic conspiracy theories.
As Stuart Hall noted, the appearance of new social phenomenon is often less a case of novelty than a shift in the political conjuncture. A conjuncture, Hall reminds us, is a “specific life in a social formation” that forms a “unity” among disparate, even contradictory formations (368). The articulation of a new identity, or new social actor, often occurs when the social formation and its unwieldy set of unities is suddenly in crisis. Hall offers as an example the emergence of the “mugger” in the 1970s Anglophone Atlantic as a figure that hails the crisis of social democracy, and points to a solution of carceral neoliberalism. In a similar way, I would suggest, the emergence of the “Jewish conservative” has little to do with changing Jewish loyalties or allegiances, and everything to do with the crisis of both Zionism and neoliberalism.
Capital and imperialism cannot speak out of universal interest: they have none. Suggesting that the U.S. supports Israel’s genocide out of geopolitics—even identification with the state’s colonial project—can no longer be said by any liberal (anymore than it can be said that Shapiro was a better pick for the NYT and Post as much because of his Zionism as his support for school vouchers and his questioning of public health measures such as masking and vaccines). The consensus around Zionism and the kind of racial politics it supports—let alone the U.S. imperial presence in the Middle East—is rapidly fraying: constructing constituencies for which the state acts to protect is far more palatable than naked self-interest.
This is not to say of course, that there are no Jewish interests in Israel: major Jewish institutions from the ADL to the Jewish Federation have become more fiercely Zionist and right wing in the last few decades. Yet like Hall also reminds us, a crisis is not simply marked by systemic failure: it is also the detachment of the ruled from their rulers; it is the de-alignment of part of a hegemonic bloc from its formation and the potential realignment with another. We are in such a moment of crisis. Even in the stories by Fox and the NYT such discord is visible under the headline: after the ADL or Democratic Majority for Israel is quoted, IfNotNow and Bend the Arc are featured much further down in the story. What we are seeing in the Jewish community is not altogether different from what we are seeing in the U.S. writ large: a polarization around the fundamental question of whether we should live in authoritarian, racially bound states or in multi-ethnic democracies. While Jews may have their own internal fights within their institutions, in temples, community centers, and in the streets over Zionism and socialist politics, it is incumbent upon us to refuse such identitarian conscription as part of that fight.
Benjamin Balthaser is an associate professor of multi-ethnic US literature at Indiana University, South Bend. He is the author of Anti-Imperialist Modernism: Race and Transnational Radical Culture from the Great Depression to the Cold War (University of Michigan Press, 2016), and Dedication (Partisan Press, 2011), a personal history of growing up in a Jewish "red diaper" family. His forthcoming book from Verso, Citizens of the Whole World: The American Jewish Left and Cultures of Anti-Zionism, is due to be out this fall. His critical and creative work has also appeared in Historical Materialism, Boston Review, PMLA and elsewhere. He is an associate editor at American Quarterly.
National Cathedral, Bucharest, Romania. People’s Salvation Cathedral. Seen in reflection of glass building. Via Wikimedia Commons.
Scholars theorizing the connections among nationalism, religion, and violence have presented a wide range of perspectives. Atalia Omer and Jason A. Springs’s co-authored reference handbook on religious nationalism provides an overview of the subject with attention to critical analyses of secularism, modernity, and orientalism. Whereas Benedict Anderson’s influential work on the origins of nationalism—which defines the “nation” as an “imagined community” that evokes a sense of collectivity, communion, and common history across a people group—argues that nationalism developed in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, Omer and Springs contend that “nationalism is not strictly a modern phenomenon” (26). They also argue that religious forms of nationalism are not inherently more volatile or “irrational” than presumably “secular” forms of nationalism, and further, that “secular” and “religious” forms of nationalism cannot be clearly distinguished from or contrasted with each other. Omer and Springs introduce the term “ethnoreligious nationalism” to describe the need for examining nationalism, religion, and ethnicity together, particularly in cases in which “religious identity markers blur or merge with ethnic identity markers” (15) and the language of authenticity and purity is mobilized in support of violence. This module takes Omer and Springs’ definition of religious nationalism as a starting point for an investigation across geographies, disciplines, and conceptual terrains that have been explored in blogs on the CM site.
Omer and Springs’s critical approach to “secularism” resonates with the influential works of anthropologist Talal Asad, which highlight the dynamic and ongoing construction of “religion” and the “secular” as categories and critique the use of the “secular” as a designation for that which is considered rational and acceptable in public spheres. Asad challenges the ways that the “secular” is often imagined as a modern successor to “religion,” arguing in particular against the idea that nationalism should be understood as secularized religion. Further complicating the presumed “religious”/“secular” divide, Asad writes that secular states should be understood in terms of their efforts to regulate—not eliminate—violence and intolerance directed against “religious minorities.” Similarly, historians of religion such as Tisa Wenger have described the ways that discourses of religious freedom, pluralism, and tolerance—particularly in the context of the ostensibly “secular” U.S. empire—have been mobilized by the dominant White Christian population to naturalize and reinforce White Christian norms, which in Omer and Springs’s terminology may be understood as a form of ethnoreligious nationalism. Wenger notes, however, that discourses of religious freedom have also been reappropriated by minoritized and colonized groups to challenge racial and religious forms of violence and exclusion. These studies question assumptions of particular, bounded, stable “religions”; complicate the division between “secular” and “religious”; and discuss the divergent political uses of presumably tolerant approaches to religion in “secular” national contexts.
This educational module introduces teachers, students, and practitioners to three major themes pertaining to religion, nationalism, and conflict: the deployment of narratives of victimization to support a dominant ethnoreligious group’s maintenance of power within a particular context, the mobilization of various Islamophobic discourses across geographies, and proposals for interreligious conflict transformation and peacebuilding. The examination of such themes provides an assessment of how religious nationalisms shape global politics and allows readers to examine the convergences and divergences among various forms of religious nationalism in diverse contexts. This module also highlights constructive postcolonial/decolonial efforts towards religious pluralism and peacebuilding.
Theme 1: Religious Nationalism and Narratives of Victimization
These pieces explore the role that narratives of victimization serve in various manifestations of religious nationalism. Philip Gorski’s post identifies victimization narratives as one key element of religious nationalism, particularly in “western” contexts, but which are also applicable elsewhere. Jason A. Springs’s post describes narratives of persecution and marginalization that inform White evangelical Christian ethnoreligious nationalism in the United States. Raz Segal discusses the weaponization of discourses of antisemitism to silence legitimate critiques of apartheid in Israel/Palestine. Ather Zia’s post reveals how Hindu nationalists construct Muslims as threatening “invaders” in order to maintain a position of dominance in the Indian subcontinent. Lastly, Gladys Ganiel’s piece addresses competing narratives of victimization between Protestant-Unionist-Loyalists and Catholic-Nationalist-Republicans in Northern Ireland. Together, these pieces offer diverse examples of the ways that religious nationalisms from different contexts mobilize narratives of victimization in order to construct a threatening ethnoreligious “other” and to justify violence against this “other.” Importantly, claims of victimization, marginalization, and oppression are not always false. These pieces, however, point to the ways that a community that in fact comprises a dominant ethno-cultural majority might employ narratives of victimization to justify their own moral superiority and maintenance of power and domination within a particular context—a phenomenon that Gorski’s post identifies as a key element of religious nationalism.
Photo Credit: Flickr user Ted Eytan. MAGA hats sold at Trump rally in DC in 2017. CC BY SA 2.0.
This post by Philip Gorski examines the nature of right-wing populism and its affinity with religious nationalism. Although Gorski begins by considering White evangelical Christian nationalism and Trump’s ascendancy in the American right, he notes that connections between religious conservatism and right-wing populism go beyond and before Trumpism in the United States (with Hindu nationalism in the Indian subcontinent being an example from another context). While nationalism was once theorized as a secular, modern version of religion, Gorski argues that religious nationalism is a distinctive variant of modern nationalism—a perspective that contrasts with that presented in Omer and Springs’s reference handbook—and that connections between religion and nationalism also existed before modernity. He identifies blood tropes, apocalyptic narratives, victimization narratives, and messianic expectations as four key elements of “western” versions of religious nationalism, which are historically rooted in Jewish and Christian scriptures, but notes that these elements are also commonly found in “non-western” Hindu, Islamic, and Buddhist religious nationalisms. Gorski then describes right-wing populism as a narrative in which a “pure” people are betrayed by a “corrupt” elite who has allied with an undeserving other. Because of this narrative of corruption, they place hope in a messianic leader who “promises to restore the people to its birthright.” Significant overlaps between this populist victimization narrative and the key elements of religious nationalism—which are evident, for instance, in the portrayal of the dominant ethno-cultural majority as a supposedly morally pure yet persecuted religious minority—may explain the attraction of religious nationalists to right-wing populist movements and of right-wing populists to religious nationalism.
While Gorski notes that further comparative work is needed to contend with other forms of religious nationalism, he writes that much of this framework could apply in “non-western” contexts shaped by other religious discourses. His discussion of narratives of victimization can be applied to White evangelical Christian nationalism, as Jason A. Springs’s post details further, but also to other examples of religious nationalism that are discussed throughout this educational module. While Gorski’s emphasis on the distinctness of religious nationalism—implying an acceptance of the separability of “religious” and “secular” forms of nationalism—might be critiqued by other schools of thought regarding the relationship between nationalism, religion, and violence, his framework provides a useful analysis of the connections between particular religious discourses and the key elements of populist, nationalist narratives.
Zombies as portrayed in the movie Night of the Living Dead (1968). Via Wikimedia Commons.
This post by Jason A. Springs examines the role of apocalypticism and messianism in White Christian evangelical nationalism. While elaborating on his concept of “zombie nationalism”, Springs writes that the continual reoccurrence and reanimation of this form of religious nationalism is driven by “U.S. White evangelical Christians conceptualizing themselves as an increasingly marginalized remnant in a society that (putatively) originally did, and (allegedly) should still, reflect their central identity and values” and imagining themselves as a “perennially marginalized—and progressively more endangered—victims of an aggressively anti-Christian ‘secular’ society.” This post contends that the tropes employed by QAnon—particularly its assertions that the Democratic party is controlled by an anti-Christian elite, that Trump is a messianic figure whose actions have apocalyptic significance, and that America’s “true” Christian identity must be retrieved—have precedents in the White evangelical movement in the United States. Springs argues that “QAnon conspiracy ideology symbiotically feeds upon populist White evangelical impulses toward apocalypticism and messianism” and fuses them with Republican political ideology.
Springs’s attention to the recurrent pattern of White evangelical Christian nationalists conceptualizing themselves as a “victimized-yet-faithful and long-suffering” chosen people elucidates the role that narratives of victimization serve in the context of U.S.-based White Christian nationalism. This post and others in Springs’s series on “zombie nationalism,” such as “Race, Ressentiment, and Nihilism in White Evangelical Christian Nationalism,” show how narratives of White Christian victimization—particularly in relation to anxieties around White majority status diminishing, America’s “Christian values” being lost, and heteronormative sexual politics being challenged—are mobilized as “a covert means of conjuring and asserting power” and maintaining a position of ethno-cultural dominance.
Beit Hanina, East Jerusalem, 8 June 2020. The Jerusalem Municipality offers Palestinian residents of Jerusalem two options: to demolish their own homes or wait for the municipality’s heavy machinery to do it. The latter will force them to pay huge fines. Photo: ‘Amer ‘Aruri, B’Tselem. CC 4.0.
In this post, Raz Segal uses the 2022 confirmation hearing of Dr. Deborah Lipstadt for the role of Special Envoy to Monitor and Combat Antisemitism as a case study in how apologists of the Israeli state reframe critiques of Israel’s policies as antisemitic attacks. Segal, who studies the Holocaust, Jewish history, and antisemitism, argues that those who defend Israel’s apartheid against Palestinians “distort legitimate criticism of a state and present it, only in the case of Israel [and not in the case of criticism of Russia’s war in Ukraine, for example], as an attack against a people.” In response, Segal provides evidence to support Amnesty International’s claim that Israel has created and maintained a system of apartheid against Palestinians, and to show that critiques of Israeli state violence are legitimate. He writes that the weaponization of discourses of antisemitism to silence criticism of the Israeli state “abus[es] the historical struggle of a vulnerable people, Jews, under attack by powerful states to blur the attack of a state, Israel, against a vulnerable people, Palestinians.” Segal argues that such conflations lead not only to a false picture of the reality faced by Palestinians, but also risk reinforcing the segregationist logic of antisemitism that the apologists claim to combat—that is, the idea that Jewish people belong in Israel and only in Israel.
In this context, the use of narratives of victimization—specifically, the weaponization of the charge of antisemitism in discussions of Palestine/Israel—serves to conceal realities of settler-colonialism and apartheid and to actually reinforce antisemitic logics. For more information about this topic, see posts by Atalia Omer and Moshe Behar that critique how the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance (IHRA) has weaponized discourses of antisemitism in ways that stifle legitimate criticisms of the state of Israel and cause important manifestations of antisemitism to go overlooked. Also see Brian Klug’s posts on Europe’s “Jewish Question” and the need for its “unasking.” Klug argues that shielding Israel and Zionism from critique positions Jewish people as “the valorized Other of Europe” (thus reinforcing Jewish otherness and failing to treat Jewish people as normal human beings). He also asserts that critiques of Israel and Zionism must contend with histories of antisemitism in Europe rather than “fold[ing] Zionism completely, without remainder, into the history of European hegemony over the Global South, as if this were the whole story.”Elizabeth Shakman Hurd’s and Raef Zreik’s contributions to the book symposium on When Politics are Sacralized: Comparative Perspectives on Religious Claims and Nationalism also address Zionism and Palestine/Israel.
The Khanqah-e-Moulla, or Shah-e Hamdan Shrine, in the Old City of Srinagar, is one of the oldest examples of Kashmiri wooden architecture. Photo Credit: Mike Prince.
This post by Ather Zia details how the 2019 revocation of Article 370—which had previously acknowledged the special status of Indian-administrated Kashmir and maintained the autonomy of the region in formulating laws—serves the Hindu nationalist agenda, which envisions a unified social fabric built on a conception of “Hinduness.” Zia notes that the ideology of Hindu indigeneity in the Indian subcontinent “casts Muslims living in India as invaders and foreigners”; thus, “Kashmiri Muslims are doubly marked as the demonized other: first as Muslims, and second as Kashmiris who are longstanding dissidents committed to the fight for a UN [United Nations]-mandated plebiscite, democratic sovereignty, and freedom from India.”
The post also provides a brief overview of Kashmir’s recent history and religious demographics and explores how past events and recurrent narratives of victimization shape the current conflict dynamics. Zia covers the 1846 Amritsar Treaty in which the British Empire sold the land and people of Kashmir to a Hindu warlord, the Kashmiri movement for sovereignty and independence that first rose in prominence around 1931, the UN-arbitrated bifurcation of Kashmir into Indian- and Pakistan-administered territories around 1947–1948, and the drafting and later revocation of Article 370. Zia writes that the RSS (Rashtriya Swayam Sevak Sangh)—a Hindu supremacist paramilitary organization—had rejected the special autonomous status of historically-Muslim-majority Kashmir because they viewed it “as an appeasement of Muslims and a threat to Indian unity.” Zia’s account shows how narratives of victimization (or anticipated/feared victimization) have enabled Hindu nationalists in the subcontinent to construct Muslims as threatening others, to justify Indian settler colonialism, and to support the passage of legislation that discriminates against Muslims.
Banner from July 12, 2021 Orange Parades crossing Donegall Square South, Belfast, Northern Ireland (Ballysillan Loyal Orange Lodge 1891). Via Wikimedia Commons. CC BY-SA 4.0.
In this post, which is part of a book symposium on Nadim N. Rouhana and Nadera Shalhoub-Kervorkian’s edited volume When Politics are Sacralized: Comparative Perspectives on Religious Claims and Nationalism, Gladys Ganiel analyzes examples of religious nationalism in diverse contexts and shows how states have invoked religious claims in order to justify assertions of sovereignty and legitimize violence. (For a more detailed summary of the book, refer to this introduction to the book symposium.) Ganiel’s post focuses on Northern Ireland’s Troubles and points out that, although some scholarship on this issue downplays the role of colonialism and religion, When Politics are Sacralized helpfully foregrounds settler colonialism (particularly the role of the British state as a colonial power that informs Protestant-Unionist-Loyalist versus Catholic-Nationalist-Republican conflicts) and religious claims.
Ganiel’s post recognizes that conflicting narratives of victimization shape interpretations of the conflict in Northern Ireland: “Loyalists [Protestant, Unionist] identify with an Israel that they perceive as under attack by terrorists, while Republicans [Catholic, Nationalist] identify with Palestinians whose land has been occupied.” Her contribution valuably explores the complexities of victimization narratives that are mobilized on both sides of a conflict, while emphasizing that such narratives must be evaluated through an awareness of historical power dynamics. Although one must acknowledge the migration of some Protestants to Northern Ireland as a result of their experience of structural violence in Catholic-dominated Republic of Ireland, it is also true that Protestant Unionist elites have constructed colonial political structures in Northern Ireland since its creation in 1921. (For more on the latter, see Cathal McManus’s discussion of the Orange Order.) Like the Hindu nationalists explored in the previous post by Ather Zia, Unionists in Northern Ireland also fear future victimization and have drawn on that narrative to sustain their position. Here, their fear is that a unification with the Republic of Ireland will result in their oppression as a Protestant minority in a Catholic-majority state. For more information on the complexities of colonialism and decolonial thought in the context of Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland, see this post by Maxwell Woods, which shows that decolonization alone is not sufficient for guaranteeing justice.
Theme 2: Religious Nationalism and Islamophobia
These pieces examine the ways that longstanding, global discourses of Islamophobia and more recent deployments of language of “terrorism” have functioned to support religious nationalisms in various contexts. Jason A. Springs’s post points to the subtle manifestations of Islamophobic European nationalisms in presumably “secular” laws that advance anti-Muslim discrimination. Similarly, Uzma Jamil critiques the ways that the idealization of “secularism” within White Quebecois nationalism contributes to both a systemic context of Islamophobia and a determined refusal to acknowledge this Islamophobia. Julia Kowalski shows how Muslim women protesters in India have challenged the stereotypes about Islam and gender that Hindu nationalists have promoted. Rachel Harris discusses the Chinese government’s campaign of cultural cleansing against the Turkic Muslims of the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region of China, which has drawn upon the United States’ post-9/11 rhetoric of religious extremism and terrorism as well as Islamophobic discourses from other sources. Perin Gürel also discusses violence against Uyghurs, but focuses on complicating the idea of a unified “Muslim world” by examining the ways that different Muslim-majority countries have responded to the oppression of Uyghur Muslim communities in China. Together, these posts address multiple discourses and manifestations of Islamophobia—including and beyond the U.S.-led “war on terror”—and the ways that images of Islam being incompatible with both secular modernity and notions of cultural/national authenticity have informed religious nationalisms in different contexts.
The top portion of the frontispiece of the book Leviathan by Thomas Hobbes; engraving by Abraham Bosse. Via Wikimedia Commons.
In this post, which is an abbreviated overview of an article that was published in the Journal of the American Academy of Religion, Jason A. Springs observes how many rulings by the European Court of Human Rights point to the idea that “the expanding presence of Islam throughout Europe presents a pronounced challenge to Western conceptions of secular law and human rights.” He writes that European nationalisms identifying and scapegoating an inassimilable Muslim “other” seem to underlie this idea. Noting that the consideration of only the most extreme or radical manifestations of Islamophobic European nationalisms can obscure more surreptitious and pervasive varieties, Springs attends to subtle European ethnoreligious nationalisms that occur as modes of anti-Muslim “exclusion, inequality, and humiliation.”
Springs warns that human rights discourses have been mobilized in Islamophobic European nationalist ways. Turning to recent French headscarf bans as a case study, he shows that even some avowedly secularist state laws represent subtle forms of ethnoreligious nationalism that advance anti-Muslim discrimination. At the same time, Springs presents international human rights norms and institutions as insufficient yet indispensable sites of potential for guarding against religious nationalism and protecting religious freedom in contemporary European contexts. He argues for a corrective approach to human rights discourse which would contend with the political and cultural power dynamics “that inevitably influence adjudication of human rights cases,” and in response, intentionally incorporate “analytical tools that guard against [human rights discourse’s] unjust applications.”
A sticker from a post in Montreal taken on May 20, 2019 likely in reference to the Quebec ban on religious symbols enacted by Bill 21. Photo Credit: Flickr User Ingrid Cold. CC BY-SA 2.0.
In this post, Uzma Jamil critiques the systemic context of Islamophobia reinforced by Quebec’s idealization of “secularism,” focusing particularly on the tendency of White politicians and citizens to deny the role of Quebec’s secularist Bill 21 in creating conditions for Islamophobic violence elsewhere in Canada. Such denials indicate a “refusal to know and to see Islamophobia,” which Jamil argues “is ultimately a refusal to accept the political claim by Muslims to be treated as equal citizens” and “a refusal to see how Islamophobia is sustained through its connection to Whiteness in Quebec.”
Jamil explains that Bill 21, a 2019 Quebec law which prohibits people who wear religious symbols from working in the public sector or engaging with public services, “disproportionately excludes Muslim women who wear hijabs.” She discusses the law’s rootedness in key aspects of “modern” Quebecois nationalism—which since the 1960s–70s Quiet Revolution that resulted in the Catholic Church’s removal from its previous prominent role in the public sphere—has been centered around secularism, gender equality, and the French language. Muslim women who wear hijabs and niqabs are frequently represented as threats to these nationalist ideals of secularism and gender equality. As Jamil argues, the maintenance of Quebec’s nationalist “secularism” rests upon “the erasure of Muslim religiosity from public space”—an erasure which ultimately serves to legitimize acts of Islamophobic violence.
Jamil writes that victimization narratives that focus exclusively on French Quebec’s minority position in relation to English Canada also inform denials of Bill 21’s role in reinforcing Islamophobia in other parts of Canada. Such victimization narratives are incomplete and ignore the fact that both are White settler societies which hold a position of dominance in relation to racialized, non-White minorities. Refusals to see Islamophobia and White supremacy indicate an “epistemology of ignorance”: anti-racist philosopher Charles Mills’s term for the ways that an intentional failure to see Whiteness is “a necessary requirement for the structure of White supremacy to exist and to endure.” Like the Islamophobic European nationalism identified by Springs, White Quebecois nationalism is a form of ethnoreligious nationalism that conceals itself through secularist language and various “refusals to see” Islamophobia and White supremacy. Against this epistemology of ignorance, expressions of Muslim political consciousness and agency—seen in rising efforts to name and combat Islamophobia—have the potential to reshape conversations around Islamophobia, Whiteness, and ethnoreligious nationalism in Quebec.
Wooden model of a house explaining the Constitution created by activists in Ahmedabad, India. Photo courtesy of RAJEEV KHANNA/TheCitizen.in. Used with permission.
In this post, Julia Kowalski discusses protests that took place in the Shaheen Bagh neighborhood of Delhi from 2019–2020 in resistance to the combined effects of the Citizenship Amendment Act (CAA) and the National Register of Citizens (NRC). She writes that these protests—attended mostly by middle-class, middle-aged-or-older women wearing hijab—represented acts of subversion against stereotypes about Islam and gender that the ruling Bharatya Janata Party in India has deployed to advance Islamophobic legislation. (For more information about the CAA and NRC as discriminatory against Muslims, see this post by Susan Ostermann.) Kowalski argues that Muslim women protestors innovatively mobilized representations of female kinship (including by referring to older protesters as dabaang dadis—“fearless grannies”) and home while promoting the vision of a secular, inclusive democracy and of religiously pluralistic national belonging in India.
When contextualizing stereotypes about Islam and gender in India, Kowalski notes that “[s]ince the late twentieth century, the Hindu right has targeted Muslim family laws, and their supposed ill-treatment of Muslim women, to argue for universal (read: Hindu) family and inheritance laws.” She connects these moves to longer, global histories of Islamophobic discourses that have promulgated notions of “oppressed Muslim women” in order to condemn Islam as “uncivilized” and justify Western colonial and imperial intervention in majority-Muslim contexts. In India, the Hindu right has co-opted critiques of gender inequality in order to advance these notions of “oppressed Muslim women” and “undermin[e] the status of Muslims in India more broadly.” Against these Islamophobic discourses, Kowalski’s post shows how Muslim women protesters in the Shaheen Bagh neighborhood have contested right-wing Hindu nationalism, countered narratives of Muslim non-belonging in India, and subverted sexist and Islamophobic representations of Muslim women.
(Note: a different exposition of this post appears within the “Politics of the Gender, Sexuality, and Religion Nexus” module, since Kowalski’s analysis focuses on the intersections among Islamophobia, gender, colonialism, and religious nationalism.)
Sultanim, Shrine on Horizon, 2014. Image courtesy of Lisa Ross.
This post by Rachel Harris discusses the Chinese government’s escalating “counterterrorism” in the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region of China—or, more accurately, cultural cleansing driven by Chinese President Xi Jinping’s campaign to control the region and its natural resources. Harris explains that the strategic management and positioning of cultural heritage “serves as a resource for political legitimacy and soft power and is used as an asset to boost local economic development”—for instance, by driving tourism and Han Chinese settlement in the Uyghur region. Despite the listing of sites of Uyghur religious heritage on local and international protected heritage lists, Harris points to “the large-scale destruction of sacred sites, prohibitions on Uyghur language and literature, and disruption of Uyghur communities since 2017” as evidence that “the biggest threats to Uyghur heritage and culture are the policies of the Chinese government itself.”
Harris writes that by the 1990s, “strike hard” campaigns led by Xinjiang authorities began to repress religious practices central to Uyghur culture, such as by designating pilgrimages to shrines as “illegal religious activities.” Beginning in the 2000s, the Chinese government drew from global Islamophobic discourses and from the rhetoric of religious extremism and terrorism deployed within the U.S.’s “Global War on Terror” in order to re-categorize such Uyghur religious practices as acts of “religious extremism” and “to justify its actions against the Uyghurs and other Turkic Muslim minorities: actions which were increasingly taking the form of cultural cleansing.” The anti-religious extremism campaign in Xinjiang has involved the demolition of thousands of mosques, shrines, and cemeteries important to Turkic Muslim Uyghurs’ religious heritage, accompanied by heavy securitization, mass incarceration, and attacks on Uyghur language in the region. Harris contextualizes these repressive acts as “a part of the national campaign to ‘Sinicize’ religion” in China and warns that the systematic destruction of a people’s cultural and religious heritage frequently functions as a precursor to genocide.
A Uyghur Rights Protest in San Francisco in April 2008. Photo by Jack Fitzsimmons.
This post by Perin Gürel challenges monolithic ideas of Islam and the “Muslim world” that dominate Western discourse on Uyghur issues, focusing on the ways that Muslim-majority countries are often expected “to respond to the oppression of Muslims across state boundaries [and particularly to condemn the oppression of Uyghurs] in a way that is not expected from Christian-majority countries.” Gürel emphasizes the heterogeneous policies within Muslim-majority countries and the existence of disunity among them in order to push for more nuanced and contextually informed understandings of how countries such as Saudi Arabia, Iran, and Türkiye respond differently to the treatment of Uyghur communities in China. She notes that although the Turkish government did issue a statement condemning the Chinese government’s violation of the human rights of Uyghur Turks and other Uyghur Muslim communities, international politics and economic relations shape governments’ decisions. She contends that those who uphold the idea of a presumably unified “Muslim world” must recognize that “the failure to condemn international human rights abuse despite cultural, linguistic, and religious ties with its victims is not unusual.”
Theme 3: Constructive Proposals for Religious Pluralism and Interreligious Peacebuilding
These posts introduce frameworks for envisioning religious pluralism and justice-oriented peacebuilding in contexts that have been impacted by violence and religious nationalism(s). Abir Bazaz discusses ideas of religious tolerance, respect, and freedom in Kashmiri history and literary culture in order to propose certain visions of Kashmiri religious pluralism as productive alternatives to Indian secularism in South Asian contexts. Bashir Bashir proposes egalitarian binationalism as a constructive ethical principle that can be applied to Israel/Palestine. Kwok Pui Lan shows how postcolonial scholarship can dismantle colonial myths that impede discussions within the field of religion and peacebuilding and offer constructive criticisms of the field. Jenna Streich, although not explicitly focused on religious nationalism, offers reflections on the ways that Catholic schools might combat religious perpetrations of violence, move away from a conversion model and towards one which honors students’ diverse religious and cultural traditions, and work towards justice-oriented peacebuilding in their communities. Her post demonstrates the on-the-ground educational work required to resist exclusionary religious nationalisms. Through cultural/literary, political/governmental, religious/social, and educational registers, these four posts offer distinct frameworks for responding to religious nationalism, addressing violence and conflict, and working towards religious pluralism and peacebuilding.
Nigeen Lake, Srinagar, Kashmir. Photo by the author.
In this post, Abir Bazaz traces the deployment of the idea of Kashmir as a “special place” over time, including in the popular movement for Kashmiri sovereignty (joined by Kashmiri Muslims and Hindus and supported by Indian nationalists) against Dogra rule in the 1920s–40s, and in the recognition of the region’s “special status” through Article 370 of the Indian Constitution. The provisions of Article 370 were slowly eroded, however, as Hindu nationalists accused them of representing “nothing other than yet another shameful capitulation by the ruling Indian National Congress Party to Muslims,” and in 2019, Article 370 was revoked entirely. (For more information about Article 370 and Kashmir’s recent history, see this post by Ather Zia discussed earlier in this module.) Bazaz warns that “cancelling Kashmiri autonomy … could return Kashmir to being narrowly imagined as a site of sectarian Hindu-Muslim conflict.”
Referring to the mobilization of religion and culture in the political claims of India and Pakistan on Kashmir, Bazaz writes that “even though the Hindu and Muslim religious cultures in India and Pakistan offer us fantasies of Kashmir as either a sacred Hindu space or a lost Muslim paradise, the actual Kashmiri Hindu and Muslim religious culture affirms Kashmir as a heterodox and plural spiritual space.” He turns to fourteenth- and fifteenth-century examples of Saiva-bhakti-Sufi-tantric poetry in Kashmir to show how ideas of religious tolerance and caste equality have a long history within Kashmiri literary culture. Such visions of Kashmiri religious pluralism are already “affirmed by many Kashmiri Hindus and Muslims” and, if attended to more deeply in the present, might open up new ways of thinking about democracy, freedom, and interreligious respect in South Asia. This unique vision of religious pluralism is “[w]hat is, and remains, special about Kashmir,” and offers a justice- and peace-centered alternative vision for the future of the region in contrast to the exclusionary chauvinist nationalism of the Modi government in India.
This post by Bashir Bashir, co-editor of The Arab and Jewish Questions alongside Leila Farsakh, introduces a symposium on the book by describing the wider research projects that gave rise to it. (This post by Farsakh, which co-introduces the book symposium, focuses more on describing the book’s thesis and contents.) Bashir provides an overview of the conflict between Zionism and Palestinian nationalism, alternatives to partition, memories of the Holocaust and the Nakba, and the connections between antisemitism and Islamophobia in Europe that have informed these prior projects and publications.
Based on his participation in research on the conceptual and historical links among the “question of Israel/Palestine,” the “Arab-Muslim question,” and the “Jewish question”—and among the dynamics of colonialism, Orientalism, Islamophobia, and antisemitism—Bashir proposes egalitarian binationalism as an ethical frame for challenging colonialism, promoting historical reconciliation, and dismantling Jewish Israeli supremacy in Palestine/Israel. He defines egalitarian binationalism as “a principle that recognizes and promotes the existence of two national groups with equal rights to self-determination … while insisting that this right ought to not be realized in the form of an exclusive ethnic state.” Bashir writes that some analyses of settler colonialism—though importantly drawing attention to power asymmetries between Israeli and Palestinian peoples and to the centrality of land in Palestine/Israel conflicts—are “underdetermined regarding what would be the ultimate outcome of decolonization.” As an alternative theoretical framework, Bashir argues that the principle of egalitarian binationalism “offers rich resources for a decolonizing project in Israel/Palestine that seeks to establish a polity based on the principles of justice and equality, coming to terms with historical injustices, and imagining alternative pasts, presents, and futures based on Palestinian-Israeli relationships.”
For more information about the “Jewish Question,” histories of antisemitism in Europe, and political Zionism, see Brian Klug’s post “Why is the Jewish Question Different from All Similar Questions?” Klug discusses the “Jewish Question” as a European question about the Jewish people, who (in one reading of this question) were positioned as Europe’s antithesis: Europe defined itself first as Christian (as opposed to “Jewish”) and later as a bastion of post-Enlightenment universalism (as opposed to Jewish “particularism”). Additionally, other contributions to the book symposium on The Arab and Jewish Questions contend with European colonialism, histories of antisemitism and Islamophobia, and the relationships among Europe’s “Jewish” and “Arab-Muslim” questions.
End Islamophobia, Silent Protest at Union Station, Washington DC. Photo Credit: Lorie Shaull.
In this post, Kwok Pui Lan begins by challenging three dominant myths that are rooted in European and Euro-American colonialism and that tend to impede discussions on religion and peacebuilding: Samuel Huntington’s “clash of civilizations” myth that explains wars and conflicts in terms of clashes between homogeneous, bounded, religiously based civilizations; the secularist myth which views religion as irrational, incompatible with modernity, and an obstacle to conflict resolution; and the Islamophobic myth that sees some religions (like Christianity) as inherently peaceful and other religions (especially Islam) as inherently violent—a myth that, as posts included in the previous theme have shown, has informed Islamophobic forms of religious nationalism. She shows how postcolonial criticism helps debunk these myths and also challenges the legacies of racist and colonialist dynamics that have shaped the field of religious studies.
Kwok Pui Lan then presents the ways that constructive criticism from postcolonial studies might help the emerging field of religion and peacebuilding—which “focuses on the themes of interreligious dialogue, the retrieval of religious resources for peacebuilding in various traditions, and the instrumental role that religious actors and networks play in the dynamics of both conflict and peacebuilding”—to attend to subaltern religious actors and grassroots efforts towards peace, to highlight women’s participation in peacebuilding, and to apply a lens of hybridity to the understanding of religious traditions and identities. Kwok Pui Lan’s critical analysis of religion and “secularism” draws from Talal Asad and resonates with the framing provided within Omer and Springs’s reference handbook, and her focus on practices of peacebuilding offers constructive steps towards combatting religious nationalism.
This image provides a glimpse into a Catholic high school in North Philadelphia where the author taught science. This image is of a hallway mural painted by students. Photo Courtesy of the author.
In this post, Jenna Streich reflects upon her experience of teaching at a Catholic high school in North Philadelphia, PA, and calls the disciplines and practitioners of religion, education, and peacebuilding to collaborate in efforts to build peace and justice. Streich writes that working with students impacted by gun violence, poverty, and racism in their communities pushed her to explore how Catholic schools might “draw on their theological roots to maximize their potential as religious peacebuilding institutions” and support students’ formation and empowerment as co-creators of justice and peace, particularly when such students are themselves non-Catholic or non-religious.
Streich emphasizes that in order to take on a positive peacebuilding role, Catholic schools must first acknowledge and combat the forms of violence that have been perpetrated by Catholic institutions, including abuse and cultural violence at Catholic boarding schools for Indigenous children and instances of sexual abuse by Catholic clergy more broadly. She also calls for a “bottom-up” approach to peacebuilding that—rather than pushing students to fit their experiences into existing Catholic frameworks—would ground religious peace education in students’ lived realities, values, and efforts to advance peace and justice in their communities. Ultimately, Streich argues that by shifting “the primary focus of a Catholic school away from conversion or indoctrination towards a theological imperative of care”—for example, by taking students’ experiences and struggles seriously, valuing their cultural and religious traditions, replacing punitive practices of discipline with restorative justice models, and empowering students as co-creators of peace in their classrooms and communities—Catholic schools can participate in the work of justice-oriented peacebuilding.
Streich’s reflections on religious peacebuilding offer a vision of religious pluralism, encounters across difference, and the co-creation of a culture of justice and peace as it might be lived out in the daily interactions among students, teachers, and their surrounding communities. Although rooted in the specific experience of teaching at a Catholic school, Streich’s post also points more broadly to the ways that religious institutions might draw from the resources of their traditions to challenge religious perpetrations of violence, work towards justice and healing, and collaborate with peacebuilding efforts rooted in other religious traditions. In this way, her argument offers a counterexample to the right-wing religious nationalisms critiqued by other posts in this module, which draw on violent and reactionary practices in pursuit of their ends.
Discussion Questions
The contributions featured within this educational module have provided means of theorizing and responding to religious nationalism; understanding histories of Islamophobia, antisemitism, and European colonialism; and turning constructively to religious resources for justice and peacebuilding. The questions below highlight some areas of ongoing scholarly debate; invite critical reflection on discourses of “secularism” and “terrorism”/“extremism”; and encourage the further exploration of pathways towards conflict transformation in interreligious contexts.
Religion, Nationalism, and Secularism
Scholars such as Philip Gorski present religious nationalism as a distinctive variant of modern nationalism, but Atalia Omer and Jason A. Springs (in their co-authored reference handbook on religious nationalism) intentionally trouble the lines of distinction between “religious” and secular (or “non-religious”) forms of nationalism. To what extent is it useful to theorize religious nationalism as a distinct form of nationalism? How ought analyses of religion inform the examination of forms of nationalism that are not typically categorized as “religious”?
Insidious Nationalisms
Scholars such as Uzma Jamil and Jason Springs have emphasized the concealed operation of ethnoreligious nationalisms in presumably “secular” contexts. How does religious nationalism appear in contexts such as the United States, Canada, or Europe that are typically imagined as “secular” or as safeguarding “religious freedom”? How do Orientalist and other colonialist discourses lead to “religious nationalism” being imagined in association with particular religions, geographies, or ethnic groups rather than others? Specifically, how do the posts included in this module help trouble the idea that certain religions are “peaceful” (Buddhism) or particularly compatible with “secularism” (Christianity) whereas others are inherently violent (Islam)?
Islamophobia and the Discourse of Terrorism
What makes the threat of “Islamic terrorism” and “religious extremism” such a compelling mobilizing force in European and American religious nationalisms, and how do these discourses of “terrorism” transform when adopted in other contexts (such as China)? How do discourses of “terrorism” differ from or reinforce Islamophobic discourses from other sources or contexts? How is the violence enacted by a state—particularly against an ethnoreligious minority group—constructed differently from forms of violence (actual, anticipated, or imagined through narratives of victimization) enacted by other actors?
Religious Peacebuilding
How might the constructive proposals for interreligious peacebuilding offered by Bazaz, Bashir, Kwok, or Streich apply (or not apply) to various contexts impacted by religious, cultural, ethnic, and political conflict? How do these proposals differ from the secularist myth (critiqued within Kwok Pui Lan’s post) that imagines religion as irrational, a hindrance to conflict transformation, and properly transcended by “secularism”?
Bibliography
Anderson, Benedict. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. New York, NY: Verso Books, 2016.
Asad, Talal. Formations of the Secular: Christianity, Islam, Modernity. Redwood City, CA: Stanford University Press, 2003.
Dawisha, Adeed. Arab Nationalism in the Twentieth Century: From Triumph to Despair. New Edition. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2016.
de Silva Wijeyeratne, Roshan. Nation, Constitutionalism and Buddhism in Sri Lanka. New York, NY: Routledge, 2014.
Gorski, Philip S. The Flag and the Cross: White Christian Nationalism and the Threat to American Democracy. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2022.
Hindu Nationalism: A Reader. Edited by Christophe Jaffrelot. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2007.
Omer, Atalia and Jason A. Springs. Religious Nationalism: A Reference Handbook. Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-CLIO, 2013.
The Oxford Handbook of Religion, Conflict, and Peacebuilding. Edited by Atalia Omer, R. Scott Appleby, and David Little. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015.
Wenger, Tisa. Religious Freedom: The Contested History of an American Ideal. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2017.
White, Jenny. Muslim Nationalism and the New Turks. Updated Edition. Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 2014.
Zerubavel, Yael. Recovered Roots: Collective Memory and the Making of Israeli National Tradition. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1997.
Victoria Basug Slabinski is a PhD student in religious studies at the University of Virginia, with a graduate certificate in American studies. Her work draws Christian theology into conversation with decolonial thought and explores constructive Filipino American theologies, focusing especially on questions of memory, ancestrality, narrative, and aesthetics. Her research interests include decolonial and postcolonial thought, Christian liberation theologies and eschatology, gender and sexuality studies, and constructive readings of literature and the arts.
Prithvi Iyer is a Program Manager at Tech Policy Press. He completed a master's in Global Affairs from the University of Notre Dame, where he also served as Assistant Director of the Peacetech and Polarization Lab. Prior to his graduate studies, he worked as a research assistant for the Observer Research Foundation, wherein he published research exploring the mental health implications of political conflict, the role of behavioral science in shaping foreign policy outcomes, and discourse on countering violent extremism. He also holds a BA Hons in Psychology from Ashoka University.
A painting gifted by Marc Ellis to author and used with permission of the Ellis estate.
One month before the passing of Marc H. Ellis, I visited his place nestled in his beloved Cape Canaveral, Florida. I had already felt familiar with his neighborhood. Until he fell ill, Ellis had posted his photos taken at the beach, paintings, poems, and meditative words on Facebook. Only a few visits to his Facebook page might make people feel closer to Ellis and Cape Canaveral, even if they have never met him. Ellis is known as a Jewish liberation theologian, ethicist, and philosopher. Less known is that he was the photographer, painter, poet, and essayist who endeavored to embody prophetic Jewish identity aesthetically. The aesthetic side of Ellis’s life and work sheds new light on his political theology.
During our last conversation, I asked Ellis whether being Jewish was a lonely business. He answered, “Yes. Being my version of the Jewish is a lonely business…a Jew of conscience faithful to the prophetic. I’ve never given up being a Jew, a Jew in exile, a diasporic Jew, and an American Jew.” Jewish identity, probed through the complex relationship between the prophetic and the Jewish, was central to Ellis’s life and scholarship. In his prolific writings, Ellis engaged two ontological and ethical questions: What does the prophetic mean after a history of suffering and struggle for Jews and now after a history of suffering and struggle for Palestinians? What does it mean to be faithful as a Jew? His search for Jewish identity is a process of responding to concrete political issues and global crises. Thus, the process is as spiritual as material and as theological as political.
Ellis critically reflected on the irony of post-Holocaust Jewish identity. In 1948, the state of Israel was founded for the sake of carrying out Jewish identity, which the Holocaust had almost destroyed. The Holocaust memories of suffering justified the birth of Israel on Palestine. These memories have required the disciplining of Jewish identity through the political and military racializing apparatus of the modern nation-state, along with the myth of Jewish innocence and exceptionalism: Jews are innocent victims who do not oppress others, and, thus, Israel uses violence against Palestinians only for self-defense. As a result, according to Ellis, Jewish identity is placed on two polarized spectrums: Constantinian Jews and Jews of Conscience. The former perpetuate Jewish innocence and exceptionalism, aligning with empire and (neo)colonialism alive in Israel and the United States. Even progressive and liberal Jews can be Constantinian Jews due to their uncritical colonial sentiments and sense of moral superiority to Palestinians and third-world peoples.
On the contrary, as Ellis notes, Jews of Conscience are courageously “abandoning normative Jewish life without the prospect of return,” living and practicing exile (186). Jews of Conscience live in deep exile from their religious and political tradition, walking together with others of conscience in exile. The practice of exile portends solidarity for seeking justice among people of conscience. For Ellis, exile distinguishes Jews of Conscience from progressive and liberal Jews, although their political positions look similar on a surface level.
Jews of Conscience live in deep exile from their religious and political tradition, walking together with others of conscience in exile. The practice of exile portends solidarity for seeking justice among people of conscience.
Ellis warns of how the memories of suffering, such as those related to the Holocaust, serve oppressive political agendas. Thus, the particular Jewish experiences of exile and memories of the Holocaust should be transposed to other marginalized communities to illuminate the conditions, suffering, and miseries of genocide and globalized exile. This transposition can generate new memories for mutual understanding and solidarity for justice. As he notes in Future of the Prophetic, others’ memories of genocide and exile (i.e., Palestinians’ memories) should also be transposed to the Jewish community. Since dispersed people live with fragmented memories of their cultures and traditions, in the practice of exile, people of conscience share “what is left” with one another. Ellis underscores that what is left to Jews of Conscience is the indigenous Jewish prophetic, which is found among God’s chosen prophets in the Torah. Their messages were consistent in God’s justice for the poor and the marginalized in Israel, including foreigners. In a world where Israel’s oppression of Palestinians seems permanent, Jews of Conscience find their community in the New Diaspora, “a global gathering of diverse geographic, cultural, and political exiles” (215). Jews of Conscience find their voice and embody the Jewish prophetic in its evolving form.
In his last book, First Light, applies Edward Said’s concept of “late style” to the prophetic. In interpreting the radical changes in the final works of musicians and writers (i.e., Beethoven), Said argues that in art and in human life, late style transgresses linear progress. Late works appear catastrophic and anarchistic, as they combine “intransigence, difficulty, and unresolved contradiction” (195). Ellis probed the Late-Style Jewish Prophetic through Said’s lateness as “the idea of surviving beyond what is acceptable and normal” (195). In addition, one cannot go beyond, transcend, or lift oneself out of lateness but can only deepen it. At the end of ethical Jewish tradition, according to Ellis, the prophetic has entered its late style. The Late-Style Jewish Prophetic comes from an ancient tradition “while being performed anarchically in the present and is permanently exiled without a conscious desire to return” (196). In its lateness, the prophetic challenges Jews of Conscience, who already live in exile, to practice exile to its fullest. Contemplating the prophetic, Ellis refused the linear understanding of history and time. The Late-Style Jewish Prophetic is not the end of the prophetic. Instead, it disrupts and destroys the prophetic and simultaneously reemerges within the prophetic.
If Said’s memoir, Out of Place, is his late style, First Light exhibits Ellis’s. As his “love letter” to the prophetic, the book is filled with Ellis’s journals, poems, and paintings, suggesting how to embody the Late-Style Jewish Prophetic in the New Diaspora. The Late-Style Jewish Prophetic can only be embodied! For as long as he could, at dawn, Ellis walked more than a mile from his neighboring beach to what he named “The Chapel of Love” near Port Canaveral. At the chapel, Ellis welcomed the sunrise and meditated on Jewishness, Palestine, the beauty of life, his aching body, his two children, the prophetic, and more. His meditative words in First Light are combined with poems, beach photos, and paintings. Ellis was obsessed with painting. He painted everywhere with diverse materials—watercolor, oil, pencil, charcoal, and more. His favorite drawing spot was the back of the envelopes from random advertisers. Abstract images and prophetic messages frequently appear on Ellis’s canvases. Some of them look like palimpsestic pieces. His creative pieces deliver diverse moments of history and arouse memories of suffering, dystopia, lament, anarchy, and catastrophes. Simultaneously, they glow with hope, joy, healing, and beauty, as if the Late-Style Prophetic demanded alternative ways of revealing itself after its own “deconstruction and re-emergence” in the prophetic (xix). By walking, writing, painting, and taking photographs, Ellis took his whole person into the deepest solitude and found the fear there not to lose the prophetic voice. So, he could courageously practice exile and embody the prophetic in the face of the massive suffering, for instance, caused by a series of Israeli military campaigns on Gaza. The only way for Ellis to be Jewish was to become a Jew of Conscience who refuses the ideologies of empire but embodies the prophetic in the New Diaspora.
The New Diaspora reminds me of Gloria Anzaldúa’s nepantla, in-between space, where multiple worlds cross and collide, and, thus, alternative visions for justice grow while pain, uncertainties, self-transformation, decolonial thinking, and rebirth co-exist. Anzaldúa elaborates on nepantla as “a way of thinking, a mode of consciousness, and the ontological space where they occur” (161). Anzaldúa’s elaboration is applicable to the New Diaspora, and the aesthetic is an important language in nepantla. Ellis’s ontological and ethical struggle to be Jewish invites us to embody the prophetic aesthetically. Aesthetic embodiment requires our whole person—body, mind, spirit, and sensuality. People of conscience are connected in our deep yearning for wholeness and desire for liberation in the New Diaspora. Just as spiritual and material worlds intersect in nepantla, I now see the New Diaspora as a gathering of all people in exiles, including the living and the dead. We may find non-human living beings there, too. Hence, I can always see Ellis in the New Diaspora.
Keunjoo Christine Pae is professor of religion/ethics and women's and gender studies and chair of the Religion Department at Denison University, Granville, Ohio. As a Christian social ethicist, she specializes in transnational feminist ethics, ethics of peace and war, spiritual activism, sexual ethics, and Asian/Asian American feminist theologies. Many of her publications take U.S. military prostitution in South Korea as a critical site for producing feminist knowledge concerning militarized violence, faith-based popular resistance, and a theology of peace. She has authored A Transpacific Imagination of Theology, Ethics, and Spiritual Activism (Palgrave Macmillan, 2023) and edited with Boyung Lee, Embodying Antiracist Christianity: Asian American Theological Resources for Just Racial Relations (Palgrave Macmillan, 2023). Her edited volume with Kathleen Talvacchia, Searching for the Future in the Past: Renewing Feminist Theological Voices was published in 2024.
Dr. Marc Ellis lecturing in Saskatoon, Canada. Photo by Santiago Slabodsky.
In the Winter of 2010 Marc Ellis was traveling through Canada on a speaking tour. Sponsored by the local chapters of Independent Jewish Voices, he was presenting his new book Judaism Does Not Equal Israel in all the major cities around the country. When I insisted that he pass through my little frozen prairie, the isolated city of Saskatoon, he resisted. At first, I was surprised. Given that he was a person who had traveled to remote places in the Global South to engage in intercultural liberationist dialogues, places “where no Jew cares to visit and/or was ever invited,” as he used to say, his resistance to visiting Saskatoon was puzzling. I thought perhaps it was the cold that was keeping him from accepting the invitation.
To convince him, without understanding yet his reasons, I tried to guilt-trip him, noting that I had survived the heat of Waco, Texas where I lived for a year studying under his guidance (from then on he insisted that I call him “Dr. Ellis,” a practice I maintain until today.) But then he told me he did not mind the isolation or the weather, rather he was worried about risking my job as a first-year professor in a tenure-track position. He wanted me to be safe. I became even more puzzled. For an intellectual who had brilliantly interrogated notions of Jewish safety—remaining steadfast in building a theology of solidarity with Palestinians inspired by the creative instability of Global South struggles, even when that led to him risking (and ultimately loosing multiple times) his job and livelihood—the concern for my job security in Jewish Studies in North American academia seemed a contradiction. Yet, it was not. Dr. Ellis was one of the intellectuals who was able to sustain a deep, audacious, and indefatigable commitment to structural critique and true care for the individual human beings he encountered. He was actually fascinated by the role that one single human being, whatever his/her/their positionality could play, as he used to say “when presented by a challenge at the right time.” This virtuous dialogical play between structural critique and deep interest and care for the individual who could intervene in history and make a difference was the basis of his pedagogy, his mentorship, and his scholarship, which aimed at a contemporary renewal of the prophetic.
Renewing The Prophetic
We spent uncountable hours over the years and across the world discussing—via e-mails, phone calls, skype, and then zoom meetings—what I understood as a tension in our views. Trained in structural critiques, I tend to minimize an understanding of history based on the actions of great individuals. Rather, I contend that historical changes require the right material and epistemological conditions of existence, are propelled by social movements that individual leaders interpret, represent, and systematize. But in only a few instances are these individuals the main factor in producing revolutionary outcomes. Furthermore, just to tease Dr. Ellis, one of the few Jewish scholars in the US who took thought emerging form Global South seriously, I called his understanding an “American trait” based on idealist individualism. Today, however, I am not so sure.
Dr. Ellis was one of the intellectuals who was able to sustain a deep, audacious, and indefatigable commitment to structural critique and true care for the individual human beings he encountered.
“I would love to think of Marc as a product of the American Jewish community” Susannah Heschel once wrote in the preface to a book honoring Dr. Ellis’s work that was co-edited with Susanne Scholz. “[B]ut I wonder if we deserved the credit” (i). In contrast to an American Jewish community fearful of contradictions, haunted by memories of not only their own dispossession but also their implication in the dispossession of others, “the stance of Marc is a prophetic one.” Heschel, one of, if not the leading voice in Jewish thought today, was making an illuminating point. Heschel, as a deserving inheritor of a longstanding tradition of Jewish conversations with some of the most dehumanized communities in the US—which included her father, Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, marching with Martin Luther King Jr. in Selma, but has been reproduced in her own work until this day—simultaneously pushes us to interrogate both the contemporary role of the American Jewish establishment in global conversations about injustice and the variety of sources Dr. Ellis was employing to develop his prophetic stance beyond even the American context.
On the one hand, Dr. Ellis was deeply American. His model for the prophetic held a special place for individuals who can make a historical difference and is largely represented by the omnipresent figure of Bob Dylan (MLK Jr.—among others—was a close second). In his formal degrees he was trained in American religious history and sociology. He was deeply influenced by the anti-Vietnam protests, the Cold War, and the US Catholic tradition. The latter led him to spend a year working at Dorothy Day’s Catholic Worker in New York City where his diaries became his MA thesis and first book. This influence is also clear in his biography of the priest Peter Maurin, his PhD dissertation, and later, his second book. But it was precisely his work among Catholics that led him to launch and direct an MA program in Peace and Justice Studies at the Maryknoll Seminary. Here, his Jewish conviction paired with the platform of an alleged Catholic universality helped him interrogate what had become a Protestant and Jewish American sectarian parochiality. After Maryknoll sisters were kidnapped, raped, tortured, and murdered by US-sponsored forces in El Salvador, Dr. Ellis may have understood that the struggle against poverty and racism in the US went beyond the “borders” of the nation-state. They needed to be encountered in the “frontiers” of US imperialism, both internally and externally.
Going Global
It is precisely his transnationalism and simultaneous deep commitment to where he was situated—i.e., the US—that propelled him to start developing the work that would lead him to becoming one of the leading global intellectuals of the last fifty years. He started copiously traveling through the Global South and having conversations with religiously committed leaders across the world. Many times, those engagements took the form of physical travel. He traveled to places where global struggles against imperial and/or colonial dominations were taking place, such as the Philippines, Costa Rica, South Africa, and India. At other times, such engagements took place through a deep reading of voices beyond US borders where, in its imperial aims, the country had extended its “frontier.” But none of his encounters was more provocative than his creative dialogue with colleagues, visitors, and especially students first at Maryknoll, then at Florida State, Harvard, and ultimately Baylor University. Some of the students he mentored would face imprisonment after crossing the geopolitically created borders between the Koreas, others would face exile for interrupting capitalist extractivism in the African continent, and yet others would “disappear” for protesting dictatorships and servile democracies in Latin America and the Caribbean. Drawing from his knowledge of American society and the active exploration of transnational struggles, Dr. Ellis started to follow two mutually reinforcing paths: transnational liberation theology—many times, given imperial extensions and the invisibilization of other cosmologies, in a Christian framework—and the creation of a contemporary Jewish partner for dialogue with liberationist forces.
Both Tutu and Gutierrez, because of their struggle against oppression in Africa and Latin America, were accused of antisemitism by those who had perpetuated western discourses that made possible the annihilation of Jews (among other others) for centuries. Participants in this western discourse were replacing their old antisemitism in the Global South by creating false analogies between antizionism and antisemitism. This new strategy, that Dr. Ellis entitled the post-Holocaust ecumenical deal between Christian and Jewish establishments, was able to perpetuate the same culture of death that justified events such as the crusades, the inquisition, the conquest of the Americas, and the kidnapping and enslavement of human beings in Africa, under new rhetorical disguises and policies of censorship. One only need to read the deep words of Tutu and Gutierrez to learn not only how these leaders were able to redouble the commitment to their struggles through a renewed interest in Jewish histories of struggle, resistance and re-existance (including and perhaps especially Jewish activism on behalf of Palestinian political subjectivity and their right to live) that Dr. Ellis was presenting.
Expanding the Legacy
These two prefaces from Desmond Tutu and Gustavo Gutierrez offer an opening to the legacy that Dr. Ellis leaves with us. A legacy can be obvious, but its acknowledgement may not always be present. This is one of the fruitful explorations that Sara Roy, Dr. Ellis’s longstanding dialogue partner and leading scholar in the study of the long destruction of Gaza, and Atalia Omer—who illuminates, via her concept of the “critical caretaker,” current Jewish movements who are in solidarity with Palestine—engage in when they discuss the thinking, praxis, memories, and forgetfulness present in the explosive and promising social movements that are emerging in the public sphere today. The legacy of Dr. Ellis in American Jewish movements in solidarity with Palestine—in liberationist, decolonial, or other forms—is hard to overestimate. Yet, sometimes his name does not appear in these discussions. This may be due to more than one factor, one of which includes the changes in the way discourses are presented through time. But we cannot underestimate that one of the factors is the years of harassment, what today may be called gaslighting, he encountered. This came, first, from the establishment Jewish community now employing the same strategies of domination that Jews suffered from in the past. It came second, from reactionary Christian forces represented by, for example, the czar of political purity, the infamous Kenneth Starr, when he became president of Baylor. After Dr. Ellis had been recognized as the highest level of professorship (university professor) by the previous administration, the new conservative president started to formulate unfounded reasons to fire Dr. Ellis for political reasons. The new president would eventually fall in disgrace after a proven sexual assault scandal led to a demotion from his position. Yet Starr was able to selectively enforce outdated rules of a Southern Baptist university and force Dr. Ellis to take an early emeritus status. This generated a movement led by prophetic intellectual Cornel West and feminist scholar Rosemary Reuther to reinstate Dr. Ellis in his position.
The legacy of Dr. Ellis in American Jewish movements in solidarity with Palestine—in liberationist, decolonial, or other forms—is hard to overestimate. Yet, sometimes his name does not appear in these discussions.
The fact is that Dr. Ellis was never safe. And it is likely he never intended to seek out safety. Or, what is possible is that he was unable to find safety while at the same time remain committed to his convictions about Jewish responsibility toward oppressed people in general, and Palestinians in particular. The unholy alliance between “Constantinian” versions of Judaism and Christianity deserved his audacious and indefatigable critique. This engagement is particularly well developed in one of his books that I teach in several of my courses, Unholly Alliance: Religion and Atrocity in Our Time. During our dialogues I repeated to him several times that this was the book where he was able to offer his most comprehensive and brilliant contribution. But Dr. Ellis, an intellectual of strong opinions, refused to agree (or disagree) with my choice. It is not that he disliked this book, but he repeated to me time and time again that every contribution had a time and place and represented a step in the journey. For an author to choose one text over another without being able to predict who will be influenced by the writing was breaking the open potentialities of a text. He clarified, however, that potentialities were not always positive. They could include both generous people opening to further faithfulness with the prophetic and upset people launching new censorship policies and generating a new round of insecurities for scholars committed to social justice. But since the future was open and somewhat uncertain, he encouraged me to put aside strategic qualification and let every text run its course, for the better or the worse.
The author with Dr. Marc Ellis in Saskatoon, Canada. Photo courtesy of Santiago Slabodsky.
Taking advantage of his admission that a strategy that predicts certainty about one’s personal safety was an illusion, in late 2009 I insisted we still have pending his visit to Saskatoon. So he admitted that he could not ask me to do what he was not doing for himself (predicting insecurity or privileging safety over commitment). So ultimately he did come to the frozen little city of Saskatoon and, along with some partner organizations, we set up a lecture on a cold February evening in the middle of the week. What happened then was a testimony to what Dr. Ellis generated as a public intellectual beyond the sometimes narrow scholarly debates. Over 350 people attended an electrifying lecture in an overflown auditorium. Dr. Ellis’s faithfulness to justice brought out not only multiple university constituencies, but also many immigrant communities that were not necessarily part of the university (with their kids bringing new life to the event by running across the over-populated aisles of the auditorium).
A few days after the event, an authority of the institution, very satisfied with the turnout, told me that Dr. Ellis was able to bring to the university communities that “were hidden” (though I would say that they were “unseen”) in the small Canadian city. But this little story in Saskatoon is perhaps an excellent point of entry into his legacy. Dr. Ellis, with his faithfulness to justice, was able to open doors for expression, exposition, presence, and visibility to that which has been rejected. The role of the prophetic discourse, therefore, is to identify what is being negated, what has been silenced, and mobilize one’s identity from one’s positionality to claim the possibility of another possible world. It is only then that the prophetic remains alive. And this is how we can truly celebrate his life and commitment to those figures who can change history.
Santiago Slabodsky is the Florence and Robert Kaufman Chair in Jewish Studies at Hofstra University in New York. He is co-director of the journal Decolonial Horizons/Horizontes Decoloniales at the GEMRIP institute in Latin America and convener of the summer program of Liberation Theologies and Decolonial Thought at the Global Dialogue Center in Spain. In the past he was co-chair of the Liberation Theologies unit at AAR, convener of the PhD Program in Religion, Ethics and Society at Claremont School of Theology and associate director of the center for Race, Culture and Social Justice in his current institution. Concurrently to his permanent posts in the US, he has served as visiting professor at institutions in the Netherlands, South Africa, Spain, Costa Rica, Macedonia, and Argentina and has lectured throughout Europe, the Americas, Africa, South East Asia, and the Middle East. His book Decolonial Judaism: Triumphal Failures of Barbaric Thinking received the 2017 Frantz Fanon Outstanding Book Award from the Caribbean Philosophical Association.
Congress Party leader Rahul Gandhi holds a copy of the Indian Constitution as he addresses a press conference at the party headquarters in New Delhi, India, Tuesday, June 4, 2024. (AP Photo/Altaf Qadri)
In early June 2024, India completed its general elections, which resulted in a third consecutive victory for the incumbent Hindu nationalist Prime Minister, Narendra Modi. The Bharatiya Janata Party’s (BJP’s) margin of victory, however, was substantially lower than expected and the party failed to win a parliamentary majority in the Lok Sabha, or lower house of parliament. The change in the margin of victory marks the return of coalition politics, as Modi must now rely on allied parties to form the new government under the National Democratic Alliance (NDA), which includes numerous center and right-wing parties. Conversely, the Indian National Developmental Inclusive Alliance (INDIA), led by the primary opposition party, the Indian National Congress (INC), stunned many observers as it secured a greater number of seats than expected. The demise of the INC and its leader Rahul Gandhi, the great-grandson of India’s inaugural prime minister, Jawaharlal Nehru, appeared to have been greatly exaggerated.
These election results produced a sense of jubilation amongst Indians who are against the politics of the Modi government. On social media and in news stories, people celebrated that Modi was “cut to size,” but more significantly, that Indians had reclaimed their “democracy” in spite of significant electoral malpractice. Within days, a plethora of analyses from Indian academics in particular circulated and proclaimed that something had fundamentally changed in India. Some argued that this election was a return to “a disinterested vision of the good society” over one that was a “politics of self-interest,” while others spoke of how “the pall of suffocation created by a decade of Modi’s strongman style…has lifted” and that this election “affirmed pluralism over populism.” The election, thus, was viewed as a “vote against hate.” Perhaps the title that succinctly summarized most reactions was that the elections brought “hope, even in defeat.” Therefore, even though the BJP retained power, the failure to reach its dominant majority in the 543-member Lok Sabha—‘ab ki baar char sau paar’ [This time with over 400 seats] as Modi’s campaign slogan went—signaled hope for Indian democracy as it was presumed that the relationship between state and society could undergo repair as the latter could renew the state.
The National Symbolic
In-depth electoral analysis and judgments of the recent Indian elections abound. Yet, is it possible to read these initial moments of hope as indicative of an Indian “National Symbolic”—what Lauren Berlant has defined as some “tangled cluster” of “the juridical, territorial (jus soli), genetic (jus sanguinis), linguistic, or experiential” that transforms individuals into national subjects? (5) The National Symbolic produces fantasy and, in particular, “a fantasy of national integration, although the content of this fantasy is a matter of cultural debate and historical transformation” (22). How do the celebratory, and indeed, jubilatory, declarations in response to the recent elections demonstrate an ongoing desire for an integrated Indian form? And how might that national fantasy affirm, rather than repudiate, Modi and his politics? We contend the celebration of Indian political forms—citizenship and the constitution, for example—reveals the perpetuation of an Indian national fantasy while it disavows the violent divisions that produce the very space of the nation.[1] Put differently, hope reaffirms the life and the narrative of the nation—signing and countersigning an Indian history, both a singular and plural one. Our goal, in contrast, is not to provide a more inclusive understanding of the Indian national fantasy, but to consider the theoretical underpinnings of the post-election relief that continue to make India a particularly powerful object of desire.
Shri Baboolal Mewra with PM Narendra Modi during the Vijay Sankalp Rally in Morena (M.P.) – Lok Sabha 2024 Election Campaign. Via Wikimedia Commons.
If this celebration, this hope, is tethered to an Indian national fantasy, what is this fantasy with all its multiple and contradictory meanings? For most liberal-left Indians, Modi’s tenure as prime minister since 2014 violates India’s foundation as a tolerant, multicultural nation that—while not perfect—strives towards a democratic and secular form. This tolerant form of India gains its coherence against the religious fundamentalist or the orthodox, which is known, notoriously in the historiography of South Asia, as the semiticization of Indian traditions—in which the introduction of proselytization and the assertion of religious difference during the colonial period created a “semitic” form against a tolerant “Indic” one. Numerous scholars have demonstrated that this racist framing accrues numerous adherents across the political spectrum. Sustained by historical analyses that privilege the fluid and multiple, national fantasies around India are thus bound to tolerance. It is a tolerance that functions in concert with “the will of an interventionist modernizing state in order to…supply, in the name of ‘national culture,’ a homogenized content to the notion of citizenship” as Partha Chatterjee writes—an integrated, whole, and unassailable national body.
The Role of the Indian Constitution
The Indian constitution plays a significant role in this national fantasy, and it certainly was invoked a number of times during the 2024 election. Rahul Gandhi appeared in a press conference with the constitution in hand; reports later commented on how sales of the constitution have skyrocketed since. After his victory, Modi, too, called the constitution a “guiding light.”
One reason for the Indian constitution’s critical role in national fantasy, especially on the liberal-left, is because of Indian federalism: the distribution of powers between the national government and the different states’ governments creates a political form that allows for the possibility of tolerance and inclusion for diverse peoples. To take one example, in his theorization, Partha Chatterjee contends that the federalism enshrined in the Indian constitution coupled with the unique character of Indian citizenship does not allow for nation-people-state to be collapsed together to create a whole integrated national fantasy. There can be no singular National Symbolic, although the BJP constitutes an attempt to create one. Instead, in India, Chatterjee contends we find remarkably diverse political communities that are “peoples-nation”—political communities not integrated into the nation-state, but in tense relation to the nation-state. This separation provides an opportunity for a redemptive politics that is tolerant of numerous narratives and peoples. For Chatterjee, this is the case because of the structure of India’s postcolonial democracy in which formal citizenship was granted to all before their inclusion in civil society, creating, what Chatterjee calls, an alternative political society. In short, the bourgeoisie are dominant, but not hegemonic.
The BJP’s ability to triangulate nation-state-people into a unified national fantasy, then, is countered by federalism and political societies, such as regional populist parties. But beyond these regional parties, Chatterjee argues that what is needed is a counter-narrative to Hindu nationalism’s claims to cultural homogeneity to bind regional mobilizations together in the center, “a vibrant federal republic.” Such a narrative would realign the relation between peoples-nation and nation-state by making it plural with “several civilizational narratives” (109).
In a strange twist, the very impossibility of unified India—the lack of hegemony—becomes a celebrated feature of India, integrated into the nation itself, rather than calling India into question. In their very impossibility, India’s constitution and democratic culture become redemptive, always already tolerant and inclusive. Chatterjee, therefore, reinscribes the very national fantasy he purports to critique by appropriating the fundamental deadlock in the national fantasy by making it plural and offering a more inclusive and hopeful narrative for India.
Following Chatterjee’s analysis, it is easy to see why the return of coalition politics was celebrated in the aftermath of the election. Coalition politics signals the possibility for coalescing a counter-narrative of peoples-nation and, therefore, a renewed sense of hope that functions within the Indian National Symbolic, no matter India’s sordid history. As Shruti Kapila stated, there was “new-found excitement at the return to old-style political jockeying.” The return of the old India thus becomes the promise of the new India. For Chatterjee, too, “It is time to restore [coalition politics] to its proper place at the centre of our political life.” Restoration and return signal hope for a better India to come—one that was always there.
Chatterjee, therefore, reinscribes the very national fantasy he purports to critique by appropriating the fundamental deadlock in the national fantasy by making it plural and offering a more inclusive and hopeful narrative for India.
Against this hopeful excitement that creates a theoretical distinction between people and state, one must ask: Why focus on “India” at all, especially when there are political movements that reject the idea of India and the fantasies it generates? Why, then, do academics continue to provide unifying narratives for India, reinscribing the aims of a nation-state? At what point do we have to rethink the constant attempt to narrate the history of the Indian nation-state-people(s)? Do we need only more robust histories of the diversity and tolerance of India and its constitution? Or do we have to question the very logic of history since the national imaginary cannot be reduced to historical content—plural or otherwise–but is, instead, history itself? These are especially important questions since, as Rahul Rao writes, “Calls to protect the Constitution cannot mean much to those who do not wish to be governed by it – unless the Constitution can contemplate a process by which it will no longer be applicable to unwilling subjects.”
Burned buildings in the wake of anti-Muslim pogroms in March 2020. Via Wikimedia Commons.
Recall that this is a constitution that has entrenched India’s colonial occupation of Kashmir and cemented the second-class citizenship status of Muslims in India. In an article written before he was arrested, the Muslim activist who was involved with the anti-CAA and anti-NRC protests in India, Sharjeel Imam, writes of how the “dismal figures among Muslims in relation to poverty, education, employment and political representation clearly demonstrate the lack of foresight regarding the minority issue during the constitution-making process.” He says that this occurred because of the articulation of the country as Bharat (a geographic imaginary derived from Sanskrit texts), which “reflects an exclusively Hindu imagination of Indian history” as well as the lack of safeguards for Muslims in terms of representation, cow protection, and finally, the definition of “schedule castes,” which excluded Muslims and led them to “further impoverishment, as they are hardly supported by any relevant programs for affirmative action at the central state level.” The very foundational moment of India then is premised on exclusion and the binding together of people-nation-state, even if scholars try to imagine otherwise. This binding reveals that the very distinction between the “state” and “political society” that makes it possible to locate hope in the latter is difficult to sustain.
Communalism and Coalition Politics
Another recurrent theme amid the celebrations was that the election revealed the limits of communal politics—a politics embodied by Modi and the BJP. During Modi’s re-election campaign, he repeatedly made a number of remarks against Muslims in India, accusing them of being “infiltrators” that depleted resources available to Hindus in order to galvanize his Hindu base. Against this Hindu-nationalist ideology, the return to coalition politics came to be seen as a return to an earlier and more tolerant secularism.
A wider historical view reveals anti-Muslim or minority hate or policies in India are not the sole property of the BJP; such exclusion has defined Indian politics since 1947. The Congress Party has engaged in communalism, and served as a source of violence or domination for minorities, including Muslims, Dalits, and Sikhs, or the occupied in Kashmir. During the election, the Indian National Congress did not directly address the Muslim question in India. In the press conference after election results came out, Rahul Gandhi thanked “the poor and marginalised people who came out to save the constitution. Workers, farmers, Dalits, adivasis [Indigenous] and backwards have helped save this constitution.” It was not lost on Muslims that they were not mentioned, despite the country’s 200 million Muslims coming out in droves to vote for the INDIA alliance, led by the Congress Party. The situation in India is such that an opposition party, ostensibly a party that is against the BJP, cannot even mention Muslims or address their fears and concerns, knowing that it will isolate India’s predominantly Hindu population.
A wider historical view reveals anti-Muslim or minority hate or policies in India are not the sole property of the BJP; such exclusion has defined Indian politics since 1947.
Anthropologist Irfan Ahmad told Al Jazeera English, “Since 2014, this electoral circus has passionately been staging Muslims as a threat against which people are asked to vote. While the BJP issues the threat openly, the non-BJP parties do implicitly: That is by remaining silent. No party has the courage to talk about the violence done to the Muslims.” Sikhs, too, have been violently targeted. Yet this violence was met with silence in the election across India even with the continued criminalization of dissent, arbitrary detentions of foreign nationals, as well as state-orchestrated murder abroad.
Yet a politics of hope that centers an Indian national fantasy means that amidst the flurry of pieces in the wake of the elections, no demands were made of the Congress party or the INDIA alliance to take stock of its communal past and present. Instead, the past and future of India always redeems the violent exclusions in the present. We must ask: If hope remains tethered to an Indian future, is the current iteration of anti-Hindutva politics rooted in a concern for the oppressed and the excluded? If so, how does such a politics contend with the Indian National Congress and India’s “secular” or “liberal” political formations without further entrenching an Indian national fantasy? To be sure, many privileged, upper caste liberal Indians have been embarrassed by the authoritarianism and Hindu nationalism of the prime minister who has harmed the national fantasy of a “democratic India.” The hope that stems from the election is particularly powerful and seductive for them since it keeps alive the “Incredible India” brand as it provides a route to self-correction: India can return to its original promise, improvements can once again be made.
Against hope, then, it might be time to interrogate these fantasies. If citizenship is marked by exclusions and colonial inclusions (Kashmir, Sikhs, and others), rather than formal granting and the creation of political societies, then India’s impossibility cannot be redeemed in coalition politics or counter-narratives. If violent exclusion and then forceful integration is at the center of India, why does it and its constitution remain the desirous object of history? How can one detach oneself from a hope and world that is not working? To detach oneself is not to escape fantasy altogether. To undo the world while making another, Berlant writes, “requires fantasy to motor programs of action, to distort the present on behalf of what the present can become” (263). But the fantasies generated by the Indian National Symbolic serve to install a singular vision of politics by seamlessly binding together the present with past and future in the promise of tolerance that always eludes.
Rajbir Singh Judge is Assistant Professor of History at California State University, Long Beach. He specializes in the intellectual and cultural history of South Asia with a particular emphasis on Punjab and the Sikh tradition. His book, Prophetic Maharaja: Loss, Sovereignty, and the Sikh Tradition in Colonial South Asia was published by Columbia University Press in 2024.
Hafsa Kanjwal is Associate Professor of South Asian History in the Department of History at Lafayette College, where she teaches courses on the history of the modern world, South Asian history, and Islam in the Modern World. As a historian of modern Kashmir, she is the author of Colonizing Kashmir: State-building Under Indian Occupation(Stanford University Press, 2023), which examines how the Indian and Kashmir governments utilized state-building to entrench India’s colonial occupation of Kashmir in the aftermath of Partition.
A sign near Beitar Crossing checkpoint between Israel and the occupied territories. The sign declares that the crossing is designated for Israelis only (and also for those eligible to immigrate to Israel under the Law of Return). Via Wikimedia Commons.
I argue in this short post that the Israeli legal order, in its attempt to establish a Jewish State, offers an especially rich site to explore 1930s Weimar-era jurisprudential debates regarding sovereignty, the rule of law, and the sovereign exception. As this short post will make clear, early Israeli judicial decisions (1948–1925) regarding citizenship in the new state, and Israel’s 1950 Law of Return and its 1952 Nationality Law suspended the operation of ordinarily applicable legal rules in a manner that recalls Carl Schmitt’s arguments about the nature of sovereignty. The subsequent history of the Israeli state, and its violent relationship with Palestinian Arabs and its neighbors, however, also vindicate the most prominent Weimer-era critics of Schmitt’s decisionism—Hans Kelsen and Hermann Heller. Applying their critique of Schmitt to the Israeli legal order reveals it to be the moral equivalent of an ersatz, rather than a true, miracle. As a result, the Israeli state must rely on violence to make up for its irrational, even absurd legal claims. The magical nature of Israeli claims of exclusive sovereignty in Palestine—foretold in the early case law of its courts and its early legislation on Israeli citizenship—recently reached its apogee in the 2018 Nation-State Law. That law declares that only Jews may exercise the right of self-determination in Palestine, even though non-Jewish Arabs make up half of the population living in historical Palestine and living under Israeli control.
Carl Schmitt, the conservative, turned Nazi legal theorist of Weimar Germany, famously noted that “Sovereign is he who decides on the exception” (5). For Schmitt, the sovereign decision was constitutive of the political and existed outside of the law’s positive rules. The sovereign’s power to suspend the ordinary operation of the law, as well its power to restore it, was indispensable to the existence of any legal order in Schmitt’s view. Liberal legality was a myth because it attempted to suppress the existence of the sovereign decision in law and reduce law to the mechanistic operation of rules.
Applying Kelsen and Heller’s critique of Schmitt to the Israeli legal order reveals it to be the moral equivalent of an ersatz, rather than a true, miracle.
Schmitt, when he wrote those words, had in mind the liberal German legal theorist, and defender of the Weimar Constitution, Hans Kelsen. Kelsen’s pure theory of the law, by contrast, made a categorical distinction between politics and morality, on the one hand, and legal rules, on the other, stating that only positive rules can be the object of a science. For Kelsen, sovereignty was not the will of a person, as Schmitt would have it, but rather is the property of a legal system that identifies particular persons as exercising various powers on behalf of the state. Conflating legal sovereignty with power, in the sense of “the capacity to bring about an effect,” according to Kelsen, is a result of a mistaken application of theology to political science, reflecting a basic confusion between the legal authority of a state and the theological idea of God as prima causa of the Universe (208).
Herman Heller, a leftist German legal theorist who was critical of both Schmitt, for his authoritarianism, and Kelsen, for his attempt to exclude the political from the legal, pointed out that Schmitt’s association of politics with the will of the sovereign was, in practice, a repudiation of Enlightenment rationality and a return to medieval conceptions of a personal deity who is free to suspend the rules of nature whenever it wishes, presumably, as a favor to the chosen recipient of grace. As David Dyzenhaus notes, the irrationality that Schmitt’s conception of sovereignty introduced did not mean that it would inevitably fail as a practical matter; however, it did mean that political projects grounded in non-rational appeals to the exception could only succeed through the deployment of “great violence” (175).
The miraculous/magical claims of Israel’s legal system are no where on better display than in its Nationality Law of 1952, and some early decisions of its courts (see year 1950, International Law Reports, 110–12) on the question of Israeli citizenship prior to the passage of the Nationality Law.[1] Three Tel Aviv district court cases disagreed on the fate of Palestinian citizenship in the period between the expiration of the Palestine Mandate in 1948 and the adoption of the Nationality Law of 1952. Two decisions, Re Goods Shephris and Oseri v. Oseri, held that Palestinian citizenship had come to an end with the conclusion of the Mandate. A third decision, A.B. v. M.B., affirmed the continuing vitality of Palestinian citizenship throughout this period. Israel’s Supreme Court brought an end to the conflicting lower-court decisions when it ruled in 1952 in Hussein v. Governor of Acre Prison that, with the establishment of the State of Israel, Palestinian citizenship ceased to exist, whether in the territory that became Israel, those parts of Palestine occupied by Egypt and Jordan, or “anywhere else in the world” (International Law Reports, 112).
Against the view that Palestinian citizenship had come to an end with the expiration of the Mandate, the judge in A.B. v. M.B. pointed out that it was a settled position of public international law that upon a succession in sovereignty, the persons in the territory, ipso facto, acquire citizenship of the new sovereign. To hold otherwise in the case of Israel would lead to the absurd result that Israel came into existence as a state in 1948 but had no nationals until 1952 when the Knesset passed the Nationality Law (International Law Reports, 111). Despite the absurdity of this legal result, the judge in Oseri argued that the citizenship regime put in place by the Mandatory authorities—which granted Palestinian citizenship to all persons who had been citizens of the Ottoman Empire and had habitually resided in Palestine regardless of religion—in reliance on the provisions of the Treaty of Lausanne are “devoid of substance in the State of Israel” and are “inappropriate to the situation following the creation of Israel and the changes which that event has brought” (International Law Reports, 112).
Presumably, the “changes” to which the learned judge alluded, but did not make express in his opinion, was the expulsion of more than 750,000 Palestinian Arabs and the decision of the State not to allow them to return to their homes, a decision that was reinforced by deeming Palestinian Arabs who sought to return “infiltrators” that could, and were, routinely shot and killed.[2] In order to create a Jewish state, the Israeli judiciary performed the miraculous/magical act of imagining Israel’s establishment as though it were an act of self-generation, creation ex nihilo, as it were.
Jewish Law of Return passport stamp. Via Wikimedia Commons.
So miraculous was the creative power of Israel as sovereign that even the citizenship of Jewish Palestinians could not seemingly survive its establishment. As a practical matter, however, the denationalization of Palestine’s Jewish citizens, like all false miracles, was an illusion: Section 2(a) of the Nationality Law gave Jewish citizens of Palestine the status of returnees under the Law of Return of 1950, thereby granting them Israeli citizenship on grounds of Jewishness rather than habitual residence in the territory that became Israel. Palestinian Arabs, by contrast, could only claim Israeli citizenship if they successfully resisted Israel’s campaign of ethnic cleansing by remaining continually present in the territory that became Israel until July 14, 1952, the effective date of the Nationality Law. The British law creating Palestinian nationality, by contrast, theoretically allowed any one otherwise eligible for Palestinian citizenship, but for whatever reason was not present in Palestine as of the effective date of the law, two years to apply for Palestinian citizenship from wherever he was located, even though in practice the implementation of the law deprived many Palestinians who were abroad of Palestinian citizenship because the steps they needed to follow to apply for Palestinian citizenship were onerous and impracticable given their circumstances.[3]
Section 18(a) of Israel’s Nationality Law provides that “The Palestinian Citizenship Orders, 1925-1942 are repealed with effect from the day of the establishment of the State.” By expressly canceling Palestinian citizenship for everyone, and denationalizing everyone who failed the Nationality Law’s strict residency requirements, without regard to race or religion, the law, like all false miracles, creates an illusion of articulating a facially neutral rule: Jewish Palestinians who lost their Palestinian citizenship—and only Jewish Palestinians—were, in Section 2(b)(1) of the same 1952 legislation that denationalized Palestine’s Arab population, granted Israeli citizenship through the legal fiction of treating them as “returnees,” even if they had lived their entire lives in Palestine. It provides as follows:
(B) Israel nationality by return is acquired:
(1) by a person who came as an “oleh [i.e., “returnee”]” into, or was born in, the country before the establishment of the State, with effect from the day of the establishment of the State.
Israel’s courts and its legislature, in constituting Israel as a Jewish state, operated as a Schmittian sovereign by suspending the ordinary operation of public international law that would have required Israel to grant Palestine’s Arabs citizenship in the new state, subject to their right to renounce it in favor of citizenship of another state (434). To avoid the charge of a racially discriminatory denationalization, Israeli courts gave the illusion of denationalizing everyone who failed an exacting physical presence requirement, knowing that Jewish Palestinians would be renationalized by the combination of the Law of Return and the Nationality Law. Israel, exercising the prerogatives of a Schmittian sovereign, could only achieve these results by acting against the immanent rationality of the principles of public international law governing citizenship in the context of a succession of sovereignty.
The artifacts of Israeli legal exceptionalism are paradoxical judicial decisions and anomalous statutory provisions. But their practical effect has been to normalize the death of Palestinians by rendering them, as a matter of Israeli internal law, foreigners, and in international law, stateless. While Jewish Palestinian “returnees” were the beneficiaries of the Israeli sovereign’s miraculous/magical grace, Arab Palestinians were transformed into “infiltrators,” who could, and were, shot and killed. Israel’s 2023–24 war in Gaza, meanwhile, is waged against a population the majority of whom are Palestinian refugees whom the Israeli legal order “miraculously” stripped of Palestinian citizenship as part of the founding of the state. Israel’s current war, therefore, can only be understood as a continuation of the Nakba that started in 1948. By suspending the rationality of law, Israel, as Kelsen and Heller predicted in their polemics with Schmitt, committed itself to a path of violence, a course that it has yet to abandon.
Mohammad H. Fadel is a Full Professor at the Faculty of Law, which he joined in January 2006. Professor Fadel wrote his Ph.D. dissertation on legal process in medieval Islamic law while at the University of Chicago and received his JD from the University of Virginia School of Law. Professor Fadel was admitted to the Bar of New York in 2000 and practiced law with the firm of Sullivan & Cromwell LLP in New York, New York, where he worked on a wide variety of corporate finance transactions and securities-related regulatory investigations. Professor Fadel also served as a law clerk to the Honorable Paul V. Niemeyer of the United States Court of Appeals for the 4th Circuit and the Honorable Anthony A. Alaimo of the United States District Court for the Southern District of Georgia. Professor Fadel has published numerous articles in Islamic legal history and Islam and liberalism.
Collage depicting the loss and destruction from the Yugoslav Wars. Created for the Paris College Collective Challenge. Via Flickr User Joey Zanotti. CC BY 2.0 Deed.
“Balkanization” is a term that does not need much explanation today. It has dominantly, although not exclusively, become a shorthand in global political, cultural, social, artistic, and other circles for describing the violent process of the disintegration of sociopolitical entities such as the state, federation, union, nation, community, social identity, etc.[1] Meanwhile, Yugoslavia—which, during the nineties, became known for bloody disintegration through ethnic cleansing and genocide—has become a synonym for the Balkans as a whole within this framework. While I do not want to exclude the common definition of the term, this essay aims to shed light on an alternative perspective that delves deeper into the historical complexities of the region. Divorced from its geographical context, the concept has become synonymous with socially regressive policies along with ethnic, nationalist, religious, and other forms of fundamentalism. Contrary to the views held by many political, cultural, and social figures and theorists, divisive violence is not an exclusive characteristic of the Balkans or the former Yugoslav areas but is a feature of the modern European and global political history of nationalism in which this region is deeply immersed.
Nationalism is not an ancient traitof the European Southeast. Rather, it is a classic Western European product, which, until the first decades of the 20th century, was generally a marginal phenomenon in the Balkan region. It only became prominent when it was imported into the region. Wars fought around issues of nationalism were common in Western Europe during the 20th century. Further, there were instances of significant violence and turmoil. Events such as World War I, the Spanish Civil War, and World War II significantly shaped the continent’s political landscape before the Balkan conflicts gained momentum. While the Balkans indeed experienced “total war” from both historical and political perspectives, such a concept was not sui generis to the region, and indeed European regimes and systems prior to the Yugoslav case were the first to engage in it. This also extends to mass persecution and displacement of populations, a practice that was characteristic of countries in Europe long before the conflict in the Balkans, notably in Yugoslavia, where it escalated. This is evident not only in the world wars but also in events like the expulsion of Jews from today’s Spanish territory during the 15th and 16th centuries or in the repercussions of the Nazi concept of Lebensraum (“living space”). Similarly, in the broader discourse around “balkanization,” ethnic cleansing also emerges as a defining feature of the Yugoslav conflict despite the origins of the practice in the Austro-Hungarian monarchy’s ethnic cleansing of the Muslim-Ottoman populations in the 19th century. The rise of modern nationalism in the 19th and 20th centuries saw a proliferation of such policies across Europe. There is evidence of this in events like the genocide against Armenians and the atrocities of the Holocaust perpetrated by the Third Reich. Additionally, the ethnic cleansing and genocidal targeting of Indigenous populations in Africa, Asia, Australia, and the Americas by European empires since the 15th century further underscores the “non-Balkan” brutality inherent in these practices. Namely, ethnic, national, and religious wars are not solely confined to the 1990s in the Balkans and Yugoslavia, for such conflicts had occurred around the world long before the mentioned period, e.g., the Lebanese Civil War (1975–1990), the Nigerian Civil War (1967–1970), the conflict in Burma following independence from British rule in 1948, the India-Pakistan war over Kashmir immediately after the partition of India in 1947, the Rwandan genocide (1990–1994), and the like.
Nationalism is not an ancient trait of the European Southeast. Rather, it is a classic Western European product, which, until the first decades of the 20th century, was generally a marginal phenomenon in the Balkan region.
Likewise, it’s also essential to consider the aspect of glorifying war as a form of martyrdom and the associated pursuit of revenge against perceived others, for this phenomenon also transcends the Balkans, resonating across numerous cultures and peoples worldwide in the modern era. Many cultures have elevated the sacrifice of one’s life for the sake of their ethnic, national, religious, or cultural community by shedding the blood of others in the context of nationalism, e.g., Japan in World War II, the fight against French colonialism in Algeria (1954–1962), the mujahideen’s resistance against the Soviet invasion in Afghanistan in the 1980s, or the Irish War of Independence (1919–1921). Certainly, one should not disregard from this list religion’s influence on shaping and understanding the social and political landscape within a certain state, which also extends beyond the Balkans area. Religion played a pivotal role in numerous conflicts and political transformations globally ahead of the Yugoslav conflict. This can be seen in the Indo-Pakistani war, the Northern Ireland conflict of the latter half of the 20th century, the enduring Israeli-Palestinian conflict, and others. Lastly, there is the practice of inventing ethnic and national roots to confer greater historical legitimacy upon one’s own people, a tactic employed by many European peoples before it began to unfold in the Balkans. Moreover, nearly all European nations in the 19th century sought their ancestry and origins in the early Middle Ages to validate their national identities, drawing parallels with various groups of barbarian peoples who established settlements and kingdoms upon the remnantsoftheWesternRoman Empire.
Therefore, even though nationalism and war, labeled under the term “balkanization,” are associated with Yugoslavia, similar issues are evident in other parts of Europe and the world. This suggests that there is no unique sequence of events in the Balkans but rather a continuous thread of European and global sociopolitical movements. The parallel between balkanization and Yugoslavia more likely stems from the timing of the last Yugoslav conflict, which occurred during an era when many believed that the fall of the Eastern Communist bloc had ushered in a pro-Western liberal-democratic era. There was a widespread belief that humanity was transitioning into a new post-historical age and that the war in Yugoslavia was the final remnant of an old historical epoch. Yet, this perception was soon proven to be a delusion, as the violent disintegration of Yugoslavia, amid ethnic and religious conflicts worldwide, rather than concluding an era, became a precursor to the tumultuous one that followed. Therefore, it is increasingly important to explore the roots of “balkanization” beyond simplistic explanations centered solely on the dissolution of the Yugoslav Federation.
Even though nationalism and war, labeled under the term “balkanization,” are associated with Yugoslavia, similar issues are evident in other parts of Europe and the world.
It’s crucial to uncover the obscured or overlooked aspects of this narrative in order to reveal Yugoslavia’s capacity to cultivate a sociopolitical framework capable of serving, figuratively, as a constructive bridge between the “Western” and “Eastern” ideologies, reflected primarily in social security, health security, free education for all citizens, inter-religious cooperation, mixed marriages, antifascists traditions, secularism, and other similar ideas. In this regard, I would go so far as to characterize Yugoslavia as the pinnacle of civilization in the Western Balkans, epitomizing the culmination of diverse cultural, political, and social influences that coalesced to create a distinct and vibrant society. This designation encapsulates its profound impact on the region’s history, evident in its nurturing of cultural diversity, geopolitical relevance, pioneering political structures, and notable advancements in gender equality, social welfare, worker empowerment, literacy, and other areas of social progress. Despite its evident flaws, Yugoslavia retained values worth pursuing and refining. A comparison between the era preceding and following the existence of the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia underscores the undeniable truth of this assertion. Essentially, Yugoslavia embodied a framework for advancement and collaboration that seems unachievable in the current fragmented landscape of post-Yugoslav states. Paradoxically, while these aforementioned values are deeply ingrained in Balkan, especially Yugoslav, heritage, they are often overshadowed by the label of “balkanization,” which tends to focus on activities aimed at undermining humanistic ideals such as pluralism, secularism, social justice, and equality.
The communist regime of Yugoslavia, often misunderstood as solely authoritarian, actually embodied elements of a social state. This is a common oversight among scholars and politicianswho sometimes forget that Yugoslavia stood apart from the Iron Curtain sphere. Despite the authoritarian nature of President Josip Tito’s regime, it played a pivotal role in the Non-Aligned Movement; in supporting people in the Third World states in their anti-colonial movements for national independence; and, from 1950 to 1975, in building two million apartments for workers, offered at symbolic rents. However, all of this can be easily found in history books. Thus, I would like to highlight some points that speak convincingly about humanisticvalues in Yugoslavia and the Balkans, which I hope fosters a social feeling and sense that is not often documented. Namely, the Yugoslav regime provided education for the children of impoverished and uneducated families, enabling, for instance, their offspring to become engineers in prestigious companies within the state, and beyond it. It exemplified a societal ethos wherein the surgeon who operated on the president was the same individual who treated a wounded laborer. The Catholic church, the Orthodox church, the mosque, and the synagogue were practically located on the same street almost wherever these communities gathered in one place, etc. However, these aspects often remain overshadowed or unrecognized in discussions about the Balkans, i.e., Yugoslavia, despite their integral role in shaping its identity. So, if you ever wish to delve deeper into the topic of “balkanization,” don’t hesitate to ask, as the Balkans embody not just a collection of negative sociopolitical outcomes but also an extensive unexplored territory, fostering numerous social initiatives and a social consciousness that, as evident from global social and political movements, could be invaluable in shaping the future of human society.
[1] Some of the academics who resist portraying the Balkans solely through a negative lens and whose research is valuable in this context are Slavoj Žižek, Boris Buden, Žarko Paić, Siniša Malešević, Slavica Jakelić, Ksenija Vidmar Horvat, Vjekoslav Perica, Mitja Velikonja, Paul Mojzes, Rastko Močnik, Srđan Vrcan, and the like.
Branko Sekulić received his master’s degrees at the Theological Faculty “Matthias Flacius Illyricus” in Zagreb, Croatia (2011) and at the Ecumenical Institute of the Ukrainian Catholic University in Lviv, Ukraine (2016), and obtained a certificate in peace education from the Center for Peace Studies in Zagreb (2009). He obtained his doctoral degree at the Faculty of Protestant Theology at Ludwig-Maximilian University in Munich, Germany (2020), where he has been a post-doctoral researcher (since 2021). He is a lecturer at the University Center for Protestant Theology “Matthias Flacius Illyricus” in Zagreb (since 2017), president of the Institute for Theology and Politics (since 2023), director of the Academy for Theology and Politics (since 2023), coordinator of the theological program of the Festival of Alternatives and the Left in his hometown of Šibenik (since 2014), and a fellow at the Stanford’s Center for Russian, East European, and Eurasian Studies (2024). He recently publishedThe Veils of Christian Delusion(Lexington Books/Fortress Press, 2022); “Towards the Balkan Theology of Political Liberation”, Political Theology Network, September 2023; “The Theology of the Ethnocultural Empathic Turn: Towards the Balkan Theology of Political Liberation”, Religions 15, no. 2 (2024): 191.; “Eyes Wide Shut – Orthodoxy and Democracy in Serbian Theology and Thought”, in Pantelis Kalatzaidis and Hans-Peter Großhans (eds.), Politics, Society, and Culture in Orthodox Theology in a Global Age(Ferdinand Schoeningh, 2022); and “Theology in the Spirit of Palanka: Catechism of Croatian Catholic and Serbian Orthodox Ethnonationalist Imaginaria”, in Stipe Odak and Zoran Grozdanov (eds.), Balkan Contextual Theology: An Introduction (London: Routledge, 2022).
Atalia Omer, Mikhael Manekin, and Rabbi Brant Rosen in conversation at the March 4, 2024 event, “Reimagining Jewish Ethics and Politics in Palestine/Israel and the Jewish Diaspora.” Image courtesy of Jena O’Brien.
Introduction
On March 4, 2024, members of the Notre Dame community and wider South Bend public gathered together for a conversation on the relationship between Judaism and state power. Under discussion was Mikhael Manekin’s book End of Days: Ethics, Tradition, and Power In Israel. The author is a key organizer of a new Jewish Israeli movement called the Faithful Left. He also served as a former director of Breaking the Silence, an organization of Israel Defense Force veterans. Manekin was joined by Brant Rosen, the founding Rabbi of the anti-Zionist Tzedek Chicago synagogue and a co-founder and co-chairperson of the Jewish Voice for Peace Rabbinical Council. In a wide-ranging conversation, these two Jewish scholars and activists discussed the relation between state power and Jewish ethics, the place of land and home in the Jewish theological imagination, how their different positionalities shape their thinking, and the importance of rediscovering the Jewish tradition as one that is informed by a longer and more dynamic history than modern Zionism suggests.
In her introductory remarks, Professor Atalia Omer noted that the death toll from Israel’s assault on Gaza then stood at more than 30,000 and has since increased to more than 35,000. This number, along with the 1200 that were killed in Israel on October 7th, 2023, Professor Omer noted, required us to engage in difficult conversations about the history of occupation, the ongoing Nakba, and the role of religion in the conflict. Just a few days prior, on February 29, 2024, in what has been called the flour massacre, Israeli soldiers opened fire on desperate Palestinians who had gathered to collect aid from a truck convoy, killing 118 people and injuring at least 760. This tragedy, along with Prime Minister Netanyahu’s continued claim that it would be necessary to invade Rafah, where so many Palestinians from the north of the territory had fled, lent the conversation renewed importance. Faced with an unfolding genocide in Gaza the conversation offered an intimate window into the internal contestations within the Jewish community by two prominent members of that community. Despite their differences, both strive for Palestinian equality and ground their visions in the Jewish ethical tradition.
Judaism, State Power, and Positionality
In End of Days, Manekin aims to recover the gentler tradition of Jewish virtue ethics that has been lost in the twentieth and twenty-first century to a militant and chauvinist version. This loss occurred as a result of the establishment of the State of Israel via the Zionist movement and the absorption of Jewish religiosity into machinations of state power. A key difference that emerged between Manekin and Rosen through the course of the conversation concerned how those critical of Israeli policies should relate to the modern Zionist movement, a movement focused on the establishment of a nation-state which would place Jews in a position of power rather than “weakness.” For both speakers, it was quite clear that the right-wing Zionist ideology currently shaping Israeli politics was one that needed to be challenged and called out for its racist and apartheid policies towards the Palestinians. This means challenging those whose “loyalty is not to the tradition, but an ethnic state” (80). For Manekin, however, leaving Zionism behind entirely was not an option. This is because in his position as an Israeli, for whom Zionism was a “lived experience,” one could not simply ignore it or critique it from afar. It is the “air” one breathes, the very logic behind his family’s presence in Israel. The structures that govern his life, in other words, were saturated in Zionism. For Rosen, on the other hand, Zionism was something he knew only through his experience growing up in a Jewish household in the US and on extended visits to Israel. While support for the State of Israel was encouraged in his community, the wider political structures that governed his life were not shaped by Zionism in the same way as a citizen living under US law. This difference made possible the creation of an anti-Zionist synagogue that would largely be unimaginable in Israel. Here, then, the positionality of each interlocutor laid bare the possibilities and limits of their theopolitical imaginations.
For Manekin, however, leaving Zionism behind entirely was not an option. This is because in his position as an Israeli, for whom Zionism was a ‘lived experience,’ one could not simply ignore it or critique it from afar.
Rosen and Manekin spoke of a shared desire, nonetheless, to recover a Judaism that de-centers force, domination, and revenge. Those characteristics are the upshot of Christian European modernity, one which underpins the reduction of Jews into a statist project and claims to offer a redemptive storyline at the intersection of the Shoah and the Nakba. Rather than power, they advocated for a Judaism of humility; rather than sovereignty and domination, they argued that Jewish teachings require followers to side with the marginalized and oppressed. For Rosen, these commitments have meant organizing and putting pressure on elected officials to stop funding the Israeli government’s war efforts and occupation. For Manekin they likewise have meant organizing and putting his body on the line to defend Palestinians who face dispossession from their homes and livelihoods. These actions are rooted in a vision of Judaism centered on the uplifting of the marginalized against those who would cynically wield power in the name of God. Manekin notes, “Viewing government decisions as an expression of God’s will subordinates God to the will of the political ruler and prevents the religious person from discerning this will” (111).
The Loss of Tradition
For both Rosen and Manekin, what often goes by the name of the “Jewish tradition”—both in Israel and in the diaspora—has been shaped by a recent ahistorical rendering of the past. In his comments during the conversation and in End of Days, Manekin demonstrates how prominent rabbis and scholars in Israel have reread the centuries, if not millennia, of tradition so that it conforms to the modern Zionist project in Israel. In doing so, however, they often ignore the vast majority of rabbinic commentary that might challenge their reading. For example, in critiquing one modern rabbi’s interpretation of the Torah to justify the killing of innocent children in defense of the state of Israel, Manekin writes,
Rabbi Yisraeli’s interpretation has no precedence in traditional halakha; the entire tradition pushes in the opposite direction, that is, towards the view that it is forbidden to kill innocent people for revenge. So why does he depart from the rabbinic tradition and treat it as irrelevant? Because of his desire to justify the sovereign State of Israel and its military activities (48).
Such examples reveal, Manekin suggests, the hollowness of the so-called tradition espoused by many on the religious/political right in Israel today.
Rosen also lamented the way that a focus on buttressing the modern State of Israel has sidelined more liberative readings of the Jewish tradition. He suggested that it was in diaspora that what is now thought of as the “classical” Jewish tradition flourished and that the ethics and values built during this period were being lost because of the subsuming of the Jewish community to the State of Israel. Unlike those who see a sacred connection between God and the land on which the modern state of Israel sits, for Rosen, “God is with us wherever we go.” While Manekin would not necessarily disagree with this claim, he does maintain that there is a holiness to the land that cannot be replaced in diaspora settings.
Land and Home
A common thread running throughout the entire conversation concerned the location of home and the role of land in the Jewish theopolitical imagination. As already noted, for Rosen, Jews develop a unique sense of home wherever they are in diaspora. This connects to the Bundist concept of Doykayt, which animates much of the reclaimed anti-Zionist Jewish tradition born in Eastern Europe. Indeed, Tzedek Chicago, a self-defined anti-Zionist synagogue, embodies this ideal by itself congregating in different physical spaces across the city and in its online platform.
City of Hebron, with Tombs of the Patriarchs at left. Via Wikimedia Commons.
Even as Manekin agrees with Rosen that traditional Jewish practice—i.e., living out the ethics and norms in practice that have been developed over the centuries of interpretation of the Torah and rabbinic texts—has been lost in the era of the Jewish nation state (see 16–17 in End of Days), he remains tied to the land in a way that is different from Rosen. For Manekin, there are sacred sites in the land of Palestine/Israel that remain central to his religious practice and identity. As he was careful to note however, retaining access to these sites does not require that they be held by a Jewish ethno-nationalist state, with its neoliberal logic of ownership. They could also be retained in a binational state where one group’s access to the land is not precluded on another group’s exclusion from it. Here, Manekin reminded the audience that there is no singular theory of land, and that ideas of “ownership” are not the only way to understand our relation to it. Indeed, such conceptions of exclusionary ownership claims are grounded in modernist ideas about sovereignty that misread how the interpreters of the Jewish tradition across millennia connected to the land.
Conclusion
By way of conclusion, we might note that the push and pull between tradition, nationalism, and a connection to land is not unique to Jews nor to the state of Israel. Indeed, within US Christianity there are those who desire to step back from exercising state power in the name of protecting the prophetic role of the Church, while in India the dominant political party in power wishes to create a Hindu nation state that reshapes classical Hindu traditions in the name of state power.
None of these examples are perfect mirrors to Palestine/Israel, nor to each other, yet they form a pattern that is indicative of how modernity has shaped the relationship between religion and state power. What that pattern reveals is that allowing religion to be hollowed out by the institutions of the state—either by conservative religious nationalists or neoliberal secularists—will not result in the liberation of the oppressed, but rather their marginalization by other means.
Joshua S. Lupo is the Assistant Director of the Contending Modernities research initiative. In this role, he serves as the editor and writer for the Contending Modernities Blog and the classroom coordinator for the Madrasa Discourses program. He has published articles and reviews in Sophia, Soundings, Critical Muslim, Reading Religion, and Religious Studies Review. With CM Co-Director Atalia Omer, he is the co-editor of Broken Solidarities: Feminism, Race, and Transnationalism (Notre Dame Press, 2022) and Religion, Populism, and Modernity: Confronting White Christian Nationalism and Racism (Notre Dame Press, 2023). His current book project is titled After Essentialism: A Critical Phenomenology for the Study of Religion.
Aerial photograph of the new Parliament Building in New Delhi, India. The building was constructed under Prime Minister Narendra Modi. Via Wikimedia Commons.
Narendra Modi’s recent inauguration of the Ram temple in Ayodhya not only celebrated the culmination of a Hindu nationalist dream; it also marked a crucial moment in reimagining India as a “civilization state” instead of as a republic. The term “civilization” was splashed across media reports quoting the reactions of senior leaders in the ruling Bhartiya Janata Party (BJP) to the event. The external affairs minister S. Jaishankar remarked “the soul of a civilization finds expression once again.” The chief minister of the state of Goa declared this to be a “moment of civilizational resurgence, civilizational renaissance in the country.” Media figures quickly mirrored this framing and a number of television commentators reiterated that this was “a civilizational moment.” The normalization of this terminology belies its deep implications for the state that Hindu nationalists wish to create.
The current vision of India as a “civilization state” has found widespread expression since Modi’s election in 2014.[1] This development reflects the growing tide of authoritarianism worldwide as well as the internationalization of far-right political movements. The claim of being a “civilization state” is not unique to India—many in China, Russia, and Turkey also invoke a similar rhetoric. Indeed, the discourses and practices of aspiring civilization states have much in common. Their proponents imagine the state to be the embodiment and fulfilment of an abiding civilization. This idea of the civilization state opposes liberal democracy’s claim to universality, a universality that is perceived to be western rather than truly for all.
But the term civilization itself is a neologism that emerged in mid-eighteenth-century France. It was deployed during the period of European colonialism and thereafter, often to underscore European superiority and to further the modernizing projects of colonial rule. Today, however, these new visions of the civilization state embrace a nativism that rejects Euro-American hegemony, combined with a notion, stemming from nineteenth-century European thought, of the nation’s spirit or soul finally unshackling itself to achieve its destiny. In today’s India, a sizeable cohort of right-wing intellectuals promotes such a civilizational vision. They are supported by a media that is pliant before the government and its oligarch allies. As Rodrigo Nunes points out, such “political entrepreneurs” now constitute an influential organizational form for the right-wing, not just in India but elsewhere, including the United States and Brazil.
Hindu nationalists are not the first in India to link the modern nation to the idea of an ancient civilization. However, unlike secular nationalists, such as India’s first prime minister Jawaharlal Nehru, they infuse this notion of Indian civilization with a markedly Hindu character. Often adopting a decolonial rhetoric, they portray past Muslim rulers as colonial oppressors. In this view, for India to flourish, she must avenge a host of historical wrongs perpetrated centuries ago by Muslim kings. For example, when in 2019 a Supreme Court verdict allocated the site of the former Babri mosque for a Hindu temple, Jaishankar exultantly declared this “a pledge redeemed, a heritage reaffirmed.” This obsession with the past functions as a metonym for the Hindu nationalist goal of dominion over India’s roughly two hundred million Muslims. Politicians regularly engage in rhetorical dog whistles that frame Indian Muslims as co-extensive with the historical rulers who are now targets of hatred. On a daily basis, Muslims in India also face routine discrimination and disproportionate violence.
Unlike secular nationalists, such as India’s first prime minister Jawaharlal Nehru, Hindu nationalists infuse this notion of Indian civilization with a markedly Hindu character. Often adopting a decolonial rhetoric, they portray past Muslim rulers as colonial oppressors.
Civilization states do not exist in and of themselves; they must be built—through force, erasure, rhetoric, grand spectacle, and, in this case, bulldozers together with plenty of concrete and stone. By the time Modi inaugurated the Ayodhya temple, he had overseen several other giant infrastructure projects across the country. These include a mammoth restructuring of central Delhi already underway, with a new parliament building and a prime minister’s mansion planned with room for several hundred staff, abundant watchtowers, and a secret tunnel. Another project in Varanasi razed old residences and stores in a dense neighborhood to create a huge path and complex around the Kashi Vishwanath temple. Activists now seek to demolish a seventeenth-century mosque abutting the temple; a court has already handed it over for Hindu worship. Meanwhile, untold numbers of Sufi shrines, some hundreds of years old, are being demolished on the grounds that they are illegal encroachments, or that they come in the way of necessary infrastructure development.
Prime Minister Modi performs Darshan and Pooja at Shri Kashi Vishwanath Temple, Varanasi, in Uttar Pradesh on March 09, 2024. Via Wikimedia Commons.
In this civilizational project, the reconfiguration of time, past, present, and future, accompanies this restructuring and resacralization of space. A common element binding these temporalities is the presence of a sacred king or king-like figure. As regards the past, a pamphlet prepared for the G-20 summit of world leaders in Delhi held in 2023 illustrates this kind of Hindu nationalist historical narrative. It traces the genesis of democracy in India to the Vedas, as, apparently, these ancient texts contain words that could mean a council or an assembly. However, kingship rather than participatory governance has pride of place in this account. Several examples present idealized images of Hindu kings who were beloved by their people and took counsel from their ministers. According to the view offered here, these rulers were thus presumably progenitors of the modern democratic state. This vision extends to current times. As far as the present and future are concerned, it is Modi, as a redemptivephilosopher-king, who will usher the nation into a new and better age. For example, Modi reimagines a dominant Sanskritic conception of time according to which the present era is called Kaliyuga, or the “age of darkness,” by declaring that under him India has now inaugurated the era of Amritkaal, or the “epoch of ambrosia.”
The idea of the Indian civilization state benefits from its conceptual fuzziness. Its markers are embedded in an assemblage of myriad aesthetic forms and practices such as yoga and lacto-vegetarianism that are not always obviously or exclusively linked with Hindu nationalism. According to its proponents, civilizations are not religions; that is to say, they are wider and more encompassing up to a point. For instance, a senior intelligence and national security official in the current administration frequentlydeclares India to be a civilization state, whose basis is not language, religion, or ethnicity but civilization itself, which forms the nation’s “collective unique common consciousness.” It is striking that here he also invokes Israel as a similar case of a civilization state.
Nonetheless, this notion of the civilization state is infused with a worldview of Hindu supremacy, which pervades its various and sometimes contradictory articulations. On the one hand, this civilizational rhetoric resonates with the widespread idea that Hinduism is no mere religion, but rather the foundational matrix of Indian civilization. It is for this reason that Vinayak Savarkar, premier ideologue of Hindu nationalism, distinguished Hindutva, or Hindu-ness, from Hinduism as a religion. Hindus do not agree on the essence of Hinduism, observes Savarkar. By contrast, for him, Hindu-ness, defined by claiming the nation as both holy land and fatherland, unites all Hindus with Buddhists, Jains, and Sikhs, and excludes Muslims and other members of the Abrahamic religions. On the other hand, when expedient, this rhetoric also embraces the colonial idea of Hinduism as a world religion. Thus, Hindu nationalist supporters unironically compare the new Ram temple in Ayodhya to the Vatican or to Mecca. The implication here is that India is the seat of Hinduism, which ought to be regarded as the only authentic religion of the Indian people.
This civilizational rhetoric resonates with the widespread idea that Hinduism is no mere religion, but rather the foundational matrix of Indian civilization.
Political opposition to the ruling BJP has at times invoked the Constitution of India as a uniting symbol. The Preamble to the constitution, adopted by India’s Constituent Assembly in 1949, calls for securing justice, liberty, equality, and fraternity as the goal of this newly independent republic. While this idea of a republic is still ensconced within the limiting framework of the nation state, it is based on universalistic and forward-looking principles that are at odds with the Hindutva civilizational imaginary. Just like the republic, however, the civilization state is an unfinished project; a project that can potentially be resisted, interrupted, diverted, or remade. It is the opposition’s task to determine how to do so—a challenge made all the more difficult by the ongoing onslaught of political repression.
[1] The concept of the Indian civilization state has recently begun to garner critical scholarly attention. See, for example, a special section devoted to the subject in the March 2023 issue of International Affairs.
Supriya Gandhi is a historian of South Asian religions who is currently Assistant Professor in the Department of Religious Studies at Yale University. She is the author of The Emperor Who Never Was: Dara Shukoh in Mughal India(Harvard University Press, 2020). She has also written a number of articles and essays on topics related to Mughal history, Persian literature, early modern Hindu thought, modern Hinduism, and Hindu nationalism. Her current book project explores genealogies of religious universalism and secularism in modern India. Gandhi grew up in India and studied there as well as in the United Kingdom, Iran, and Syria before earning her doctorate at Harvard University. Her research has been supported by grants from the Fulbright and ACLS/Mellon foundations.
Groups gather in Ayodhya, India to celebrate the recent consecration of the Ram Mandir in March 2024. Photo by Dinesh Khanna.
A New Incarnation
On January 22, 2024, India’s Prime Minister Narendra Modi performed a religious rite to consecrate the idol of the Hindu god Ram, in child form, at a huge temple in Ayodhya that is still under construction.
In Part 1 of this essay, I explained how the possibility of such an event taking place in democratic India in early 2024 had its roots in the rise of Hindu Nationalist ideology over the past 100 years, beginning in the 1920s. A breaking point came in August 1947, with a chaotic Partition and the tumultuous birth of secular India and Muslim Pakistan as independent but asymmetric nation-states. The conflict escalated further when, in January 1948, fanatical Hindu supremacists assassinated Mahatma Gandhi, the apostle of non-violence and leader of India’s long struggle for self-rule. Gandhi’s killers blamed him and the Indian National Congress under his influence for allowing the creation of a separate Muslim homeland at the price of a painful and blood-soaked territorial division of Britain’s colonial empire on the subcontinent.
The Hindu Right bore a fundamental grudge against the very existence of Pakistan because of which the two countries, though immediate neighbors and in many ways culturally indistinguishable from one another, have been to war several times in their post-colonial history. This unreconciled resentment continues to have serious repercussions even today, more than 75 years later, especially for Indian Muslims with a population of about 200 million people, the largest religious minority in the country.
The more proximate causes of the inauguration of the Ram Temple in August 2020 and the installation of the image of Ram as a 5-year-old child in January 2024—both rituals performed personally by the Indian Prime Minister—take us back to the demolition of the Babri Mosque in Ayodhya in December 1992, at the very site where the temple now stands, in a mob attack launched by Hindu militants. The physical destruction of the mosque a little over three decades ago triggered an escalating polarization of Hindus and Muslims, the exponential growth of right-wing Hindu politics, and the ratification of Hindu Nationalism by Indian voters, 80% of whom are Hindu, in the general elections of 2014 and 2019.
Built around the ideology known as Hindutva—which seeks to redefine India as a nation of and for Hindus, without accommodating other religious minorities, especially Muslims, as equal citizens—the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), founded in 1980, has been campaigning relentlessly to set to rest what it defines as the “unfinished business of Partition,” namely, the replacement of a diverse, plural, multi-religious India by a majoritarian Hindu Rashtra.
The physical destruction of the mosque a little over three decades ago triggered an escalating polarization of Hindus and Muslims—as also of secular Indians and Hindu Nationalists.
As India, the most populous democracy on the planet, goes to the polls yet again between mid-April and early June 2024—the world’s largest-ever election—how are we to understand the ways in which the ruling BJP, poised for a third consecutive win at the hustings, under the leadership of the authoritarian populist strongman Narendra Modi, is leveraging a set of religious symbols associated with the god Ram? These include his capital Ayodhya, his ideal kingdom Ram Rajya, and what Hindu Nationalists insist is the very location where Ram appeared on earth in human form, the avatar’s birthplace (janma-bhoomi).
By a hardline Hindu construal of the past, Babur, the Chagatai Turk who established the Mughal Empire in India in the late 1520s, destroyed a temple at the exact spot where Ram was born (janma-sthan), replacing it with a mosque named after himself, Babri Masjid. Ram’s devotees (bhakts) say they are reclaiming their deity’s birthplace 500 years after Babur usurped it. In addition to the well-known history of colonial and postcolonial India, is there also a medieval chapter that we need to revisit in order to fully grasp the political significance of Ayodhya?
Rewinding India’s History
It was no Hindu officiant but Prime Minister Modi who performed the rites meant to vitalize the idol of Ram Lalla (pran pratishtha—literally “the infusion of life”) on January 22, 2024. The government declared a half-day holiday, and the event completely dominated print, broadcast, and online media at the expense of other news. The country’s rich and famous, including billionaire industrialists, Bollywood stars, cricketers, and politicians were all in attendance. At the same time, Hindu holy men—i.e., sadhus and swamis, traditional pontiffs like the Shankaracharyas, and members of the opposition from political parties other than the BJP and its allies—were conspicuous by their absence.
Taking away the prerogative of performing the inaugural rituals from Hindu religious leaders, Modi arrogated these tasks to himself. But, as the elected leader of India’s secular democracy, qua prime minister his office ought not associate with any particular religious community. The cardinal separation of church and state as defined in the Indian Constitution of 1950 has been violated. “Hindutva” confuses the categories of politics and religion that India’s founders worked hard to keep apart. Despite Partition, through careful deliberations in the Constituent Assembly 1946–49, India’s first leaders set up an egalitarian state that did not premise the rights of citizens upon their religious identity.
Saffron flags bearing the legend “Jai Shri Ram!” (Victory to Lord Ram!) for sale in Ayodhya. Photograph by Dinesh Khanna, March 2024.
In January 2024, the ruling rightwing BJP and a so-called “cultural” organization of volunteers affiliated with it, the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS)—reminiscent of fascist cadres—mobilized Hindus all over the country, but especially in North India, by going door-to-door and asking people to display saffron flags bearing the slogan “Jai Shri Ram” (“Victory to Lord Ram”) on private homes and public buildings, neighborhood gates and local markets, streets and parks. They were successful, to the point that any vehicle, house, office, or shop not flying these bright orange banners stood out, dangerously signaling recalcitrance from what appeared to be a pervasive and comprehensive social consensus (or could be taken as that, based on the visual evidence).
State machinery, Hindu Right propaganda, and the entirety of the press, with almost no exception, carried the same messages: January 22, 2024, marked the start of a new age of history, “Amrit Kaal” (“Era of Bliss” or “Timeless Time,” a golden age invoking “Ram Rajya” of yore). India would henceforth be redefined as a “Hindu Rashtra” (Hindu Nation). Ram Lalla was not installed for the first time, but rather, the idol returned to its original rightful spot at the janma-bhoomi, the birthplace of Ram in Ayodhya, echoing Ram’s own victorious homecoming.
This narrative has been put in place by BJP from the time of the November 2019 Supreme Court verdict allowing for a temple to be constructed at the site of the Babri Masjid, and subsequently the inauguration of the temple construction in August 2020 by the Prime Minister.
The messaging both from the government and in the media seemed unequivocal in its implication that this putative “return” corrected an “atrocity” that had occurred 500 years ago, in the early 16th century. That was when the first Mughal Emperor Babur ordered the destruction of the original temple for Ram Lalla and the building of a mosque over it in his own name. What Babur had removed (in 1528), Modi has reinstated (in 2024). The message hammered home by the BJP’s propaganda machinery is that Ram—after his long saga of exile, war, victory, and restitution—has come back home to Ayodhya.
This is the very core of the meaning of January 22, 2024—taking back the janma-bhoomi from the Babri Masjid and rebuilding at that site a Ram Mandir; the triumph of good over evil reminiscent of Ram’s victory over Ravan; the overcoming of erstwhile Muslim power by contemporary Hindu faith; the long overdue righting of historical wrongs. All of this comes about through the efforts of the BJP-RSS, brought to a triumphant culmination by their present-day heroic protagonist, their warrior-king, Narendra Modi.
Divinization and Demonization
In an important essay published in 1993, “Rāmāyaṇa and Political Imagination in India,” Sheldon Pollock showed how the epic had been used for political purposes from medieval times through the colonial and modern periods of Indian history. This is because in its very structure and narrative it lends itself to be read “mythopolitically.” In the aftermath of the Babri Masjid demolition and the Bombay riots, Pollock pointed to the “ready availability to reactionary Indian politics of central cultural icons like the Rāmāyaṇa.” He noted that the story has always supplied “a repertory of imaginative instruments for articulating a range of political discourses” (262).
Taking a selfie with the idol of a modern goddess, Bharat Mata (Mother India) at the Kashi Vishwanath temple in Varanasi. She stands in front of a map of India, and holds the tricolour national flag. Photo by Dinesh Khanna.
The story has two crucial elements which make it particularly useful to the BJP in mobilizing Indians “in the name of a Hindu theocratic politics and against the Muslim population.” These are what Pollock identifies as the “divinization” of political sovereignty and the concomitant “demonization” of a designated Other. Pollock states: “Not only are these two the defining thematics of Vālmīki’s epic, they are two of the most powerful conceptions of the socio-political imagination” (281).
The Rāmāyaṇa was thus deployed repeatedly by polities all across northern India from the 11th to the 14th centuries, as Central Asian Muslims on horseback like the Ghaznavids, Ghurids, and Khaljis penetrated into the subcontinent. Turkic invaders, called “Turushka” in Sanskrit, were identified with Ravan’s demon hordes, called “Rakshasa,” whom Ram had to defeat to win back his wife and kingdom. Pollock points out that the identification of Ram and Ravan, divine king and demonic tyrant, Self and Other, did not everywhere necessarily map onto the Hindu versus Muslim binary—Bengal in the east and Tamil country in the south do not exhibit this sort of dichotomy.
Nevertheless, the relevant point is that the Hindu Right today appears to be tapping into long-running cultural habits of demonizing and othering Muslims—a historical pathology that rather than being resolved and laid to rest at Independence, was instead inflamed and exacerbated by Partition. The BJP’s ideological narrative of Hindus being enslaved, colonized, and humiliated for centuries, first by Muslims and then by White people, draws its toxic waters from these deep wells of resentment.
Haunted by the Past
With this broader arc of history in place, let us turn to a short history of Ayodhya, stretching over four decades from the mid-1980s to the mid-2020s. This brings us to the present moment, as India goes to the polls from April to June 2024.
Map of Rath Yatra path. First appeared in Frontline, October 1990 issue. Fair Use.
On Dec 6, 1992, a mob of armed Hindutva volunteers under Advani’s leadership physically attacked and destroyed the Babri Masjid in Ayodhya. This led to widespread violence between Hindus and Muslims, the worst of it in the city of Bombay (Mumbai), leaving about 1000 people, overwhelmingly Muslim, dead. The Bombay Riots were for Bombay what 9/11 was for New York City—an eruption of such catastrophic violence that it changed the city forever.
The so-called Ayodhya Title Dispute was in the Allahabad High Court from July 1996 and the Supreme Court of India delivered its final judgment in November 2019. The apex court recognized the disputed site as the janma-bhoomi, directed that a temple be built there, and allotted another plot of land at some distance to rebuild a mosque (see the history of the dispute).
Modi laid the foundation stone of the new Ram Mandir in Ayodhya a few months later in August 2020, despite the fact that the COVID-19 pandemic had broken out in February 2020 and India had a complete nationwide lockdown from March 25 to May 31 of that year. As mentioned earlier, even at the inauguration of the temple, it was Modi who personally performed the rites with the help of priests; this role of the principal officiant was not played by one or more religious leaders representing any of the major Hindu sects around the country.
The top brass of the RSS was prominently present at both inaugural rituals, of the temple (August 2020) and the idol (January 2024), sitting close to the Prime Minister, seemingly approving of the proceedings. As the RSS approaches its centenary in 2025, it is no doubt a matter of profound satisfaction for its leaders to see their ideology of Hindutva, for so long anathema in mainstream Indian politics, replace the founding ideals of the Indian republic.
Past, Present, and Future
The breakdown of the secular compact put in place by the founders of the Indian Republic at independence in 1947 and the promulgation of the egalitarian Indian Constitution in 1950; the growing polarization of the majority Hindu and the minority Muslim communities; the illiberal and authoritarian cast of the ruling regime of the Hindu Right that has been in power for a decade (and looks set for a third consecutive electoral victory this year); the apparently unstoppable appeal of populist strongman Narendra Modi, his political party the BJP, and the RSS ideology of “Hindutva” that he espouses; and the growing normalization of the idea of India as an ethno-nationalist Hindu Rashtra, where Muslims and other minorities are second-class citizens: all of this describes the juncture at which we have arrived.
But there is a long multicultural past, a complex socio-political dynamic between diverse groups, and a deep history of many religions (Hinduism, Islam, Buddhism, Sikhism, Jainism…) to be reckoned with. Without an account of the prominent place of the rama-katha, the story of Ram ubiquitous in India and the broader Indic sphere; the role of the epic Ramayana in political imagination starting around the beginning of the second millennium of the Common Era; and the twin forces of secular nationalism and religious nationalism that lead up to the making of modern India, as emergent from the crucible of British colonialism, we cannot arrive at a full understanding of what happened in Ayodhya on January 22, 2024.
There is a long multicultural past, a complex socio-political dynamic between diverse groups, and a deep history of many religions (Hinduism, Islam, Buddhism, Sikhism, Jainism . . . ) to be reckoned with in India.
As India votes this summer, the question now is: Can we comprehend what these developments might mean for India’s future as the world’s largest democracy? As a recent pre-poll survey by Lokniti-CSDS showed, an overwhelming number of people polled seemed not to place much emphasis on religious identity as the basis of Indian citizenship or nationality. 79% of respondents came out in favor of religious tolerance and India continuing to be a multi-religious society. Similarly, the Ram Mandir does not figure as a significant electoral issue. However, the temple does seem to help the BJP consolidate Hindu identity in the public perception. And it does seem almost certain that the BJP will be voted back to power for a third term.
Surely we need to take cognizance of history—with its deeply recessed cultural processes, memories and traumas—to comprehend how heroic warriors, sacred sites, epic poems, gods, temples and scriptures continue to exert such a powerful influence on the political imagination of democratic India.
Ananya Vajpeyi is a Fellow at the Centre for the Study of Developing Societies, New Delhi, working at the intersection of intellectual history, political theory and critical philology. She is the author of the award winning book, Righteous Republic: The Political Foundations of Modern India(Harvard University Press, 2012) and a co-editor of two volumes, Ashis Nandy: A Life in Dissent (Oxford University Press, 2018) and Minorities and Populism: Critical Perspectives from South Asia and Europe (Springer, 2020). She writes widely on politics, arts and ideas for newspapers and magazines in India and internationally. She has published in Foreign Affairs, New York Times, The New Republic, Los Angeles Review of Books, Public Books, New Statesman and World Policy Journal, among other venues. She has recently been a Visiting Professor at Ashoka University and a Charles Wallace Fellow at CRASSH, Cambridge, and is currently a Research Consultant on the Nilgiri Archeological Project at the University of Ghent, Belgium. She was invited to teach at CM's Madrasa Discourses intensive in Nepal in July 2022. At present she is finishing a book about the modern life of Sanskrit, and has a long-term project on the life and ideas of Dr. B.R. Ambedkar.
Jean-Loup Vithien-Gerard portrait of Albert Camus. Via Wikimedia Commons.
In the 1947 novel The Plague, his great allegory of the struggle against fascism during the Second World War, French Algerian Nobel laureate Albert Camus wrote, “Everybody knows that pestilences have a way of recurring in the world; yet somehow we find it hard to believe in ones that crash down on our heads from a blue sky” (35). As the razing of Gaza continues, we can learn from thinkers like Camus who confronted the realities of terror in his time with resolute commitment to human equality.
Camus’s context was French rule in Algeria, a North African colony and later part of France until its 1962 independence. Conflict erupted between the pieds-noirs, French Algerian citizens of European descent, and Indigenous Arab and Berber populations who, despite their overwhelming majority, were denied political and civil rights. Despite being a colon, or “settler,” Camus’s lifelong anti-colonialist activism confronted systemic injustice and sought a “fair Algeria, where both peoples can and must live in peace and equality.” He stood athwart an Arab nationalist insurgency that targeted and killed many civilians, led by the Front de Libération Nationale (FLN), and state counterterror and settler vigilantism. Amid death threats, Camus insisted that nothing strips human beings of their right not to be murdered.
The Camusian argument to follow is that the wrongness of murder is obvious, straightforward, and sets a normative limit on how one may wage or justify resistance to violence or oppression; and that ignoring this is wrong, not least because it hinders shared recognition of responsibility for harms and blocks solidarity in seeking peace with truth and justice.
Against Executioners
The term “executioner” fills Camus’s writings, reflecting his passionate opposition to capital punishment. His revulsion at what he called “the most premeditated of murders” can be felt in his 1942 novel The Stranger, published in Nazi-occupied Paris where he lived and secretly worked as a journalist and editor-in-chief of Combat, a banned Resistance newsmagazine. And it’s central to The Plague, where Tarrou, Camus’s mouthpiece in the fable of resistance against occupation and oppression, declares, “All I maintain is that on this earth there are pestilences and there are victims, and it’s up to us, so far as possible, not to join forces with the pestilences” (236).
I believe that standing against executioners is twofold: we must identify, and avoid identifying with, those who commit or excuse murder. Moreover, we have a special responsibility for wrongful acts we help others do.
We clearly help others harm by materially supporting their efforts. But we also help the harmful when they credibly act in our name or by our authority. If I am in a power-sharing relationship with another, their acts bear my imprint, marking my character. In a way, we act together, which is the basic meaning of “complicity.”
These are plain facts about sharing moral responsibility for what others do. Their truth rests on common sense and experience, not fancy theories. They mean my personal involvement in a crisis has the greatest relevance to what I should say or do about it. Grand narratives and intellectual frameworks deserve a subordinate, defeasible role.
Discourse about Israel/Palestine revolves around concepts like “Zionism,” “apartheid,” and “a nation’s right to exist.” These evoke important realities. In The Plague, Camus has the redoubtable Dr. Rieux, who distrusts sweeping ideals, admit that “when the abstraction is trying to kill you, you have to pay attention to it” (93). But abstractions cannot simply dictate how I should respond to crisis. I must know who I am in relation to it, whether harm is done with my help or in my name.
Against Abstraction
In The Rebel, Camus confronts the tendency to prioritize abstractions over lives. Devotees of stories about historical purity or theories of utopian progress readily find reasons for eliminating real people who appear as obstacles. Venerating ideas risks devaluing individuals. Such “redemptive politics” wears many guises: capitalist imperialism, totalitarian communism, colonialist domination, revolutionary terror. No monopoly exists on this perverse idolatry of the ideal.
Redemptive politics also inspires moral perversions on the far left, as recently illustrated by victim-blaming statements issued by progressive organizations like the Democratic Socialistsof America. Ethically, nothing makes anyone more murderable. Yet blaming terror on its victims is a longstanding moral blind spot on the left. Camus’s contemporaries John-Paul Sartre and Frantz Fanon theorized that the source of all violence in anticolonial struggles are colonial systems and settler populations, which are therefore “entirely responsible” for it. Some on today’s left inherit these ideas, twisted fictions of agency that reduce human beings to conduits of abstractly described structural forces. This is how an otherwise normal person comes to believe that a grand historical process or myriad institutions, not an angry man aiming a loaded gun at a child he views as a colonizer, is responsible for pulling the trigger.
None of this entails a broad equivalence between far-right demagogues who weaponize antisemitic accusations to justify Israeli atrocities and far-left actors who blame October 7 on its victims. The Camusian lesson is rather that ideology must not be used to justify atrocity any more than to block legitimate resistance to oppression.
“Humanity Isn’t an Idea”
Standing against executioners while keeping abstraction in its place means recognizing our relations to the realities of murder. Two points help: all civilian life matters equally and we are responsible for the destruction of life to which we contribute.
These operations have killed over 33,000 Palestinians, of whom three-quarters are women, children, and elderly. The U.N. Secretary General describes Gaza, one of the most densely populated regions in the world, as a “graveyard for children.” At half of Gaza’s population, children constitute over 13,000 of those so far killed by Israel. This amounts to roughly twelve times as many children slain by Israeli forces as all Israelis killed on October 7. A human-centered ethic means nothing if not solidarity with every child.
This carnage constitutes unjustified killing for two reasons.
Anyone like me, in whose name an ideology or identity is used to justify carnage, must “venture into a no-man’s-land between hostile armies.” The Plague’s Dr. Rieux addresses us too when he reminds his colleague, Rambert, who lapses into abstraction amid crisis, that “Humanity isn’t an idea” (175).
For “A Civilian Truce”
On January 22, 1956, Camus delivered a violently protested speech in Algiers. In a desperate plea to pieds-noirs and Arab nationalists, he begged both to refrain from murder. The foremost reason was “one of simple humanity,” that “no cause justifies the death of the innocent.” He later dispatched over 150 letters to French authorities urging mercy for Arab militants facing execution or imprisonment, some of whom Camus believed had committed atrocities. Some letters spared lives. But Camus’s antiracist appeal for a civilian truce failed. His public voice lapsed into “Sophoclean silence.”
My Sisyphean appeal joins many others’. Jewish Voice for Peace’s declaration, “Not in our name!”, acknowledges a heightened obligation to oppose murder when one’s authority is used to justify it—even illegitimately or indirectly. This is the tragic side of responsibility. When others speak or act on my behalf, they pose, and would answer, the question of who I should be taken to be. They put a choice before me: to define myself or let them do it for me.
Camus understood that withdrawal from a violent world may tempt us but isn’t possible. The effort makes us bystanders, if not strangers, to ourselves. “By our silence or by the stand we take,” he reminds us, “we too shall enter the fray.”
Christian M. Golden is an adjunct professor of philosophy at Georgetown University. He is an ethicist specializing in the impact of identity and difference on relationships of authority, intimacy, and trust. His research explores the normative and psychological dimensions of agency, the character and limits of subjectivity, and the place and value of conflict in human affairs. His latest work examines commitment and citizenship by investigating the nature and scope of virtues like civility, humility, integrity, and justice. He received the 2020 Tropaia Outstanding Faculty Award for Georgetown University’s Bachelor of Arts in Liberal Studies Program.
Nelson Maldonado Torres speaks to students, staff, and faculty during his visit to Notre Dame’s campus on March 8, 2023. (Photo by Matt Cashore).
Introduction
At a time when decolonization has become a buzzword across the university and wider social discourse—especially under the banner of diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI)—clarity about what decolonization entails is required. On March 7 and 8 of 2023 Nelson Maldonado-Torres joined Contending Modernities to present a lecture and to sit for an interview to outline his approach to decolonization. Maldonado-Torres carefully distinguished the decolonial project from piecemeal reforms that do little more than chip around the edges of the status-quo, whether from liberal politicians or university leaders. Drawing on his own activist and scholarly work, Maldonado-Torres outlined a decolonial politics and epistemology rooted in a radical notion of love. In conversation with Emmanuel Levinas, Frantz Fanon, and others, he challenged both conservative and liberal posturing that would prioritize law and order (sometimes under the guise of “justice”) that seeks to maintain a status quo that is predicated on the preservation of Whiteness. The result of Maldonado-Torres’ exposition is a radical notion of what decoloniality entails: the reorganization of the university as we know it and the reimagining of what is entailed in radical politics. It is here where religious practices, such as prayer, offer ways of understanding ourselves and relations to others in profoundly revolutionary ways.
Lecture
On March 7, 2023 Maldonado-Torres presented a lecture for the Contending Modernities research initiative titled “Countering the Coloniality of Peace and Justice.” The recording of this lecture, along with timestamps highlighting the various chapters of the lecture, are below.
Interview
Atalia Omer (AO): In your talk and in your work, you are critical of various uses of the terms decolonization and decoloniality in the academy, arguing instead that decolonization entails a careful consideration of abolition and reparations that is typically missing in academic calls for decolonization. So, what is the relation between decolonization and concepts and praxes of abolitions and reparation?
Nelson Maldonado-Torres (NMT): In recent years, different movements/organizations of activists have been making important connections between decolonization and abolition. In the US, for example, decolonization is very much linked to the Indigenous Land Back movement, and abolition has been primarily associated with the abolition of slavery as well as with the abolition of the prison industrial complex. And so there have been increasing efforts to explore the connections and synergies between these concepts and projects. The growing consensus is that abolition is part of the process of decolonization and vice versa. For me, coming from the Caribbean context, the mutual implication of decolonization and abolition is very clear, perhaps most notably, because of their entanglement during the Haitian Revolution. Haiti became independent from France while also abolishing slavery, and so therefore in the Haitian case it was clear that decolonization involves political, aesthetic, spiritual, and epistemic liberation as well as the abolition of slavery and related structures of dehumanization. In short, how I understand decoloniality combines decolonization and abolition, and I trace this back to the Haitian revolution, among similar revolts in what the Zapatistas have referred to as the long night of 500 years. I have described in my work the Haitian revolution as the first major moment of the decolonial turn, and when you take the Haitian revolution as a reference, then, decolonization and abolition are organically connected. It is important today, for a number of reasons, to continue to work in that direction. Haiti is also a very important case because Haiti was made to pay reparations to France because of their losses. So this is the audacity when of course—
AO: When you have the Eiffel Tower!
NMT: When of course, what was due was reparations to the Haitian people, an imperative that remains relevant today. So, clearly in the context of massive forms of colonization, independence is not enough. You need to abolish the institutions that are serving as mechanisms of domination—different forms of domination in your society—and the former colonial powers need to not only pay reparations, but also engage in reparations. It’s kind of a threefold project and demand: decolonization, abolition, reparations as part of decoloniality. By decoloniality I mean both the undoing of coloniality in all its forms and expressions as well as the cultivation of existing and new forms of communality, forms of subjectivity, and forms of sociality that emerge out of the very process of organizing to counter colonization. In the case of the Haitian revolution, it is in the very process of engaging in the revolution, and before that in the process of the formation of what Jean Casimir calls the “counter-plantation system” that provide an anchor of sorts in the unfolding of combative decoloniality.
You need to abolish the institutions that are serving as mechanisms of domination—different forms of domination in your society—and the former colonial powers need to not only pay reparations, but also engage in reparations.
In the counter-plantation system, you find the seeds of a new order, but for that order to happen you need abolition, and you also need reparations. So decolonization cannot work without abolition and it cannot work without reparations. If we take it from there and we think about places like the university, then whenever we talk about decolonization we need to talk about abolition and reparations. If we are not talking about abolition and reparations, then we are not really talking about decolonization. And it is interesting that many of these recent efforts or projects to pay attention to decolonization, they ultimately make decolonization collapse into projects of diversity and inclusion that reject the grammar of reparation. So, we have to be very careful about this academic commodification of decolonization and decoloniality within a liberal grammar that does not admit the question of reparations or that sees it as something completely different from what we are supposed to be asking and doing now.
AO: Perfect! Maybe you can tell us more about why you are thinking specifically about the need to abolish the humanities?
NMT: Abolish the humanities. Yes. As I see it, decoloniality opens up a horizon of multiple imperatives for change, including reparations, different forms of creolization, and abolition. There is no decolonization or decoloniality without engaging in the abolition of the logic of coloniality, which might involve the abolition of whatever it is that one is decolonizing. This prevents us from approaching decolonization as a project that recentralizes practices that need to morph and in some cases disappear in the very process of coming together to combat coloniality. This is at the crux of what the Frantz Fanon Foundation, which I co-chair, has proposed as combative decoloniality.
In that sense, decolonization entails abolition as a necessary step, or as a permanent possibility. Today, more and more in academia, one finds that decolonization tends to collapse into a call for minimal transformation, preserving the position of the scholar as expert, and doing away with the ideas/imperatives of abolition and reparations. At most, these are forms of decoloniality-lite that facilitate a certain commodification of the decolonial in liberal settings. This commodification is at work in calls to decolonize the humanities, when this call serves to recentralize the humanities rather than to consider the potential need for its abolition, and the abolition of the knowledge apparatus that makes the humanities, as an area within the liberal arts and sciences, possible. The humanities are often glorified, conceived as an effective antidote against the prevalence of technocratic and neoliberal imperatives in industrial and post-industrial societies. However, they remain part of what Sadri Khiari and Houria Boutledja have referred to as the immune system of Whiteness, and particularly so, of the White academic field. This means that the space of the humanities invites oppositions to neoliberalism as much as it also foments oppositions to decoloniality and abolition. The humanities open small spaces for scholars of color, but they truly are, first and foremost, a refuge for liberal Whiteness, which is why the humanities often militate against decolonial knowledge formations that resist accommodation within the established 19th century epistemology that dominates in the globalized modern/colonial university. That is why I believe that the time has come to explicitly engage in the effort to abolish them and, through that effort, engage in the process of supporting other ways of conceiving of education and of knowledge creation. We need not despair. The humanities were invented, and so we can invent something else building from everything at our disposal, including the critical analysis and strategic use of concepts and methods fostered in the humanities and the sciences, and recognizing the many spaces that have always already existed beyond the scope of the liberal arts and the humanities. Of these, of particular relevance are those that have participated and/or participate in the struggle against coloniality and for the restoration of the intersubjective bonds that have been severely undermined under the catastrophe of modernity/coloniality. At the core of this activity might be the cultivation of combative decolonial attitudes (rather than liberal and modern/colonial attitudes) that seek to prepare subjects and communities to engage in decolonial and abolitionist struggle. This struggle involves fostering a pluriverse of decolonizing practices and ideas grounded in those practices, with particular attention to those found in decolonial, abolitionist, and similar combative collectives, and facilitate their interaction and mutual enrichment, always respecting and following the lead of the practitioners/thinkers themselves. At stake is the possibility for the damné to emerge as a co-combatant, and not merely as a professional, presumed expert, or scholar. As Sylvia Wynter has warned us, though, humanities scholars would tend to resist this impulse as much or more as scholars of Scholasticism rejected the humanities when they first emerged. The humanities were born in a particular time, institutionalized during a particular time, and grounded on specific philosophies the premises of which have been challenged or changed since then.
AO: We can think specifically about Kant or…
NMT: Yes, we can think of Enlightenment thinkers and figures like Immanuel Kant who served as reference and as inspiration for how to conceive the modern research university. We also need to consider how in the last two centuries other things have happened in the university that were not anticipated for most of its history. For me one of the most important things that has happened is the emergence of Black studies and ethnic studies fields, all of which defy the division of knowledge in terms of the humanities, the sciences, and the social sciences. However, since these forms of “studies” are expected to be incorporated within the established horizon of the liberal arts and sciences—because no other horizon is considered to be possible—they are forced to exist in a context that constantly militates against their decolonial dimensions and that seeks to make them work in the mode of pursuing incessant struggles for recognition and accommodation. At best, the humanities and the social sciences open relative spaces for these areas, while keeping their most combative decolonial dimensions, grounded on movement-based epistemic and aesthetic formations, in check.
AO: But you are not against studying literature?
NMT: Exactly. I’m referring to the humanities as a general framework within which different activities that are sometimes labeled as humanities activities are accommodated. My point is that they are better identified, they are better-affirmed—these activities like thinking, writing, interpretation—when conceived in a different kind of paradigm, not the paradigm of the humanities and social sciences, but a much more plural and dynamic paradigm that is deeply and intrinsically linked with anti-racism and decoloniality.
For me one of the most important things that has happened is the emergence of Black studies and ethnic studies fields, all of which defy the division of knowledge in terms of the humanities, the sciences, and the social sciences.
The humanities have become—and this is the other reason why I think that it is time to firmly proceed with their abolition—not only some stumbling block for other forms of knowledge, but also a refuge for liberal Whiteness, as I already mentioned. They have served as a refuge for liberal Whiteness—focused on the abstract principles of liberty, equality, tolerance, free speech, and more recently diversity and inclusion—in its opposition to conservative Whiteness—focused on the perceived integrity of the nation, based on what is understood as its core—, and neoliberal Whiteness—focused on perceived efficiency in the service of unending growth. In the academy, now more than 50 years after the formation of the first ethnic study programs, it is time for us to demand further transformations and to take away these refuges that liberal Whiteness has created for itself.
Joshua Lupo (JSL): To get back to your discussion of justice during your talk, there you were saying that when the right wing proposes something outrageous that they’re going to do, President Biden responds by saying, “we’re going to stand for justice.” It sounds like there’s a similar idea you are exploring here in the sense that Governor Ron DeSantis says that Florida is going to get rid of African American studies—or even African American history—and only do “American history,” to which the liberal humanist replies, “No, no, no. We need these things.” Then the question is: What exactly are we protecting when we respond to right–wing talking points in this way? What do we want the alternative to be? Is it just that we’re studying Shakespeare for our own personal edification, or is it something more? Do you see those two as linked?
NMT: Yes, certainly. While conservatives embrace the rhetoric of “law and order,” liberals respond with the accent on justice, by which they mean justice as conceived by the modern/colonial liberal nation-state. Similarly, in the context of the struggle for education in the university, you find some sectors that call for justice. They will say that we need to stand up for justice as a topic, as a thematic, in academia. But as I pointed out, the concept of justice has already been mobilized to undermine the claims of anti-racist knowledge formations in the university, so justice-talk has also been compromised and it has always had its limits. Liberals come closer to an actual defense of Black, Indigenous, and ethnic studies when they question the conservative attack on Critical Race Theory, which has become the label to refer to all of these knowledges.
AO: They don’t know what it means.
NMT: Exactly. They don’t know what it means. The Republicans don’t know what it means and they criticize it. And the liberals don’t have any other way to define it, whatever it is. But I think that ultimately, they mean something like diversity and inclusion.
AO: Yeah. I mean, we see it here, too.
JSL: We don’t know what to do, but we need to do something for the public.
NMT: Yes, exactly, the little that exists of CRT has been gained through struggle and pushes so that the liberal system has had to make concessions. But when the liberal system makes concessions, it also doesn’t do so passively; it takes these concepts over and recodifies them, right? So, it opens, appropriates, and then turns what it incorporates into a subset of something else that it controls.
AO: It multiplies and you see it over and over again.
NMT: Exactly. That’s the cycle. And so, ideas like justice, the humanities—I mean we should all be tired of seeing the same project every now and again in the name of justice, the humanities, the humans, and so forth. Ultimately, using those as tools to say, on the one hand that “we are so progressive,” and, on the other, that “everyone should be grateful to us that we are so progressive, benevolent, and you know.” But then what you are really doing is stopping the possibility of further, more radical, anti-racist and decolonial forms of thinking and action. And then you are providing refuge for liberal Whites to counter the other forms of Whiteness, that of conservatives and agents of neo-liberalism, but also counter the pressure that comes from the movements from below. So, the liberal engages in at least two forms of countering at once while appearing benevolent, progressive, and rational. It’s quite a rhetorical trick, and that’s why I think that we should resist confronting right-wing attacks by celebration or endorsements of liberal projects and visions such as what typically takes place in calls to defend the humanities. Because already, time has gone by and we know that we’re going to be singing the same song for the next 100 years. We need to somehow at least tell White liberals: “we know what you are doing and we’re not going to play your game,” right? And we need to enter into the space and reconceptualize the questions. You can enter there and begin to change the pieces, but the liberals don’t want you to change the grammar. They will say: “You need to defend justice and you need to defend the humanities.”
AO: And you need to use the existing grammar.
NMT: Exactly. Ultimately, at the end of the day, this ties to settler colonialism because all of this is a function of baptizing as legitimate the order that has emerged and been built on this land and so on. So, all of that will go without question. You don’t question possession of the land. You don’t question anything else. You take an entire array of matters as presuppositions: calling for the constant defense of the humanities while simultaneously naturalizing a colonial order of things and suppressing decolonial knowledge formations that cannot be possibly encapsulated within the province of the humanities or the liberal arts and sciences.
AO: This is where it also ties to the reparations, because that approach is so myopic and suffers from profound amnesia, right? It doesn’t want to interrogate and engage and own up to its history.
NMT: It is the humanities, and so it is compatible with the individualism that doesn’t recognize the weight of historical responsibility.
AO: Yeah, yeah. Responsibility, which is at the heart of reparation.
NMT: Exactly, yeah because “I was not my grandfather,” “I did not own any slaves,” right? “So why do I need to—”
AO: Right. Right.
NMT: I think it’s not only you, so to speak. It’s a government which you picked that is the one that is responsible to change the entire social setting for you and everyone. But that is something else.
AO: And perhaps at this point, maybe we can turn to a final question. In your work, you interrogate and you are also partly grounded in the critical study of religion. You engage with how the construction of the secular relates to the story of modernity, coloniality, the history of modern coloniality; and you use them and you engage with theological categories and questions of ontology and epistemology. Do you see a role for theology in the vision and the praxis of decoloniality, decolonization? Especially since theology (and specifically Christian theology) was so complicit in modernity, coloniality; what’s its role in abolishing it?
NMT: Well for me, since I was much younger, I resisted the separation between the secular and the religious. For me it was clear that they were mutually implicated, that that line was artificial in multiple ways, that it was a problematic line, and it was foundational in the assertion of philosophy as a secular enterprise. As a young person being introduced to philosophy, I was educated to presuppose the demarcation between the philosophical and the religious, and I should leave everything that was based on “faith” outside. But then when I was reading philosophers and so on, it was clear that they were drawing from some of these categories that came from particular religious traditions. So that was dubious. Also, there were questions—let’s say, metaphysical questions—that go beyond the limits of logical positivism and certain forms of investigation that I think invite the kind of speculation and reflection that sometimes is found in something like theology. And while it is true that theology and religious ideas, Christian and otherwise, have been used to dominate and colonize peoples, they have also been instrumental in resisting colonization, in defying slavery and other forms of domination, right? And, for me in particular, I come from a context where liberation theology had already existed and I was acquainted with it, so I knew that there was more to theology and to religious ideas than their connection with empire, with the nation-state, with powerful institutions.
While it is true that theology and religious ideas, Christian and otherwise, have been used to dominate and colonize peoples, they have also been instrumental in resisting colonization, in defying slavery and other forms of domination.
So I knew that there is not one Christianity, that there are multiple Christianities—and the same thing is true with Islam with other so-called religions. So, I was well prepared to traffic in the exchange between, across, and beyond the secular and the religious, but of course when looking at those so-called theological and religious ideas, particularly paying important attention to the ones that seem to play a role in the struggle for emancipation and liberation. From there, those struggles provided the hermeneutical key, if you wish, about how to then interpret other categories like prayer, for example, and like the gift, or love, which I explore in my writings.
AO: Maybe you can talk about prayer and love. That would be really helpful.
NMT: I began to take love particularly seriously when reading Chela Sandoval’s Methodology of the Oppressed shortly after it was published. In this text, she introduces and develops the concept of decolonial love, which is central in accounting for the richness and complexity of the methodology of the oppressed. At that time, I was also reading Fanon and Levinas very intensely. All of these thinkers combined, persuaded me that there was something to think about with regard to love. And then, in Against War, I presented an interpretation of Fanon as a philosopher of love in that vein, as well as a postsecular philosopher, if you will. Love, in Fanon, has to do with connection and relation. Love makes possible what is impossible from a strictly logical point of view: it accounts for the possibility of building communities of deeply wounded and vulnerable subjects who have been dehumanized. Love is the answer to the question, what is it in the human being that can allow for the possibility of connecting with someone else, particularly with someone else that you have been taught not to value? How does one become an agent of connection and not assimilation, subordination, and self-hate. That is, since many of us have been taught not to value ourselves and not to value people in our communities, how do we overcome that? I think the Fanonian answer is that there is something, that which we call love, some kind of dimension of the human, that would make it possible for us to go beyond that condition of separation and division and get there. And this love can be so powerful that it can bring people together and lead to a process of self- and collective healing. Love can turn destructive and problematic in so many ways, but this does not mean that, in its most basic forms, it seems to be, as Sandoval suggests, something like a force and the very possibility of deep connection. For lack of a better word, decolonial love is about the possibility of connection (and relation) when connection seems completely impossible, because you are supposed to eliminate yourself and you’re supposed to not care about another person. So, when you reach out to another slave and connect, that’s where love appears, or rather, this connection is made possible by virtue of love. Love is the very condition of possibility for this connection to take place. But, you know, this idea of subjects in isolation, in this self-annihilative mood, to reach out to another when the other is not there because the other has also been educated not to look out for you (you don’t know if they are there), that’s where prayer comes in because it’s the attempt at a connection even when the other is not immediately present.
AO: And this is a prayer and also an ethics, the underside of modernity, right?
NMT: Yes. Prayer is about connection, and ethics is a discourse and logic of connection. Both acquire particularly important dimensions in contexts that are premised on separations that sustain dehumanizing hierarchies.
AO: Maybe if you can clarify, what’s the distinction between colonial love and decolonial love?
NMT: What is colonial love? Love that kills us.
AO: Or consumes.
NMT: I mean I think that there can be so many multiple forms of love.
JSL: Or is colonial love, love. Or is it distorted?
AO: Think of missionaries.
NMT: It is paternalism, a very supreme paternalistic love, self-serving love. Paternalistic, but all of that is—
AO: “Saving you! Because God loves you! You know, my God loves you!”
NMT: Yes, exactly. Love as a tool to impose civilization, “because I love you so much that I want you to be civilized.” This is “love” in the service of civilization, of colonization; “love” as a form of imposition. This utterly self-centered “love” also finds expression in the delegitimization of combative movements: it is “love” as a call for an apparent peace that preserves multiple forms of structural violence. But in these cases what we call love is not really love, as Joshua was suggesting, and certainly not decolonial love. Love is about connection, a connection that maintains, respects, and celebrates singularity while calling for the exercise of respons(e)ability. Romantic love, when it is really love, affirms these two dimensions, and so forth with other forms of love. Decolonial love, in particular, takes place when the impulse for connection/relation and respons(e)ability finds expression within and against the hierarchies that sustain dehumanizing hierarchies and differences. Decolonial love accounts principally for the movements from dehumanized selves to dehumanized others, leading to the formation of collectives of the condemned which seek to end the world as we know it. Along with rage, decolonial love inspires opposition to the structures, values, principles, and ideas that sustain coloniality. Decolonial love also allows for the possibility of substantive (as opposed to superficial) coalition building and for the generation and enrichment of relations of conviviality that supersede the social contract of the modern/colonial state.
Joshua S. Lupo is the Assistant Director of the Contending Modernities research initiative. In this role, he serves as the editor and writer for the Contending Modernities Blog and the classroom coordinator for the Madrasa Discourses program. He has published articles and reviews in Sophia, Soundings, Critical Muslim, Reading Religion, and Religious Studies Review. With CM Co-Director Atalia Omer, he is the co-editor of Broken Solidarities: Feminism, Race, and Transnationalism (Notre Dame Press, 2022) and Religion, Populism, and Modernity: Confronting White Christian Nationalism and Racism (Notre Dame Press, 2023). His current book project is titled After Essentialism: A Critical Phenomenology for the Study of Religion.
Anti-colonialist queer feminists demonstration on March 8, 2024 in Paris, France. Photo credit: Jeanne Menjoulet. CC BY 2.0 DEED.
The Muslim community and LGBT community are not separate; we mourn together. I am Muslim, I am queer and I exist.
–Sonj Basha, speaker at a vigil in Seattle following the Pulse nightclub shooting in 2016
This [queer Palestinian protest in Haifa in 2019] is the first-ever protest of the queer Palestinian movement, based on the principles of an intersectional struggle between queer-Palestinian struggles and struggles against the occupation… The protest represents a voice calling for liberation without restraints—not of the occupiers, and not of the patriarchy. It’s important to show support for all LGBT Palestinians.
–Rula Khalaileh, organizer with the Palestinian “Women Against Violence” organization
We were a part of the mainstream society before the British criminalised our existence through laws such as the Criminal Tribes Act of 1871. Transphobia is a colonial legacy… We will continue our struggle. We aim to raise our voice for our rights so loudly that it reaches those in power and echoes in the chambers of the parliament.
–Hina Baloch, political convener and organizer of the Sindh Moorat march in Pakistan in 2022
There’s nothing new about being trans. Only, we didn’t have the language for it back then… Even here in Kenya, in previous generations they had gay men. They introduced those laws against homosexuality which indicates that it happened, because you can’t put laws on something that’s not existing or unknown… God knows where it comes from. So, whenever I’m preaching the gospel in our community, I tell them to look up to the Lord; he knows why you were created that way; when you get to know yourself, you will get peace.
–Keeya, gay Christian pastor and Ugandan refugee interviewed in 2019 for Adriaan van Klinken and Johanna Stiebert’s Sacred Queer Stories
Dominant discourses globally assert that queerness and transness are White/western impositions in Asia, Africa, and the Americas. They tell us that queer Muslim and Palestinian positionalities are impossible. The stories shared by the activists and ministers quoted above—along with scholarship from queer of color critique and decolonial and postcolonial studies—show these discourses to be a lie. They also challenge the notion that queerness and transness are White/western impositions in Asia, Africa, and the Americas. These stories participate in traditions of critical queer, decolonial, anti-racist, and feminist thought that examine questions of gender and sexuality by considering the relationship among racialization, coloniality, and heteronormativity.
Heteronormativity involves the idealizing and societal privileging of a strict gender binary, “opposite sex” romantic and sexual desires, heterosexual marriages, and the raising of children in nuclear families. It results in cisgender-heterosexual existence occupying default representational and socio-politico-economic spaces in many contexts, and in doing so, upholds compulsory heterosexuality. The term “compulsory heterosexuality” first appeared in lesbian feminist theorist Adrienne Rich’s 1980 essay “Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence,” where it was used to critique the societal forces that push women into heterosexual marriages and constrain them from imagining or pursuing life paths centered around relationships (romantic/sexual or otherwise) with other women.
Expanding upon this foundational work, queer feminist theorist Sara Ahmed writes that compulsory heterosexuality—which she (re)defines as the societal assumption and enforcement of heterosexuality which is “the accumulative effect of the repetition of the narrative of heterosexuality as an ideal coupling” (423)—shapes the ways that bodies orient themselves in space. Repetitions of the heterosexual couple form through music, advertising, wedding traditions, and other cultural productions cause a “heterosexualization” of public spaces. This heterosexualization naturalizes and idealizes heteronormative existence, framing men and women as “opposites” and reinforcing “opposite sex”-oriented desires and life paths. Heteronormativity, then, is sustained through the visible repetition and intergenerational transmission of norms and ways of living that are marked as legitimate. Heteronormative standards of legitimacy reinforce compulsory heterosexuality by associating heterosexual couplings with life, culture, civilization, and the reproduction of familial lineage while marking queerness (divergence from these prescribed pathways involving binary gender norms, desire for one’s “opposite sex,” and participation in familial reproduction) as a failure. While many heterosexual subjects experience comfort and ease “in line” with the desires promoted by a heteronormative society, subjects who fail to “orient” themselves towards idealized sexual objects and accepted life paths are read as queer threats to the social order.
Decolonial feminist scholar María Lugones argues that the heterosexualist patriarchy and the binary, hierarchical, and heteronormative conception of gender upon which it rests are rooted in colonialism. Lugones’s framework draws heavily from decolonial theorist Aníbal Quijano’s understanding of the coloniality of power, which accounts for “modernity” by focusing on the new modes of social classification and domination that emerged as European colonialism expanded and Eurocentered global capitalism developed. Quijano uses the term modernity/ coloniality to emphasize that modernity cannot be thought apart from coloniality or from the hierarchical categories of “race” and notions of “rationality/irrationality” that have provided its structure. By focusing on issues of gender and sexuality, Lugones builds upon Quijano’s work regarding colonialism, capitalism, and racialization and critiques what she calls the colonial/modern gender system. Under this system, White bourgeois men and women have been ordered through biological dimorphism (the idea of “biological sex” as stable, binary, and innate), heterosexualism, and patriarchy, while persons on “the dark side” of the colonial divide have suffered labor exploitation, sexual violence, and dehumanization. Jamaican writer and theorist Sylvia Wynter similarly emphasizes this colonial divide in her decolonial analysis of western colonialism, racialization, and gender categorization: “At the beginning of the modern world, the only women were white and Western. … you had true women on one side, the women of the settler population [in the Caribbean and the Americas], and on the other you had Indianwomen and Negrowomen.” Wynter argues that “from the very origin of the modern world, of the western world system, there were never simply ‘men’ and ‘women’” (174) but that western colonial expansion resulted in the intertwined production of hierarchical categories of race and gender with European Christian/post-Christian “Man” in a position of dominance and superiority.
The colonial/modern gender system presents its ordering of human relations as natural and immutable, and one must go outside of it in order to examine that which it has rendered invisible and unimaginable. Turning to the decolonial scholarship of Oyéronké Oyewumí and Paula Gunn Allen, Lugones writes that many societies recognized intersex and third gender individuals before colonization, that binary/hierarchical gender was used as a western tool of domination over Yoruba societies, and that colonizers attacked gynocracies that had existed within certain Indigenous North American societies. Gender itself is a colonial imposition, she argues, but one might develop decolonial feminism by attending to those “who resist the coloniality of gender from the ‘colonial difference’” (746). In other words, just as “modernity” cannot be thought apart from “coloniality,” “coloniality” cannot be thought apart from the hierarchical categories of “race” and “gender” that developed to justify and maintain structures of Eurocentered power. As writers, artists, and activists examining the intertwined histories of colonialism and heteronormativity have emphasized, however, attention to historical and ongoing modes of thinking about gender and sex which resist and/or go beyond the constraints of the colonial/modern gender system can provide a means of honoring Indigenous knowledges, finding a present-day sense of belonging, and healing from traumas rooted in colonial oppression.
When analyzing and challenging the colonial/modern gender system, however, it is important to avoid reductively aligning heteronormative identities with coloniality and LGBTQ+ identities with decoloniality or anti-oppressive politics. For instance, in her scholarship on homonationalism and pinkwashing, queer theorist Jasbir Puar has discussed the ways that nationalistic liberal politics tenuously incorporate certain queer subjects while constructing Orientalized terrorist others. That is, nations such as the United States have advanced imperialistic agendas and justified international military aggression by contrasting their presumably exceptional inclusion of LGBTQ+ subjects against “Muslim homophobia.” Additionally, Cathy J. Cohen’s work of queer of color critique has challenged both assimilationist LGBTQ+ politics that seek incorporation into dominant societal structures and radical queer politics that assume an overly-simplistic heterosexual/queer binary. By attending intersectionally to race, gender, and class, Cohen writes that not all “heterosexual” subjects benefit equally from heteronormativity (for instance, she notes that women of color who are on welfare “fit into the category of heterosexual but [their] sexual choices are not perceived as normal, moral, or worthy of state support” [26]) and calls for more nuanced and expansive forms of queer analysis that can challenge structures of marginalization and domination.
This educational module attends to questions of coloniality and decoloniality in its exploration of how queerness and gender are navigated across religious, political, and geographic contexts. The essays gathered for this module offer an array of perspectives from Contending Modernities authors and have been grouped into three overarching themes: (1) gender, religion, and politics; (2) heteronormativity, religion, and politics; and (3) decolonial perspectives on gender, sexuality, and religion. These essays analyze the ways that various forms of nationalistic and religious discourses have promoted and reinforced particular norms for gender and sexuality, as well as the ways that non-normative configurations of gender and sexuality have offered means of resisting nationalism and coloniality. The essays provide intersectional approaches that affirm the existence and validity of worlds that resist the colonial/modern gender system’s dictates around gender and sexuality.
Theme 1: Gender, Religion, and Politics
The essays gathered under this theme address the constructed-ness of gender and highlight the ways that women from various religious and political contexts have mobilized to critique religious nationalism, patriarchy, colonialist stereotypes, and state violence. Julia Kowalski’s essay discusses how Muslim women protestors have invoked the language of family and home to counter patriarchal Hindu nationalism in India. Saadia Yacoob’s piece reflects critically and constructively on the role of gender in the classical Islamic ethical tradition and makes proposals for Muslim feminist ethics. Brenna Moore’s post critiques the antifeminist and antigay activism of the global Roman Catholic right and turns to the example of twentieth-century Catholic theologians who resist the right’s theology as a resource for combatting oppression in the present. Lastly, Laura S. Grillo’s post discusses expressions of “female genital power” in West African traditions that push back against “masculinized modernity” and confront the violence of postcolonial nation-states. Together, these essays offer perspectives grounded in a variety of religious traditions, political issues, and geographies. They reveal the constructedness of gender by showing how ideas about gender (and womanhood, in particular) are advanced differently across contexts, as well as the diverse ways that possibilities for resistance and contestation take shape.
Wooden model of a house explaining the Constitution created by activists in Ahmedabad, India. Photo courtesy of RAJEEV KHANNA/TheCitizen.in. Used with permission.
Julia Kowalski argues that the protests that have taken place in the Shaheen Bagh neighborhood of Delhi are not only displays of resistance against the combined effects of the Citizenship Amendment Act (CAA) and the National Register of Citizens (NRC), but also acts of subversion that challenge stereotypes held by the ruling party in India about Islam, gender, and the family. (For more information about the CAA and NRC, see this post by Susan Ostermann.) As Kowalski notes, many protesters were middle-class, middle-aged-or-older “housewives” who wore hijab. She argues that the protests “are innovative not because of the gendered identity of the protesters, but because of how protesters have mobilized that identity to contest powerful scripts of citizenship, religion, family, and nation.” Muslim women protesters deploy representations of female kinship and home in order to promote a secular, inclusive democracy and to invoke a new language of national belonging—one that does not rely upon “documentary evidence of property ownership and descent from male kin.” In doing so, these women subvert narratives of Muslim women’s oppression by Muslim men (an Islamophobic discourse that has justified British “civilizing” missions in India and continues to justify western imperialism) and narratives of Muslim non-belonging in a presumably “Hindu” nation.
Kowalski’s focus on Muslim women protesters illuminates the ways that invocations of female kinship have provided a means of contesting religious nationalism and patriarchy—specifically, right-wing Hindu nationalism—in India. As deployed by these protesters, the language of family and home troubles the boundaries of public and private/domestic while subverting sexist and Islamophobic representations of Muslim women.
This illustration depicts the ruler Tumanba Khan, an ancestor of Genghis Khan, with his wife and nine sons, interwoven with the texts of Chingiznama, which records this account. Photo Credit: The Met Museum.
This post by Saadia Yacoob is part of a book symposium on Zahra Ayubi’s Gendered Morality: Classical Islamic Ethics of the Self, Family, and Society, which critically engages texts from the classical Islamic ethical tradition and offers constructive proposals for the building of a feminist Islamic ethics. (For a more detailed summary of the book, refer to this introduction to the book symposium.) Considering the applicability of Islamic ethical discourses to women, Yacoob notes that gendered divisions of household labor (which impact both Muslim and non-Muslim women) hinder Muslim women from being able to dedicate time to ritual worship and the acquisition of religious knowledge. Responses by religious scholars that assure women that childcare is itself an act of worship—while perhaps well-intentioned—are not adequate for addressing the exclusion of women (especially mothers) from Islamic ideals of virtuous and ethical living.
Yacoob discusses a tension charted by Ayubi in her examination of texts from the classical Islamic ethical tradition: there is an egalitarian understanding of human creation and the androgynous nafs (soul) that each person possesses, but also an emphasis on “rational capacity in ethical refinement” which “not only gendered the nafs male but also authorized an intellectual hierarchy in which only elite men possessed full rational capacity.” In her response to Ayubi’s work, Yacoob highlights the emphasis on social relationships and interdependence in classical Islamic ethics and suggests that, although one must critique the hierarchical positioning of elite men above women and non-elite men, one might carry the understanding of human interconnectedness forward in feminist ways that promote equality and flourishing. Importantly, both Ayubi and Yacoob critique patriarchal interpretations from classical Islamic ethical discourse while avoiding rejecting the tradition entirely; rather, both scholars imagine possibilities of critically “thinking with this discourse to develop a Muslim feminist ethic that centers the flourishing of all humans.”
Mural at the Hippie Kitchen is based on woodcut by Fritz Eichenberg. Photo credit: Flickr user Laurie Avocado. CC BY 2.0 DEED.
In this post, Brenna Moore discusses the role of Roman Catholicism in right-wing populist movements around the world and points to resources from the Catholic theological tradition that might aid in the development of a resistant, compassionate, leftist social politics. First, Moore writes that although right-wing populism might appear to draw upon a Christian logic of inversion (in which God chooses those who are lowly and reviled, not those in established positions of worldly power), figures who appeal to right-wing populist Catholics—such as Trump—violate this logic of inversion by using an “antiestablishment mockery of the elites” to in fact “[mock] the vulnerable,” including disabled people, Muslims, and women. Turning to an example from another context, Moore notes that right-wing Catholic populists in France tend to protest against gay marriage and liberal gender norms by framing them as an American invasion: “This keeps the antifeminist and antigay activism still seemingly tethered to a respectable anti-elitism and anti-hegemony.”
In response to these false logics of inversion, Moore offers several examples of resistant Catholic theologians of twentieth-century France to show how the insights they’ve contributed might act as resources in undoing the “repulsion that so many white Catholics feel toward Muslim refugees, gay families, the poor, African Americans, and women who control their reproductive lives” and advancing concrete goals such as childcare, access to contraception, combating poverty, and protecting those who are marginalized. Moore demonstrates that the antifeminist and antigay activism of the Catholic right, which draws upon heteronormative notions of gender and sexuality, can be countered by connecting with liberative theological resources from the Catholic tradition.
Makhuwa women in Mozambique. Photo Credit: Steve Evans. CC By 2.0.
This post by Laura S. Grillo is part of a book symposium on Faith in Flux, in which Devaka Premawardhana examines practices of religious conversion among the rural Makhuwa people of northern Mozambique. (For a more detailed summary of the book, refer to this introduction to the book symposium.) In this post, Grillo compares the matricentric mobility, flexibility, and pluralistic disposition of the Makhuwa with her own work on the performance of female genital power in West African traditions. Grillo argues that, although valuable, Faith in Flux does not sufficiently consider Makhuwa matricentricity; therefore, the book fails to “convincingly portray a fluid retention or cyclical movement of return to the “‘Mother’ religions’ that Premawardhana suggests are the essence of local ontology.” Through her critiques, Grillo pushes Premawardhana to question the gendered assumptions of the conceptual apparatus he employs to theorize Makhuwa practices, which seem to centralize male religious culture and “reinforce[] the stereotype of women’s natural profaneness.” Grillo proposes a focus on the ways that various Indigenous African rituals, performances, and matricentric conceptions of gender offer means of resisting postcolonial state violence and policies that reinforce the “external pressures of masculinizing modernity.”
Theme 2: Heteronormativity, Religion, and Politics
The posts included within this theme focus on the salience of heteronormativity, homophobia, and transphobia in contemporary politics and explore the ways that religious notions of gender and sexuality shape such politics. Jason Springs’s essay examines the conservative sexual politics of White evangelical ethnoreligious nationalists in the United States and discusses the interconnected histories of twentieth-century anti-miscegenation laws and present-day heteronormative ideologies. Michael Vicente Pérez’s essay considers the roles of homophobia and Islamophobia in societal responses to the 2016 Pulse nightclub massacre and critiques homonationalist framings of the United States that construct Muslims as especially homophobic threats. The essay by Halah Abdelhadi focuses on the growing movement for LGBTQ+ rights in Palestine and argues that there is a need for “a mediating lexicon” that engages religious discourses to combat homophobic violence and the exclusion of queer Palestinians from religious modes of belonging. Ali Altaf Mian’s essay reveals the ways that heteronormative ideologies—particularly the assumption of a gender binary between men and women—reinforce transphobia and have hindered efforts by Muslim leaders to combat discrimination against transgender people in Pakistan. Together, these essays point to the ways that heteronormative ideologies shape religious nationalism and reinforce homophobic and transphobic violence. The essays also advance possibilities for solidarity, allyship, and religious engagement that push back against heteronormativity and its varied interconnections with racism, militarism, and Islamophobia.
Rainbow colors on the White House celebrate the Supreme Court’s decision allowing same-sex marriages in every state of the Union. White House photo. Photo Credit: GPA Photo Archive. Via Flickr.
In the blog series “Zombie Nationalism: Apocalypse, Race, and the Sexual Politics of White Evangelical Christian Nationalism,” Jason Springs introduces the concept of “zombie nationalism” in his analysis of White evangelical political and religious ideology in the United States. This concept describes a persistently recurring and reanimating dynamic, pattern, and logic that explains “the socio-political processes by which White evangelical ethno-religious nationalism has asserted and reasserted itself across recent decades.” Springs contends that this phenomenon is driven not only by religion (modern evangelical theology) and race (as manifested through White ethno-religious nationalism) but also by conservative sexual politics. Springs clarifies that “sexual politics” refers to “the ways that gender norms, operations of power related to sexual identities, and policing of sexuality all function to legitimate and perpetuate ideologies, and are used to advance political agendas.” He argues that it is crucial to attend to the ways that heteronormative ideologies of gender and sexuality both motivate and are reinforced by White evangelical ethno-religious nationalism.
In this post from the series, Jason Springs contends that White Christian evangelicals’ current justification of their opposition to same-sex marriage relies on an extension of the same logic that they had once used to support anti-miscegenation laws. Thus, White evangelical support for Trump is not an isolated reaction against marriage equality, but participates in a longer history of White evangelical sexual politics centered around the so-called “sanctity of marriage.” Here, White Christian nationalism relies upon the upholding of a rigid, heteronormative gender binary in ways rooted in particular notions of Whiteness, Christian theology, and western civilization.
Vigil in support of the victims of the 2016 Orlando nightclub shooting, Toronto, Canada. Via Wikimedia Commons.
Michael Vicente Pérez’s essay discusses Islamophobia, homophobia, and the cultural politics of fear in the wake of the 2016 mass killing at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando, Florida. Drawing from work by Sara Ahmed and Jasbir Puar, Pérez analyzes the mobilization of an affective politics of fear-as-threat (that is, fear as “an affective link experienced as threats to some group from some group”) in the production of the Muslim as threatening Other following the Orlando massacre. This politics of fear serves to construct LGBTQ+ inclusion as an essential part of American identity—despite the persistence of anti-LGBTQ+ violence in America—and produce Muslim difference in terms of terrorism and hatred. As Pérez further explains, “the narrative incorporation of Orlando’s victims [into the American national body] resignified the murder as an act of terrorism in which the violence of Muslim sexual intolerance not only underscored the moral superiority of America but also proved the necessity of American empire.” In contrast, turning to Sonj Basha’s affirmation of (her own and others’) queer Muslim existence in her speech at a widely attended Seattle vigil following the massacre, Pérez writes that shared grief and mourning can momentarily disrupt the affective unities/divisions created by fear and gesture to “the possibility of a ‘we’ that refuses the politics of fear.”
Whereas Jason Springs’s essay focused on the ways that White evangelical ethno-religious nationalism reinforces and is dependent upon a heteronormative notion of the “sanctity of marriage,” Pérez’s essay alternatively examines the ways that homonationalist framings of the United States as an exceptionally inclusive haven for LGBTQ+ people serve to uphold U.S. militarism and imperialism and reductive, Islamophobic constructions of Muslim people. Thus, while sexual politics in the United States frequently draw upon notions of a gender binary and idealize heteronormative relationships between men and women, Jasbir Puar’s theorization of homonationalism shows that ideas of LGBTQ+ inclusion have also been mobilized towards ethno-religious nationalist ends.
Palestinian flag at Brighton, England Pride celebration. Photo Credit: Flickr User Daniel Hadley. CC BY-NC-SA 2.0 DEED.
This piece by Halah Abdelhadi reflects on the movement for LGBTQ+ rights in Palestine. Abdelhadi contextualizes the increased visibility of LGBTQ+ issues among Palestinian citizens of Israel—which have become one of the most controversial political topics in Palestinian society—by discussing the first queer Palestinian protest that occurred in 2019 in response to an act of homophobic violence. She contends that there are three primary positions on LGBTQ+ rights in Palestinian society: pro-queer (held mainly by activists), neutral (held by self-identified “secular progressives”), and antagonistic (the position of those who weaponize religion to justify homophobic violence). Overcoming the homophobia of the antagonistic position, she claims, requires novel interpretations of religious meaning. Given the increased visibility of the queer Palestinian community, Abdelhadi identifies a need for inclusion, the use of precise (rather than vague or neutral) language to denounce homophobic violence, and the building of “a mediating lexicon” that allows for conversations with spiritual and religious leaders to challenge the ways that queer Palestinians have been “alienated from their national and religious modes of belonging to Palestinian society.”
A Pakistani hijra at a protest between two hijra groups from Islamabad and Rawalpindi. Via Wikimedia Commons.
In this piece, Ali Altaf Mian discusses a 2016 endorsement of a fatwa on transgender marriage which takes important steps towards combating discrimination against transgender people in Pakistan, yet nonetheless operates based on heteronormative assumptions. The fatwa, which was endorsed in a statement crafted by the Pakistani clerics of Tanzim-I Ittihad-i Ummat and signed by about fifty other local Muslim jurists and theologians, argued that Islamic law should be interpreted as extending marriage and other rights to transgender people. Importantly, Mian writes, this fatwa and its endorsement condemned discrimination in places of “the home, the street, the graveyard, and the brothel—where members of the hijra [transgender] community viscerally experience the brunt of a hyper-masculinist and heteronormative social order.”
At the same time, the logic of heteronormativity that supports transphobia still underlies this fatwa, which employs language such as “unambiguous signs of a single-sex” and “bodily signs of both sexes” when describing the bodies for whom certain rights do or do not apply. As Mian reveals, the fatwa continues to impose a gender binary even when acknowledging transgender bodies, and it accords social recognition to trans people in ways dependent on their bodies’ presumed approximation to this gender binary. To truly act as allies in fighting transphobia, he argues, Muslim jurists and theologians should question the ways that culturally constructed notions of maleness and femaleness shape ideas about biology, law, and ethics; study the complexity of human bodies by “cultivating a flexible and creative mode of engagement with local knowledge traditions where [they] will encounter both reifications and disruptions of the gender binary”; and from those encounters, discern when to retain, reconfigure, or renounce traditions “in order to make sense of and to appreciate shifting embodiments of sex, gender, and sexuality in the contemporary world.”
Theme 3: Decolonial Perspectives on Gender, Sexuality, and Religion
This final theme focuses explicitly on the role of colonialism in shaping gender and sexual norms and on efforts to decolonize discourses around gender, sexuality, and religion. The essay by Sa’ed Atshan engages with Adriaan van Klinken’s Kenyan, Christian, Queer and scholarship on other contexts shaped by colonial legacies in order to advance proposals for decolonizing queer studies and addressing Christianity’s relationship to colonialism and sexuality. Ebenezer Obadare also engages van Klinken’s text but emphasizes that the existence of homophobia in Africa cannot be reduced to a colonial or Christian product and argues that van Klinken’s perception of the condition of being queer in Africa is overly optimistic. Ludovic Lado’s essay turns to the construction of gender employed by the state in Côte d’Ivoire in its efforts to combat gender-based inequality and discrimination and shows that the state’s assumption of a male/female binary hinders it from recognizing and addressing violence against the LGBTQ community. Nisa Goksel focuses on resistant movements of Kurdish women in Türkiye and Syria, who—in ways that depart from stereotypical representations of Middle Eastern women—seek a non-colonial modernity. Lastly, Jacqueline Hidalgo discusses the name change of MEChA (Movimiento Estudiantil Chicanx de Aztlán, a U.S. Latine student-led organization) which removed the terms “Chicanx” and “Aztlán,” noting the long histories of contestation within the Chicano movement, particularly around issues of gender, sexuality, race and indigeneity, and decoloniality. Together, these essays provide an explicit engagement with the interconnections among colonialism, religion, gender, and sexuality and offer examples of decolonial theories and movements that have contended with these interconnections across contexts.
Raised fist with “Queer254” bracelet. The rainbow bracelets with the text 254Queer are made by a local Kenyan LGBT group and combines Kenya’s country-code +254 with the word Queer. Photo courtesy of Adriaan van Klinken.
This essay is a part of a book symposium on Adriaan van Klinken’s Kenyan, Christian, Queer: Religion, LGBT Activism, and Arts of Resistance in Africa, which engages works of art and activism to explore the ways that various LGBTQ+ Christians in Kenya reimagine their identities, faith, and lives. (For a more detailed summary of the book, refer to this introduction to the book symposium.) In his essay, Sa’ed Atshan draws on van Klinken’s monograph to think more broadly about what it means to decolonize queer studies. He does so by first comparing and contrasting van Klinken’s work with George Paul Meiu’s recent work on Kenyan sex workers in Ethno-erotic Economies. Both authors address connections between colonialism and religion in Kenya, and both engage the connections between colonialism and sexuality—with van Klinken’s work registering the cognizance “of British colonial homophobia that significantly departed from indigenous Kenyan queer tolerant attitudes.” Whereas van Klinken primarily focuses on queer-identified, middle-class, urban subjects who “can forge solidarity with their queer counterparts in the west,” however, Meiu offers a more in-depth analysis of ethnic categorization and class, as well as a broader conceptualization of queerness that explores the ways that rural, poorer, heterosexual subjects “are mired in racialized/otherized/fetishized relationships with western tourists.”
Next, Atshan reflects on his own work on queerness in Palestine, drawing attention to the importance of engaging multiple colonial and postcolonial venues. He proposes that the decolonization of queer studies be advanced through attention to South-South epistemologies and solidarities. For instance, analytical vantage points from Kenyan contexts might be brought into dialogue with the contexts of other places formerly colonized by the British Empire, such as Palestine, India, and Pakistan. Atshan notes that queer Palestinian Christians, like queer Christians in Kenya, face legacies of British colonial homophobia, and can experience Christianity as both a source of imperial violence and anti-imperial empowerment.
Praying hands with “Queer254” bracelet. The rainbow bracelets with the text 254Queer are made by a local Kenyan LGBT group and combines Kenya’s country-code +254 with the word Queer. Photo courtesy of Adriaan van Klinken.
This piece is also part of a book symposium on Adriaan van Klinken’s Kenyan, Christian, Queer. Ebenezer Obadare writes that van Klinken challenges simplistic narratives of “African homophobia” and of the African continent “lagging behind” the rest of the world (especially the United States) in matters related to gender and sexuality. On the other hand, Obadare emphasizes that Africa should not be imagined as having had complete sexual tolerance prior to European colonization and the influence of American conservative Christianity; rather, homophobia in the continent is “propelled by a wide range of local and external cultural, social, and political forces.”
Obadare highlights the novelty of van Klinken’s emphasis on the positive role of Christianity in the lives of Kenyan queer people; however, he notes that he does not fully share van Klinken’s optimism about the condition of being queer in Africa. He links this skepticism in part to his experience as a Nigerian who has witnessed the homophobia that exists in his own country. He also critiques van Klinken for not focusing enough attention on the Kenyan state. Overall, Obadare commends van Klinken’s groundbreaking approach to queer life in Kenya, but provides an important reminder that colonialism and Christianity are not the only forces that have operated to reinforce homophobia in Africa.
Photo Credit: Global Partnership for Education. 5th grader in class in Mamakoffikro, Côte d’Ivoire, December 2015.
In this essay, Ludovic Lado discusses the uses and limitations of the state construction of gender in Côte d’Ivoire. Lado points to the argument that “in pre-Islamic and pre-Christian Africa, gender differentiation and hierarchies were less rigid and therefore more flexible than those inherited from Islam, Christianity, and colonial legal systems that current gender reforms seek to correct.” He writes that while Africa still has much work to do in combating gender-based injustices, inequalities, and discrimination, many African countries are closing the gender gap faster than western countries.
He writes that although steps have been made to increase women’s literacy rates and empower women economically in Côte d’Ivoire, the framework taken up by Ivorian state gender policy seeks women’s equality with men while failing to consider the LGBTQ community. According to Lado, “heterosexuality remains the norm both institutionally and in collective representation” in Côte d’Ivoire and other African contexts. Regardless of whether or not homosexuality existed (and was met with acceptance) in pre-colonial Africa—a topic that Lado writes is highly debated—LGBTQ Ivorians are marginalized and subjected to violence in the present. In response, Lado suggests that movement away from a male/female binary opposition will allow the Ivorian state construction of gender to acknowledge the specificity of LGBTQ people and address discrimination.
Photo Credit: Nisa Goksel. The Peace Mothers at the 8th of March 2014 (International Women’s Day) demonstration in Diyarbakır.
This piece by Nisa Goksel contributes to studies of women and gender in the Middle East by exploring the resistance movements of Kurdish women. Informed by an awareness of the interrelatedness of modernity and colonialism, Goksel’s framework for the topic challenges monolithic representations of women in the Middle East which assume these women to be the “victims of ‘oppressive’ Middle Eastern men; of colonialism; and/or of religious, traditional, and national powers.” Goksel also challenges the perception of Islam as the key determining factor in Middle Eastern women’s lives, particularly the idea that Islam traps these women in a “yet-to-be-modern” patriarchal existence. Adding the role of recent wars in the Middle East to her analysis, Goksel argues that these wars reveal the connections between modernity and colonialism and have been “crucial to the formation of alternative women’s movements and groups as well as to the alternative imaginations of modernity.”
Next, Goksel elaborates on two examples of alternative Kurdish women’s movements: Peace Mothers pursuing an end to the war between the Turkish state and PKK (Partiya Karkerên Kurdistan, or Kurdistan Workers’ Party) guerrillas, and Kurdish women resistance fighters in Syria who seek decolonization and a women’s revolution. Goksel argues that while these alternative women’s movements may appear as opposites within a colonialist gaze (one peaceful, and one that uses weapons), they both have the goal of creating a non-colonial modernity that is truly democratic and peaceful. Thus, both movements challenge particular Orientalized, Islamophobic, and sexist representations of women—as did the Muslim women protestors in India discussed by Julia Kowalski—while also resisting colonialism and its legacies.
Art Heals mural in Los Angeles, California. Photo Credit: Author.
This essay by Jacqueline Hidalgo discusses the 2019 decision of student leaders from MEChA (Movimiento Estudiantil Chicanx de Aztlán) U.S. Latin/o/a/x organizations across the country to remove the terms “Chicanx” and “Aztlán” from the organization’s name, arguing that such a move does not erase history, but rather participates in a long history of contestation over those terms. Hidalgo traces the history of MEChA and writes that in the 1960s when students mobilized to resist dominant modern European thought, terms such as “Chicano” and “Aztlán” allowed ethnically Mexican activists to counter the derogatory names that had been forced upon them, claim an ancestral connection to lands that are now considered part of the United States, and “[invoke] both a pre-Columbian past and a future where colonial sufferings have ended.”
Hidalgo notes that not all ethnically Mexican activists had been in agreement about the use of the terms, however, and identifies several lines of contestation that arose. For instance, the use of “Chicano” and “Aztlán” as decolonial terms is complicated by an awareness that the Aztecs and Indigenous Mexica peoples colonized and oppressed a variety of other Indigenous peoples prior to Spanish colonization, and that 1920s Mexican nationalist appeals to mestizaje (from which these terms emerged) valued “mixture” while “oppos[ing] indigenous rights and eras[ing] Mexicans of Asian and African descent.” Additionally, the 1970s Chicano movement frequently centered cisgender heterosexual mestizo men and patriarchal familial language, creating a need for Chicana feminists to create their own organizations and for LGBTQ activists to construct their own visions of queer Chicano/x/a familia in resistance to machismo.
In 2019, student leaders considered the new acronym MEPA (Movimiento Estudiantil Progressive Action) but ultimately decided to adopt the name Mecha (meaning “fuse”) for the organization rather than continue with an acronym-based approach. They also revised the constitution to intentionally center “Black, Indigenous, Queer, Trans, Non-binary, and Femme people.” Hidalgo writes that students’ contemporary efforts to change the name of their collective echo the drive towards self-determination that motivated MEChA’s founders and create space for the movement to continue and transform with future generations.
Conclusion and Discussion Questions
This educational module has assembled works by Contending Modernities contributors and theorists who analyze gender, sexuality, and politics with attention to religion, race, and modernity/coloniality. The three themes have focused on social constructions of gender and womanhood, heteronormativity and sexual politics, and decolonial approaches to gender, sexuality, and religion. The questions below are designed to provoke continued discussions regarding the relationship of religious discourses, nationalism, and colonialism to gender and sexuality and to invite constructive decolonial responses to the colonial/modern gender system.
Intersections of Religion, Gender, and Sexuality
How does religion impact the negotiation of gender and queerness? How does the interrelationship among religion, gender, and sexuality vary across contexts? What possibilities exist within different religious discourses (e.g., Catholic, evangelical Christian, Hindu, Muslim, and/or African traditional religious discourses) for heteronormative and non-normative expressions of gender and sexuality to be represented, affirmed, naturalized, or reinforced?
Nationalism and Queerness
In what ways might nationalism relate to sexual politics? How can nationalism affect questions of gender and sexuality, either by prescribing and reinforcing particular gender and sexual norms or by tenuously incorporating other gender and sexual identities (as in homonationalism)? Alternatively, how might the presence of non-normative configurations of gender and queerness resist or disrupt nationalism?
Gender, Colonialism, and the Nation
How might religious nationalism, in particular, draw upon certain configurations of gender and sexuality while disavowing others? How do religious discourses influence the shape that nationalism takes within a particular context, and the ways that particular notions of gender and sexuality are deployed in support of nationalism? How have the histories and ongoing legacies of colonialism—and the impact of colonialism on gender and sexuality—influenced various formations of religious nationalism?
Beyond The Module
What concrete examples—from or beyond the posts assembled for this educational module—could illustrate the impact of colonialism and its legacies on discussions around gender and sexuality? How might a decolonized approach to gender, sexuality, and queerness be constructed?
Trauma and Collective Healing
Trauma is defined as a physiological and emotional response to an imminently dangerous event. Collective trauma “refers to the psychological reactions to a traumatic event that affect an entire society … collective memory persists beyond the lives of the direct survivors of the events, and is remembered by group members that may be far removed from the traumatic events in time and space.” How could a decolonized approach to gender, sexuality, and queerness be a catalyst for collective trauma healing?
Bibliography and Further Reading
Ahmed, Sara. “Queer Feelings.” In The Routledge Queer Studies Reader, 422-441. Edited by Donald E. Hall and Annamarie Jagose, with Andrea Bebell and Susan Potter. New York, NY: Routledge, 2013.
Ahmed, Sara. Queer Phenomenology: Orientations, Objects, Others. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2006.
Allen, Paula Gunn. The Sacred Hoop: Recovering the Feminine in American Indian Traditions. Boston: Beacon Press, 1986/1992.
Baloch, Shah Meer. “‘We Deserve to Be Treated Equally’: Pakistan’s Trans Community Steps Out of the Shadows.” The Guardian, November 20, 2022. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2022/nov/20/pakistan-trans-community-steps-out-of-shadows.
Cohen, Cathy J. “Punks, Bulldaggers, and Welfare Queens: The Radical Potential of Queer Politics?” GLQ: A Journal of Lesbian and Gay Studies 3, no. 4 (1997): 437-465.
Elnaiem, Mohammed. “The ‘Deviant’ African Genders That Colonialism Condemned.” JSTOR Daily. April 29, 2021. https://daily.jstor.org/the-deviant-african-genders-that-colonialism-condemned/.
Escobar, Trinidad. “Decolonizing Queerness in the Philippines.” The Nib. November 15, 2019. https://thenib.com/decolonizing-queerness-in-the-philippines/
Hirschberger, Gilad. “Collective Trauma and the Social Construction of Meaning.” Frontiers in Psychology 9 (August 2018). doi:10.3389/fpsyg.2018.01441.
Lugones, María. “Heterosexualism and the Colonial/Modern Gender System.” Hypatia 22, no. 1 (Winter 2007): 186-209.
Ngu, Kai. “In Search of Queer Ancestors: Pauline Park, Myles Markham, and Xoài Pham on the Queer Historical Figures across Asia That Have Inspired in Them a Sense of Belonging.” The Margins. Asian American Writers’ Workshop. December 4, 2019. https://aaww.org/queer-ancestors-sarah-ngu/.
Puar, Jasbir K. “Rethinking Homonationalism.” International Journal of Middle East Studies 45, no. 2 (May 2013): 336-339.
Puar, Jasbir K. Terrorist Assemblages: Homonationalism in Queer Times (Tenth Anniversary Expanded Edition). Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2017.
Van Klinken, Adriaan, and Johanna Stiebert, with Brian Sebyala and Fredrick Hudson. Sacred Queer Stories: Ugandan LGBTQ+ Refugee Lives and the Bible. Suffolk, UK: Boydell & Brewer, 2021.
Wynter, Sylvia. “The Re-Enchantment of Humanism: An Interview with Sylvia Wynter.” By David Scott. Small Axe 8 (September 2000): 119-207. ISSN 0799-0537.
Ziv, Oren. “Queer Palestinian Community Holds ‘Historic’ Protest against LGBT Violence.” +972 Magazine, August 2, 2019. https://www.972mag.com/queer-palestinian-protest-lgbt-violence/.
Victoria Basug Slabinski is a PhD student in religious studies at the University of Virginia, with a graduate certificate in American studies. Her work draws Christian theology into conversation with decolonial thought and explores constructive Filipino American theologies, focusing especially on questions of memory, ancestrality, narrative, and aesthetics. Her research interests include decolonial and postcolonial thought, Christian liberation theologies and eschatology, gender and sexuality studies, and constructive readings of literature and the arts.
Nicola is a graduate of the Keough School of Global Affairs at the University of Notre Dame, with a degree in Governance and Policy, and a Minor in peace studies. Nicola’s focus in the program was on human rights, trauma informed conflict resolution, and peace-tech. Professionally, Nicola has over 8 years of experience working in development and emergency settings, specifically on social and human protection, development, and diversity and inclusion work. Nicola have actively contributed to humanitarian efforts addressing the Syrian refugee crisis, collaborating with multiple humanitarian organizations in the SWANA region. Nicola’s expertise encompasses gender equity, social inclusion, child and youth development, human rights, livelihood programming, and mental health support. Nicola's work focuses on shaping inclusive and equitable global mental health and diversity and inclusion policies and programs.
Palestinians march among the ruins of buildings in October 2023 following the beginning of Israel’s war on Gaza. Image via Wikimedia Commons.
Positionality
I have served as Imam of Claremont Main Road Mosque, located in Cape Town, South Africa, for close to four decades. In this capacity, I have and continue to play a leading role in the vibrant interfaith solidarity movement against apartheid. In the wake of the assassination of Palestinian American journalist Shireen Abu Akleh in May 2022, we established a South African Interfaith Forum for Palestinian Solidarity, which is made up of anti-apartheid Christian leaders, South African Jews for a Free Palestine, Muslims, Hindus, people of other faiths, and people who are not religious. Since the Hamas attacks on October 7, 2023, and the subsequent Israeli bombing of the Gaza Strip, this interfaith group has been playing a leading role in the grassroots Palestinian solidarity protests that these events elicited. One of the inspirational interfaith solidarity events is a weekly Friday evening Shabbos for Gaza services which is convened by the South African Jews for a Free Palestine. On Friday December 8, 2023, the Claremont Main Road Mosque hosted one of these Shabbat services, which also coincided with the second of the Jewish holiday of Hanukkah. The strong interfaith dimension of the South African Palestine Solidarity movement counters the false narrative that seeks to frame the anti-colonial struggle of the Palestinians into a “religious conflict” between Muslims and Jews. Moreover, it is my considered view that the bold move by the South African government to charge Israel with the crime of Genocide in its war on Gaza at the International Court of Justice was not prompted by a cabinet decision on its own, but rather came in response to the unprecedented South African Palestine Solidarity movement that has emerged at the grassroots and civil society level. These reflections on Ramadan and Eid in Gaza arise amidst this background of grassroots organizing and solidarity with Palestinians facing daily and relentless violence.
Ramadan Amidst Famine
The gruesome consequences of what the International Criminal Court of Justice, on January 26, 2024, described as a plausible case of Genocide unfolding in the Gaza Strip are defiling the devotion, compassion, and serenity that are the hallmarks of the sacred month of Ramadan. Ramadan is the ninth month of the Islamic lunar calendar and holds great religious significance and spiritual benefits for Muslims worldwide. It is a time of fasting—i.e., abstaining from food, drink, and sexual intimacy—from dawn to sunset. Fasting during daylight hours is accompanied by intensified prayer, alms giving, and self-reflection. One of the purposes of the Muslim fast is to experience how it feels to be hungry and thirsty, and thus gain an appreciation for the needs of the poor.
Observing these sublime virtues of Ramadan in 2024 has been challenging for the war-ravaged Palestinians living in the Gaza Strip. Since the Hamas attacks of October 7, 2023, and the taking of over 200 Israeli hostages, the Israeli army has been relentlessly bombing the Gaza Strip. The result of its campaign has been, at the time of this writing. the killing of over 32,000 Palestinians, mostly women and children, and the injuring of over 70,000 others. The dire plight of the people of Gaza is ironically being mercilessly exacerbated during Ramadan (aka the month of rahma i.e., mercy) by more than five months of severe restrictions on the free flow of humanitarian aid to the area by Israel’s military. The Israeli blockade has led to serious shortages of food, medical, and other essential supplies. As a result, many families in Gaza are currently struggling to access an adequate and nutritious diet, leading to severe malnutrition and food insecurity.
The dire plight of the people of Gaza is ironically being mercilessly exacerbated during Ramadan (aka the month of rahma, i.e., mercy) by more than five months of severe restrictions on the free flow of humanitarian aid to the area by Israel’s military.
A few days before Ramadan began, at sunset on Sunday March 10, 2024, the Palestinian Ministry of Health estimated that thus far more than 20 people, mostly children and elderly persons, have died of malnutrition and dehydration in Gaza. A United Nations agency for children (UNICEF) report, also released at the onset of Ramadan in early March 2024, found that famine is reaching devasting levels in the Gaza Strip due to the wide-reaching impacts of the five-month-old war. Nutrition screenings conducted by UNICEF have found that 28 percent of children under 2 years old living in shelters and refugee camps in Khan Younis suffer from acute malnutrition, and more than 10 percent have severe wasting.
Ironically, even Israel’s closest ally, the United States of America, acknowledged prior to Ramadan that the humanitarian situation faced by the people of Gaza was catastrophic. As a result of its feeble attempts to persuade the Israeli regime to conform to international humanitarian Law, just days before Ramadan the US joined a few other countries in resorting to air dropping aid over the sky of Gaza. Tragically a US humanitarian aid airdrop killed 5 people in Gaza after a parachute failed to open up. Further, the food drops do not change the fact that bombs sold by the US to Israel are also falling down from the sky.
As famine continues to stalk the Gaza Strip, the US is now planning to deliver humanitarian aid via a sea route by constructing a temporary pier on the shores of northern Gaza. Aid groups, however, argue that the airdrops and sea shipments are far less efficient than trucks in delivering the massive amounts of food and essentials desperately needed by the suffering people of Gaza.
A report released by Forensic Architecture revealed that the Israeli military has repeatedly abused the humanitarian measures of evacuation orders, “safe routes,” and “safe zones,” and failed to comply with the laws governing their application within a wartime context. According to the report “these patterns of systematic violence and destruction have forced Palestinian civilians from one unsafe area to the next, confirming the conclusion echoed across civiliantestimonies, media reports, and assessments by theUN and other humanitarian aid organizations, that ‘there is no safe place in Gaza.’”
Notwithstanding their precarious reality, Gazans are finding some solace, comfort, and spiritual sustenance in observing Ramadan as best they can under the circumstances. Media reports reveal that many Gazans are commencing and completing their daylight hour fasts with lemon soup, canned foods, and some are even forced to break their fast with grass. After breaking their fast at sunset, every evening, despite almost all mosques having been destroyed by Israeli bombing, many Gazans continue to perform special Ramadan prayers known as tarawih, the prayer of rests, in open air congregations. One of these open-air congregational prayers is taking place outside the ruins of a mosque in Rafah that has been bombed. This nightly congregational prayer meeting has encouraged a great sense of solidarity amongst the suffering Gazans.
Layla al-Qadr and the Final 10 Days of Ramadan
During the last ten days of Ramadan, Muslims are encouraged to dedicate themselves completely to God. Throughout these most sacred days, conscientious believers increase their spiritual devotions in anticipation of layla al-qadr, i.e., the most important night of the year. On this night Muslims believe that their sacred scripture, the Qur’an, was revealed. Some may even choose to go into a spiritual retreat (i’tikaf), where they will emulate the example of prophet Muhammad, who dedicated the last third of Ramadan to spending all of his days fasting and his nights in seclusion performing prayers and supplications. In addition to these intensified dedications, Palestinians have also added a special religio-cultural tradition of praying the final jumu`ah congregational service and bidding farewell to Ramadan in al-Masjid al-Aqsa, the third holiest place of worship in Islam. This year the final jumu`ah service occurs on Friday April 5, 2024.
Notwithstanding their precarious reality, Gazans are finding some solace, comfort, and spiritual sustenance in observing Ramadan as best they can under the circumstances
Because of the increased number of Muslim devotions at the al-Aqsa mosque during the last 10 days of Ramadan it has been a long-standing policy to restrict Jewish visitation to the holy site during these days due to “security concerns.” This Ramadan, however, because of the ongoing war on Gaza, the situation at al-Masjid al-Aqsa is going to be particularly tense. We have already heard calls from Jewish extremists groups, led by the Israeli National Security Minister Itamar Ben Gvir, urging Jews to visit the holy site during the last 10 days of Ramadan. Such a scenario will inflame the already volatile situation in Jerusalem and the West Bank and will no doubt negatively impact the festival of the ending of the fasting month of Ramadan known as Eid al-Fitr.
Eid al-Fitr Amidst Famine
All predictions are that the 2024 Eid al-Fitr festival in the Gaza Strip, which is anticipated to occur on Wednesday April 10, will be a scaled down event compared to that of previous years. Eid al-Fitr in Gaza, this year, will be taking place under the shadow of daily Israeli bombing and slow death caused by famine and starvation. It will be difficult if not impossible for many Gazans to discharge the end of Ramadan alms given their dire plight. They will without a doubt share whatever meagre belongings they do have with each other to mark the blessed occasion of Eid al-Fitr. Even if a ceasefire agreement is reached before the end of Ramadan the lasting effects of the war and the blocking of humanitarian aid will be felt for a long time to come. Despite the challenges posed by Gaza’s precarious situation, the people of Gaza will come together to celebrate Eid al-Fitr with resilience and solidarity. They will exchange Eid greetings and find much needed joy and comfort in their shared traditions and faith commitment, albeit in a more subdued manner.
A. Rashied Omar is associate teaching professor of Islamic studies and peacebuilding in the Keough School’s Kroc Institute for International Peace Studies at the University of Notre Dame. He also is a fellow of the Ansari Institute for Global Engagement with Religion. In addition to being a university-based researcher and teacher, Omar serves as imam (religious minister) at the Claremont Main Road Mosque in Cape Town, South Africa, and a trustee of the Institute for the Healing of Memories in South Africa
Secretary-General António Guterres (center) meets with a delegation of North American Rabbis. UN Photo/Eskinder Debebe. Used with permission.
On January 25, 2023, I, along with 9 other rabbis, representing another 265 rabbis from around the globe and every imaginable denomination, met with Secretary General António Guterres at the United Nations headquarters. You might think that we went to tell him what most Jews are presumed to believe, namely that the UN has it out for Israel and always treats the Jewish state unfairly. Nothing could have been farther from our minds. Rather, we went to thank him and the UN’s agencies for courageously calling out Israel for the humanitarian crimes they are committing in Gaza and to promote our cause: Ceasefire Now!
For me it was a powerful moment on a long journey. When I was a fourth grader in Brooklyn in the 1950s, my beloved teacher, Evelyn Farrar, taught us about the United Nations. We memorized the lyrics to “United Nations on the March,” because the idea of “a hymn to a new world at birth,” a “free new world” achieved by diplomacy, encapsulated her hopes and dreams for what the United Nations could be. We visited the sacred site of the UN Headquarters itself and learned about the peacemaking accomplished by the Secretary General, Dag Hammarskjöld. Her lessons worked: as a child I fervently believed that the UN could bring about a world without war.
When I was in high school, I returned to the UN. On June 5, 1967, I joined other young Jews in a rally to encourage the US to help Israel just as the ’67 war between Israel and the neighboring Arab nations of Egypt, Syria, and Jordan was beginning. The new Secretary General, U Thant, had just withdrawn UN peacekeeping forces from Gaza and the Sinai at Egypt’s demand, and American Jews were worried about Israel’s safety. Attending that rally led me to spend time in Israel two years later and soon thereafter to become one of the first women ordained as a rabbi.
Dag Hammarskjöld outside the UN building in 1953. Via Wikimedia Commons.
In the fifty-seven years since my last trip to the UN, I have struggled to come to terms with the results of the ’67 war. In spite of what I believed in my youth, I see now that it led to Israel’s continuous occupation of Palestinian lands and unwillingness to grant Palestinians freedom in the land they share. But I never imagined that the current crisis would lead me back to the United Nations, hoping, once again, that they could help bring about an end to war.
As an active member of Rabbis for Ceasefire, I am honored to have been part of the delegation that met with the current Secretary General, António Guterres to discuss the terrible destruction Hamas wrought on October 7, 2023 as well as the unfathomably disproportionate destruction that Israel has committed in response.
Our meeting took place a few days after the Secretary General’s bold speech at the opening of a summit of the G77+China that met in Uganda. In that speech, he condemned Israel’s “unprecedented” and “wholesale” destruction of Gaza that has claimed the lives of 152 UN staff members among the 27,000 dead. The Secretary General pointed to the daily dangers survivors endure, not only bombs and bullets but damaged roads, communication blackouts, disease, and famine. He called the conflict “a threat to global peace and security” that must come to an end. That speech was a resounding echo of what the 275 Rabbis for Ceasefire are demanding: Ceasefire Now.
We met with him both to thank him for his courageous words and to find out how we could help add a Jewish moral voice to the UN’s efforts: to stop the threat to global peace and security, end the current attacks that are destroying Gaza and its inhabitants, and hold Israel accountable.
His answer was clear: continue to work for a reconciliation between the Israeli and Palestinian peoples. Help them understand that for the security of all they must learn to live together in peace. Keep up your efforts, he recommended. Likewise, he promised us that he would work toward a ceasefire and, to the best of his ability, carry out the provisional judgments of the International Court of Justice that, although they fell short of demanding an end to hostilities, recognized the critical need to end Israel’s assault on Gaza’s civilian population, cultural institutions, and infrastructure and allow humanitarian aid to enter unimpeded.
Our conversation moved us beyond words, for this Secretary General follows in the path set by Hammarskjöld and the other men who preceded him as rodfei shalom, seekers of peace. A deeply faithful Catholic himself, he clearly understood the importance of the religious faith that brought us to work for justice in Israel/Palestine. We left feeling seen and heard by him; believing that he would, with grace and humility, continue to work toward our common goal of a lasting peace.
His answer was clear: continue to work for a reconciliation between the Israeli and Palestinian peoples. Help them understand that for the security of all they must learn to live together in peace.
We closed by offering him the ancient priestly blessing in the book of Numbers: “May the Holy One bless and protect you. May the Holy One shine upon you and be gracious to you. May you feel empowered to work for peace, shalom.” A hush fell over the room, and some of us found ourselves close to tears. The Secretary General told us that he’d sleep better having met us today. And we knew we would as well.
Little did we know that the day following the ICJ ruling, which will result in a long investigation of South Africa’s charges of genocide against Israel, Israel would react by claiming that 12 of the 13,000 UN workers for the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East (UNRWA) took part in the October 7, 2023 massacre. The UNRWA leadership responded swiftly and decisively, condemning the acts, firing nine of the workers (two are dead and one yet to be identified), and beginning an investigation into the claims. Despite this resolution and with no regard for the impassioned plea of the Secretary General, the US and many of its allies have temporarily suspended funding UNRWA. When funds run out at the end of February, the humanitarian crisis that exists in Gaza that was the focus of the Court’s mandate will become even more devastating. UNRWA is the only agency that makes medicine, food, and shelter available to the 1.5 million displaced residents of Gaza. The tragedy worsens and worsens.
We left the meeting with new hopes and now new fears, so we continue to pray: that the leaders of our country understand the gift that is the United Nations and its Secretary General. That they and their allies restore the funding to UNRWA and not become responsible for more death. That they heed the words of all of us who demand a permanent ceasefire now. That they stop using their veto to keep the UN Security Council from doing what it was created to do, as I learned in that song so many years ago, to bring into being “a new world at birth.” A world, as the song also says, “where our children (and all children) shall live proud and free.” And may it be so.
‘Peace For All’ sculpture by Derek A. Fitz Simons, Aghalane, Co. Fermanagh, erected 1999. Located at the border between Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland, at the south side of the Senator George Mitchell Peace Bridge. Via Wikimedia Commons.
Almost everyone who studies religion, conflict, and peace has tried to understand Northern Ireland, so I was thrilled by the invitation from colleagues at the Kroc Institute for International Peace Studies and the Mitchell Institute for Global Peace, Security, and Justice to attend a workshop in Belfast.
I approached our shared task—to analyze “religious turbulence” and imagine “alternative futures”—as a historian of US religion associated with Peace Studies who has ancestors on both sides of the island’s troubled sectarian past. While more branches of my family tree include Catholics from the south, the Tweed branch descends from Protestants who were part of the seventeenth-century Scottish Plantation, settling on farmland in County Antrim and attending Presbyterian churches. While my direct ancestors left for America in 1848, during the Famine, those who stayed in the north went on to take sides during the Home-Rule debate, the Partition, and the Troubles. In other words, I have ancestral ties to the colonial past my Irish Catholic relatives lament and to the twentieth-century Troubles almost everyone laments, including those in my ancestor’s Presbyterian congregation who signed the 1974 “Witness for Peace” statement and who welcomed me warmly when I visited the day before the Belfast workshop.
I had not planned to visit those relatives or ponder my family history when I began preparing for our scholarly collaboration, but Northern Ireland religious leaders and US Peace Studies specialists reminded me that personal disclosures can help. Clergy in the north have recommended including “personal narrative in public discussions,” and Peace Studies specialists have said those hoping to cultivate the moral imagination required for “constructive social change in settings of deep-rooted conflict” must overcome the academic impulse to “eliminate the personal.”[1]
I tried to overcome that impulse as I considered what I might contribute as an outsider with distant ties to combatants on both sides of the sectarian conflict. I decided it might help if I took a step back and reflected on the most useful analytic frames, guiding metaphors, and interpretive terms for the analysis of religion and conflict in post-Brexit Northern Ireland. In particular, considering my research on the US and engaging scholarship about the island, I wondered how we might interpret both “specific trigger events” and “longer-term context,” or what others have called “short-term shocks” (Famine, Partition, and Brexit) and “long-term trends” (colonialism, urbanization, and industrialization)?[2] Almost all international, national, and local peacebuilding documents suggest islanders must confront the legacy of the past as they articulate a shared vision of the future, but polarization often sets in as soon as the stories start.
Maybe new frames, metaphors, and terms can help.
Frames, Metaphors, and Terms
The Peace Wall, Cupar Way, Belfast, Northern Ireland. Via Wikimedia Commons.
Scholars who write about the island have made helpful proposals. Brendan Murtagh has compared post-partition Belfast to political zones like Cold War Berlin and the Korean DMZ and argued the city is best understood as a “border landscape.” Others describe post-Reformation Irish religious space as a “theological palimpsest” and chronicle how the devout have inscribed competing notions of religious authenticity and collective belonging on the landscape.[3] Some highlight residential and activity segregation, suggesting that Belfast’s distinct communities can be understood as “ethnic enclosures,” or, analyzing local perceptions, they note that the barriers, flags, and murals that mark bounded space produce “landscapes of menace” and “landscapes of exclusion” (see, for example, F. W. Boal and Madeline Leonard). An ecocritic imagined the “Eden of the future” by foregrounding Belfast’s river-systems and figuring the city as a “riparian zone,” a transition area between fully terrestrial and fully aquatic systems (see Katherine M. Huber on this point). That analogical language is suggestive since just as riparian zones are prone to flooding, Belfast’s landscape has been the site of periodic deluges of sectarian hostility, and, as Ciaran Carson suggested in Belfast Confetti, the Farset, the city’s hidden river, follows “the line of the Peace-Line, this thirty-foot-high wall of graffiticized corrugated iron” (49).
The Comparative Gaze
While these interpretive vocabularies illumine some aspects of the conflict, I think terminology from the natural sciences, especially niche theory and sustainability studies, might help to reframe the conversation about the island by highlighting lifeway transitions, eco-cultural niches, and sustainability crises. That’s the approach I take as I analyze the history of religion in the lands that became America, where religion both escalated and eased crises of sustainability.[4] It inspired both status-reinforcing devotion and popular revitalization movements in stressed cornfield cultures between 1100 and 1350, when weather changed, crops failed, devotees clashed, and violence spiked. During the colonial exchange of biota, competing religious empires triggered demographic decimation, environmental stress, social inequality, and psychic trauma between 1565 and 1776 as settlers displaced Native Peoples and introduced the slave plantation. An urban industrial crisis intensified between 1873 and 1920, when fossil-fuel dependency increased pollution, and income inequality and health disparity in crowded northern cities signaled a wider decline in well-being. The global environmental effects of industrialization and urbanization peaked during the 1950s “Great Acceleration,” the onset of the time when human intervention in natural systems became predominant. The abrupt rise in carbon dioxide, methane, and ice-bound nitrates in polar ice levels signaled significant and long-term global ecological damage. That damage, in turn, threatened dramatic social and economic disruptions, from climate migrations to food scarcity, and presented new challenges to religious communities, which struggled to respond to deepening economic inequalities and mounting cultural polarization.
Descendants of the thirteenth-century cornfield cultures eventually confronted their difficulties, but the unresolved Colonial and Industrial Era crises were passed on to future generations. Americans now face the legacy of those social problems, including racial and economic inequality, while they also confront the unprecedented challenges of a global environmental crisis.
Reimagining the Island’s Past and Future
Can this framework help to reimagine the island of Ireland’s past as a series of resolved and unresolved sustainability crises? There was a medieval crisis as the climate-induced Great Famine (1315-1322) and the microorganism-caused Black Death (1347-1351) stressed farming and grazing niches in the fourteenth century. Were there lasting legacies of those crises that would shape the later sectarian conflict? Can we talk about a colonial crisis on the island? If so, when did it start and end? Was there a colonial exchange of biota, and a breaking of ancestral traditions, including spiritual practices focused on sacred sites, as with the veneration at holy wells? How did the displaced reimagine pilgrimage and recreate devotion in the new stressed niche? Was there an inequitable planation niche, as there was in the US South, and was it sacralized by a form of planter piety? If so, how did local revitalization movements use spiritual resources to challenge it? Specialists (for example here and here) have highlighted industrial Belfast, but does it also help to talk about an industrial crisis on the island, or at least in its northeastern corner, between about 1870 and 1920? Simon Purdue has documented ecological degradation in urban Belfast and demonstrated a decline in well-being, economic stability, and food security among mill workers. Most relevant for understanding the later conflict, Industrial Era employers constructed housing that would become the scene of post-1969 sectarian conflict, as Colm Heatley has argued.[5] During the Troubles, fatalities occurred disproportionately in the poorer, religiously segregated, working-class neighborhoods that had formed as grimy industrial niches. To what extent, then, can we see later religious conflict as the product of an unresolved colonial crisis and the legacy of an unresolved industrial crisis?
Demolition of Ewart’s mill in 1990. Belfast, Northern Ireland. Via Wikimedia Commons.
Does this analytic frame and interpretive vocabulary help? I’m not sure. But using sustainability and well-being has practical advantages because those terms have informed local and global thinking about possible futures. Similar language appears, for instance, not just in the UN Sustainable Development Goals but in The Belfast Agenda, the City Council’s vision for 2035. As I learned when I tried out the idea with my relatives in that North Antrim congregation, reframing those aims as the conditions for transgenerational sustainability and avoiding any mention of Protestant unionists and Catholic nationalists might open some participants to reimagining the troubled past as a series of shared sustainability crises and to envisioning future-focused deliberations as collective efforts to repair Belfast’s socially and ecologically stressed eco-cultural niche.
[3] Anna Gritching, “Introduction: Social Ecologies and Borderlands,” in The Social Ecology of Border Landscapes, 2, 5, 9; Gregory, et al., Troubled Geographies, 1.
[4] Thomas A. Tweed, Religion in the Lands That Became America: From the Ice Age to the Information Age (New Haven: Yale University Press, forthcoming).
Walls of Derry, Derry/Londonderry, County Londonderry, Northern Ireland. Near New Gate Bastion: Mural of the main characters from the TV show Derry Girls. Via Wikimedia Commons.
What can we learn from the hit show, Derry Girls? (If you have not seen this, run off and start watching now!) Derry Girls is an Emmy-winning comedic coming-of-age series set in Northern Ireland. The show follows spirited teenagers navigating adolescence amidst a backdrop of political conflict. The show is set in the 1990s, before the Belfast/Good Friday Agreement that brought an “official” end to the Troubles. Today, Northern Ireland experiences a fragile peace. Yet, many themes behind the comedy still hold true for teens in Northern Ireland today.
Like the show, adolescents in Northern Ireland navigate history, culture, and the complex interplay between tradition and modernity. Our research team[1] is currently exploring how these teens learn and share their “truths,” which often are polarized by ethno-religious identity (Catholic/Protestant). We argue that a holistic approach is needed to study how polarized information is transmitted through traditional, structurally embedded narratives and systems that intersect with new information sources and modern values. We discuss novel methods that can begin to embrace these complexities, as now more than ever, information (and misinformation) are readily available literally at teens’ fingertips.
There is a large field of research in developmental psychology focussed on how young people learn information from others. We know that young people exhibit epistemic vigilance; that is, they are motivated to seek reliable information and bridge gaps in their knowledge. However, young people (like all people) also exhibit biases in their information seeking and sharing. As early as infancy, children prefer to learn from members of their own social or cultural groups, and take group membership into account when deciding with whom to share information. Children absorb and transmit information that aligns with the values of their community. This important area of study sheds light on the cognitive and social processes involved in children’s early understanding of information reliability at the individual-level.
A figure showing Bronfenbrenner’s Ecological Theory of Development. Via Wikimedia Commons.
However, these findings currently lack perspective on how influences outside the individual, such as families, peers, schools, public policies, and cultural values, can combine to create a complex web of biases that shape the narratives young people construct about their communities. The socio-ecological framework (see, for example, Bronfenbrenner 1977) is a way of thinking about how different aspects of young people’s lives, from personal to societal to cultural, influence each other. The framework considers how individuals are shaped by their relationships, communities, and the larger society, as well as how they, in turn, can impact these environments. Using this framework, we can begin to elucidate how the push and pull of traditional post-conflict narratives and societal structures intersect with young people’s modernizing identities and values.
So, what can we learn from Derry Girls?
In episode 1 of season 2, the Derry girls participate in an attempt to mix their Catholic, all-girls school classroom with a classroom from a neighboring school of Protestant boys. A well-meaning but not-so-competent priest attempts to demonstrate overarching humanity through a brainstorming session of similarities across the mixed-background group. But alas, the failed exercise results in a full blackboard of “differences” between Catholics and Protestants, and an empty blackboard of “similarities.”
Re-created blackboard from Derry Girls for National Museums NI by Anna Mcaughtry, prop master on the show. Photo courtesy of Susan Dautel. Used with permission of Hat Trick Productions.
This replica of the now famous blackboard is on display at the Ulster Museum in Belfast, Northern Ireland. The show presented these stereotypes in a light-hearted, comedic way, but unfortunately, stereotypes of Catholic and Protestant identity contribute to polarized narratives still today. To highlight the necessity of investigating the development of polarization and epistemic vigilance within young people’s broader ecological frameworks, we provide two examples from this episode of Derry Girls. These examples demonstrate how societal processes seemingly interact with individual-level social cognitive processes.
Intergroup Competition
One “difference” suggested by the teens on the above blackboard is “Protestants are rich and Catholics are poor.” This common yet polarizing cultural narrative demonstrates the impact of a long history of zero-sum conflict and power dynamics across the island of Ireland. Historic narratives may enter into present day interactions with the “other.” For instance, in this episode Michelle, a Derry girl, says, “…I don’t see why we have to get them [Protestants] a present? I mean they already have all the land, all the jobs, and all the f***in’ rights.” This macro-level narrative of competition is upheld by contested symbols (like the “Free Derry” mural in the backdrop of many scenes in the show) in teens’ local communities, a micro-level influence. Take another micro-level example—when the Derry girls and “their” Protestants get into conflict, the dialogue immediately escalates into a polarizing narrative, e.g. “because all Protestants are the same.” Such intergroup competition across the ecological system may disrupt teens from seeking reliable epistemic cues, further fostering a preference for ingroup information, even when that information is likely unreliable. (How many Protestants actually keep toasters in the cupboard?)
Segregation
“Why is everyone so desperate for them to mix? I think we should keep them separate,” says the headmistress from the Londonderry Boys School in the show. Over 90% of schools are “separate” in Northern Ireland, still today. Some teens attend Catholic Maintained schools and other teens attend state-controlled (often majority Protestant) schools. Our research, so far, finds that not only do young people attend different schools, but they may be taught completely different content in different types of schools. In a sample of secondary schools, 96% of Catholic schools teach a class/module on the history of “The Troubles,” compared to only 46% of state-controlled (often majority Protestant background) schools. In a representative survey of young people, a whopping 33% of teens say they were not taught (or did not know if they were taught) about the Good Friday/Belfast Agreement in school. Religious education is also taught as part of the national school curriculum in Northern Ireland, but varies by school type. Studies of the two dominant school types during the Troubles found that they differed in time spent on religious education, rituals, symbols, and general ethos, but more current investigations are needed. Segregation also goes beyond schools into most layers of society. Teens often live in separate neighborhoods or towns, may attend church (Protestant) versus chapel (Catholic), have different hobbies, and read/watch different media. This separation within young people’s microsystems, i.e. their schools, classrooms, and local communities, can create false consensuses that reinforce ingroup perspectives and hinder the potential for cross-pollination and information sharing across group lines.
What may have changed for today’s teens in Northern Ireland since the 1990’s Derry Girls?
Anti Irish Sea border banner. Sandy Row, March 2021. Via Wikimedia Commons
A pessimist might say, not much. For instance, the “Protestants are British and Catholics are Irish” narrative on the Derry Girls differences blackboard features prominently in macro-level political discourse today. In the aftermath of Brexit, banners featuring polarized narratives around politics and national identity, like these, are frequent. Such macro-level narratives continue to intersect with micro-level structures, such as what young people learn in school and see in their local communities, leading to divided “truths” or knowledge structures at the individual-level.
“A United Ireland is for Everyone” poster via Sinn Fein. CC BY 2.0 DEED.
But thankfully, we are optimists. Now 25 years post the peace agreement, teens in Northern Ireland have been born into relative peace. Teens are motivated to move forward and continue to correct misinformation transmitted by previous generations: “Macaulay Culkin isn’t a Protestant, Ma!” (Erin, Derry Girls season 1, episode 1). Identities are shifting away from traditional dichotomous categories of Catholic and Protestant. Northern Ireland is secularizing—though it is important to note, not to the same extent as the Republic of Ireland or the rest of the United Kingdom. Teens are more likely to report having “no religion” or being “other” religion, as well as report being “neither” Unionist nor Nationalist. Churches, schools, and youth organizations are contributing to peacebuilding efforts through interfaith dialogue, cross-community initiatives, and integrated and shared education. What we still know less about is how and when young people today are motivated and able to seek out and share reliable information across group boundaries and beyond the limits of traditionally divided societal structures.
Call to Action: A Holistic Lens to Inform Effective Interventions
To navigate the intricate web of old and new, and micro- to macro-level influences on the development of polarization and/or epistemic vigilance in young people, we need innovative methodologies. Here are a few ideas that our team is working on (but we’d love to hear yours too, please comment below!):
Natural Language Processing (NLP) and Large Language Models (LLMs) emerge as powerful tools to analyze diverse texts, uncovering recurring themes and sentiments that occur in narratives across micro, meso, and macrosystems. This provides a nuanced understanding of the narratives influencing polarization. For instance, what were the Derry Girls learning about history and religion at Our Lady Immaculate College? Based on our current explorations, we have to assume a different history than their counterparts at the primarily Protestant background school down the road. Our team will use NLP to analyze pedagogical resources to understand polarization in history and religion education across Northern Irish classrooms.
Peer influence is a prominent theme in Derry Girls, pulling at times both towards (e.g., Erin tells her truth, “You can’t marry an Orangeman, Michelle!” Season 1, Episode 5) and away from polarization. Social Network Analysis expands beyond dyadic interactions, exploring naturally occurring social networks within settings like classrooms, local communities, or even more modern-day influences of social media. This approach helps decipher patterns of segregation, intergroup competition, and socialization practices, shedding light on the contextual factors influencing polarized (mis)information.
Diffusion paradigms, or experimental versions of the game of “telephone,” offer a real-time perspective on information transmission, allowing researchers to track how narratives, both polarizing and unifying, spread across groups. This method opens avenues to study the passing of stories and beliefs across peers, or across generations, contributing to our understanding of the perpetuation or amelioration of intergroup conflict.
Religion has influenced the narratives and perspectives of young people in Northern Ireland through community identity and belonging, education, rituals and commemorations, and moral and ethical interpretations of what is “true.” Employing interdisciplinary, mixed-method research is necessary to holistically explore how truth is defined and produced, how it is evaluated and transmitted at different levels of society, and how to increase epistemic vigilance. By synthesizing findings from various disciplines and methodological approaches, research can inform the development of targeted and effective interventions. These interventions, rooted in a deep understanding of the complexities highlighted in Derry Girls, can empower young people to enhance their epistemic vigilance. Ultimately, the goal is to equip young people with the critical thinking skills needed to catalyze positive social change, fostering healthier, more peaceful, and equitable societies, not only within Northern Ireland but also resonating beyond its borders.
[1] Our research team consists of Jocelyn Dautel (Queen’s University Belfast), Bethany Corbett (Ulster University), Kathleen Corriveau (Boston University), Emma Flynn (Warwick University), Eva Grew (Queen’s University Belfast), Mariah Kornbluh (University of Oregon), Caitlin McShane (Queen’s University Belfast), Jennifer Watling Neal (Michigan State University), Lara Wood (Abertay University), Christin Schulz (University of Amsterdam), and Jing Xu (University of Washington Seattle), funded by Templeton World Charity Foundation.
Dr. Jocelyn Dautel is a developmental psychologist researching how young people navigate their social worlds, especially when they are divided. She is a Senior Lecturer at the School of Psychology, Director of the Kids in Context research lab, and Fellow of the Senator George J. Mitchell Institute for Global Peace, Security and Justice at Queen’s University, Belfast, Northern Ireland. She leads on global research collaborations, such as Communicating Truth and the Developing Belief Network, researching children’s religious identity and beliefs across 30 field sites with over 50 international research collaborators. Through global education, research, and service, she contributes leadership in debates about unique and universal processes in social cognitive development with an aim towards reducing inequalities and promoting peacebuilding.
Dr. Bethany Corbett is a developmental psychologist and lecturer in the School of Psychology, Ulster University, Northern Ireland. Her research has examined factors contributing towards children's prosocial choices (for example, to help and share), including experiences of minoritization within settings of conflict. Her research informs strategies to reduce inequalities and increase cooperation, from the interpersonal (the formation of positive relationships) through to the macro-level (support for dismantling the status quo). Other research interests include how young people learn about historical - and particularly, contested - information. Understanding these processes contributes to strategies designed to increase young people’s critical thinking skills, and reduce their susceptibility to misinformation
Enrique Dussel in 2013. Image via Flickr User Secretaría de Cultura de la Cuidad de México. CC-BY-SA 2.0.
Since the 1980s, Enrique Dussel has been regarded as the most important scholar in the fields of philosophy and theology in Latin America. An early contributor to liberation theology (teología de la liberación), a pioneering leader in the concurrent field of liberation philosophy (filosofía de la liberación), all the while being a highly respected historian of the Catholic Church in his own right, Dussel’s work spanned fields, geographies, and world history in an effort to dismantle the Eurocentric and colonialist pretensions of modernity. His contributions to these academic fields are simply too numerous to begin to list here. Without a doubt, the epistemicdecolonialization of these fields is at the front and center of his scholarship. However, the full potential of his work would be deficient if its reception were limited to a disciplinarily decadent interpretation that refused to cross boundaries. I argue that one of the most significant legacies of Dussel’s work is the urgency to rethink disciplinary divides with an eye toward epistemic decolonization. The relation between history and philosophy and the relation between history and theology are good examples of this interdisciplinarity.
The fact that Dussel was a contributor to the emergence of both liberation theology and liberation philosophy has often resulted in a misguided, if not outright dismissive, reception of his work from the fields of theology and philosophy. On one hand, some theologians argue that his liberation theology is not properly theological due to the strong influence of Marxism on its development. They argue that this influence leads his theological work to be a merely Marxist secular philosophy in disguise. On the other hand, some philosophers argue that his brand of liberation philosophy is not philosophical enough due to its close historical and theoretical relationship with liberation theology. Ofelia Schutte argues, for example, that if his philosophical work is not simply a theology in disguise, then at least it is a secular imitation of liberation theology (174). This is the case even though Dussel himself never sought to blur the boundary between philosophy and theology. Instead, he kept a strict distinction between the two discourses based on a division between faith and reason. For him, whereas philosophy is geared toward a universal secular community of reason, theology is geared toward a particular religious community of faith.
One of the most significant legacies of Dussel’s work is the urgency to rethink disciplinary divides with an eye toward epistemic decolonization.
Nevertheless, such formal distinction did not prevent creative and critical explorations of the ways in which the theological and the philosophical come together. In my view, these explorations are some of the most fertile moments in Dussel’s work. We see this in Dussel’s politico-philosophical study of Paul the Apostle. Here, a formal distinction between philosophy and theology is maintained in a way that seeks to overcome philosophy’s Enlightened secularism.
Picture of books in Spanish written by Enrique Dussel. Photo via Wikimedia Commons.
Without stepping into the ecclesiastical domain of theology, the philosopher can examine texts or topics that have traditionally been taken up in theology in the interests of determining a potential universal rationality. To be clear, this move is not the methodological discovery of a “philosophical theology” (which applies philosophical methods to elucidate theological frameworks) nor a “political theology” (which more narrowly analyzes the political field from the sectarian perspective of a religious tradition). As I have argued elsewhere, this move instead denotes the development of a dialectically postsecular philosophy that is invested in overcoming the ways in which the modern secular/religious divide has been falsely universalized through the coloniality of knowledge.
A more intricate instance of this exploration between the theological and the philosophical can be seen in Dussel’s The Theological Metaphors of Marx, a text that will be published for the first time in English translation in 2024. This text reconstructs Marx’s critique of theology as a critique of politics in a way that re-fashions political philosophy as an “anti-fetishist” philosophy of religion, where profane sacralization is diagnosed to be the root cause of political domination. While Dussel would write this text intermittently over a 20-year period parallel to the historical development of liberation theology, his argument largely stands on postsecularist philosophical grounds rather than theological ones. In this regard, it is similar to another heretically Marxist text: Ernst Bloch’s Atheism in Christianity, in which the German philosopher aims to establish a conversation between Marxism and religion “purged of ideology” (in the case of the latter) and “purged of taboo” (in the case of the former) (51). Interpreters who miss this methodological nuance end up all-too-quickly diagnosing the failure of The Theological Metaphors of Marx as a forced theologization of secular concerns. But this conclusion misses the entire point of the text, which is to rescue the critical value of theological metaphors as a critique of politics–which is to say, to probe the theological as the unspoken infrastructure of the politico-economic. It is in this way that The Theological Metaphors of Marx philosophically uncovers Marx’s own “proto-theology” or “implicit theology” made possible by the conceptual labor of a metaphorical language (18).
At the crossroads of the theological and the philosophical, the task of the decolonial postsecular philosopher is to diagnose the fetishisms or “false names,” which is to say, the false gods of the modern/colonial world that demand worship. This is why an atheist “anti-fetishism” is the very “first thesis” of liberation philosophy: it is an atheism of the fetish. And that secularism is one of these fetishes that plague modern philosophy is why a postsecularist impetus is important for the purposes of epistemic decolonization.
This is not to say, however, that all “dialectics of secularization” are absolutely doomed to culminate in irredeemably colonialist and fetishistic dynamics, as the ideology of secularism has done in modernity. This is why there remains, after all, a distinction between philosophy and theology, itself based on a division between faith and reason. If one can diagnose the irrational fetishisms of modernity, it is because somewhere a critically emancipatory and universal kernel of rationality remains alive. “There is no liberation without rationality,” Dussel claims, “but there is no critical rationality without accepting the interpellation of the excluded, or this would inadvertently be only the rationality of domination” (36). Accordingly, epistemic decolonization can be recognized as the interpellation of the excluded that calls out the fetishisms of a colonialist modernity. Evidently, this is not a crude call for the abandonment of modernity, nor simply a reaction against it. It is, rather, a creatively dialectical critique that goes through modernity itself. In Dussel’s terms, it is a “transmodern,” project, rather than an anti-modern or a postmodern one.
Decolonizing the relation between philosophy and theology is likewise not simply a matter of just blurring or undoing the boundaries between them. The lesson from Dussel’s work is to embrace the creative dialectics of decolonization which demands a new transmodern way of thinking about the points of mutual correspondence between philosophy and theology in a way that allows for liberatory interpretations of the world, beyond the fetishisms of modernity (such as secularism). At least this will be but one of the many legacies that his work will allow future generations to explore.
Rafael Vizcaíno is Assistant Professor in the Department of Philosophy at DePaul University. His work employs decolonial approaches to examine the intersections between race, religion, politics, and secularization. In 2020, he earned the American Philosophical Association’s Essay Prize in Latin American Thought. His first book (in final stages of revision) recounts the modern dialectics of secularization from the perspective of Latin American and Caribbean thought. His second book (in development) will examine the relation between philosophy of religion and political theology in the context of epistemic decolonization.
End of the World, Blue hour in Dirranbandi, Queensland, 2021. Via Wikimedia Commons.
In January 2017, newly elected president Donald Trump instituted Executive Order 13769, ostensibly to “protect the American people from terrorist attacks by foreign nationals entering the United States.” The order, in effect, limited immigrants, refugees, and visa-holding foreign nationals from several majority-Muslim countries from entering the US. It marked Trump’s delivery on his campaign promise during the 2016 presidential election to ban Muslims from entering the US. Behind the scenes, numerous reports indicated that it was Trump’s former campaign manager and presidential advisor, Steve Bannon, who orchestrated the planning and execution of this ban.
What was Bannon’s motivation for crafting such a ban? While Bannon’s nationalism and “America First” political ideology are no doubt linked to modern American White Christian nationalism, in this post I’ll suggest that another important influence on him is an esoteric intellectual movement called Traditionalism, which has its roots in the anti-modern perennial philosophy of René Guénon (d. 1951). More specifically I’ll suggest that Bannon’s political theology—a concept I ascribe to Traditionalism because of its assumption that spiritual and political realms are one and the same—is rooted in the cyclical notion of time laid out in Guénon’s work. This notion of time, I argue, helps us better comprehend the chaos of the early Trump days, the speed and alacrity with which the Muslim ban was implemented, and an alternative political theology of the Far Right. With different points of emphasis than mine, authors such as Benjamin Teitelbaum and Joshua Green have also documented the influence of Traditionalism on Bannon, even in the implementation of policies like the Muslim ban. I aim to deepen this account by showing its presence not only in his work on the Trump campaign but in the longer arch of Bannon’s career, specifically in his documentary films. Bannon, I contend, is not a fully-fledged Traditionalist in the vein of Italian theorist Julius Evola, or more recently the Russian philosopher Alexander Dugin. However, Bannon does often make use of Traditionalism in his work, and it is thus important to grapple with this form of thinking if we are to better understand its influence on contemporary far-right politics.
There is always a risk in devoting increased attention to a figure like Bannon, who has been a driver of an increasingly authoritarian and oppressive turn in US politics. My aim here, however, is to take him seriously so as to better understand his place within a tradition of right-wing thinking that is not new, despite its treatment as such oftentimes in the media. When we do so we are reminded of the consequences of implementing this philosophy in the past and developing strategies for countering it in the present.
Guénonian Traditionalism
Guénonian-inspired antimodern Traditionalism has been on the rise around the world, in such places as the US, Brazil (via the late Olavo de Carvalho), Russia (via Alexander Dugin), and Great Britain (via King Charles III). As his failed attempt to build right-wing nationalist movements in Europe following his firing from the White House shows, Bannon himself perceived the US as but one manifestation of a wider global struggle to be fought against the forces of modernity.
Guénon argued that there is a primordial tradition from which all the various other traditions branch. This tradition no longer exists in its pure form, but its vestiges are present in the various traditions we commonly call “world religions.” To be a Traditionalist, as Mark Sedgwickhas shown, is to believe that one must be initiated into one of the world’s living religious traditions to partake in the primordial tradition. One has to commit to a particular religion in order to take part in the universal. This is what it means to participate in the primordial tradition in the present. For Guénon and others, it was in the traditions of the “East” that the primordial tradition was closest to being preserved. And it was in an elite vanguard that tradition could be carried forward. In the west, Traditionalists saw the onslaught of the characteristic modern values of materialism and individualism as adversaries.
From his earliest years in the Navy to the present, Bannon has engaged with Traditionalist thought. What is counterintuitive about Bannon’s use of this political theology is not only the fact that several of its most significant thinkers practiced Islam (to varying degrees of seriousness), but also that this vision of tradition assumes that communal exclusivism is an expression of a more foundational inclusive vision of the global political community. What is less counterintuitive is that several of the thinkers associated with Traditionalism were more than happy to test their ideas via the fascist politics of Europe during the early twentieth century. While Traditionalism itself was not by any stretch of the imagination the only (or most significant) source for fascist political philosophy, the fact that several of its leading proponents saw in fascism a potential political home for their more esoteric spiritual beliefs draws our attention to its potential to act as a violent and racist ideology.
Cyclical Time and the End of Days
For Guénon, time is cyclical rather than teleological. As he lays out in The Crisis of the Modern World (1946), it is a cyclical notion of time that the primordial tradition teaches, and this is most clearly preserved in Hinduism. Drawing on his interpretation of the Hindu doctrine of Manvantara, he contends that time moves from a Golden, to a Silver, then Bronze, and finally Iron age.[1] The final age is a “dark age,” or Kali-Yuga. We have been in this age for 6,000 years, according to Guénon, and are reaching a point at which the world as we know it is ending. Modernity, with its rampant materialism, is for him the culmination of this descent into darkness. Our descent into the Kali-Yuga has meant that we have moved further and further away from this original tradition. We can only see glimmers of it in the “west,” mostly in the Catholic Church. Given time’s cyclical nature, however, Guenon admonishes us not to despair, “for . . . the end of the old world will also be the beginning of a new one” (18).
While Traditionalism itself was not by any stretch of the imagination the only (or most significant) source for fascist political philosophy, the fact that several of its leading proponents saw in fascism a potential political home for their more esoteric spiritual beliefs draws our attention to its potential to act as a violent and racist ideology.
Among the more specific signs that Guénon argues are indicative of a decline into the Dark Age include the rise of individualism and the falling away of caste distinctions. For Guénon and other Traditionalists, a caste system that placed a spiritual elite at the top and manual workers at the bottom was the natural order of human society. The increase in an individualist ethos, especially one that treats all humans as equal because of their status as consumers, erodes the caste system in the “west.” In tandem with the falling away of caste and the rise of individualism is the ascendance of the value of equality and its attendant institutionalized political form in democracy. Over and against such a vision of society Guénon promoted a hierarchical social order rooted in a primordial tradition, where people know their place, and because they know their place (whether as a cook, blacksmith, mother, or father) had a clear meaning and purpose in their lives. This political theology sought to preserve hierarchy, suppress the individual, and enforce conformity to an ideal only known by a select few.
Bannon’s Traditionalist Political Theology
Bannon expresses his arguments in “documentary” films and in interviews. His films evince the drama that one would expect from a person who believes that we are in the midst of a dark age. This is especially clear in his documentary Generation Zero (Citizens United, 2010). The film adopts a cyclical view of American history, citing William Strauss and Neil Howe’s The Fourth Turning—An American Prophecy, which itself dabbles in Traditionalist approaches to temporality. Importantly, like Guénon, they see the 4th cycle in American history much like the Kali-Yuga. The cosmic nature of Bannon’s own view—and his adoption of a Traditionalist account of temporality—is clear in the way he depicts the cycles of time in the documentary. The first image in a section in the film on cyclical conceptions of time is an image of a sundial, which is then followed by the movement of gears inside of a gold-plated clock, a depiction of the Big Bang, the formation of the planet Earth, life itself in its cellular form, a butterfly appearing from a cocoon, and so forth. What all this is meant to imply is that the decline we are experiencing in the US is not simply a story of one nation’s decline, but the story of decline on cosmic proportions. Further, this story of decline is one that calls for urgent action because we, along with the rest of the world, are at risk of falling into an abyss if we do not “do something” soon. In this case, doing something means preserving the hierarchical order of tradition over and against the forces of modernity. Given this doom-laden view which characterizes our current dark age, it is unsurprising that one would rush to implement policies like the Muslim Ban that lack pragmatism and strip individuals of rights in the name of so-called unity. Whether or not implementing these policies stave off a descent into chaos, or merely preserve a hierarchy that will take over after the current age passes, is not fully explained by Bannon. For Guénon, however, it is clear that in preserving the hierarchical order as best we can now, we hold out the chance of shaping a new order in this form when it has to be reconstituted in the future.
There are recurring images in Bannon’s work that also mark a decline in particularly Traditionalist ways. In both his movie on Ronald Reagan, In the Face of Evil: Reagan’s War in Word and Deed (Bannon Films, 2004) and Generation Zero, the decline is almost always represented by the disintegration of gender roles and the rise of sexual liberation, both of which require the proliferation of individualism that Traditionalists abhor. Images of minorities are rare in his films, but when they are pictured, it is typically of African Americans with afros, wearing sunglasses, and giving speeches about revolutionary action. Here, the image is meant to evoke fear in the minds of his mostly White conservative audience. These films convey a “cautionary” representation of heedlessness and rejection of authority that is deeply resonant with Traditionalism. Only by preserving the “proper roles” of men and women and a racialized caste system could a proper social order be maintained. Bannon did not adopt all of Guénon’s or other Traditionalists’ arguments—he differs from them in his evaluation of Islam and his belief in the “working class” as the people who will save us from modernity’s corruptions—but he does seem to have accepted a notion of cyclical time and the urgency to act that our descent into the dark age calls for.
Running Out of Time
Since his departure from the White House and his failure to launch a European-wide populist movement, Bannon has fallen from the mainstream media spotlight. This is in no small part due to his indictment on charges of defrauding donors through his We Build the Wall organization. While continuing to deal with these legal troubles, Bannon also hosts a podcast called Steve Bannon’s War Room where he takes on the persona of a right-wing radio host, commenting on the daily headlines, promoting anti-vaccine theories, and putting forward political conspiracies about the 2020 US presidential election.[2] Despite this, attention to Bannon’s political theology of Traditionalism remains necessary as the forces that gave rise to Trump and made a space for someone like Bannon to gain proximity to power have not gone away. Trump’s decisive win in the 2024 Iowa caucuses is just one indicator that these forces remain potent. It is perhaps an overstatement to claim that Bannon himself is a full-fledged Traditionalist. Yet, in his political decisions, his documentaries, and his speeches, there is clear evidence that he finds aspects of the movement appealing and is even willing to implement them within the halls of power. For that reason, it is important that we continue to pay attention to this political theology and those who draw on it.
[1] A close engagement with Guénon’s use of Hindu texts and sources remains beyond the scope of this post. It should be noted, however, that like other Orientalists, he saw the “East” writ large as harboring spiritual resources lost to the west. For a recent, more sympathetic, reappraisal of Guénon’s Orientalist legacy, see Wael Hallaq, Restating Orientalism: A Critique of Modern Knowledge.
[2] For a compelling analysis of the War Room podcast and the wider media ecosystem in which it operates, see Naomi Klein, Doppelganger: A Trip into the Mirror World (2023), esp. chap. 6.
Joshua S. Lupo is the Assistant Director of the Contending Modernities research initiative. In this role, he serves as the editor and writer for the Contending Modernities Blog and the classroom coordinator for the Madrasa Discourses program. He has published articles and reviews in Sophia, Soundings, Critical Muslim, Reading Religion, and Religious Studies Review. With CM Co-Director Atalia Omer, he is the co-editor of Broken Solidarities: Feminism, Race, and Transnationalism (Notre Dame Press, 2022) and Religion, Populism, and Modernity: Confronting White Christian Nationalism and Racism (Notre Dame Press, 2023). His current book project is titled After Essentialism: A Critical Phenomenology for the Study of Religion.
Jewish Italian writer Primo Levi (1919–1987) in his later years. Photo Via Wikimedia Commons.
To us, we Jews who live safe in our warm houses, consider:
On October 7, 2023, when unspeakable acts of brutality were carried out in southern Israel, our political differences, for the most part, melted away and we reacted with horror and shock. We mourned the victims, wept with the bereaved, and shuddered at the thought of the terror and dread felt by those who were taken captive. We were filled with outrage against the perpetrators. What sort of people would we be if we had not reacted this way? If we had muttered “it’s so tragic” or “how awful,” and left it at that?
But that is how many of us, if not most, respond to the unspeakable suffering and loss experienced by the people of Gaza at the hands of the Israel Defense Forces (IDF). We read that over 90% of the population has been forcibly displaced from their homes, with nowhere to go. We see images of total devastation on a gigantic scale. We hear reports of masses of people with little or no food or water; of horrendous injuries and countless deaths caused by relentless Israeli bombardment. And what do we do? We shake our heads solemnly, uttering phrases like “yes, it’s dreadful,” and then quickly move on. The right of Israel to defend itself is blithely invoked. One way or the other, we do not look the victims in the eye.
“You who live safe / in your warm houses, / You who find, returning in the evening, / Hot food and friendly faces: / Consider if this is a man / Who works in the mud/ Who does not know peace / Who fights for a scrap of bread …” “Consider if this is a woman, / Without hair and without name / With no more strength to remember, / Her eyes empty and her womb cold / Like a frog in winter.” These lines are from “Shema” (“Hear”), the poem Primo Levi wrote shortly after being liberated from Auschwitz.
Consider: Levi’s lines tell us that the abject beings he describes are human individuals. He tells us nothing more about them. Nothing about their identity or where they come from. He speaks only of what they have been reduced to in the camps: something less than what they are: a woman and a man. It’s as if there is nothing more we need to know. As if this were the essence of what he wants us to hear.
What he wants us to hear is timeless. So, reflecting on the wasteland called Gaza: Consider if this is a child, who sits amid the ruins of his home, who is inconsolable with grief at the death of his parents, who fights for a scrap of bread. Consider if this is a mother, robbed of her slain daughters and sons, with no more strength to bear her unborn baby, her face wracked with pain and loss.
“Meditate that this came about,” Levi writes in “Shema,” after his harrowing description of the man and the woman stripped of their humanity. “I commend these words to you. / Carve them in your hearts/ At home, in the street, / Going to bed, rising …” Perhaps you notice that these lines inflect the text of the biblical Shema, the summons “Hear, O Israel!,” after which his poem is named. If, confronted with the hell unleashed on the people of Gaza in our name, we could do as Levi says, and carve his words in our hearts, then we would not efface the humanity of the children, women, and men of Gaza. Then our hearts would be broken. We would not rush to justify what Israel is doing, day after day after day, to this people. We might instead exclaim: “Hear, O Israel!”
Brian Klug is Hon. Fellow in Social Philosophy at Campion Hall, University of Oxford; Hon. Fellow of the Parkes Institute for the Study of Jewish/non-Jewish Relations, University of Southampton; and Fellow of the College of Arts & Sciences, St Xavier University, Chicago. He is an Associate Editor of Patterns of Prejudice and a member of the Boards for “Negotiating Jewish Identity: Jewish Life in 21st Century Norway” (The Norwegian Center for Holocaust and Minority Studies), Islamophobia Studies Yearbook, and ReOrient: The Journal of Critical Muslim Studies. His books include A Time to Speak Out: Independent Jewish Voices on Israel, Zionism and Jewish Identity(2008, co-editor); Offence: the Jewish Case (2009); Being Jewish and Doing Justice: Bringing Argument to Life (2011); and Words of Fire: Selected Essays of Ahad Ha’am (2015, editor). He took part in The Vienna Conversations (Bruno Kreisky Forum) and was one of the drafters of the Jerusalem Declaration on Antisemitism (2021).
“Bombing Kids Is Not Self Defense” by Becker1999, Flickr.com, CC BY 2.0 DEED.
In the following statement, over 55 scholars of the Holocaust, genocide, and mass violence deplore the atrocity crimes against civilians committed by Hamas and Islamic Jihad on 7 October and by Israeli forces since then. The starvation, mass killing, and forced displacement of Palestinian civilians in Gaza is ongoing, raising the question of genocide, especially in view of the intentions expressed by Israeli leaders. Israeli President Isaac Herzog used particularly loaded language in an interview on MSNBC just a few days ago, on 5 December: “This war is a war that is not only between Israel and Hamas. It’s a war that is intended, really, truly, to save western civilization. … We are attacked by [a] Jihadist network, an empire of evil. … and this empire wants to conquer the entire Middle East, and if it weren’t for us, Europe would be next, and the United States follows.” Herzog builds on Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s association of Israel’s attack on Gaza with the Biblical evil of Amalek, but he places it on a modern scale as the last stand against global apocalypse and the demise of “western civilization.” Both Herzog and Netanyahu are secular Jews. Their use of religious language and symbolism in this case reflects a dangerous intersection in the case of Israel of the exclusionary modern nation state with a settler colonial project in a place infused with multiple religious histories and meanings. The scholars who have signed the statement are signaling their alarm about the mass violence underway in Gaza and the inflammatory language that threatens to escalate it further. They call for urgent action to stop Israel’s attack on Gaza and to work towards a future that will guarantee the equality, freedom, dignity, and security of all the people who live between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea.
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Statement of Scholars in Holocaust and Genocide Studies on Mass Violence in Israel and Palestine since 7 October
December 9, 2023
We, scholars of the Holocaust, genocide, and mass violence, feel compelled to warn of the danger of genocide in Israel’s attack on Gaza. We also note that, should the Israeli attack continue and escalate, Palestinians under Israeli military occupation in the West Bank and East Jerusalem and Palestinian citizens of Israel face grave danger as well.
We are deeply saddened and concerned by the mass murder of over 1,200 Israelis and migrant workers by Hamas, the Islamic Jihad, and others on 7 October, with more than 830 civilians among them. We also note the evidence of gender-based and sexual violence during the attack, the wounding of thousands of Israelis, the destruction of Israeli kibbutzim and towns, and the abduction of more than 240 hostages into the Gaza Strip. These acts constitute war crimes and crimes against humanity. We recognize that violence in Israel and Palestine did not begin on 7 October. If we are to try to understand the mass murder of 7 October, we should place it within the context of Israeli settler colonialism, Israeli military occupation violence against Palestinians since 1967, the sixteen-year siege on the Gaza Strip since 2007, and the rise to power in Israel in the last year of a government made up of politicians who speak proudly about Jewish supremacy and exclusionary nationalism. Explaining is not justifying, and this context in no way excuses the targeting of Israeli civilians and migrant workers by Palestinians on 7 October.
We are also deeply saddened and concerned by the Israeli attack on Gaza in response to the Hamas attack. Israel’s assault has caused death and destruction on an unprecedented level, according to a New York Times article on 26 November. In two months, the Israeli assault has killed more than 16,000 Palestinians (with thousands more buried under the rubble)—nearly half of them children and youth, with a Palestinian child killed every ten minutes on average before the ceasefire—and wounded over 40,000. Considering that the total population of Gaza stands at 2.3 million people, the killing rate so far is about 0.7 percent in less than two months. The killing rate of civilians in Russia’s bombing and invasion of Ukraine in the areas most affected by the violence are probably similar—but over a longer period of time. A number of experts have therefore described Israel’s attack on Gaza as the most intense and deadliest of its kind since World War II, but while Russia’s attack on Ukraine has, for very good reason, prompted western leaders to support the people under attack, the same western leaders now support the violence of the Israeli state rather than the Palestinians under attack.
Israel has also forcibly displaced more than 1.8 million Palestinians within the Gaza Strip, while destroying almost half of all buildings and leaving the northern part of the Strip an “uninhabitable moonscape.” Indeed, the Israeli army has dropped more than 25,000 tons of explosives on Gaza since 7 October, which is equivalent to two Hiroshima bombs, and according to Human Rights Watch, deployed white phosphorous bombs. It has systematically targeted hospitals, schools, universities, mosques, churches, bakeries, and agricultural fields. The state has also killed many essential professionals, including more than 220 healthcare workers, over 100 UN personnel, and dozens of journalists. The forced displacement has, furthermore, created in the southern part of the Strip severe overcrowding, with the risk of outbreak of infectious diseases, exacerbated by shortages of food, clean water, fuel, and medical supplies, due to Israel’s “total siege” measures since 7 October.
The unprecedented level of destruction and killing points to large-scale war crimes in Israel’s attack on Gaza. There is also evidence of a “widespread or systematic attack directed against any civilian population, with knowledge of the attack” that the Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court defines as a crime against humanity. Moreover, dozens of statements of Israeli leaders, ministers in the war cabinet, and senior army officers since 7 October—that is, people with command authority—suggest an “intent to destroy” Palestinians “as such,” in the language of the UN Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide. The statements include depictions of all Palestinians in Gaza as responsible for the Hamas attack on 7 October and therefore legitimate military targets, as expressed by Israeli President Herzog on 13 October and by Israeli Prime Minister Netanyahu when he invoked, on 29 October, the Biblical story of the total destruction of Amalek by the Israelites, just as Israel began its ground invasion. Casting an entire civilian population as enemies marks the history of modern genocide, with the Armenian genocide (1915-1918) and the Rwanda genocide (1994) as well-known examples. The statements also include dehumanizing language, such as Israeli Defense Minister Yoav Gallant’s reference to “human animals” when he proclaimed “total siege” on Gaza on 9 October. The slippage between seeing Hamas as “human animals” to seeing all Palestinians in Gaza in this way is evident in what Israeli Coordinator of Government Activities in the Territories Maj. Gen. Ghassan Alian promised to people in Gaza the next day: “Hamas has turned into ISIS, and the residents of Gaza, instead of being appalled, are celebrating. … Human animals must be treated as such. There will be no electricity and no water [in Gaza], there will only be destruction. You wanted hell, you will get hell.”
These expressions of intent need to be understood also in relation to the widespread incitement to genocide in Israeli media since 7 October. Israeli journalist David Mizrachi Wertheim, for instance, wrote on social media on 7 October that “If all the captives are not returned immediately, then turn the [Gaza] Strip into a slaughterhouse. If a hair falls from their head – execute security prisoners. Violate all norms on the way to victory.” He also added, “we are facing human animals.” Four days later, another Israeli journalist, Roy Sharon, commented on social media “that if, in order to finally eliminate the military capabilities of Hamas, including Sinwar and Deif, we need a million bodies, then let there be a million bodies.” Annihilatory language now also appears in public spaces, such as banners on bridges in Tel Aviv that call “to annihilate Gaza” and explain that “the picture of triumph is 0 people in Gaza.” There are dozens of examples of incitement in Israeli media, which recalls the incitement to genocide in Rwanda as genocide was unfolding there in 1994.
This incitement points to the grave danger that Palestinians everywhere under Israeli rule now face. Israeli army and settler violence in the occupied West Bank and East Jerusalem, which has intensified markedly from the beginning of 2023, has entered a new stage of brutality after 7 October. Sixteen Palestinian communities—over a thousand people—have been forcibly displaced in their entirety, continuing the policy of “ethnic cleansing” in Area C that comprises 60 percent of the West Bank. Israeli soldiers and settlers have furthermore killed more than 220 Palestinians in the West Bank since 7 October, while arresting thousands. The violence against Palestinians also includes acts of torture.
Palestinian citizens of Israel—almost 2 million people—are also facing a state assault against them, with hundreds of arrests since 7 October for any expression of identification with Palestinians in Gaza. There is widespread intimidation and silencing of Palestinian students, faculty, and staff in Israeli universities, and the Israeli Police Commissioner Kobi Shabtai threatened to expel to Gaza Israeli Palestinians identifying with Palestinians in Gaza. These alarming developments and measures build on a view of Palestinian citizens of Israel as potential enemies that stretches back to the military rule imposed on the 156,000 Palestinians who survived the Nakba and remained within the territory that became Israel in 1948. This iteration of military rule lasted until 1966, but the image of Israeli Palestinians as a threat has persisted. In May 2021, as many Israeli Palestinians came out to protest an attack on Palestinians in East Jerusalem and another attack on Gaza, the Israeli police responded with massive repression and violence, arresting hundreds. The situation deteriorated quickly, as Jewish and Palestinian citizens clashed across Israel—in some places, as in Haifa, with Jewish citizens attacking Palestinian citizens on the streets and breaking into houses of Palestinian citizens. And now, Itamar Ben-Gvir, the far-right settler who serves as Israeli minister of national security, has put Israeli Palestinians in even more danger by the distribution of thousands of weapons to Israeli civilians who have formed hundreds of self-defense units after 7 October.
The escalating violence against Palestinians in the occupied West Bank and the exclusion and violence against Palestinian citizens of Israel are particularly worrying in the context of calls in Israel after 7 October for a “second Nakba.” The reference is to the massacres and “ethnic cleansing” of more than 750,000 Palestinians and the destruction of hundreds of villages and towns by Israeli forces in the 1948 war, when Israel was established. The language that member of the Israeli Knesset (parliament) Ariel Kallner from the ruling Likud party used in a social media post on 7 October is instructive: “Nakba to the enemy now. … Now, only one goal: Nakba! Nakba that will overshadow the Nakba of 1948. Nakba in Gaza and Nakba to whoever dares to join [them].” We know that genocide is a process, and we recognize that the stage is thus set for violence more severe than the Nakba and not spatially limited to Gaza.
Thus, the time for concerted action to prevent genocide is now. We call on governments to uphold their legal obligations under the UN Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide to intervene and prevent genocide (Article 1) by (1) implementing an arms embargo on Israel; (2) working to end Israel’s military assault on Gaza; (3) pressuring the Israeli government to stop immediately the intensifying army and settler violence against Palestinians in the West Bank and East Jerusalem, which constitute clear violations of international law; (4) demanding the continued release of all hostages held in Gaza and all Palestinians imprisoned unlawfully in Israel, without charges or trial; (5) calling on the International Criminal Court to investigate and issue arrest warrants against all perpetrators of mass violence on 7 October and since then, both Palestinians and Israelis; and (6) initiating a political process in Israel and Palestine based on a truthful reckoning with Israeli mass violence against Palestinians since the 1948 Nakba and a future that will guarantee the equality, freedom, dignity, and security of all the people who live between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea.
We also call on businesses and labor unions to ensure that they do not aid and abet Israeli mass violence, but rather follow the example of workers in Belgium transport unions who refused in late October to handle flights that ship arms to Israel.
Finally, we call on scholars, programs, centers, and institutes in Holocaust and Genocide Studies to take a clear stance against Israeli mass violence and join us in efforts to stop it and prevent its further escalation.
Mohamed Adhikari, University of Cape Town
Taner Akçam, Director, Armenian Genocide Research Program, The Promise Armenian Institute, UCLA
Ayhan Aktar, Professor of Sociology (Retired), Istanbul Bilgi University
Yassin Al Haj Saleh, Syrian Writer, Berlin
Sebouh David Aslanian, Professor of History and Richard Hovannisian Endowed Chair in Modern Armenian History, UCLA
Karyn Ball, Professor of English and Film Studies, University of Alberta, Edmonton
Haim Bresheeth-Žabner, Professorial Research Associate, School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London
Cathie Carmichael, Professor Emerita, School of History, University of East Anglia
Daniele Conversi, Professor, Department of Contemporary History, University of the Basque Country
Catherine Coquio, Professeure de littérature comparée à Université Paris Cité, France
John Cox, Associate Professor of History and Global Studies and Director of the Center for Holocaust, Genocide, and Human Rights Studies, University of North Carolina, Charlotte
Martin Crook, Senior Lecturer in Sociology, University of the West of England
Ann Curthoys, Honorary Professor, School of Humanities, The University of Sydney
Sarah K. Danielsson, Professor of History, Queensborough, CUNY
John Docker, Sydney, Australia
John Duncan, affiliated with the Institute of Commonwealth Studies, School of Advanced Study, University of London
Didier Fassin, Professor at the Collège de France and the Institute for Advanced Study
Joanne Smith Finley, Reader in Chinese Studies, Newcastle University, UK
Shannon Fyfe, Assistant Professor of Philosophy, George Mason University; Faculty Fellow, Institute for Philosophy and Public Policy
William Gallois, Professor of the Islamic Mediterranean, University of Exeter
Fatma Muge Gocek, Professor of Sociology, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor
Svenja Goltermann, Professor of Modern History, University of Zurich
Andrei Gómez-Suarez, Senior Research Fellow, Centre of Religion, Reconciliation and Peace, University of Winchester
Penny Green, Professor of Law and Globalisation and Director of the International State Crime Initiative, Queen Mary University of London
John-Paul Himka, Professor Emeritus, University of Alberta
Marianne Hirschberg, Professor, Faculty of Human Sciences, University of Kassel, Germany
Anna Holian, Associate Professor, School of Historical, Philosophical & Religious Studies, Arizona State University
Rachel Ibreck, Senior Lecturer in Politics and International Relations, Department of Politics and International Relations, Goldsmiths, University of London
Adam Jones, Professor, Political Science, University of British Columbia Okanagan
Rachel Killean, Senior Lecturer, University of Sydney Law School
Brian Klug, Hon. Fellow in Social Philosophy, Campion Hall, University of Oxford, and Hon. Fellow, Parkes Institute for the Study of Jewish/non-Jewish Relations, University of Southampton
Mill Lake, Associate Professor, International Relations Department, London School of Economics
Mark Levene, Emeritus Fellow, University of Southampton
Yosefa Loshitzky, Professorial Research Associate, School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London
Thomas MacManus, Senior Lecturer in State Crime, School of Law, Queen Mary University of London
Zachariah Mampilly, Professor, Baruch College and the Graduate Center, CUNY
Benjamin Meiches, Associate Professor of Security Studies and Conflict Resolution, University of Washington-Tacoma
Dirk Moses, Professor of International Relations, City College of New York, CUNY
Eva Nanopoulos, Senior Lecturer in Law, Queen Mary University of London
Jeffrey Ostler, Professor of History Emeritus, University of Oregon
Thomas Earl Porter, Professor of History, North Carolina A&T State University, Greensboro, NC
Michael Rothberg, Professor of English, Comparative Literature, and Holocaust Studies, UCLA
Colin Samson, Professor of Sociology, University of Essex
Victoria Sanford, Lehman Professor of Excellence, Lehman College and the Graduate Center, CUNY
Raz Segal, Associate Professor of Holocaust and Genocide Studies and Endowed Professor in the Study of Modern Genocide, Stockton University
Elyse Semerdjian, Robert Aram and Marianne Kaloosdian and Stephen and Marian Mugar Chair of Armenian Genocide Studies, Clark University
Martin Shaw, University of Sussex/Institut Barcelona d’Estudis Internacionals
Damien Short, Co-Director of the Human Rights Consortium and Professor of Human Rights and Environmental Justice at the School of Advanced Study, University of London
Ronald Grigor Suny, William H. Sewell, Jr. Distinguished University Professor Emeritus of History and Emeritus Professor of Political Science, University of Michigan
Adam Sutcliffe, Professor of European History, King’s College London
Barry Trachtenberg, Rubin Presidential Chair of Jewish History, Wake Forest University
Enzo Traverso, Professor in the Humanities, Cornell University
Jeremy Varon, Professor of History, The New School, New York
Ernesto Verdeja, Associate Professor of Peace Studies and Global Politics, University of Notre Dame
Johanna Ray Vollhardt, Associate Professor of Psychology, Clark University
Pauline Wakeham, Associate Professor, Department of English, Western University (Canada)
Keith David Watenpaugh, Professor and Director, Human Rights Studies, University of California, Davis
Louise Wise, Lecturer in International Security, University of Sussex
Andrew Woolford, Professor of Sociology and Criminology, University of Manitoba
Ran Zwigenberg, Associate Professor of Asian Studies, History, and Jewish Studies, Pennsylvania State University
Dr. Raz Segal is Associate Professor of Holocaust and Genocide Studies and Endowed Professor in the Study of Modern Genocide at Stockton University. Dr. Segal has held a Harry Frank Guggenheim Fellowship, a Fulbright Fellowship, and was recently a Senior Fellow at the Vienna Wiesenthal Institute for Holocaust Studies (March-July 2023). His publications include >Genocide in the Carpathians: War, Social Breakdown, and Mass Violence, 1914-1945 (2016); Days of Ruin: The Jews of Munkács during the Holocaust (2013); and he was guest editor of the Hebrew-language special issue onGenocide: Mass Violence and Cultural Erasure of Zmanim: A Historical Quarterly (2018). In addition to scholarly publications, Dr. Segal has published op-eds, book reviews, and larger articles on genocide, state violence, and memory politics in Hebrew, English, and German in The Guardian , LA Times, The Nation, Jewish Currents, Haaretz, +972 Magazine, and Berliner Zeitung , and he has appeared on Democracy Now! and ABC News.
Image of interlocking chains in a fence in the city of Hebron. Via Wikimedia Commons.
The followingstatement, originally published on Tikkun, has been signed by Professor Atalia Omer, Co-Director of the Contending Modernities Research Initiative. Below the statement is a summary report of a conversation that took place on Thursday, October 12 at the Kroc Institute for International Peace Studies among experts in peace studies and international law.
Solidarity with Israel/Palestine
This statement is written and signed by Palestinians, Jews, and others who are committed to holding complex truths and striving to overcome polarization. We feel the pain of our people, identify with their pain, and need to work together to uplift our shared humanity.
The unfolding horror in Israel and Gaza is an escalation of decades of state-sanctioned violence by Israel against Palestinians. We condemn the horrific actions of Hamas against Israeli civilians. We likewise condemn Israel’s unbridled bombing and cutting off access to all basic needs, including food, water, electricity, and medical care. Attacks on Palestinian and Israeli civilians are repugnant.
Israeli violence against Palestinians has been intentionally hidden, slow, and steady. Contrary to what the media is reporting, this attack was not unprovoked. The Israeli and American governments have worked together to suppress and deny the inhumane acts against Palestinians that have led to this moment. There are Palestinians and Jews who have been raising red flags and warning about this inevitable outcome for decades, only to be dismissed and ignored.
The world’s failure to challenge Israel’s ongoing occupation, apartheid, and unbridled violence by settlers and soldiers in the West Bank provides the context for what is happening now. The recent Israeli government’s escalation of violence, encroachment of Al Aqsa Mosque, and its 16-year siege of Gaza has led to the current explosion.
We repeat: the brutality of Hamas’ attack on Israeli civilians is unjustified.
As we watch the violent attacks and rallying of xenophobia on both sides, we are brokenhearted. Although it feels like a time to stand with “our people,” we know this is a time to come together. This is a time of great suffering for all; a time of painful emotions. It is only by recognizing our shared fears and our shared tears that we will find our way through this nightmare. It is a struggle we need to undertake jointly.
When we fall back into our separate and distinct identities we risk becoming part of the problem, not the solution. Both peoples suffer from ongoing trauma. We are all on high alert. The fear is palpable. And it is easy for us to objectify the ‘other.’
We seek a third path that neither perpetuates a xenophobic response nor sustains an unjust status quo. This moment calls us to slow down, sit with the pain and complexity, and grapple with our discomfort. It is a moment for digging deep, seeing across differences, and remembering our deep yearning for peace and justice. It is only through compassion and empathy that we will find a different way.
We recognize and uplift the humanity of all peoples in Israel/Palestine.
We call for an immediate ceasefire from Hamas and Israel.
We demand that basic needs be provided to Gazans.
We demand that the United States provide only humanitarian support to Israel and Gaza.
We support the creation of a movement that recognizes and affirms the humanity, dignity, and desire of both peoples to live in peace through reconciliation and justice.
****
On Thursday October 12, The Kroc Institute for International Peace Studies held a teach-in with faculty, staff, and students from around the University of Notre Dame community. The panel was moderated by CM Co-Director Ebrahim Moosa and panelists included Notre Dame doctoral candidate in Theology Daniel Bannoura, CM Co-Director Atalia Omer, and Notre Dame Professor of Law and Concurrent Professor of International Peace Studies Mary Ellen O’Connell. Given the mainstream English news media amnesia in covering this event, the aim of this conversation was to provide a broader context for the violence.
Following introductions of the speakers and a reading of the University of Notre Dame’s Land Acknowledgement, Kroc Institute Executive Director Erin Corcoran handed off the discussion to the panel.
Professor Ebrahim Moosa began by laying out the complex background of Israel/Palestine in light of the current events. He drew particular attention to the different ways that Israelis and Palestinians perceive the political context in which they find themselves. For Palestinians, he noted, the state of Israel is a settler colonial power. For Israelis, on the other hand, Israel is a home that represents an emancipation from centuries of experiencing oppression and violence in Europe and elsewhere.
In her opening remarks, Professor Atalia Omer outlined her personal connections to and scholarly focus on Israel and Palestine, as well as her own Israeli citizenship, roots, and Jewish identity. She urged recognizing the humanity of Palestinians and Israelis and that a failure to mourn victims of horrendous violence, whoever they are, is a failure of one’s humanity. She noted that she herself was hurting because of the loss of friends in Saturday’s atrocious attacks carried out by the Hamas movement. She argued that it is important to contextualize the violence so as to challenge binary and ahistorical narratives and the discourse of genocidal revenge and collective punishment that have been perpetuated in its wake. For her, this means contextualizing 100 years or more of the displacement of Palestinians and the international community’s complicit role in the Israeli occupation. The Gaza Strip, an integral part of the Palestinian landscape, has been fenced in since the Oslo “peace process” in the mid-1990s. During that time, Gaza was fragmented from the rest of Palestine. But Gaza has remained, despite this policy of fragmentation, at the heart of the struggle for Palestinian liberation. The war for Israeli independence in 1948 was the Nakba, or “catastrophe,” for Palestinians who have continued to experience for 75 years a variety of events and mechanisms of control, displacement, restrictions of movement, oppression, and destruction. This includes demolition, dispossession of land, and the denial of the history and experiences of Palestinians often through the weaponization of antisemitism. She noted that the leading human rights groups, including the Israeli B’tselem, have argued that Israel is perpetuating apartheid against the Palestinians through a principle of sovereignty B’tselem terms “Jewish supremacy.”
She described how she was horrified and in pain on Saturday, but, tragically, not surprised, noting that structural violence has been perpetuated in Palestinian territories for many years. She argued that the story of revenge is not one we should embrace. Redressing the underlying root causes of the escalating violence, Omer underscored, cannot be accomplished by the military through the commitment of war crimes and the violating humanitarian laws, but ought to be attained through diplomatic and political tools. Unfortunately, US Secretary of State Anthony Blinken has said that the US is going to have Israel’s back in its collective punishment of Gazans. But there is a need to recognize everyone’s humanity and pain. We need to understand the history of Palestinian displacement since 1948 (and before, going back to the momentous Balfour Declaration of 1917) and the continued discrepancy in power, which is exemplified in how Israel was able to cut off food, water, and electricity to Gaza. The majority of the residents of Gaza are refugees, uprooted during the Nakba.
Daniel Bannoura began by sharing his story as a Palestinian who grew up near Bethlehem. The West Bank, he noted, is also a prison in which members of his family still live. So far 1,600 Palestinians, including 450 children and babies, have been killed in Gaza by the Israeli occupation forces [see updated numbers in the editorial introduction]. Half of those who have died are women and children. White phosphorus has been dumped on Gazans in contravention to international law. He noted that around 300 Christian families in Gaza lost their homes and are now without food and sheltering at a church. Rather than a prison, he sees Gaza as a concentration camp because a prison implies that those in it are guilty of committing a crime. The only crime of the people of the Gaza Strip is that they were born there.
He noted that so many are in attendance at the panel today, rather than at past panels, because we don’t think Palestinians are fully human. The difference this time is the number of Israelis who have died. He argued that it was necessary to condemn Hamas, but that it was also necessary to condemn the Israeli government’s actions, the latter of which US citizens are also complicit in because their tax dollars go to support Israel. In our media, he laid out, White supremacy leads us to paint Israelis as White and Palestinians as non-White. He argued that apartheid language is only the beginning of the conversation, and we need to focus on the ramifications and impact of settler colonialism, legal and military procedures, US foreign policy, and the role of religion in whitewashing injustice in the region.
Daniel also noted that we need to recognize the humanity of both peoples. White supremacist ideologies frame Israel and Palestine as well in terms of who is viewed as having humanity and who is not. All of us in the room, he noted, are inheritors of a violence of domination and colonization, whether historical colonization, antisemitism, or the denial of the Palestinian people of the right to exist. Daniel further observed the role of Western Christianity in maintaining the system of oppression against the Palestinians through theological formulations, whether through Protestant zionism or Catholic zionism, that justify the colonization of Palestine and continue to exclude and erase Palestinians from their analysis. He argued that we need to see that the Shoah is tied to the Nakba, that the suffering of innocents in the past is tied to the suffering of innocents now. He ended by noting that he hoped a just peace and human rights would inform how we move ahead from this tragedy.
Professor Ebrahim Moosa recognized that many in the audience were in pain after an interruption from an audience member. He noted that he was South African and that every South African cleric, civil rights activist, and politician who visited Israel/Palestine said that the oppression faced by the Palestinians was far worse than what Blacks faced in South Africa. He suggested that a carnage was about to happen in Gaza, and that because of this he wrote a letter to President Bident and to his Senator, and encouraged others to do the same.
Professor Mary Ellen O’Connell argued that this is a moment to speak with unity. We need to give heart to the amount of suffering. She spoke of a way forward if we use what past generations offered us to unite us and that is our common international law—a concept we around the world built together. She briefly addressed the three categories of law relevant to the crisis: (1) law on resort to armed force; (2) law on the conduct of armed conflict; and (3) human rights law. On initial resort to force she argued that any right of self-defense or to resist occupation that may exist for the Palestinian people (and that is a complicated issue), there is emphatically no justification for the violent measures undertaken by Hamas. Hamas had no hope of removing Israeli authorities from occupied territory by killing civilians. Hamas used violence with only one aim—to intimidate for political ends—that is the definition of terrorism. She explained that even a party with a right to resort to force is restricted from exercising that right where there is no reasonable chance of success.
Concerning law and conduct during armed conflict, she emphasized there is no right to intentionally target civilians or ever take hostages. She said that it is unclear to what extent Israel can lawfully respond to terrorism with war. It is clear that Israel has a duty to withdraw from territory it occupies. Israel’s use of force also violates the principle of necessity. Its interventions in the past have never accomplished a lawful military objective. Further, any resort to armed force must comply with four fundamental principles: distinction, necessity, proportionality, and humanity. Israel is violating all of these right now. Cutting off food, medicine, and water to a civilian population is never acceptable. Hamas must also release hostages and cease violent attacks on Israel. The US has a responsibility to restore international law and reverse its own actions in violation of the prohibition on the use of force. She advocated for the US to lead in international law to aid those suffering in all war-torn nations—Myanmar, in Ethiopia, and in Sudan.
Following these initial remarks, a Q&A period was opened up. One audience member suggested that it would be beneficial for the US and UN to invade Gaza and free the Palestinians from Hamas. Another attendee reflected on the fact that the Israeli occupation had prevented them from returning to their home. Still another wondered what role the UN security council might play in the dispute and what was being said by the Palestinian leadership about the conflict.
Kibbutz Kfar Aza with Gaza seen on the horizon. Image credit: Max Nathans. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0 DEED.
ProfessorMary Ellen O’Connell began the panelists’ responses by mentioning, as the other panelists had before their remarks, her own faith, Roman Catholicism, and her Irish heritage. She is the granddaughter of people who fled oppression and genocidal famine. She has devoted her life in line with the great teaching of the Catholic Church to Pacem in Terris. International law offers the most effective tool to work for the goal that she knows of. In response to the question about the UN invading and freeing people from Hamas she argued based on extensive experience and data that the attempt to use military force to create good governance will fail. Classical peacekeeping, which succeeded consistently in ending violence when all parties consented, had been abandoned with the end of the Cold War and the rise of a hegemonic US devoted to realist-militarist policy. The belief in military solutions bred by realism is at the root of conflict today. Yet, military force is no solution to terrorism and other social challenges.
In response to the question about the United Nations Security Council, she dismissed the Council’s relevance today, given the Permanent Members’ disregard for the UN Charter and international law generally. A dynamic UN Secretary General with real leadership potential can do more for peace now as can an immediate shift of US policy from defying international law to compliance—end targeted killing with drones, renounce unlawful military force like the invasion of Iraq 2003, and cease military support of Israel.
Daniel Bannoura noted that the Palestinian president committed himself to nonviolence and condemned the killing of innocent civilians. He also reiterated that we need Israelis to see that their security is connected to Palestinian security. Israel has built a fortress on the lands and bones of Palestinians, he argued. The suffering is connected when we see that a Palestinian cannot return home. Palestinians want a free Palestine from apartheid and oppression so that Hamas and other actors of violence lose their credibility. Hamas has only been around 30 years. Palestinians have been suffering since 1948.
ProfessorAtalia Omer argued that it is critical to think of the question of Israeli and Palestinian suffering together. Because of the binary framing, she noted, it is difficult both to mourn the people she lost [in Israel] and recognize the crimes committed against them while also recognizing the Palestinian story and the ongoing violent reality Palestinains have endured, albeit differently in 1948 territories or “Israel proper,” the West Bank, occupied East Jerusalem, and in the Gaza Strip (and various diasporas and refugee camps in the region). This issue did not begin on Saturday, October 7 and it is important to bring the root cause to the foreground in order to de-escalate and redress politically the aspirations of Palestinians for freedom and historical justice. She suggested that the dehumanizing rhetoric from the US President and Secretary of State that claimed that Hamas’ sole purpose for existing is “to kill Jews” collapses the distinction between Israelis and Jews in an unhelpful way. It also abstracts and decontextualizes the realities of prolonged structural violence in Palestine/Israel and the ideology that sustains them as noted in the B’tselem report.
She ended her response by noting that she grew up in Israel, and the first time she heard about the Nakba was when she came to the US. What is at the center of this is the denial of history, the denial of narrative, and the denial of humanity.
In another round of questions, one audience member asked how they could support Palestinians without being accused of being antisemitic? They also asked how to communicate to the West that Hamas does not represent everyone? Another audience member spoke about their home and neighborhood in Gaza being destroyed, noting that their family is camped in a school and that there was no way out of the city. She argued that Israel is committing war crimes and no one is covering it. Hamas is the only form of resistance that Gazans have, she said. Another audience member asked what duty toward Palestine Jordanians, Iraqis, Lebanese and others have and how the Israelis might be brought to the negotiating table? They also pointedly asked: What do you do when non-violence does not work?
Daniel Bannoura responded to the question about antisemitism and support for Palestinians. The Palestinian struggle for freedom, he argued, is tied to the struggle against antisemitism. It is the same demand that the struggles are after. Because you are fighting against antisemitism you are fighting for Palestinians. Generally, Western discourse on the situation in Palestine and Israel consistently formulates the Palestinian cause as contingent or insignificant. He suggested that Palestinians are paying for the sins of Christians in Europe and their historic antisemitism. We have to understand that this is a messy conflict, and we have to move away from the colonial framing of it.
A two-state solution will not work, he said. The community’s history and culture are too intertwined. We need to think in new and creative ways that insure the security and freedom of both peoples.
ProfessorAtalia Omer noted that the two-state framework is based on homogeneous ethnoreligious conceptions of identity that inspire White nationalism in the US and that alternatives are needed. She stressed the need for a political imagination that goes beyond the current framework.
Professor Ebrahim Moosa concluded the panel by suggesting that each side in the conflict is now framing this moment as “a state of exception” from the normal rule of law and that this is an extremely dangerous moment. Indeed, the US claimed a state of exception after 9/11 and dire consequences followed, including years of violence and death in Afghanistan and in other places around the world where the “war on terror” was enacted.
In Pastoral Power, Clerical State: Pentecostalism, Gender, and Sexuality in Nigeria, Ebenezer Obadare asks a seemingly simple question: “How is it that in contemporary Nigeria (and indeed in many other African countries where Pentecostal Christianity exercises an outsize influence) the pastor has come to occupy such a central place in the social imaginary, to such an extent that medical and other forms of professional judgment must defer to him?” (3). What this ostensibly straightforward question opens up, however, is a complex socio-historical phenomenon that reveals much about the changing nature of authority and power in post-colonial Nigeria and in other similar contexts where Pentecostalism is on the rise.
In the early days of post-independence Nigeria, Obadare contends, authority was more often wielded by intellectuals, whom Obadare refers to as the “Man of Letters” (as opposed to the Pentecostal “Man of God”). The gendering of the intellectual and pastor in this case is intentional, as in the Nigerian context the shift from one form of authority in social and political space to another is merely a shifting of patriarchal power to a different realm. Obadare’s contention is that the shift in authority is explained by the vacuum opened up by the failures of the state (and the intellectuals who supported it) to manage economic turmoil and everyday government functionality. This failure, due in no small part to problems inherited from colonial rule, has made space into which the Pentecostal pastor, with his charismatic authority, has been able to enter. This pastor does not “run” the state, as Obadare makes clear, but in his social, political, and erotic power he is able to wield authority and influence the people and by extension the government.
Obadare is also unabashed in his criticism of this model of authority. While he understands the historical and political conditions that have given rise to it, he worries about the undemocratic ends to which such power can be put. Pentecostal pastors practice a “rule by prodigy” wherein they claim to have special access to truths from the divine concerning social, political, and economic matters. Such rule by prodigy short circuits the need for democratic debate and reform and opens up the path to authoritarianism.
The contributors to this symposium take up both the normative and descriptive claims that make up Obadare’s text. Abimola A. Adelakun asks to what degree the pastor’s authority is now under threat from the forces of the digital age. Pundits, social media influences, and others have begun to question the authority of the Pentecostal pastor, thus raising the question of whether the “Man of God” might go the same way of the “Man of Letters” in the recent past that Obadare documents. Adeshina Afolayan also wonders if Obadare has overstated the influence of the Pentecostal pastor. In conversation with other scholars of Pentecostalism in Africa like Ruth Marshall and Nimi Wariboko, she argues that Obadare’s anti-clericalism leads him to this overstatement and also leads him to ignore the potential positive impact that Pentecostalism might have on Nigerian society. By ignoring such potentialities, Afolayan argues that Obadare’s book betrays a secular bias that underestimates the potential constructive aspects of religion.
Where Adelakun and Afolayan worry that the pastor’s influence has been overstated, Adriaan Van Klinken conversely worries that the continued relevance of the intelligentsia has been understated in Obadare’s portrait. Drawing on literary critiques of the pastor in Nigerian culture, Van Klinken contends that there are deep roots in African literature for critiquing the role of Christianity in politics and society. While not contending that literary figures are likely to overtake the pastor anytime soon in terms of popularity, Van Klinken reminds us that they continue to act as a “thorn in the side” of the pastor and wider movement that he represents. Karen Lauterbach also wonders to what degree we find remnants of the intellectual still present in African societies today. But rather than see the “Man of Letters” as a form distinct from the “Man of God,” she sees them as partaking in similar literary techniques and drawing on similar traditions, albeit towards different ends. For her, this raises wider questions about how spiritual and earthly authorities interact with seemingly secular liberal democratic structures.
What Obadare’s book and the contributors to this symposium encourage us to reflect on is how authority is maintained, challenged, and revoked in the modern world, and especially in postcolonial settings.
Finally, Devaka Premawardhana poses two concerns for Obadare: first, he asks if the fall from prominence of the “Man of Letters” can be causally linked to the rise of the Pentecostal pastor, and second, he wonders if Obadare places too much of the blame on Pentecostal pastors for the socio-political issues facing Nigerians today. Still, Premawardhana finds in Obadare’s work a potential spark that might ignite resistance among those who find the dogmatism linked to the “Man of God” to be problematic. In his response to all the contributors, Obadare takes up the theme of anti-anti-intellectualism as the normative impulse behind the book.
What Obadare’s book and the contributors to this symposium encourage us to reflect on is how authority is maintained, challenged, and revoked in the modern world, and especially in postcolonial settings. This has been a key question of the authority, community, and identity (ACI) research group of Contending Modernities, of which Obadare is a member, and of which this book is a product. This requires that we attend to those who wield both political and spiritual power and that we continue to challenge the idea that such forms of authority have been separated in the era of the liberal nation-state. Indeed, as Obadare demonstrates, regardless of whether we believe the pastor’s claim that his prophetic power is divinely bestowed, the effects of this claim on the socio-political realm will be real, and we ignore them at our own peril.
Joshua S. Lupo is the Assistant Director of the Contending Modernities research initiative. In this role, he serves as the editor and writer for the Contending Modernities Blog and the classroom coordinator for the Madrasa Discourses program. He has published articles and reviews in Sophia, Soundings, Critical Muslim, Reading Religion, and Religious Studies Review. With CM Co-Director Atalia Omer, he is the co-editor of Broken Solidarities: Feminism, Race, and Transnationalism (Notre Dame Press, 2022) and Religion, Populism, and Modernity: Confronting White Christian Nationalism and Racism (Notre Dame Press, 2023). His current book project is titled After Essentialism: A Critical Phenomenology for the Study of Religion.
This Carmelite sisterhood facility was built around the discovery of an old tablet bearing the traditional ‘Pater Noster’ (‘Our Father’) prayer, in the vicinity of a tomb of a woman ascribed to various Jewish, Christian, and Muslim holy women. Here is a display of translations of the prayer in Latin, Arabic, and Armenian forms. Via Wikimedia Commons.
I would like to start by thanking all the contributors for their important essays, valuable insights, and scholarly feedback. In this response, I will focus on three areas: claiming agency, exploring colonial tools, and understanding transnational communities, that were picked up bymyfourcolleagues.
Claiming agency
This book is part of several edited volumes of mine which focus on the Christians of the Middle East. All of these volumes tackle numerous aspects of the history, life, and witness of the Christians in our region. Over half of the contributors to them are Middle Eastern scholars of religion, theology, history, and sociology. The main goal of these publications is to raise awareness of the situation of the Christians in the Middle East to a North American and European audience and to provide a platform for Indigenous Christians to tell their stories in their own words. For too long, North American and European scholars have been telling the story of the Christians of the Middle East. Many of them have produced genuine and valuable research that is important. Others, however, have instrumentalized Middle Eastern Christians for their own political ends or conservative religious agendas.
Over the course of the last two centuries, several tools have been developed by European and American scholars that have allowed them to use Middle Eastern Christians to further their colonial interests. One of these is the tool of sectarianianism, which looks at the Middle Eastern region as a conglomerate of religious sects. A topical, historical example of this is the British conceptualization of Jerusalem as a city of four sectarian quarters: Christian, Muslim, Jewish, and Armenian. This conceptualization took place even though each quarter was housing Palestinians with diverse faiths. The French similarly divided Syrian territory along sectarian lines between Sunni, Alawite, and Druze.
Another tool that was developed in the aftermath of World War I was the concept of minorities in the region. The influence of Christians and other prominent communities was minimized, giving colonial powers an excuse to interfere in the internal policies of the newly “independent” Middle Eastern states.
The latest tool is known as FoRB, “Freedom of Religion or Belief,” a mandate and special focus of the UN. There is genuine concern among many Christians in the Middle East that FoRB will be weaponized as a platform for populism, religious nationalism and colonial interventions, resulting in more violent religious conflicts. Many evangelical organizations are using FoRB as a tool to pressure Muslim countries to allow for Christian missions under Muslims. The more Christian martyrs there are, the better it is for their fundraising efforts in conservative circles. Although FoRB is an important and legitimate right, the narrative ignores many of the region’s other hard-fought victories for human rights. It is imperative to see freedom from within a holistic perspective. It is also crucial to recognize that there have been long struggles for freedom in the Middle East, which include confronting colonialism, occupation, socio-economic marginalization, authoritarianism, and patriarchy.
Understanding Transnational Communities
For the last hundred years, the Middle East has been suffering under European colonialism, Israeli settler colonialism, regional conflicts, militarization, and exploitation. Such difficulties have resulted in civil wars, underdevelopment, and displacement in the region. In this context, many Middle Eastern Christians—especially Palestinians, Lebanese, Egyptian, Syrian and Iraqi—have chosen to emigrate, establishing diasporic and transnational communities. Drawing on identity politics rhetoric (Assyrian, Egyptian, Phoenicians versus Arab Muslim), some of those diasporic Christian communities of Iraqi, Egyptian, and Lebanese origin have utilized the discourse of religious persecution in defense of their religious siblings at home. Though their advocacy for their native communities is understandable, it has often proved to be counterproductive as it borrows a sectarian framework. This narrative widens the gap between the Muslims and Christians in the region and subtly calls for foreign political intervention.
There is genuine concern among many Christians in the Middle East that “Freedom of Religious Belief” will be weaponized as a platform for populism, religious nationalism, and colonial interventions, resulting in more violent religious conflicts.
The only hope for Christians in the Middle East is genuine engagement with their communities to build a society that places less emphasis on religion and more emphasis on creating civic space; making diversity an intrinsic value in the region; and reimagining interfaith relations and de-emphasizing identity politics. The region is in dire need for justice, peace, and stability. Without such a political framework, all segments of the Middle Eastern societies, including the Christians, will continue to suffer, migrate, and lose heart. Yet, in all these contexts, the Christians of the Middle East have proved over and over again to be resilient. They “are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair… struck down, but not destroyed.” (2 Corinthians 4: 8-9).
Founder and President of Dar al-Kalima University in Bethlehem. Dr. Raheb is a co-founder of Bright Stars of Bethlehem, a not-for-profit 501c3 in the USA. The most widely published Palestinian theologian to date, Dr. Raheb is the author and editor of 40 books including: The Politics of Persecution: Middle Eastern Christians in an Age of Empire(Baylor, 2021) The Cross in Contexts: Suffering and Redemption in Palestine (w/Suzanne Watts Henderson, Orbis, 2017); Faith in the Face of Empire: The Bible through Palestinian Eyes; I am a Palestinian Christian(Orbis, 2014); Bethlehem Besieged (Broadleaf, 2004) . His books and numerous articles have been translated so far into eleven languages. Rev. Raheb served as the senior pastor of the Christmas Lutheran Church in Bethlehem from June 1987 to May 2017 and as the President of the Synod of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in Jordan and the Holy Land from 2011–2016. Dr. Raheb was elected in 2018 to the Palestinian National Council and to the Palestinian Central Council. A social entrepreneur, Rev. Raheb has founded several NGO‟s including the Christian Academic Forum for Citizenship in the Arab World (CAFCAW). He is a founding and board member of the National Library of Palestine and a founding member and author of Kairos Palestine.
During the twentieth century and now into the twenty first, White Christian evangelicals have claimed that their standing in the US socio-political landscape is under attack. Even though they have enjoyed political and religious dominance in the US, they believe that they are now the persecuted, and that their persecutors—Blacks, Latina/os, LGBTQI+ persons, and other minorities—are plotting their demise. The perception of Christian persecution is not a new one, as Mitri Raheb demonstrates in his most recent book, The Politics of Persecution: Middle Eastern Christians in an Age of Empire, nor is it monolithic. In this monograph Raheb traces the particular histories of Christians in the MENA (Middle East and North African) region who have long served as pawns in the political machinations of empires, including those of White evangelicals in the US. The latter, while more than willing to claim the mantle of persecution for themselves, are far less likely to extend such claims to Palestinian Christians. Who is able to claim the mantle of being persecuted in the Middle East, as Raheb shows, more often has had to do with what suits the interests of European and US powers, rather than the realities of those who live in the region. In the current moment, we find expressions of sympathy (or lack thereof of) for the plight of Middle Eastern Christians still enmeshed in the operations of empire.
What Raheb’s book in particular adds to our understanding of this phenomenon is a deep historical engagement that locates the plight of Middle Eastern Christians in a longer arc of colonial history and the history of empires. Raheb begins his story with the Ottoman Empirem where he gives an account of the treatment of Christians within the millet system. He is not nostalgic for the pre-colonial European Ottoman system, which surely did treat Christians as second-class subjects. But his history is also one that is decolonial, and as such refuses to see in the Ottoman system an imperfect precursor to the liberal nation state system, under which Middle Eastern Christians would arguably fare much worse than under the Ottoman system. In subsequent chapters, Raheb explores the role of European missionary activities in the region and their often symbiotic work with imperial and colonial forces, the effect of the Nakba on Palestinian Christians, and the more recent decisions of US administrations to fly the banner of religious freedom in the Middle East only when it suits their purposes. And it is this latter point that resurfaces again and again in this text. Who is able to claim that they are being persecuted or lacking in freedom, and thus able to reap the benefits of others recognizing that claim, is unevenly distributed and marks not the suffering of those living under oppressive rule, but those with vested interests in marking some as persecuted and others as not, thereby bypassing the need to interrogate political forms of violence defining all Palestinian lives regardless of religion. The latter move, often enough as Raheb shows, acts as a pre-text to further intervention in regions not under colonial political control.
What Raheb’s book in particular adds to our understanding of this phenomenon is a deep historical engagement that locates the plight of Middle Eastern Christians in a longer arc of colonial history and the history of empires.
The contributors to this symposium explore this theme in a variety of ways. Candace Lukasik, for example, takes Raheb’s geopolitical framing of persecution into reflections about her own work with diasporic Coptic Christian communities in the US. What Lukasik finds in doing so is that as communities move from one context to another, their identities as a persecuted minority transform. In this case, Coptics reframe their persecution in Egypt through the US framework of Christian persecution in ways that lift up their Christian identity and downgrade their MENA identity in keeping with US geopolitical framings. Omer likewise takes Raheb’s argument and thinks with it in new contexts. In particular she puts Raheb’s book into conversation with the recent documentary film directed by Maya Zinshtein, Til’ Kingdom Come, which examines the role of Christian Zionists in the US supporting groups who help fund the Israeli military and settlement and annexation projects. This support has been welcomed by some in Israel despite the overt antisemitism expressed by Christian Zionists in the US. Indeed, so-called philo-semitism is antisemitism. The deep irony and tragedy of this story comes in the way that Christian evangelicals fail to see Palestinian Christians as co-religionists and as bearers of human rights and dignity, despite their shared faith. In the film, this is most starkly revealed when a pastor from Kentucky claims, following a conversation with a Lutheran Pastor in Bethlehem, that there is no such thing as a Palestinian. Here, recognition fails because of the Christian Zionist lens that constructs “real” Christians as White evangelicals and Christians living under occupation in Israel/Palestine as non-existent. The persecuted Christian again here is tied up with the politics of empire and nation.
In his contribution, Gary Burge also brings in further reflections on the complicity of the west in forms of violence throughout the MENA region. Burge first focuses on the western political violence that has damaged Christian communities in the region before turning to the role of Islamophobia in shaping who are considered victims of religious persecution. He finally turns to a criticism of Raheb, not for his harsh words for Evangelicals in the US, but for his lack of them. Burge worries that Raheb lets American Evangelicals off the hook and calls for an even more strongly prophetic voice to counter their message.
If Omer, Lukasik, and Burge extend Raheb’s critical account of Christian Zionism and Evangelical complicity in the suffering of Christians in the MENA region, Mourad Takawi highlights the moments of hope that surface in Raheb’s text. Takawi finds in even the most horrendous episodes of violence recounted in Raheb’s text moments that illuminate alternative futures for those suffering under the weight of oppression. He delves more deeply into the example of Butrus al-Bustani (1819–1883) to illustrate this. Raheb pens a response to these contributors which takes up the central themes analyzed in each of these essays.
This mixture of trenchant critique that is attentive to multiple layers of identity formation—including, but not limited to, religious, ethnic, national, and racial identities—and constructive imagining of ways of forming community beyond those identities is necessary as we confront populist forms of authoritarianism. The latter mobilizes the rhetoric of persecution to further marginalize the most vulnerable in societies around the world. In this symposium the author and contributors alike draw us to the urgency of this analysis and help us chart ways forward beyond our current frameworks.
Joshua S. Lupo is the Assistant Director of the Contending Modernities research initiative. In this role, he serves as the editor and writer for the Contending Modernities Blog and the classroom coordinator for the Madrasa Discourses program. He has published articles and reviews in Sophia, Soundings, Critical Muslim, Reading Religion, and Religious Studies Review. With CM Co-Director Atalia Omer, he is the co-editor of Broken Solidarities: Feminism, Race, and Transnationalism (Notre Dame Press, 2022) and Religion, Populism, and Modernity: Confronting White Christian Nationalism and Racism (Notre Dame Press, 2023). His current book project is titled After Essentialism: A Critical Phenomenology for the Study of Religion.
“Dead End” trail sign in Fossil Springs, Arizona. Image credit: Flickr User Al_HikesAZ. CC BY-NC 2.0.
What does it mean to treat a piece of land as someone’s home? Can home be reduced to property? Can the sacred be owned? Do conceptualizations of land as wilderness exclude human inhabitants? Does the value of land vary according to whom it “belongs”? Should land be “productive” for human beings, and if so, how should the productive value of land be determined? How should the goods of the land—minerals, foodstuffs, natural materials—be valued, obtained, or preserved? The answers to these questions depend on how we understand land in general, as well as how we understand certain places in particular.
Texts from different disciplines—legal, religious, literary, ethnographic—offer competing theories of land. Land is often rendered as property and commodity, but it can also be protected or preserved as having cultural significance or as wilderness. The term “Mother Earth” suggests a kinship relationship between us humans and the land, and Pope Francis’s encyclical Laudato Si’ refers to the land as our shared home. Can such divergent theories of land coexist or are they mutually exclusive? If these theories of land are competing and mutually exclusive—some argue the sacred cannot and should not be owned by humans; land that is cultivated as home is not wild anymore—which are most suited to address the ethical and political questions that present environmental crises pose to our collective well-being?
These questions touch on intimately cultural matters, evoking how different communities conceptualize themselves and how such conceptualizations relate to land. These questions are not new. Ancient Greek philosophers from Thales to Aristotle asked about the essence of the earth, and early modern political philosophers such as Thomas Hobbes, John Locke, and Jean-Jacques Rousseau grounded their social contract theories in the valorization of agricultural cultivation and its relation to private property. The new politics imagined by Enlightenment thinkers paved the way for European projects of colonialism and capitalism, bringing all land everywhere under the power of possession. Alternatives to and critiques of colonial theories of land abound: from the kinship models of humans in relation to land found among many Indigenous peoples, to the agricultural commune movements of the nineteenth century; from the anti-imperial communisms of the twentieth century to the radical environmentalists of the twenty-first century.
Many contemporary philosophers, scholars, and authors share these concerns and propose scientific, political, and social critiques and solutions to our environmental crisis. These critical discourses and proposed solutions have at their basis a theory of land.
This symposium emerged from a working group funded by the Social Science Research Council. An interdisciplinary group of ten scholars—all interested in religion but also in geography, Indigenous studies, Black studies, Latin American studies, law, and anthropology—got together to discuss theories of land over the course of one year. We read texts of legal theory, environmental humanities, environmental science, political theory, and ethnography, and we discussed the question of what academics who care about land, the natural environment, and ultimately, about environmental justice, can bring to the table when what we do is theorize but what we need, what the land needs, is very practical.
The interdisciplinary collection of authors we have read together each offers a different theory of land. While author Amitav Ghosh argues that our environmental crisis is the result of our colonial view of the land as resource, Red River Métis environmental scientist Max Liboiron reminds us that we treat the land as resource, and that we assume access to Native land, not only when we pollute, but also when we recycle. While ethnographer Keisha-Khan Perry reminds us that it is often Black women who are at the forefront of land rights and racial justice struggles (in Brazil and elsewhere), and that we tend to invisiblize them, political theorist Robert Nichols argues that the notion of land rights is based on a settler colonial understanding of land as property. Geographer Nicolas Howe tells us that if we focus on our relationship with land as landscape, as something that we look at, we can learn as much about ourselves as we will about the land. What we learn will have both legal and religious implications. Ethnographer Marisol de la Cadena pushes us to consider the ethical and political implications of our interdependence with the land. Finally, Indigenous studies scholar Candace Fujikane offers a Kanaka Maoli idea of abundance, a radical approach to land in the face of capitalist notions of scarcity.
Though we came together to discuss theory, our conversations often revolved around method as well. What can religious studies scholars who care about land learn from other disciplines? And how can we learn from other disciplines without being extractive? It turns out that what is true about being in good relations with the land (you should not be extractive, which means that you shouldn’t treat the land as commodity) is also true about knowledge (you shouldn’t read texts only as sources to cite). So, can we learn things from other scholars, especially Indigenous scholars, without extracting knowledge from them? One thing some of us kept insisting on is that it is not theorists who can help make our land relations better; rather, it is communities on the ground who can help us theorize better: Black women fighting for land rights in Colombia, Ohlone peoples fighting for #LandBack in California, first-generation college students. We need to take these communities’ lived experiences into account when we work to decolonize the Catholic Church or the land-grab university. Indeed, we need to listen to the land itself—the Outer Banks of North Carolina, the Sonoran Desert—in order to theorize better, in order to live better.
Front page of May 4, 1968 edition of The Black Panther Party community news service. Image Credit: Flickr User Thomas Hawk. CC BY-NC 2.0.
When I teach classes on ethics to my graduate and seminary students, I routinely explain that I want them to include a respectful affirmation of human worth and dignity as a core dimension of the vision for ethical human communities that they espouse. I insistently tell them that such an affirmation should be explicit in the ethical leadership they offer in their professional and ministry settings. Then I usually punctuate my insistence with a slightly overdramatic warning that in actuality I will expect them to develop a much more substantive moral vision for human social relationships and ethical leadership practices than the minimal baseline requirement of a respectful affirmation of human worth and dignity. After reading Vincent W. Lloyd’s Black Dignity: The Struggle Against Domination I have come to realize the wrongheadedness in this warning to my students. Lloyd’s meticulous, in-depth exploration of the ideas and lived politics required for an authentic definition of dignity proves me shamefully mistaken in so dismissively and unilaterally claiming the insufficiency of an ethic that solely attends to human dignity. I am particularly drawn to Lloyd’s analysis of Black love as a crucial contributor to that definition of dignity and how it incorporates the politics of gender and sexuality, although I differ on his deployment of the ideas of Black nationalist Eldridge Cleaver as a useful resource for envisioning Black dignity.
I first want to note how this text startles me over and over again with its skillful art of interpretation of fundamental moral notions that range from benchmark concepts in social and philosophical ethics such as hope, family, and freedom, to its excavation of recent cultural theories of multiculturalism, Afropessimism, and rage. Always in service of illumining the meanings of Black dignity, these concepts are analytically contextualized within Black thought and activism. The conversation between theory and activist practice flows in a synergistic relatedness that demonstrates their complete interdependence and, at times, renders them indistinguishable from each other. A steady unraveling of the meaning of human dignity does not occur in this contextualized Black theory-practice treatment of constituent elements of human dignity. Lloyd veers away from a standard academic mode of engagement to which one might be accustomed. This form of engagement is usually composed of a series of intellectually dismembering critiques that are placed on display. It can leave the reader with the task of trying to knit all of the unraveled concepts back together in order to glimpse the whole of Black dignity as a static social good. Instead, Lloyd creatively reveals Black dignity as social movement work, more precisely, as Black freedom movement work.
The notion of love serves as one example of a core conceptualization that reveals Black dignity. Black love provides evidence of Black dignity, Lloyd argues. I have chosen the example of love because of its ubiquity both in my field of Christian ethics and in the language of activist leaders of several of the contemporary social justice movements I frequent. Declarations about the need for love are often asserted by those leaders as they try to respond to the dire consequences for so many in our communities of proliferating, hate-filled right-wing Christian political agendas. It is difficult to overstate my concern about the ways in which claims of love can function in U.S. public life to diminish attention to abuses of power and sustain a diversity of dangerous Christian hypocrisies, such as in situations of domestic violence, clergy sexual abuse, or idolatrous love of nation used as an excuse to legislatively terrorize transgender children.
In its dynamic reveals of Black dignity, Black love emerges as a struggle for freedom that Lloyd grounds in the message of Martin Luther King, Jr., “a prophet of love” (58), together with ideas from Black power advocates Eldridge Cleaver and George Jackson. Although it primarily focuses on these figures, the chapter on love also analyzes other approaches, such as those from Black feminists Audre Lorde and Alice Walker and Black nationalist activist Assata Shakur, as well as Black feminist bell hooks in other sections of the book. The text presents a range of examples from King accompanied by correctives of simplistic readings of him. The discussion of King enables us to focus on the ways in which Black love requires both the necessary constraints of justice and the primacy of struggling for freedom in order to further the process of Black dignity. I experience relief and deep gratitude for Lloyd’s emphasis on how love talk—especially when King is invoked—can drain away any authentic moral meaning and exasperatingly implant a false sense that political injustices are easily resolved if we just love one another. For King, as Lloyd stresses, justice functions as a necessary corrective dimension of love. The contrast between King’s Christian views and the Black power positions of Cleaver and Jackson are narrated as part of a particular historical context rather than represented as a destructive rivalry. For Cleaver and Jackson, “Black love requires a hard break from wrongly ordered loves” (66) that are rooted in anti-Black racist and capitalist domination.
I experience relief and deep gratitude for Lloyd’s emphasis on how love talk—especially when King is invoked—can drain away any authentic moral meaning and exasperatingly implant a false sense that political injustices are easily resolved if we just love one another.
It is the sexual politics of the “wrongly ordered loves” of Cleaver and others in that 1960s Black nationalist movement that I find extremely troubling. Lloyd bravely engages their sexual politics but may underestimate the misogyny there and how it undermines Black dignity. He points out Cleaver’s focus on White women and his love for his White woman attorney that are articulated in Cleaver’s Soul on Ice and written from his prison cell. As Lloyd explains, Cleaver’s confrontation with how his own loves were disordered involved shifting away from advocating the rape of White women as an important political tool against the White man. For me, Lloyd’s understanding of Cleaver’s assaults as disorder or wrongly ordered love is not a fitting description. I am mindful of how at the beginning of Soul on Ice Cleaver admits to perfecting his technique as a rapist by attacking Black women before he moved on to White women. There is also a long allegorical section at the conclusion of the book with admissions of brutality against Black women by an “Accused” Black man. Simultaneously, in this concluding allegorical section, Black women are depicted as culpable in the abuse they receive because of the multiple ways they supposedly provoke it, such as their alleged love of White men and concerted betrayals of Black men.
Although these examples are not included in Lloyd’s account of the ideas about Black love that Cleaver’s Soul on Ice contributes to Black dignity, they are relevant to the issues of gender, sexual politics, and freedom that he invites us to engage. I am deeply appreciative of the subtle yet profound repudiation of the dignity-denying racism of mass incarceration in how Lloyd compels us to think about freedom through the lenses of someone who is in prison. Cleaver’s perspective may exemplify the struggle for freedom from anti-Black racist and capitalist domination. But it also stresses a certain kind of domination of Black women by maintaining a Black androcentric worldview as freeing. While I must reiterate that Cleaver does eventually disavow rape, I find that I cannot stop thinking about the Black women on whom Cleaver practiced his tactics of rape. I am also stuck on my disdain for the idea that a love letter to a White woman lawyer addresses the impact of the rapes he carried out against White women after practicing on Black women. The significance of the misogyny in Soul on Ice lies not merely in what Cleaver fails to express about his impact on the lives of the women he sexually assaulted, or includes in his portrayal of women as blameworthy for intimate abuse. The consequences stretch beyond the words uttered in Cleaver’s gendered, homophobic rantings about “the Black homosexual” in his critiques of Black novelist and activist James Baldwin. The reinforcement of this misogyny must be interrupted because of the wide influence of this Black manifesto within Black political culture, history, and studies. Lloyd’s discussion of it as a resource for understanding how Black love informs Black dignity motivates me even as I strongly differ on this point. It reminds me of the urgency to interrupt the misogyny in certain iconic Black power paradigms that prove how the personal is so very political when the history of Black thought and activism are constructively engaged.
Cleaver’s perspective may exemplify the struggle for freedom from anti-Black racist and capitalist domination. But it also stresses a certain kind of domination of Black women by maintaining a black androcentric worldview as freeing.
Lloyd’s intellectually provocative and complex social analysis of love will not allow me to stop probing and revisiting an understanding of how freedom practices inform Black dignity movement work. How do we count the gender justice costs in the struggles of that movement work? More importantly, when do we identify some of those costs as too high to be included in the process of how Black love constitutes Black human dignity? These questions represent the kinds of opportunities to wrestle with deep and contextualized meanings of human dignity that I am now excited to centralize in my teaching of ethics. Indeed, I look forward to addressing their wide-ranging gender and sexuality implications in my classes, particularly with my Black and Brown students in a state prison for men where I routinely teach. We often discuss moral conceptualizations in Black thought and activism. Undoubtedly, as we do so, there are opportunities to experiment with how freedom from domination might be embodied in our classroom interactions. Honestly, however, I must admit that I am not sure of the precise steps to take to authentically claim Black human dignity as Black freedom movement work at the center of our theory-practice learning in that male prison space. But I know that the students and I are committed to figuring it out, and I am methodologically inspired by Lloyd’s Black Dignity: The Struggle Against Domination in such a pursuit.
Traci C. West is a scholar-activist serving as James W. Pearsall Professor of Christian Social Ethics and African American Studies at Drew University Theological School (NJ). Her teaching, research, and activism focus on gender, racial, and sexuality justice, particularly related to gender violence. In addition to many articles and book chapters, she is the author of Solidarity and Defiant Spirituality: Africana Lessons on Religion, Racism, and Ending Gender Violence (2019) and Disruptive Christian Ethics: When Racism and Women's Lives Matter (2006). She has also been appointed to the Professor Extraordinarius program of the Institute for Gender Studies in the College of Human Sciences, University of South Africa.
Minneapolis, Minnesota, May 1, 2015. Minneapolis students walked out of school and met at Martin Luther King Jr. park for a protest against police killings of black people. Photo Credit: Fibonacci Blue. Via Flickr. CC BY-2.0.
Vincent W. Lloyd’s Black Dignity: The Struggle against Domination theorizes Black Lives Matter intellectual thought as activists’ pursuit of Black dignity and the ending of domination through a commitment to “dignity as struggle.” In this post, I present four observations about the work: (1) my reading of Black Dignity, (2) reflection on some insights and tensions of the book, (3) discussion of struggle as dignity in relation to Black religious consciousness, and (4) a view of the book’s challenge to readers.
I. One Reading of Black Dignity
Lloyd asserts that “struggle against racial domination is the paradigm of struggle—and Black dignity is the paradigm of dignity” (14). He contends that Black struggle is the preeminent form of struggle against domination. The will of Black people to struggle against the persistence of crushing anti-Blackness expresses dignity; and hence Black struggle is Black dignity. The emergence of this view in #BlackLivesMatter brought a new Black politics and a new political vocabulary. The vocabulary—particularly Black Rage, Black Love, Black Family, Black Futures, and Black Magic—reflects contemporary Black passion for freedom and overcomes the neutralizing, distracting language and busy work of “diversity, multiculturalism, racism, and nonviolence” (viii).
Black Dignity analyzes continuities and discontinuities of pre-#BlackLivesMatter activism with the current movement to identify the usefulness of ancestors’ practices. Selectivity in determining what is useful indicates a connection between intellectual thought and activism, revealing a BLM spirituality of reciprocating critical reflection and practice. The spirituality of Black dignity is a way of living; it seeks congruity of the world with BLM’s continually developing inner visions. Selecting the useful also is a signal of BLM activists’ engagement with diverse spiritual and religious traditions, which continues the legacy bricolage work in Afro-Atlantic ancestors’ religiosity.
II. Some Reflections
The approach of analyzing activists’ words and practices to discern their intellectual contributions is an important methodological practice. In addition to presenting a philosophical reading of BLM intellectual perspectives, Black Dignity offers a survey of the variety of ways BLM participants practice dignity as struggle. Accompanying the new intensity are new practices that centralize aesthetics, imagination, and more as activism. Lloyd is weary of identifying specific goals because ontic goals distract from ontological practice, tend toward reform, and may close or distort visions of the final, not yet imagined, although impossible to achieve, future end to all domination.
The spirituality of Black dignity is a way of living; it seeks congruity of the world with BLM’s continually developing inner visions.
Black Dignity notes women’s prominent BLM leadership and parallels that recognition by including Black women scholars to theorize BLM commitments and practice. In addition to others, Black Dignity draws deeply on Audre Lorde to explicate Black rage and to affirm Black family structures that break apart the nuclear family as the norm for familial intimacy and to release legitimate Black family from patriarchy and respectability’s debilitating restrictions. Some themes of Black Dignity—the quasi-eschatological emphasis on ontological struggle toward an impossibility; the comparability of domination throughout the world from the beginning of time with the traditional western conception of sin; the privileging of “creeds” for establishing Black religious norms—may cause some readers to liken Black Dignity’s theoretical constructions to Christian doctrine. In the latter case, Black Dignity’s argument that Black struggle against domination (actions based on political orientation) contradicts its presentation of Black liberation theology: “This tendency to focus on actions and political orientations rather than creeds left Black liberation theology vulnerable to co-optation during the era of multiculturalism.” (125)
III. Struggle as Dignity and Black Religious Consciousness
There is a similarity in the specific spirituality animating BLM struggle and Black religious consciousness. I understand the origin of Black spirituality to be the legacy of enslaved Africans’ identities as persons in communities that made personhood possible, ubuntu. During the Middle Passage, Africans remembered themselves as persons in communities and encountered that memory as a sense of the sacred during unimaginable horrors. In Ellipsis…The Collected Writings of Charles H. Long, Long suggests, in their imaginations, Africans turned toward the sacred as a defining reality other than the total domination of being chained as not-humans at the bottoms of commercial ships.[1] The intellectual labor of remembering and maintaining conceptions of themselves as persons is central to Black religious consciousness, a disposition sustained and enacted in every objection, every form of resistance, every melody, thought, or gesture that expresses Black personality. Religious consciousness is a sense of the self as inviolable and an arbiter of values in the world, including awareness of one’s deep concerns and ultimate affections. Black religious consciousness includes an oppositional disposition and actions related to anti-Black discourses and practices that inhibit being Black persons in the world. Without and within Black religions—in blues lyrics and performances, in Civil Rights Movement organizing, in objection to the back of the bus, in marching through vicious crowds to integrate schools, in the communal rescue of persons needing support, in refusals to be blamed, in wearing braids and beads—Black people enact the personal and communal virtue of Black religious consciousness every day.
Black Lives Matter mural in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Via Wikimedia Commons.
Black Dignity’s presentation of enacting dignity now by relying on “divine power…manifesting inside” resonates with the sense of the sacred in everyday Black religious consciousness. Black Dignity’s use of Lorde to emphasize the foretaste of freedom and power experienced during struggle with others in love also resonates with William R. Jones’s humanistic theology that affirms the energy generated through intense collaborative action and with the esprit de corps of the Black religious consciousness that many Black women drew on and cultivated during the Civil Rights Movement. Some womanist theologians and Black feminist scholars theorize this often-overlooked relational work of Black women as invisible dignity and unshouted courage (Katie Cannon), an ethic of intragroup social responsibility (Marcia Riggs), and enslaved Black women’s labor of care (Angela Davis). Some Black women religious scholars draw on Alice Walker’s term womanist (identifying courageous, willful, responsible, in charge, serious behaviors) to name their work. Like Black theologies, womanist and other liberation theologies emerged amidst and after mid-20th century resistance movements across the globe to analyze that resistance work. Similar to Lloyd theorizing BLM intellectual thought, much liberationist scholarship is drawn from activism and offers theoretical insights for living faithfully against the grain of domination.
Black religious consciousness includes an oppositional disposition and actions related to anti-Black discourses and practices that inhibit being Black persons in the world. Without and within Black religions Black people enact the personal and communal virtue of Black religious consciousness every day.
Although sometimes over-determined by Christian traditions, liberation thought of the late mid-20th century also pushed down walls of the dominating Christian orthodoxies that purportedly secularized the world, weaponized syncretism to forbid engaging Indigenous traditions, forbade full human communion with Muslims and persons in other traditions, and required respectability practices. Black women excelled in challenging these orthodoxies. Their religious consciousness in historic and contemporary activism and literature often enacts Black women’s religious consciousness as the living-against-the-grain required to pursue free, full, flourishing human life. Related to the dis-ease of Black religious consciousness with dividing life into sacred and secular realms, some contemporary womanist scholarship rejects separation of flourishing human life from living against the grain of domination. This is Tricia Hersey’s assertion in Rest Is Resistance. There is resonance, again, in Black Dignity’s description of flourishing in struggle.
IV. The Kind of Life One Lives
Black Dignity’s assertion that anti-Black racism “is at the center of everything, for everyone” offers an opening to reflect on the kind of life one lives. At a time when grab-all-you-can by any means available is stridently normalized as exemplary, Black Dignity provides a different view of the exemplary: Dignity is the use of intellectual and physical capacities for an ontological purpose. In a world structured by domination, living purposefully requires intense, conscious action with others fueled by rage, love, and family to imagine the end of domination. Although there is no road map—”the deepest kind of flourishing we can experience … cannot be achieved by following certain moral rules or copying certain moral habits” (159)—Black Dignity’s logical reasoning invites us to adopt its view of living. Identifying struggle as accompanying “the deepest kind of flourishing” possible centralizes a type of human thriving that is purposeful, encourages creativity, affirms being in touch with one’s passions (rage and love), takes account of human embodiment as both frail and a host of divine power, and as something that exists in community. If the proposition is accepted that domination has so colored visions of the world that most human time is spent accommodating domination, a central task of the commitment to being free humans is to change that worldview. Domination’s overwhelming hold means, as Lloyd writes, “To see and act rightly, to realize our humanity, we must believe we will be free and struggle to achieve our freedom” (104). The emphasis on “struggle” clarifies the idea of belief as something other than hope (for pie in the sky), because living a life of struggle is directed by the belief that there can be freedom and the sense of the future as intertwined with passionate pursuit of that to which one is ultimately committed.
[1] See Charles H. Long, Ellipsis…The Collected Writings of Charles H. Long, 280. Long writes: “The Middle Passage—chained enslaved Africans in the holds of several ships of every Atlantic maritime nation—is never forgotten by the Africans, neither during slavery nor in freedom. The watery passage of the Atlantic, that fearsome journey, that cataclysm of modernity, has served as a mnemonic structure, evoking a memory that forms the disjunctive and involuntary presence of these Africans in the Atlantic world. From this perspective, religion is not a cultural system, much less rituals or performance, nor a theological language, but an orientation, a basic turning of the soul toward another defining reality.”
Rosetta E. Ross is a professor of religious studies at Spelman College. She pioneered scholarship on religion and U.S. Black women’s activism and was an early proponent of womanist theology. At Spelman, Ross transformed the study of religion from exclusive focus on Christian theology to a diverse religious studies curriculum. Her research explores religious consciousness in Black women’s social action, and Africana women and religions. Author of Witnessing and Testifying: Black Women, Religion, and Civil Rights, co-author of The Status of Racial and Ethnic Clergywomen in the United Methodist Church (with Jung Ha Kim), co-editor of Unraveling and Reweaving Sacred Canon in Africana Womanhood(with Rose Mary Amenga-Etego), Ross is co-PI (with Monique Moultrie) on the Henry Luce Foundation funded Garden Initiative for Black Women’s Religious Activism. Her current research project is Black Religious Consciousness and Women in the NAACP, 1927 to 1979. Ross is founding editor of the peer-reviewed e-journal Black Women and Religious Cultures.
Archbishop Emeritus Desmond Tutu in prayer, 2011. Image via Wikimedia Commons. CC-BY 2.0.
Desmond Tutu was a contemporary biblical prophet who used his prophetic voice to challenge Israel about its horrific treatment of the Palestinian people. Because he spoke in his own Christian and traditional African theological language, I will translate his message into mine: a Jewish version of our shared moral and religious commitments to peace and justice.
Tutu sometimes compared himself to Jeremiah because he could not keep silent in the face of injustice, and colleagues in South Africa believed he had the prophetic style of a man who acted intuitively, but not always consultatively (312). Like the prophets of old, however, he mixed his message of chastisement (you have woefully mistreated the Palestinian people) with a message of comfort (you too deserve safety and security in this land that you share with them). But Tutu was not always careful with his words, calling out the “powerful American Jewish lobby” for example, or failing to appreciate their adamant views about the uniqueness of the Holocaust, and that gave American and Israeli Jewish leaders an excuse to fear and dismiss him. It also gave the right wing the excuse to label him, inaccurately, as an antisemite, to which he replied:
Are you anti-Jewish? Not anti-Semitic. And then, you would have to say the same thing to the biblical prophets—because they were some of the most scathing critics of the Jewish leadership of their day. We don’t criticize Jewish people. We criticize, we will criticize, when they need to be criticized the government of Israel.
And he did so for forty years, from the early 1980s until his death in 2021. Tutu exemplified the patience of a prophet willing to repeat his message as often as necessary, until the government of Israel and its American Jewish supporters listened and changed their ways.
When our people groaned by virtue of the burden of racist oppression, we invoked the God who addressed Moses in the burning bush, we told our people that our God had heard their cry, had seen their anguish, and knew their suffering, and would come down, this great God of exodus, this liberator God as in the past to deliver us as God had delivered Israel from bondage. We told them that God was notoriously biased in favor of those without clout; the poor, the weak, the hungry, the voiceless.
It is that God that, Tutu knew, favored the enslaved over their oppressors, and was therefore also on the side of the Palestinians. Tutu’s theology had no place for the God of the conquest who oversaw the expulsion and destruction of the Indigenous peoples of the land that the Biblical authors claimed they then inhabited and named Israel and Judah, a vision of God that is also rejected by contemporary Jewish liberation theology. It is, unfortunately, the dominant theology of Israel today. This is the starting point of Tutu’s challenge: Israel must recognize the God that is being worshipped in the land today is the God of conquest and not the God of liberation, and that they are not one in the same.
Tutu delivered his message about Palestinian oppression to the Jewish supporters of Israel at the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York after winning the Nobel Peace Prize in 1984 when he said: “I am myself sad that Israel, with the kind of history and traditions her people have experienced, should make refugees of others. It is totally inconsistent with who she is as a people.” In that speech he critiqued not only the Nakba, but also the Sabra and Shatila massacre (when in 1982 in Beirut Christian phalangists murdered Palestinian inhabitants under the watchful eye of Israel’s Defense Forces who did nothing to stop the atrocities) and the barriers Israel set up between the holy places of Jews, Christians, and Muslims in Jerusalem. What Tutu pointed to here foreshadowed the separation wall and the barriers that exist today in Gaza.
In the gentlest of ways, Tutu critiques Jewish American and Israeli leaders for forgetting their own history of suffering, especially during the Holocaust. He contends that these memories should serve as a reminder to not make others suffer in similar ways: making them refugees, being responsible for their murders, creating barriers to their freedom of movement and worship. Translating the message into the language of Jewish ethical tradition, I would rely here on Hillel’s retort to the person who challenged him to explain the Torah while standing on one foot: “What is hateful to you, do not do to another—all the rest is commentary” (Shabbat 31a). From a Jewish ethical standpoint, I would add a longer list of hateful things that Tutu did not mention in detail:
The seizing and destruction of Palestinian property (whole villages in 1948, houses and olive trees consistently since then), as was done to the Jews most dramatically on Kristallnacht and consistently thereafter.
Intimidation expressed via epithets: “death to the Arabs” / “no dogs or Jews allowed.”
Random acts of cruelty and humiliation perpetrated by soldiers, Israeli and Nazi.
Bureaucratic harassment (identity documents and permits, border crossings delayed or not allowed, passports destroyed).
Encouraging traitors (Palestinian informers and Jewish Capos).
Separation walls and prison-like conditions in Gaza not unlike German work camps.
Golda Meir blaming Arabs for making young Jewish men into killers; Nazis blaming Jews for all of Germany’s problems.
What was hateful to the Jewish people, Israel has done to the Palestinians.
When Tutu made a Christmas pilgrimage to the Holy Land sites in the occupied West Bank in 1989 he also visited Yad Vashem (the Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem), which, according to Roni Arieli is required by Israeli protocol for all diplomats coming to Israel for the first time. He described his response in his book, No Future Without Forgiveness:
I visited the Holy Land over Christmas 1989 and had the privilege during that visit of going to Yad Vashem, the Holocaust museum in Jerusalem. When the media asked me for my impressions, I told them it was a shattering experience. I added that the Lord whom I served, who was himself a Jew, would have asked, ‘But what about forgiveness?’ That remark set the cat among the pigeons. I was roundly condemned. (267)
Tutu’s prophetic and Christian vision required the next step: forgiveness. This was the key to the Truth and Reconciliation process he oversaw in South Africa and was deeply embedded in the teachings of Jesus (the Lord whom he served) and in the African traditional concept of ubuntu (compassion, humanness rather than victimization or turning the tables). Tutu was willing to allow that Jews were not able to forgive the Nazis, but as a prophet he needed to raise that possibility. And, it appears, except for the likes of Simon Wiesenthal and his followers, Jews (and particularly the Israeli government) have certainly forgiven the Germans.
I understand this through the lens of the Jewish ethical principle of teshuvah, the concept of return and repentance. Teshuvah is the central act performed on Yom Kippur. Jews are instructed to go over the ways they have missed the mark (often mistranslated as sin) and make restitution. If the error was against God, prayer and fasting will clear the record. If the error was against another human, one must ask forgiveness, and, according to tradition, make restitution. For Jews and Germans this has been well accomplished. Germany has apologized, made reparations where possible, financially supported Israel, made antisemitism a crime, and created memorials to the Holocaust in almost every city. It is clear that this history will be remembered. What Germany has not done is pay attention to the fact that they exist in a moral triangle, as Sa’ed Atshan and Katharina Galor point out in their book of that title. For while Germany has modeled teshuvah for Israel, they have not acknowledged the harm that the Holocaust set in motion that was the Nakba. This is a clear limitation on their expression of teshuvah, which in traditional Judaism is only complete when, given the opportunity, one don’t repeat one’s error.
Germany’s teshuvah, despite its limitations, could at least be a starting point for truth and reconciliation in Israel/Palestine. It must begin with Israel ending the occupation so they can begin the act of doing teshuvah: acknowledging the harms they have done to the Palestinian people, making reparations that allow for the literal “teshuvah,” or return of the Palestinians to their land, providing real financial restitution, ending acts and words of hate, correcting the historical record so that it won’t be forgotten, and being open to a different iteration of a one state solution which exists today, as Judith Butler pointed out many years ago, in abject form.
Can Tutu’s prophetic dream of peace and justice for Israelis and Palestinians come to be? Can Palestinians forgive if Israel does teshuvah? If violent and non-violent solutions have failed, perhaps what is needed is leadership, on both sides, of men and women with the religious values, moral clarity, and courage of Desmond Tutu to lead the way.
Cathedral of Notre Dame, Bangui, Central African Republic, March 2018. Image courtesy of the author.
I owe a special debt of gratitude to Marie-Claire Klassen, Emmanuel Ojeifo, William Orbih, Jason Springs, Cecilia Lynch, and Todd Whitmore for taking the time to read and respond to my Who Are My People?: Love, Violence, and Christianity in Sub-Saharan Africa in this book symposium. I am deeply touched and encouraged not only by their responses, but by the many wonderful things they each have said about Who Are My People? They each have made a number of interesting observations about the uniqueness, strengths, and accomplishments of the book. I treasure these very much. The discussants also raise some important critical issues and observations. I treasure these too and take them very seriously. I would have loved to respond to all the issues raised by each of the discussants. However, given the limitations of this forum and space, all I can say is that I will continue to think and reflect on these issues, and hopefully attend to them in some of my future work. Here, however, I can briefly highlight and respond to five key issues—theological portraiture, genre, justice, gender, and the overall structure of the book—that seem to cut across the submissions of the symposium.
Theological Portraiture
The first issue regards the methodology of theological portraiture that I employ in Who Are My People, which has been commented on by all the theologians in the discussion: Klassen, Ojeifo, Orbih, and Whitmore. While noting my debts to Sara Lawrence Lightfoot and Jessica Hoffmann Davis in developing this methodology, the discussants note the uniqueness, freshness, and effectiveness of this methodology for doing theology. Indeed, Klassen rightly points out that one unique way that I employ this methodology in Who Are My People? is to include a theological portrait of myself. That I do so is not simply the outworking of the “narrative” approach, which Whitmore rightly traces to the important influence of Stanley Hauerwas on my thinking, but also reflects a fundamental theological conviction. In my previous work, Born from Lament: The Theology and Politics of Hope in Africa, I noted the task of theology is to “give an account of hope” (1 Peter 3:15) and that responding to this invitation requires taking seriously autobiography as an essential aspect of the theological task. Others (e.g. Mclendon, Dickinkson ) have made a similar point coming from a different angle.
Whitmore raises serious critical issues regarding my use of portraiture, which revolves around the dangers of crossing disciplinary boundaries. Is it possible, he asks, “to be at the same time a theologian and a cultural anthropologist?” Whitmore points out that from the point of view of a cultural anthropology and qualitative sociology, the kind of research in Who Are My People cannot be recognized as valid ethnographic research (my claims notwithstanding) because it suffers from inherent “confirmation bias.” For Whitmore that is of course the fundamental aim and primary achievement of the book, namely to turn what cultural anthropologists and sociologists may view as a vice (confirmation bias) into a virtue, and thus offer empirical grounds for hope. My takeaway from Whitmore’s important discussion is that while the theologian should not shy away from employing ethnographical methods and research tools, she should never seek to be, and in any case will never be fully recognized as, a cultural anthropologist. On the other hand, the theologian should never feel that she has to give sociology or cultural anthropology a privileged position. She is a theologian, and theology is itself a form of sociology. Her goal in remaining unapologetically theological even as she learns from and employs social scientific tools and methods, is to develop and articulate a unique, Christian anthropology or sociology. As a unique form of Christian sociology, theology’s goal is, as John Milbank reminds us, to “tell again the Christian mythos, pronounce again the Christian logos, and call again for Christian praxis in a manner that restores their freshness and originality” (381). This is what I try to do in Who Are My People?
The Question of Genre
A second, but closely related issue of methodology is the question of genre. Klassen highlights the significance of closing the book with a sermon. This genre is not one that is typically deployed in academic work. It may of course be that ending the book with a sermon simply confirms my own idiosyncratic identity as a scholar and as a priest (preaching is what priests do, after all). However, as Klassen rightly notes, ending the book in this way is an invitation to consider the issue of identity not only in terms of its sociological dimensions, but also its spiritual and practical dimensions. She also notes how the sermon points to the significance of “friendship” across divides, which is the goal of the journey of identity, i.e. to embrace and expand a new sense of “we” in the world. Beyond this, however, concluding the book with a sermon is in line with the tonality of the entire book, which is homiletic. One reason behind this is that I have come to increasingly understand theology as a form of preaching. This is consistent with the view of the early Fathers of the Church, for whom the sermon was the primary genre of theological exploration. This is because early Fathers of the Church rightly understood theology as an exercise in the imatatio Christi: an invitation to “re-enact and instigate others to re-enact Jesus the Nazarene the Christ.” In this connection, Orbih rightly notes the deep affinity between my work and Whitmore’s Imitating Christ at Magwi). But this is also the reason why “missiology” (as Ojeifo rightly notes) is at the forefront of Who Are My People? as it should be for every theological enterprise.
Emmanuel Katogole with Bernard Kinvi, whose story and work is featured in Chapter 4 of Who Are My People? Image courtesy of the author.
The Issue of Justice
A third critical issue has to do with the question of justice. Springs notes that while the portraits I provide in Who are My People expose the logic of love and suffering, they do not explicitly engage the question of justice. Klassen asks” “How does a theology of justice intersect with an excess of love?” Both wanted to see a more explicit engagement with the question of justice. True, an explicit engagement with the notion of justice could have offered a more robust display of the transforming power of love. Love not only redefines the meaning of justice, but it also heals and restores (in its form as restorative justice) the wounds of violence. That is why the dichotomy between love and justice, or between love and power, or between justice and mercy (forgiveness) is a false dichotomy. Like Martin Luther King Jr. (as cited by Springs), I work with the assumption that the logic of the cross transforms both power and justice, both justice and mercy, into the reconciling love of God. While I did not explicitly state this, I offered portraits that serve as both the argument and evidence of this truth. Take the case of Maggy, whose story is about the power of love to make her both a “rebel” and an “inventor.” It is the “excess of love” that shaped in her the character of what Springs might, following Villa-Vincencio, recognize as Parrhesia, i.e., frank and fearless speech. What the story of Maggy helps to confirm, however, is that more than a form of speech, Parrhesia is a virtuous form of engagement, an ongoing praxis and struggle with and on behalf of wounded humanity. That is what the search for justice looks like.
The Role of Gender
The observation is related to the question of gender. Ojeifo rightly notes that because women are so often the target and victims of violence in Africa, an analysis of gender is necessary for understanding the reality of violence in Africa. Klassen also rightly notes that feminist and womanist theologians (Delores Williams, Shawn Copeland, Dorothee Sölle, and others) would serve as enriching dialogue partners. Not only have they been attentive to the question of suffering, but they have also consistently upheld the image of God as justice (see earlier). Moreover, in their resistance to the structures of injustice in their communities, African women activists confirm that another world, a different Africa, is possible. Lynch raises another important point in relation to African women theologians (Musa Dube, Isabel Phiri, and others), namely their attentiveness to the spirit world, and their willingness to explore other, non-Christian spiritualities, especially the healing and reconciling possibilities within African native spiritualities. All these observations suggest that a gendered perspective and engagement with women scholars would greatly enrich my work. I take this recommendation seriously and will engage more explicitly with some women’s voices from the Circle for Concerned African Women Theologians in my current research project on land and ecology.
The Book’s Structure
A final issue relates to the structure of the book. Whereas many note the compelling structure of the book, Lynch wonders whether the book could not have been better served if the ecological crisis had been foregrounded in it. In this reorganization, the book would begin with the ecological crisis and then move to a discussion of “religion” and “ethnicity,” not the other way around. Doing so, Lynch suggests, would resolve an apparent tension (ambivalence) in the book’s discussion of indigeneity. Whereas Lynch’s point may seem to have some validity, given the autobiographical dimension of the book, it is only more recently (I must confess) that I have started paying attention to issues of land and ecology. Moreover, it is only by doing so that I am rediscovering the deep roots of my own identity in the “soil,” and with this, the rich resources of African native spiritualities in attending to the ecological crisis. As I reflect on these through my work and engagement with Bethany Land Institute, I see more clearly the relation between the ecological crisis and other forms of violence. I am therefore hoping that my current research project, entitled Sowing Hope: Ecology, Integral Human Development and Theological Peacebuilding, will be an opportunity to work out the practical, spiritual, and peacebuilding dimensions of identity that take the issues of land, soil, and community seriously.
I conclude by thanking the co-directors and staff of the Contending Modernities Project at Notre Dame, who sponsored the research of Who are My People (as part of the Authority, Community & Identity in Africa research focus). A special word of thanks to Dania Straughan, the program manager, who organized the book launch, and to Joshua Lupo, the editor of the CM blog, for hosting this symposium.
Katongole, a Catholic priest ordained by the Archdiocese of Kampala, is a core faculty member of the Kroc Institute for International Peace Studies. Previously, he has served as associate professor of theology and world Christianity at Duke University, where he was the founding co-director of the Duke Divinity School’s Center for Reconciliation. He is the author of books on political theology, the Christian social imagination, and Christian approaches to justice, peace, and reconciliation. His most recent book is Who Are My People: Love, Violence and Christianity in Subsaharan Africa (2022).
Father Toussaint Kafahire in audience with Pope Francis in the DRC. He presents a painting to the pope in this image. Courtesy of the author.
This piece is co-published with the Critical Investigations into Humanitarianism in Africa blog
Pope Francis’s long-awaited trip to the Democratic Republic of Congo and South Sudan finally occurred from January 31 to February 3, 2023. It had been long in the making. On November 23, 2017, the pope had offered a prayer mass for peace in South Sudan and the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC). The opening words of his homily were: “In prayer, we want to sow seeds of peace in the lands of South Sudan and the DRC, and in all lands devastated by war.” On November 1, 2022, almost five years after that prayer for peace and reconciliation, Pope Francis gathered African youth from different Catholic universities online for an hour and a half synodal encounter. During that conversation, addressing a question by a Congolese student from Goma, Pope Francis laughed at the rumor that he had gotten scared by the war that broke out near Goma, in the eastern province of North Kivu, where he was supposed to stop during his visit. But he confirmed his resolve to visit both the Congo and the South Sudan in late January and February 2023. Visiting these two countries had obviously been on his mind for a long time. So, finally realizing his desire, Pope Francis brought to the Congolese, as well as to the Southern Sudanese, a powerful message of love, peace, and reconciliation.
The Joy of Welcome
Tens of thousands of people cheered as Pope Francis crossed the city of Kinshasa, a distance that Congolese might take three to four hours to cover on normal days, due to heavy traffic jams. It was a unique moment in the history of the DRC. The last time a pope had traveled to the DRC was in 1985. I was 12 years old. Close to forty years later, Pope Francis had made it happen again. Hence, the emotion of the Congolese nation was expressed along the more than 27 kilometers that his papamobile traveled from Ndjili international airport to the Palais de la Nation where President Felix Tshisekedi was waiting for him. Crowds of faithful Catholics came with flags, drums, whistles, banners, and other instruments to express their joy of welcoming Pope Francis to the DRC. The pope had surely heard of the controversial ban issued by the municipality to prohibit ordinary people from displaying their items for sale along the road on the day of his arrival. The majority of the Congolese people sell small, cheap items, anything really to get by on a daily basis. Contrasting the everyday palpable poverty with this circumstantial euphoria, the pope must have been moved, remembering that crowd that moved Jesus for they were like sheep without a shepherd (Mt 9:36). Except that the ambiance was a celebration of something indefinable.
General audience with Pope Francis. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
In Goma, however, security conditions had worsened as M23 rebels were fighting for God knows for what. Initially, people believed that this revival of violence in eastern Congo was designed to dissuade the pope from coming. There could be some truth to that. Wars in the DRC are indeed fought at several levels, and the control for the image, the information, and the framing of the issue is something that those with high stakes in the destabilization of the Congo do not intend to lose. Given that the pope’s visit would highlight hard truths about these “fabricated” wars, the resumption of the war in June 2022 was interpreted as a calculated move to bar the pope from traveling to the DRC and by the same token from getting the world to focus on the Congo.
Instead, despite the conflict, the entire Congolese nation was overjoyed when the pope arrived, transcending at least momentarily any differences. He is one of the first global leaders, if not the first, to brave the stereotypes and the danger—imagined or real—of visiting the DRC. The pope’s presence in the Congo was sending the message to the Congolese people that we matter, at least to someone of that importance. Our joy was also an expression of gratitude that someone finally respected us as human beings, treated us as such, and came to visit despite the isolation, bans, and other forms of discrimination that the international community has put on the DRC.
The core message of Pope Francis in the DRC can be summarized in his introductory words in response to Felix Tshisekedi’s welcoming remarks. His audience was composed of members of the government, leaders of the civil society, other religious faiths, as well as diplomatic authorities. He told president Tshisekedi, and through him the Congolese nation, that he had “come to you, in the name of Jesus, as a pilgrim for reconciliation and peace.” Indeed, the motto of his entire trip reads, “All reconciled in Jesus Christ,” which for him, was intended as an expression of love towards all, albeit expressed in Christian terminology, and an indication that his purpose was spiritual and pastoral (rather than political), “I have greatly desired to be here, and now at last I have come to bring you the closeness, the affection and the consolation of the entire Church.” Obviously, Pope Francis understands the role of the “Vicar of Christ” and the mission of the Church as a continuation of Christ’s mission to bring God closer to humanity; that is, to reconcile a sinful and estranged humanity with the Creator. Pope Francis had set out from the Vatican to deliver this message of reconciliation and peace to the Congolese and the South Sudanese whose recent histories have been characterized by wars, violence, and death.
Indeed, since the end of the previous world order characterized by the Cold War and subsequent Cold peace, the Congo has become a theater of neoliberal plunder, where global and regional powers are vying for the control of its vast natural resources. To do so, the sovereignty of the country and its people must be weakened through a ghost army incapable of defending territorial integrity and protecting its own citizens. This state of permanent violence has left many local communities destroyed, millions of women raped, and a nation dazed and confused. Addressing these conditions on a symbolic spiritual level, especially when proposed political solutions have proved ineffective, is also necessary as much scholarship shows.
The Church has to embody the expression of the nearness of God, especially to those who suffer the most, those who are exploited, marginalized, and whose fundamental human dignity is violated and denied. Drawing from the Jesuit outlook since the Second Vatican Council, and the new awareness that ensued in the 1970s about the mission to promote faith that does justice, Pope Francis proclaimed the gospel where it is most needed. The Church in the world ought to take seriously its role of being the “salt of the earth and the light of the world” (Mt 5: 13-16), the yeast that ferments (Mt 13:31-33) the dough of social transformation.
Speaking Historical Truth
Pope Francis had strong words on his arrival, lambasting western powers that continue the colonial regime of plunder and exploitation of natural resources of the Congo at the expense of the Congolese population. In the history of the Congo, the people have been oppressed at different moments by different masters. The Portuguese slave trade in the beginning. Then the late nineteenth century western colonization. And now, a neocolonial system of predation that still operates behind a smokescreen, using proxy Africans who understand very little about how they are not serving the cause of Africa’s emancipation. The Church itself was part, if not the instrument, of this colonial violence. As V. Y. Mudimbe has noted, however, the presence of missionaries also at times helped soften “the harshness of European impact on the indigenous peoples whose lands were invaded and exploited” (45–46). The colonial Church was more socially paternalistic and less politically critical of the colonial brutalities in the Congo. In the 1950s and 1960s, however, as an indigenous clergy was coming of age, and as the theology of inculturation sought to articulate the best way of being authentically African and Christian, the African Catholic Church started addressing the lacunae of the missionary theology by denouncing the deviations of power. Where Belgian missionaries failed to denounce colonial brutalities, for the sake of patriotism, Cardinal Malula became vocal against the abusive power by President Mobutu in the 1970s. In line with a powerful and vocal local Catholic clergy, Pope Francis could echo the struggle of the Conference of Catholic Bishops (CENCO), telling the west:
… this country [the DRC] and this continent [Africa] deserve to be respected and listened to; they deserve to find space and receive attention: Hands off the Democratic Republic of the Congo! Hands off Africa! Stop choking Africa: it is not a mine to be exploited nor a terrain to be plundered. May Africa be the protagonist of its destiny! May the world acknowledge the catastrophic things that were done over the centuries to the detriment of local peoples, and not forget this country and this continent. May Africa, the smile and hope of the world, count for more. May it be spoken of more frequently, and have greater weight and representation among nations!
Pope Francis reminded the Congolese people that our lives are more precious than all the diamonds that can be extracted from our land. He then met with survivors from the war-torn eastern part of the country, and he condemned the massacres, the rapes, and the destruction of villages. Indeed, these first words of Pope Francis on Congolese soil were very moving, very refreshing, and very significant. I do not recall any leader of such stature addressing the Congolese people with such kindness, respect, love, and compassion. Never before had a leader of the world shown that much empathy and consideration toward the Congolese. And more important, no one has acknowledged the efforts of the Congolese people like Pope Francis to pull the nation together, and to dream of a future that is more humane and more dignifying.
A Personal Audience
On the second day of the pope’s visit, after meeting with the youth and catechists at the stadium, he gave a private audience to some 40 young people from the Catholic Universities in the country. He had already met with some of them online on November 1, 2022. During that meeting, the young people handed a memo to the pope in which they requested that he amplify their voice in the international community by asking for a special penal tribunal for the crimes committed in the Congo. They also requested that Pope Francis speak to Congolese authorities to release prisoners whose cases have not received justice.
The author in a personal audience with Pope Francis. Image courtesy of the author.
In turn, the pope told the students some profound truths about what it means to live a meaningful life. “Your life must be rooted in love,” he told them. “Without love, life is meaningless.” He went on to explain the three kinds of love that are absolute and non-negotiable. The first type concerns the love of God, the second the love of one’s own mother, and the third is the love of one’s homeland. Strange! Isn’t it? Pope Francis elevated the love of one’s motherland on a par with the love of God and the love of one’s mother. Obviously, this is a subversive understanding of the Torah, which states the love of God to be first and of the neighbor to be second (see also, Mt 22:37-39). Equally important, adds the pope, is the civic love for one’s motherland, which includes protection of the environment and improvement of social arrangements towards greater justice. Extrapolating the religious and biblical importance of the love of God and of one’s parents (as progeny and identity come through the mother’s role as the one who gives birth and the one who looks after the education of the children), Pope Francis introduces this third element which consists of the love of the motherland. This is extremely symbolic, especially in the context of the Congo, a land that is violated and betrayed even by its own sons and daughters. It was unheard of before that patriotism could match spiritual love.[1]
Now we have a tryptic of love entailing the religious love of God, the cultural love of one’s mother, and the civic love that nurtures the responsibility to fulfill the common good in politics. Indeed, Pope Francis was simply reaffirming what he already said in several places, that though often denigrated, “politics remains a lofty vocation and one of the highest forms of charity, inasmuch as it seeks the common good. We need to be convinced that charity “is the principle not only of micro-relationships (with friends, with family members or within small groups) but also of macro-relationships (social, economic and political ones). I beg the Lord to grant us more politicians who are genuinely disturbed by the state of society, the people, the lives of the poor!” (Evangelii Gaudium, para. 205, the emphasis is mine). That tryptic of love is the secret to living a meaningful life with God and the ancestors within one’s homeland. Of course, this love for the homeland cannot be reduced to nationalistic chauvinism that excludes others, especially foreigners.
The author in a personal audience with Pope Francis. Image courtesy of the author.
Pope Francis had, indeed, understood the drama of the Congolese people as the result of a system of plunder, violence, and subjugation that was set in place since the early encounter with the west. But he also reminded the young Catholics in this private and intimate conversation that the Congolese too bear responsibility for what is happening to the country. In fact, letting others get involved either as saviors of your situation (i.e., the East African Community) or the crux of the problem (Rwanda and Uganda) is the first indicator of that national irresponsibility. In other words, the degree of blame for what is happening is shared between the Congolese elite and those foreign predators who have a stranglehold on the Congo’s resources. Selling out and prostituting one’s motherland is as sinful as betraying the “absolute love” of God and of the mother. In other words, genuine love for one’s country can open young people up to political careers, which, if done with love, becomes the highest form of charity.
Congolese Beauty; Congolese Hospitality
Pope Francis had set the tone for his message to the world from Congolese land on the very day of his arrival in Kinshasa. At the Palais de la Nation, he defined the framework within which he sought to relate to the Congolese situation on the ground. Neither a confrontation nor a denunciation, but rather a proclamation. About the beauty of the country. Its ecosystem. It’s natural wealth. Despite being a jewel of the earth, a diamond for the world, the diaphragm of Africa, the history of the Congo has been and still is harsh on its people. As a prophet, the pope reminded the Congolese people to embody the spirit of the national anthem: “to build through hard work . . . a country more beautiful than ever before, and in peace.” The pope reminded these authorities of what he saw. “In the case of this people, one has the impression that the international community has practically resigned itself to the violence devouring it.”
Pope Francis’s effect is an important revival of our way of being Christians in the 21st century. Pope Francis has amazed the world because he has helped us, in the last 10 years of his papacy, to think of religion differently. It’s not a set of moral rules and principles to be observed. Religion—like every form of education for that matter—is about training and reforming consciences. It’s about being present to one’s time and getting involved to change the world. He is aware of the wounds inflicted by the Church on humanity, both during colonization and today. His campaign, therefore, is also to reconcile the Church with its own past, which necessarily calls for humility. Pope Francis, for instance, also surprised the world by stating that the Vatican was willing to return stolen indigenous artifacts to their rightful communities.
As far as his trip and message to the DRC are concerned, I believe he spoke in front of the world to amplify the hushed voices of the marginalized. He noted, “We cannot grow accustomed to the bloodshed that has marked this country for decades, causing millions of deaths that remain mostly unknown elsewhere. What is happening here needs to be known. The current peace processes, which I greatly encourage, need to be sustained by concrete deeds, and commitments should be maintained.” In public opinion and social media, the Congolese people showed that they felt vindicated that someone of that stature, an important international leader, finally spoke the truth about their predicament. They experienced the closeness of a powerful leader who not only denounced the western political hypocrisy but also acknowledged the African human worth and authentic spiritual wisdom.
[1] For many years, indeed, if not millennia, the Pauline theology that our citizenship is in heaven (Philippians 3:20) and that we should yearn for and worry about heavenly things is also slowly changing in interpreting social realities. I wouldn’t go as far as to say that Pope Francis’s invitation to patriotic love has a closeness in tone with the Weberian argument that the Protestant ethic potentially bolstered Christians to attend to this-worldly business. Nevertheless, Pope Francis’s background in Latin America and liberation theology might explain his attitude towards politics, society, and the love of one’s motherland as a spiritual commitment.
Toussaint Kafarhire Murhula, S.J., PhD, is a Jesuit priest, poet, theologian, social scientist, and certified Executive Coach. A native from the Democratic Republic of Congo, he studied international relations at Loyola University Chicago; ethics and social theories at the Jesuit School of Theology of Santa Clara University, in Berkeley, California; African Theology at Hekima University College in Nairobi (Kenya); and philosophy at the Facultés Saint Pierre Canisius, in Kinshasa (DRC). He is a member of several international associations and serves in leadership position as the Africa Region coordinator of the Catholic Theologians and Ethicists in World Church (CTEWC), Vice President of the African Studies Association of Africa (ASAA), member of the CIHA blog (Critical Investigations into Humanitarianism in Africa), and the Pan-African Theology and Pastoral network. He currently lives and teaches political science at the Université Loyola du Congo (ULC) in Kinshasa.
It is tempting to think of telling stories as the opposite of deep philosophical or theological reflection. Stories, after all, deal in the particularities and contingencies of lives, whereas philosophical and theological reflection deal in universals. In Who Are My People: Love, Violence, and Christianity in Sub-Saharan Africa, Emmanuel Katongole claims that “reality is constituted through stories,” which he rightly notes is a metaphysical claim (173). For this reason, we (that is scholars) cannot access peoples’ reality by positing abstract theories about it, but can only do so by listening to the stories they tell about themselves and those around them. We cannot, in other words, act in a top-down manner, explaining the lives of people only with scientific, sociological, or psychological theories. We must plant our feet on the same ground as those we write about if our desire is to truly understand them. This leads Katongole to adopt, borrowing from Sara Lawrence Lightfoot and Jessica Hoffman Davis, a method of analysis called “theological portraiture.” This method, importantly, entails not only “listening to a story,but [also] listening for a story” (Katongole, 7, emphasis in original).
Katongole listens not only to the stories people tell, but listens for the patterns enfolded within them, and the larger tapestry those patterns make up. In doing so, he weaves a story—which is sometimes also autobiographical—about the necessity of Christian love to act as a remedy to the violence in sub-Saharan Africa, a violence which more often than not stems from the earlier violence of European colonialism and modernity. In weaving this story, Katongole does not reject all theory. In the first two chapters of the book, he draws on significant figures in critical research on Africa to demonstrate how racism and colonialism were initiated on the continent by European powers, and how these features remain present even after the era of formal colonialism ended. These theories, however, are used to frame the portraits that Kantongole wants to paint, rather than to act as centerpieces themselves.
Following these opening chapters, Katongole reveals in intimate detail the devastation of violence in sub-Saharan Africa by listening to the stories of others. He recounts narratives from the Rwandan genocide, the political turmoil of the Central African Republic, and the challenges of climate change and ecological violence in Uganda. Katongole finds much to despair about in these contexts where violence has led people to, at times, turn on their own countrymen and countrywomen. Yet, he does not allow himself to be drowned in this despair. Rather, buoyed by the people he encounters who have sought to provide refuge from this violence, he is able to find a message of hope. Katongole’s answer to: Who are my people? is found in overcoming the logic of the national, ethnic, and racial division in favor of a Christian reconfiguration of identity into “God’s new people.” Here the earthly markers of identity are not transcended (in supersessionist fashion). Instead, they are reoriented by love into a “recognizable community, a social body whose unique mission and membership cuts across, not just mystically but concretely and visibly, the boundaries of race, ethnicity, tribe, and nation” (44).
The contributions to the symposium take up Katongole’s book in a variety of ways. Todd Whitmore asks how we should classify the genre of Katongole’s book: Is it an ethnography? A theological treatise? Or a confession? Or some combination of these? And what difference does it make to settle on one (or none) of these? Marie Claire-Klassen likewise explores the genre of the book, focusing especially on its structure in the first half of her response. In the second part of her contribution, Klassen suggests that Katongole’s work would benefit from engagement with feminist and womanist theologians, who draw our attention to the importance of considerations of justice in addition to love. Jason Springs, another contributor to this symposium, is also invested in the concept of justice. Springs places Katongole’s book into conversation with Charles Villa-Vincencio to bring into stronger relief the complementary role of justice in relation to love that is necessary when a society recovers from conflict. Cecelia Lynch, meanwhile, draws on her own experience working in different African contexts to reflect on the history of missionizing work in its countries. She also does so to point to the necessity of prioritizing Indigenous cosmologies and epistemologies when confronting the climate crisis in Africa and around the world.
The final two responses focus on identity. In his contribution, William Orbih reminds us that the people’s stories Kantongole recounts in the book are not the stories of saints, but rather the stories of witnesses to the possibility of a Christianity community that is oriented beyond the signifiers of race, ethnicity, and nationality. In doing so, Orbih shows, Katongole reveals “new frontiers” in Christian theological discourse. Emmanuel Ojeifo likewise explores identity, noting that for Kantongole identity is not a theoretical, but a practical matter, one that orients the everyday lives of Africans. Ojeifo, like Klassen, also wonders what a more robust accounting of gender might have added to Katongole’s book.
Across these responses, the contributors engage religion not as part of the private, inner world of beliefs, but rather as part of the public and political work of social practices and narratives. In doing so, they reveal the folly of the secular bias in political theories which would relegate religion to a secondary role in political life. Katongole’s book reminds us why the segregation of religion in our intellectual, political, and social imaginaries not only fails to grasp the reality of the violent situations in which people find themselves, but also cuts us off from imaginaries that might envision new ways beyond them.
Joshua S. Lupo is the Assistant Director of the Contending Modernities research initiative. In this role, he serves as the editor and writer for the Contending Modernities Blog and the classroom coordinator for the Madrasa Discourses program. He has published articles and reviews in Sophia, Soundings, Critical Muslim, Reading Religion, and Religious Studies Review. With CM Co-Director Atalia Omer, he is the co-editor of Broken Solidarities: Feminism, Race, and Transnationalism (Notre Dame Press, 2022) and Religion, Populism, and Modernity: Confronting White Christian Nationalism and Racism (Notre Dame Press, 2023). His current book project is titled After Essentialism: A Critical Phenomenology for the Study of Religion.
Screenshot from Paradise Lost. Used with permission of director.
This conversation was born out of Mara Ahmed and Shirly Bahar’s rapport and friendship over the past 3 years. In November, they were invited by their friend and interlocutor, Santiago Slabodsky, to discuss and show their work at Hofstra University. This is a continuation of that conversation, extending what transpired between them in person and in writing, and further elaborating on their ideas about the links between Palestine, Mizrahi Jews, and the imperial politics of color. The image and concept of the injured body capture these connections.
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Mara Ahmed: As an activist filmmaker, I attempt to spark discussions across differences and boundaries. Whether addressing anti-Muslim racism, the partition of India, or political questions related to the so-called War on Terror, I’ve relied on vox pops to gather public opinions and complicate interviews featured in my documentaries, as well as the dialogue that occurs naturally between film and audience.
In 2017, I gave a Tedx talk about colonial borders, the making of nation-states, and the absurdity of fixed national identities that flatten human multiplicities. The title of my talk, The Edges that Blur, was inspired by Adrienne Rich’s poetry. In Your Native Land, Your Life, she understands pain as a cudgel that maintains divisions but also as a bond that enables reconnection:
remember: the body’s pain and the pain on the streets
are not the same but you can learn
from the edges that blur O you who love clear edges
more than anything watch the edges that blur
I became more invested in this pairing of “the body’s pain” and “the pain on the streets,” as I began work on The Injured Body, a film project activated by Claudia Rankine’s Citizen: An American Lyric, a stunning book of poetry that stitches together narrative prose, art, and politics. As Jonathan Farmer notes in his review, the book traces Black people’s lived, deeply embodied experiences of racial microaggressions and “the ways in which the harm done by language turns to flesh, enduring at an almost cellular level.”
Rankine’s book encouraged me to document racism in America by focusing on microaggressions, what Cathy Park Hong describes as “minor feelings” or “the racialized range of emotions that are negative, dysphoric, and therefore untelegenic, built from the sediments of everyday racial experience and the irritant of having one’s perception of reality constantly questioned or dismissed” (55).
I interviewed 17 women of color to discuss the cumulative effects of relentless microaggressions and their impact on our bodies and collective breath. The body is central. Since breath is also the gateway to expressivity in movement, I worked closely with Mariko Yamada and Rosalie “Daystar” Jones to choreograph a complementary narrative told through dance.
Unpacking messy entanglements and negotiations of Palestinians and Mizrahim with Zionism and Israel, the documentaries [examined in this book] politicize pain… The documentary performances of Palestinians and Mizrahim convey what Zionism and Israel look like on their skins, scalps, and faces, and sound like in their voices, speeches, and silences, portraying the structures of feeling of their pain. (2-3)
For me as a reader, there were countless such moments of recognition. And so I must start by asking you, Shirly, to tell us the story of how you came to write this incredible book.
Shirly Bahar: Documentary Cinema in Israel-Palestine is primarily anchored in three watershed moments that shifted how we view and talk about Palestine. The first moment is the early 2000s. In my book, I characterized the wave of documentaries by and about Palestinians and Mizrahim mostly living in 1948 Palestine/Israel that came out during the first decade of the 2000s, especially since 2002. Then, there is the present moment—the moment of the reception of the book. This moment in the making is a time of collective reflection on how representations of Palestine/Israel are in flux: I am thinking especially of the discourse shift we have been seeing since May 2021, when global solidarity with the Palestinian resistance to Israeli attacks outpoured on social media, at times infiltrating mainstream media too. And finally, there was the year 2014, when I wrote much of this book. Non-coincidentally, that moment of heightened awareness about how our movements have been connecting and relating to each other across struggles, and showing solidarity globally for a very long time, inspired my writing.
In the time between 2014 and now, I have been carried by hopeful pulls tightening the theoretical understandings and human bonds between those who are leading struggles for liberation around the world. One such major pull emanated from the uprising in Ferguson, Missouri, in 2014, and the official founding of the Black Lives Matter movement. The messages of support and encouragement pouring in from Palestine to Ferguson brought about a reinvigorated examination of the historical ties between US-based and global Black and Palestinian-led movements, and anticolonial, antiracist movements at large, as powerfully articulated by Noura Erakat and Marc Lamont Hill, as well as Angela Davis, and many others. I wrote this book as a Mizrahi Turkish-Israeli scholar. It was driven by my wish to enhance Mizrahi solidarity with the Palestinian struggle for liberation and return.
As you well know, 2014 also saw the publication of Claudia Rankine’s groundbreaking Citizen: An American Lyric. Citizen is such a special book, right? No wonder it is so highly celebrated. “Yes, and the body has a memory. The physical carriage hauls more than its weight. The body is the threshold across which each objectionable call passes into consciousness—all the unintimidated, unblinking, and unflappable resilience does not erase the moments lived through…” Rankine writes (37); I know that’s one of your favorite quotes too! Because I was deeply inspired by her writing and this quote, I made it the opening epigraph for my book. Following Rankine, and other writers committed to examining the power dynamics as well as the shared fabric of life revealed in human interactions, my book explores the deep relationalities embedded in the representations of oppression and pain of Palestinians and Mizrahim as seen in documentaries: indeed, our living conditions are unequal, yet our realities are interconnected. I love that Citizen inspired our work so much, and especially this quote. It speaks to the power of this book, as well as to how closely connected our work is.
I wrote this book as a Mizrahi Turkish-Israeli scholar. It was driven by my wish to enhance Mizrahi solidarity with the Palestinian struggle for liberation and return.
In 2014, I also flew to Istanbul to spend my first summer there since I was a child. The access that I have always had to Turkey means the world to me—it is a window into my family’s 500-year history there. That summer, my access to the Turkish language also facilitated my daily encounters with numerous visceral, visualized reports from Gaza in the Turkish media—reports that humanized Palestinian pain. What I found out, and later crafted into my argument, is that reconnecting to my home of Istanbul while sensing excessive rage, agony, and empathy when regarding the pain of others in occupied Jerusalem or in besieged Gaza, did not amount to politicization single-handedly. Rather, it takes perpetual learning and unlearning, and visual and sensorial training in reading cultural texts—it takes endless emotional labor—to try and relate to the pain of others in a deeply personal and politically committed manner.
Mara: Being a filmmaker, I am fascinated by how you use documentary film as a lens to unpack so much. You say that although oppression and racialization have impacted Palestinians and Mizrahim unequally and differently, the documentaries you discuss in the book share a political commitment and performative affinities. They defy the historical removal of the pain of Israel’s marginalized people from public visibility. You discuss how documentary performances of pain by Palestinians and Mizrahim, when seen together, invite us to contest the segregation of pain and consider reconnection. I am particularly interested in the word “performance” as it applies to the documentary form, which is supposed to be objective, an outgrowth of journalism. Could you elaborate on that?
Shirly: I wanted to analyze Palestinian and Mizrahi documentaries side by side and articulate what I thought they had in common, and the framework of “documentary performances” was just right for me to describe the affinities I identified in that corpus of work. What I saw were first-person testimonies of Palestinians’ and Mizrahim’s experiences of pain and oppression in their own words, voices, and bodies, and those were crafted visually, cinematically, as documentary performances. I used the term “documentary performance” to refer to an audio-visualized, mediated, documented, and cinematized appearance of a person in front of a camera and on a screen as part of a cinematic scene. It is a term used by Elizabeth Marquis in “Conceptualizing the Documentary Performance,” where she builds on both sociology and documentary film studies to offer “a framework for understanding and discussing the documentary actor’s work … which takes into account everyday performative activity, the impact of the camera, and the influence of specific documentary film frame-works (45). The book engages an approach mostly drawing on visual culture and performance studies, thinking through a person’s performance as a human medium in constant conversation with the filmmaker, filmmaking apparatus, and mechanisms, and teases out some of the most quintessential questions informing film and documentary studies as a whole—questions about authenticity, mediation, and the construction of reality in representation.
I was interested and wanted to participate in the efforts to revisit the term “performance” by documentary scholars studying reenactments, such as Jonathan Kahana and Bill Nichols. But it is important to note and celebrate—and I do in the book—that the complex, inspiring understandings of “performance” and “performativity” in all of their overlaps, have been theorized by queer and feminist scholars firstly, emerging at the intersection of gender and sexuality studies and critical race studies since the 1990s. Diana Taylor taught us that performance “function[s] as vital acts of transfer, transmitting social knowledge, memory, and a sense of identity,” that operates as part of the overall “aesthetics of everyday life” (2–3) Judith Butler’s landmark theorizations of “performance” and “performativity” heavily drew on J. L. Austin’s How To Do Things with Words. Along similar lines, Eve Kosofsky Sedgewick and Andrew Parker differentiated between the theatrical “performance,” and the linguistic, discursive term of the “performative.” Crucially, Sayidia Hartman illuminated the need to consider performance and performativity together (alongside her theorization of pain as relational): “the interchangeable usage of performance and performativity is intended to be inclusive of displays of power, the punitive and theatrical embodiment of racial norms … the entanglements of dominant and subordinate enunciations … and the difficulty of distinguishing between [them]” (5). This interdisciplinary push is required where documentaries are concerned, and especially in the digital age of accelerated visual popular culture defining our contemporary everyday.
Above all the performative trends that the documentaries share, I found, is their invitation to understand pain as relational through taking in and connecting to the embodied documentary performance we are viewing. As interactive sites of testimony, the documentary performances powerfully politicize pain by shaping it as a relational event that took place between the performing person and the state, and is lingering in the person’s body and ways of speaking, expressing, and representing themselves to this day. The documentary performances are multilayered encounters between bodies, affective states, speeches, and filmic apparatuses, in which the films’ participants return to the past, formative painful experiences that they still embody and endure. The hit of the bullet, the demolished home, the lost carob tree, the dried fountain, the unattainable moon, the imposed mask, the interior of the home, the fence of the camp—are all imagery communicating particular ways of living, hurting, being in, resisting, and becoming through political conditions of oppression. Sharing their told, filmed performances, the participants invite us to feel the trajectories of an oppression that became pain with them, and relate to their experience of living on.
Mara: There is one sentence in your book which hit me hard. It is the commonly held notion that you cite, claiming that “the trauma of witnessing destruction directly harms the usage of language about it” (30). To me this means that the credibility of language (and therefore people’s testimony) is damaged by violence. Consequently, those who are occupied (on whose minds and bodies violence is constantly enacted) are never seen as credible witnesses of their own pain, of their own lived experiences, based on dominant codes of credibility. Many of the women I interviewed for The Injured Body, for example, spoke about gaslighting—microinvalidations which make them second guess themselves and question their own sanity. You take issue with this notion. Could you tell us more?
The documentary performances powerfully politicize pain by shaping it as a relational event that took place between the performing person and the state, and is lingering in the person’s body and ways of speaking, expressing, and representing themselves to this day.
Shirly: You’re absolutely right, I agree that the idea that trauma directly harms expression runs the risk of dismissing and gaslighting those who underwent and/or witnessed it. And I have always been struck with how commonplace it is in Freudian psychoanalysis, and in literary and film theories that employ psychoanalytic frameworks. Critical thinkers, especially in gender and queer studies, such as Lauren Berlant have contested this idea; thinkers such as Sara Ahmed even use the word “pain” rather than trauma to politicize harm and injury—I think intentionally. I follow these thinkers in taking issue with that idea and apply my criticism to film analysis, especially in chapter 1, when I analyze the documentaries Jenin Jenin (Mohammad Bakri, 2002) and Arna’s Children (Juliano Mer Khamis, 2003). There, I show that when testifying to horrors that they have witnessed, the witnesses in the documentaries do not guarantee to posit “what had exactly happened” with any measure of empirical accuracy. Rather, the documentaries’ approach underlines whose pain gets to be filmed and shared depending on the circumstances of power informing the distribution of representation.
Yes, it has been established, the trauma of witnessing destruction directly harms the usage of language about it. But—and that’s a big but—on top of running the risk of unifying and depoliticizing the diversely positioned human experience, the Freudian genealogy of trauma carries harmful legacies of disbelief toward survivors. In this chapter, I harness a politicized view of both the testimony of trauma and of documentary distribution in Palestine/Israel to show that the precise ways in which their testimonies have been performed and cinematized, including the testifiers’ bodily gestures, chosen words, silences, and general edited sequences, provide spectators with poignant clarity regarding how pain hit their bodies when the bullet hit the executed person. Additionally and no less importantly, the testimonies communicate how the conditions of the military occupation that pulled the trigger also made it difficult to communicate the pain of that experience outside the camp, by depriving them of audiovisual means of communication, and painting all the camp residents as unreliable speakers perforce, who were responsible for their own suffering. When testifying in the films, the witnesses’ reenactments of the pain of witnessing destruction politicize their pain, framing it collectively and relationally—as injuring their bodies and mental and affective states, as well as recovering by their very telling of their stories of embodied and psychic pain. In that way, they transform from racialized and potentially targeted innate “terrorists”—whose pain is their own fault—to survivors with agency over their own becomings, personally and collectively.
Mara: I would also like to bring up the constant threat of violence—of the military mainly in the West Bank and Jerusalem, and the police within the 1948 boundaries. You talk about documentaries showing Palestinian children experiencing “withheld violence,” and lingering on the threshold of death long before they die. Your words reminded me of Frantz Fanon and the “muscular contraction” of the colonized body. In fact, we shot a dance sequence titled Emancipated Breath (a prelude to The Injured Body) which addresses the policing of bodies, the containment of their breathable atmosphere, and the yearning for release. Could you explain what this implies in the Palestine/Israel context?
Shirly: It is something I observed when analyzing Arna’s Children which I mentioned above. Arna’s Children extends the message that Bakri put out there, of resisting the Israeli silencing and gaslighting of Palestinian pain. This documentary does so especially by delving into the structure of feeling of living with potential death—of a beloved one, or one’s own—throughout life. The documentary follows the wonderfully inspiring children and teenage theater students of the Freedom Theater, run by Arna Mer, Juliano’s mother, and himself. The documentary traces how these young people lived with the encompassing threat of death under military occupation much before many of them died. The formative, horrific experience of knowing the probability of death intimately in life is not only collective, but also one that challenges the temporal understanding of pain: rather than a past event, the pain of living with death is present and constant and projects onto the future, all at the same time.
In a very different way, and while they have access to Jewish privilege and supremacy, Mizrahim have been experiencing the heavy hand of police brutality too. I write about those experiences when analyzing films exploring the massive crackdown on the Mizrahi Black Panthers in Jerusalem in the 1970s—films such as Kaddim Wind (David Ben Chetrit, 2002), Have You Heard of the Black Panthers? (Nissim Mosak, 2002), and The Black Panthers Speak (Sami Shalom Chetrit and Eli Hamo, 2003). Beloved filmmaker David Ben Chetrit died of complications in the aftermath of an atrocious battering by military security forces, in the heart of Tel Aviv. But even before the first Black Panthers’ demonstration, young Mizrahi leaders of this groundbreaking movement have had to deal with police brutality, basically all throughout their upbringing: many of them would get beaten up and/or sent to juvenile prison upon merely entering the public sphere. For young Mizrahim, walking down the streets was prohibited regularly regardless of any crime they might have committed. These beatings mark the criminalization of Mizrahim’s appearance in the highly policed public sphere, thus enforcing and enabling their exclusion from it. The testimonies in the documentaries about the police’s continuous criminalization and repeated public battering paint a larger picture of the state’s racialization that Mizrahi bodies have been enduring ever since they arrived in Palestine/Israel.
Unlike Palestinians, Mizrahim’s access to Jewish privilege generally allows them to dodge the constant threat of death. To earn this privilege and enter the Jewish fold, however, Mizrahim are forced to go through a process of assimilation that involves shedding any connection to Arabness and becoming as “purely” Jewish as possible. Palestinians and Mizrahim were historically differentially positioned in relation to Jewish supremacy, society, and Israel’s system of state security—positions that are further instigated at times of heightened violence, as the films show. Sadly, Mizrahim actively participate and often lead the work of the military and police to enhance violence towards Palestinians. They have been intentionally recruited into the police since the 1950s, not unlike the intentional recruitment of people of color into the police in the US. There have also been rare, yet deeply inspiring, cases of Mizrahi organizing in solidarity with Palestinians. Kaddim Wind follows organizer Oved Abutbul who, as part of his grassroots campaign against the eviction of Mizrahi residents from Mevaseret Tzion in 1997, joined a community of activists who rented a bus to Jericho, in the territory of the Palestinian Authority, to seek asylum. Additionally, the activists sent a letter to the king of Morocco, asking to return there with his blessing.
Mara: I would like to end with something you say in the book, that “more often than not, those who care for the pain of others are found in relative vulnerability themselves—political, physical, mental—thus chancing their becoming further undone” (26). Meaning that many times, those who feel the pain of others most deeply are themselves living precarious lives. I think of the Black Lives Matter movement and its principled support for justice in Palestine. I would love for you to expand on this important point.
Shirly: I thought the same, and it’s at the heart of my writing! As I started saying above, I feel hopeful when I see those who are leading struggles for civility and liberation around the world, express and act in solidarity. After 2014, we saw these connections nourished further over the years, perhaps most notably in 2020, as demonstrations to protest the killing of George Floyd and so many other Black people in the United States throughout history and right now, swept across the world—a world hit by a global pandemic disproportionately harming the most vulnerable and racialized populations. Understanding the interconnectedness of Palestinian struggles and Black movements reaffirms them as core inspiration for many historical anticolonial and antiracist movements around the world, including the Mizrahi struggles in Israel/Palestine, especially those that emerged from the 1970s Black Panthers movement in Jerusalem. Yet, as Mizrahim, we have to reckon with our position of privilege and proactively acknowledge it. In the introduction to the book, I positioned myself in the field as a Turkish Israeli Mizrahi scholar with Jewish privilege in the Jewish state of Israel—where I am from—and with the privilege of visiting Turkey, also where I am from, unlike many of my fellow Arab Jewish Mizrahim. This attempt to transparently explicate my identification and viewpoint from the outset fuels my intersectional intervention of considering interrelated oppressions and relational pain.
In acknowledging our indebtedness to interconnected, anticolonial and antiracist movements, especially Black and Palestinian ones, and in endorsing our solidarity with them, I am encouraging more Mizrahi filmmakers, scholars, and organizers to also step forward. To that end, my book advocates for the transformative power of relating to another fellow human’s mediated vulnerability and taking on the risk of complicating, confusing, and even adding to our immediate experience of our own pain, for the sake of holding space for their humanity in ourselves. That quote from my introduction you mentioned above, comes right before I myself quote Tourmaline, who writes in her preface to the gorgeous new edition of The Faggots and Their Friends Between Revolutions: “If we are to ever make it to the next revolution, it will be through becoming undone, an undoing that touches ourselves and touches each other and all the brokenness we are … to become undone is the greatest gift to ourselves” ( viii). Documentary Cinema from Israel-Palestine hopes to be of interest to anyone who wishes to understand their own feelings of powerlessness as not one with them privately and naturally but, rather, as public, political, relatable, and changeable.
Mara Ahmed is an interdisciplinary artist and activist filmmaker based on Long Island, New York. She was born in Lahore and educated in Belgium, Pakistan, and the US. Mara’s work aims to trespass political, linguistic, and geographic borders and challenges colonial binaries. She has directed and produced three films, including The Muslims I Know (2008), Pakistan One on One (2011), and A Thin Wall (2015). Her films have been broadcast on PBS and screened at international film festivals. She is currently working on The Injured Body, a documentary about racism in America that focuses exclusively on the voices of women of color. Mara’s artwork has been exhibited at galleries in New York and California. She was recently awarded a NYSCA grant for her multimedia project, Return to Sender: Women of color in colonial postcards and the politics of representation. Her websites are www.NeelumFilms.com and www.MaraAhmedStudio.com
Shirly Bahar’s writing and curatorial work explores the relationships between representation, politics, and the body. Shirly’s first book, Documentary Cinema in Israel-Palestine: Performance, the Body, the Home came out in July 2021 with Bloomsbury/IB Tauris. Shirly has published articles about film, performance art, literature, gender and queer representation from Israel/Palestine, Turkey, and the US. Since 2013, Shirly has been curating art shows, public programs, and community events in New York City and across the US. Shirly earned her PhD from New York University (2017), MA from Brandeis University (2010), and her BFA/Ed from Hamidrasha School of Arts (2006), where she specialized in sculpture and video installation.
View of the walled city of Babylon. Within the city walls are houses, the Hanging Gardens, palaces, and the Tower of Babel. Numbered top left: XXIV, and top right: P. 296. C. The print is part of an album. Public Domain. Via Wikimedia Commons.
Khaled Furani’s Redeeming Anthropology is an incisive, bold, and polemical book which asks anthropologists to re-examine their attempted severing of ties from theology. While aimed primarily at the field of anthropology, the book poses questions that are relevant to the wider humanities. I see Furani’s book as an intervention that will push scholars of religion, literary theorists, theologians, and others to re-examine the fundamental theoretical tools with which they engage their disciplines. Drawing on interviews and archival research, Furani uses anthropologists’ own words to challenge the idea that the field has ever been as distinct from theology as it claims. It has constructed what he calls an “anthropodom” via various metaphorical “panes” and attempted to seal itself off from theology. It has done so primarily by claiming reason as its sovereign guide and culture as the object of its study. This claim, of course, has not gone uncontested. And yet, even those who argue that theological residues or resonances remain in the anthropological project have never seemed to escape the appeal of secular reason as a guidepost.
Drawing on interviews and archival research, Furani uses anthropologists’ own words to challenge the idea that the field has ever been as distinct from theology as it claims.
The book can be divided into roughly two parts. The first deals with how anthropologists have erected and maintained the anthropodom via various strategies. The second deals with how opening anthropology up to theology as a critical tool might prove useful. While the first part of the book proves fascinating in its details and erudite in its scholarship—particularly relevant and interesting for scholars of religion is Furani’s interview with Talal Asad, where the latter reveals the importance of his mother’s religious practice as part of the impetus for his critique of Geertz’s belief-centered approach to religion—I want to focus in this brief post on the second half of the book. Here Furani shows how anthropologists might draw on theology to enable them to dethrone secular reason in favor, if not of theology per se, then a theology inflected vision of the world that is willing to extend itself beyond the modern secular sciences. I’ll argue that this vision of theology is (1) welcome insofar as it breaks down artificial barriers between the humanities, social sciences, and theology; and (2) risky insofar as it does not delimit what kind of theology it might bring into these fields when it does so.
Fallibility and Idolatry
For Furani, it is the concept of idolatry, born out of the traditions of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam that proves most useful for his purposes. Idolatry is the mistaking of the finite for the infinite; God for an idol; the representation for the real. In the case of anthropology, Furani argues,
To recognize idolatry in anthropodom, constituted as a particular disciplinary application of secular sovereign reason, means in part to recognize ways in which modern anthropology builds itself upon false worship, misplaced trust, and categorical conflation when taking the Cultural (or its categorical cognates) to be all that there is to multiplicity in and of the world. (149)
In other words, in setting reason up as the means by which the anthropologist understands the culture of the “other,” anthropology necessarily limits the way it encounters diversity in the world. Everything the anthropologist sets his sights on becomes subsumed under the category of culture and is deciphered by reason. A ritual sacrifice, for example, is read as a means of establishing a hierarchical social order rather than an act done to appease God. The anthropologist can see this through her interpretive lens, even if the practitioner does not—indeed the practitioner is more likely focused on establishing a relationship to God rather than the social outcomes of the practice.
This way of incorporating theology into the field of anthropology, in my mind, is a welcome intervention. Given the persuasiveness of genealogical accounts from anthropologists like Talal Asad and Saba Mahmood and scholars of political theology like Bonnie Honig and Paul Khan, it seems that such a move is a logical next step for those who do not wish to remain beholden to the false God of secular reason.
Yet, as I read these pages, I began to wonder if the category of idolatry, while offering a heft to the critical approach that Furani is advocating, is all that different from the less provocative, though similarly oriented, concept of fallibility. Indeed, fallibility is built into the exercise of secular reason, at least it is when it is practiced well. Pragmatists like Charles Sanders Peirce, William James, and John Dewey, for example, held up fallibility as an epistemic virtue that was necessary in light of our finitude as human beings. Truth for the pragmatist is contestable and unresolved. And it is the lack of settlement that makes it possible for the pursuit of knowledge in various fields to continue. A doubt arises about some settled truth, we form a hypothesis that might change our understanding of what is true, and then we test this hypothesis.
Why, then, do we need idolatry to recognize our false claims to possess the absolute when fallibilism will do? Is it just to offer religious people a piece of the secular pie? Or is it a concept that bears more weight upon further investigation?
Whose Revelation?
This leads me to the second point that I want to make, which concerns the kind of theology we are letting into the humanities when we take this route. The idolatry that Furani wishes to mobilize against the sovereignty of secular reason is one I imagine will sit comfortably with the current postsecular moment in the academy. Furani’s claim in the conclusion, however, that we should also be more attentive to revelation, is one that I think might ruffle the feathers of the more sensitive seculars among us.
On the value of revelation, Furani writes:
Theology offers revelation as a chief means for averting confusion as to where sovereignty justifiably belongs, for precluding it from realms where all is finite and transient, where none can ultimately be self-sufficient. I see revelation as a possible resource in revitalizing anthropology’s forms of reasoning, by helping it first to recognize and then retrace its steps, this time away from sovereignty’s stalemates and degrading entrapments, where all that is asked is only what—in sovereignscape—can safely be answered (180).
To allow revelation to speak for itself rather than to try to discipline it via secular reason is a task that Furani sets before us. To do so would allow for a kind of multiplicity that is currently taboo not only in anthropology but also in the wider humanities. Using religious studies as an example, to employ revelation as an analytical concept would be considered by most scholars of religion to cross over from the field of religious studies to theology—to violate a boundary marking an epistemic divide. Following Furani, I think we would be right to be suspicious of the claim that the two were ever as sealed off from one another as we might think. Yet what this means for how we engage theology requires more scrutiny.
Why, then, do we need idolatry to recognize our false claims to possess the absolute, when fallibilism will do? Is it just to offer religious people a piece of the secular pie? Or is it a concept that bears more weight upon further investigation?
My worry here though is not that we will allow the kind of theology Furani describes throughout the book—this is one that can humble claims of the secular human sciences. Indeed this is a theology that I have suggested is pragmatic. It is fallible, open to multiplicity, and suspicious of claims to sovereignty. But what of the more controversial concepts that theology might bring to bear on anthropology?
In the conclusion of the book, Furani writes, “one is not to suppose that all [theology’s] lessons merit heeding.” But exactly how we make the judgment as to which theology is worth heeding and which is not requires the use of reason, adjudication, and interpretation. It requires an interpretation of theology that picks up what it finds useful and discards what it does not. However, Furani does not really explain his criteria for letting in some theological concepts and not others. In advocating the importation of theology without the burden of secular reason, Furani does open up space to let in forms of theology many I suspect would be less comfortable with. The risk of allowing, for example, dogma, gender complementarity, patriarchy, and other “theological” concepts is not foreclosed in Furani’s analysis.
At the End of the World
I want to move toward a conclusion via an allegorical story from the science fiction writer Ted Chiang. I do this in the spirit of both Furani’s book, which I think is beautifully written and employs analogical thinking usefully in making its argument, and in the spirit of Ebrahim Moosa, whose inauguration as Mirza Family Professor of Islamic Thought and Muslim Societies is the occasion for this symposium on Furani’s work, and for whom literature has often served as a guide for his thinking.
In “The Tower of Babylon” (from Stories of Your Life and Others) Chiang reimagines the story of the tower of babel from the perspective of a miner who is employed to climb the tower and dig upward into the vault of heaven, a vault that it turns out is made of granite and requires human ingenuity to crack open. Along the journey up the tower many of his fellow workers wonder if what they are being employed to do is an act of hubris. There is story of a flood that led to a great deal of destruction which resulted from previous attempts to crack open the vault. Further, as they climb they pass by all the features that make the natural world humans inhabit familiar, including the sun, stars, and villages that people have built along the path up the tower. They are treading in unfamiliar and dangerous territory. Nonetheless, the miners proceed up the tower, finally arriving just below the vault to heaven in order to complete their work. Over the span of many years they slowly chip away at the granite by warming it with fire so that it will crake more easily. They then employ their pickaxes to break up the loosened granite. Eventually our protagonist miner cracks open the vault and is nearly drowned when a deluge of water follows. He finds himself trapped with a few other workers as those left behind seal them off in the tunnel to avoid being caught in the deluge. After swimming up through the tunnel that has burst open, he awakens to find himself on the ground. For some time he struggles through this new space, unsure of where he has arrived. Eventually he runs into a caravan. He is told by a man in the caravan that he is in the land of Shinar, exactly where he began his journey. The protagonist reaches the conclusion that the world is not arranged vertically with the natural world and humans living below and God above in the heavens. Rather the world is arranged like a seal cylinder where heaven and Earth are not separated but exist alongside one other. Without getting into exactly how this world looks—one can spend plenty of time on reddit looking at various people’s attempts to describe what this world looks like—the conclusion seems to be that when we look into the heavens we are in fact looking at ourselves, albeit from a different vantage point.
Black hematite cylinder seal. Main scene: three deities approach a seated figure, probably a king, the storm god holding his lightning fork and standing on the back of a bull, the moon god holding a crescent standard and standing in a boat, and an interceding goddess. Old Assyrian period, ca 1920-1740 BC. British Museum ME 22963. Public Domain. Via Wikimedia Commons.
I could not help but think of Chiang’s work as I read Furani’s book, especially given the metaphorical description of the anthropodom which its inhabitants have attempted to construct to separate themselves from theology, i.e. the heavens. Reading Furani and Chiang together I wonder if we might begin to think of the anthropodom and theology not as separate spheres arranged vertically but as overlapping and indeed inseparable ones. Here, rather than leaks of theology showing up in the anthropodom we might imagine theology and the secular as already breathing the same air, so to speak; immanence and transcendence are not above and below but intermixed and porous.
And here we might also find ourselves in a position where sovereignty does not reign as there is neither an “above” or “below” and neither reason nor theology is king. Rather both exist alongside us as fallible sciences.
This is perhaps not so far from where Furani wants us to go as we reach the end of the book. And yet, I want to push here the metaphorical distinction between theology and reason to say that they have never really been separate. If this is the case, then the distinction between theology and anthropology falls away all the more and reason and revelation become co-inhabitants of a common world, where the desire for the purely secular or the purely theological both fall by the wayside. Perhaps then what is possible is not only the humbling of anthropology by theology, as seems to be Furani’s aim, but a mutual humbling that requires that we use practical reason in any given situation to determine which concepts to employ, and how.
Joshua S. Lupo is the Assistant Director of the Contending Modernities research initiative. In this role, he serves as the editor and writer for the Contending Modernities Blog and the classroom coordinator for the Madrasa Discourses program. He has published articles and reviews in Sophia, Soundings, Critical Muslim, Reading Religion, and Religious Studies Review. With CM Co-Director Atalia Omer, he is the co-editor of Broken Solidarities: Feminism, Race, and Transnationalism (Notre Dame Press, 2022) and Religion, Populism, and Modernity: Confronting White Christian Nationalism and Racism (Notre Dame Press, 2023). His current book project is titled After Essentialism: A Critical Phenomenology for the Study of Religion.
Turkish Muslims are seen performing the first Friday prayer during Ramadan through a balcony railing, April 16, 2021, in the Sabancı Merkez Mosque in Adana, Turkey. U.S. Air Force photo by Staff Sgt. Alexander Cook. Image via Wikimedia Commons. Public Domain.
Redeeming Anthropology
Academics can learn much from the trans-disciplinary work fundamental to Khaled Furani’s book on disciplinarity and the limitations of western epistemologies. Redeeming Anthropology allows us to see beyond the blinders we wear as we trot along the path carved out by an Enlightenment reason. Some of us can’t see the forest for the trees, while some of us might see the forest, but miss the horizon. Others of us are in the cave still watching shadows on walls, perhaps even unaware of the light of the sun itself. Simply put, secular reason limits and defines objects worthy of human knowledge and subsequently leads to a meager and unsatisfying relationship to the fullness of reality and human experience. Perspectives coming from different religious traditions such as the Islamic tradition are differentkinds of knowledge. Yet, Islamic knowledge is only valid or acceptable for modern disciplines once it is curated by Reason with a capital R; Reason with a very particular and Eurocentric, and I would say, colonial, genealogy. Furani’s work shows us that the sovereignty given to secular reason maintains hegemonic control of knowledge. Thus, western knowledge gives itself the authority to narrate the stories of “Others” in the past, and tries to shape their present and future.
From my perspective as an Islamic historian and peace studies scholar, I found in Furani’s book an affirmation of the values of interdisciplinarity. We look at the same issue from the vantage point of different disciplines and sometimes it leads to a valuable critique of our own discipline. This fresh view can help us articulate questions that have haunted our work without us being aware of them, as ghosts on the peripheries of our vision. Furani defines anthropology as the study of alterity, or difference, in a world where the role of the divine has been significantly reduced in our politics and social lives; a condition that Nietzsche defined as modernity. In place of the divine, the categories of Reason, Culture, and State become idols for worship, placed on altars to the “infinite” when they are, in fact, finite and limited.
Historical Reasoning vs. the Past
Fundamentally, Furani reminds us that our idols ultimately reflect ourselves and our relationship to our past. Thus, we find ourselves thinking about how to resolve global problems with deep historical roots from reasonable premises. But we find that others disagree about the facts, historical and otherwise, that we think are perfectly obvious, logical, and reasonable. Furani’s engagement with theology reminds us that “talking about God, the infinite,” as anthropology’s Other is a valuable tool for critiquing the unthinking worship of finite idols that not only do not deserve worship but also dismiss valuable and essential parts of our own humanity as beyond the scope of knowledge itself. Such aspects of humanity include value, truth, aesthetics, and practices of peace and justice. In particular, it includes those humans whose knowledge has been denigrated as irrational, and they themselves as incapable of producing knowledge at all, never mind that their perspectives may point towards lacunae or aporia in our own assumptions about reason.
Furani’s engagement with theology reminds us that ‘talking about God, the infinite,’ as anthropology’s Other is a valuable tool for critiquing the unthinking worship of finite idols that not only do not deserve worship but also dismiss valuable and essential parts of our own humanity as beyond the scope of knowledge itself.
My own work also deals with the theological within the limits of historical reason. I study cosmologies that oriented thinkers in the pre-modern past, before the secular came into being and formed our disciplines. Shah Wali Allah Dihlawi, a Muslim scholar in 18th century Mughal India, was not “modern” because he was not forced to limit the role of the divine within the scope of his own intellectual tradition. Yet, he was a rare liminal figure whose intellectual oeuvre asked questions of Islamic history that had broad ethical, aesthetic, and social outcomes. He dealt with questions of religious and cultural alterity within the Islamic tradition by engaging the ideas of Greek philosophers, Islamic theologians, and Sufi mystics. Yet, for a modern historian in the academy, there are values and reasonings that Wali Allah holds that create epistemic difficulties. How, for example, does the modern historian read hagiographical material that ascribes true visions to such a figure when oneiromancy in our worldview reflects the interiority of individuals rather than having external causes and consequences? The limits of our reading makes only certain questions possible to answer historically. The texture of the dreams of an eighteenth century mystic lies beyond the scope of historical research, and his solutions to friction between different kinds of Muslim communities are value-laden and inadmissible. Yet, Wali Allah’s work offers rare insights into potential critiques of fundamental values, such as his insistence that the divine cannot be thought of in terms of universals and particulars because these are fundamentally human constructs. [1]
Living Scholars and Living Traditions
What makes working on Muslim thinkers even more fraught is that they are not simply figures of the past; they are constantly referenced and constitute a major anchor for South Asian scholars to this day. In other words, I am writing about a living tradition through a western epistemological lens. There are scholars of Shah Wali Allah in the subcontinent that I rely on, yet their work is categorized as “theological work” and thus can only be selectively included in the Western academy through citations. This is an example of an epistemic injustice for scholars that help buttress the modern academy in invisible ways, on the peripheries of our vision, yet are denied access to it. The historical and the theological are cousins to the anthropological and the sociological. But the family of knowledge is much, much broader than our modern disciplines, and the scope of knowledge is open and infinite.
Furani’s text reminds us that as anthropologists search for difference abroad, historians delve into the past. One is a spatial quest, the other primarily temporal. The questions that arise, however, resonate deeply, because we are all asking a simple question: “Who are we, and even more importantly, who can we be?” For historians who have often fallen prostrate before the state, producing nationalist discourse that deifies the state for the purposes of national unity, that question was answered differently than it is for historians today. [2] From framing India as historically beset by “Muslim invaders” to the trope of secular Indian nationhood being the natural arbiter of “communal” violence between Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs, and Christians, the state has effectively birthed modernity in South Asia, midwifed by the British presence starting in Shah Wali Allah’s lifetime. It is certainly not the case that there were “pure indigeneous ideas” polluted by “modern British ideas.” Rather, it is that a violent relationship between British and indigenous peoples premised on Western notions of human nature and politics imposed these ideas and organized the subcontinent anew, and that violence continues to express itself in moments of crisis according to the historical logics that gave birth to the state in the first place.[3]
History and Secular Methodology
But if we write a history that decenters the state, what kind of history would we produce? This is a question that historians have taken very seriously in the last twenty years. Dipesh Chakrabarty’s Provincializing Europe tries to encapsulate the shortcomings of history in precisely this mode when it tries to focus attention on the agency of non-Europeans in writing their own history. Rather than an obsession with objective Truth, or the “laws of history” and the “rise and fall of civilizations,” a new kind of history tries to engage Indigenous critiques of Euro-American mores, the ethics and aesthetics that these people held that reified a particular human relationship to the environment, and the irresponsibility of modern humans to others.
Yet calls for Enlightenment reason continue to reverberate in our temples to Reason, the modern university, not only in the United States, but around the world. That view of teleological Reason, one which culminates in carbon copies of Euro-American ideals, limits historians’ perspective on the past. Rather than taking a good hard look in the mirror of history, we end up staring into a funhouse mirror instead, one shaped primarily by a limited view of human nature, the environment, and the divine. This is largely due to the fact that anachronistic modern reason reduces the motivations of a plethora of Others in the past to self-interest, economic profit, religious bigotry, and irrationality. These narratives limit the motivations of humans, suffocates the spirit, and gives meager sustenance to human creativity. These explanations speak much more to our demons today than they offer a candid and impartial view of people in the past. For a richer history that also allows us to become more than we are, historians as well as anthropologists need to smash some idols.
Rather than taking a good hard look in the mirror of history, we end up staring into a funhouse mirror instead, one shaped primarily by a limited view of human nature, the environment, and the divine.
Historians are motivated to dig up the past. Some do it because they apparently just like digging, regardless of where or when they are digging. However, I find it difficult to imagine that the choice of historical queries, the topics of our interests are somehow simultaneously “interests” and yet paradoxically disinterested. Recent generations of historians have thus started digging with an ear towards finding a useful story, a thoughtful parable or allegory, in service to our collective futures. Historians’ work has to engage with the present because their work, in fact, never reaches the past. It is written for living and breathing people today and in the future. Removing misconceptions and misapprehensions of the past and breaking the idols of the present is an admirable part of the work of historians precisely because many historians’ work is deployed in the service of power and ideology.
It is, however, something many historians have long disavowed, saying instead that they represent the Truth as it was, a positivistic conceit that is slowly unravelling in the face of the infinite complexity of the past and our limited ability to access it.[4] Anthropologists, in a similar vein, immerse themselves in the soil of foreign lands. Some of us even excavate the ground for a necromantic fuel made of the long-dead living things: petroleum. All of this digging, albeit “productive,” comes with a series of both epistemic and, importantly, ethical pitfalls. What do anthropologists owe their subjects? How strongly should the historian hammer the idol of the state and whose history do they rewrite? Fossil fuel use allows for unimaginably complex human systems but it causes climate change, endangering the most disadvantaged among us. Who has to bear the burdens of our choices in the world that we live in today? Who reaps the benefits and who has to pay up when those costs come due?
Conclusion: Going Beyond the Limits of Secular Reason
All of us can learn from these epistemic and ethical challenges that Furani places before us. The sovereignty of secular reason limits the questions that can be asked in the modern academy, and binds scholars to a meager and frail view of reality and humanity. What we sacrifice is a complex and creative engagement with our world, but hope is not lost. Even within the sovereign secular dome of modernity, the “theosphere” seeps in, bringing with it alternatives, and glimpses of a world where our disciplines are not entangled within the “epistemic intestines of the modern state.” But with this hope come many new puzzles, quandaries, and contemplations that Furani might guide us through.
The first question I pose is: Does the concept of idolatry, defined as “a confusion of ends worthy of life’s devotion,” offers us a view of what non-idolatrous worship would look like? Put simply, how would breaking the hold of the State and Reason free us from the plights that we face as a global community? Secondly, what do other disciplines like history, for example, offer anthropology in dismantling the sovereign(s) in modern societies? Are other disciplines less idolatrous than anthropology? Finally, my last question is diagnostic. I think about the issue of idolatrous reason in terms of coloniality. Claude Levi-Strauss notes that “humanity has taken to monoculture, once and for all, and is preparing to produce civilization in bulk,” and reminds us that monoculture was not the express choice of much of humanity (39). These idols/ideals are most often imposed through education and cultural production, and many of the greatest figures of the twentieth century, especially from the Global South, were educated at elite institutions in Europe and North America. That in itself raises many ethical questions, but to revisit the diagnosis: How can institutions decolonize their methods in order to not convert people to the religion of Enlightenment Reason and still retain value in the education that it offers students?
To begin, our curricula will have to engage more honestly with Indigenous critiques of Euro-American values and assumptions. We need to broader our framework for how we understand people’s actions in both the past and the present, and think about the goals of human communities as a naturally diverse and complex set. To think beyond the state, we also need to think about the value and impact of non-state actors in the making of their own history. This means thinking about history as defined by the people that made the decisions, not based on the impact that it had on Euro-Americans’ ideas of self and Other. Not only will epistemic humility and centering of Indigenous voices enrich the disciplines, it may bring about possibilities of mutual learning and self-critique that leads to more enduring and peaceful societies.
[1] Shah Wali Allah Dihlawi, Al-Khayr al-Kathīr (Beirut: Dar al-Kutub al-Ilmiyya, 2008),19-20.
[2] For classical arguments about the unchanging nature of Hindus under the British, the Muslims as rapacious
invaders with fundamental differences, see Stanley Lane-Poole, Medieval India under Mohammedan Rule (1903).
Khan Shairani is a doctoral candidate in Peace Studies and History at the University of Notre Dame. Interested in the intersection between religion and peace, his work ranges from historical to modern engagements with Islamic tradition. His dissertation examines the intellectual legacy of two eighteenth-century Islamic scholars from the Mughal and the Ottoman empires who transformed the epistemologies of classical Islamic thought in response to internal and colonial challenges. In particular, he explores how Muslims can navigate tumultuous times by re-engaging and reviving their tradition. His other research interests include colonialism and post-colonialism, Islamic theosophy and, representations of Muslims in film.
Khan received his undergraduate degree in Arabic Studies and Chinese Studies from Williams College and his Master’s degree in Islamic Studies from Harvard Divinity School. While at Notre Dame, he has been a translator and instructor for the Madrasa Discourses program, an initiative funded by the Templeton Foundation that teaches science and philosophy to Islamic seminary graduates in India and Pakistan. He has also co-founded the Graduate Film Club (FLIC), which attempts to introduce intersectional and diverse cinema to students.
Khan's research has been supported by the Critical Language Scholarship, the Benjamin A. Gilman International Scholarship, as well as Notre Dame's Nanovic Institute for European Studies, Liu Institute for Asia and Asian Studies, and the Kroc Institute for International Peace Studies. He has also received the Qasid Annual Scholarship for the study of Qur'anic Arabic in Amman, Jordan. His professional affiliations include the American Academy of Religion and the American Oriental Society.
lhambra, the complete form of which was Calat Alhambra (الْقَلْعَةُ ٱلْحَمْرَاءُ, trans. al-Qal‘at al-Ḥamrā’, “the red fortress”), is a palace and fortress complex located in Granada, Andalusia, Spain. It was constructed during the mid-14th century by the Moorish rulers of the Emirate of Granada in al-Andalus, occupying the top of the hill of the Assabica on the southeastern border of the city of Granada. Via Wikimedia Commons. CC BY-SA 2.0.
The Long Legacy of Bad Scholarship
Why does a case of bad scholarship remain so pivotal for discussions of religion and modernity, specifically concerning Muslims and Islam, in the contemporary moment? The “clash of civilizations” thesis is a construct that Samuel Huntington did not invent but did popularize, and it is no doubt an example of bad scholarship. Huntington sits comfortably in a genealogy that includes Bernard Lewis in the twentieth century and Ernest Renan in the nineteenth century. Further, his scholarship is but another example of shoring up the power of European states under the guise of “objective scholarship.” As Dipa Kumar has shown, the vilification and othering of Islam during the time when European empires were expanding consolidated an air of Christian secular/modern superiority. Kumar’s materialist analysis underscores and traces how the othering of Muslims during this time also entailed their racialization: “the political economy of empire…creates the conditions for anti-Muslim racism, and Islamophobia sustains empire” (24). For Kumar, “anti-Muslim racism [is] a product of empire” and the “normal modality of imperial domination” (not only the right-wing fringe) with which the construction of “free” liberal societies in the west is constituted. Norton, for her part, reaffirms Kumar’s point that Islamophobia is not about religious intolerance but rather about racism (31) and thus requires anti-racist praxis rather than depoliticized interfaith dialogue. Norton’s book constitutes a robust addition to the genre of scholarship that contests the “clash of civilizations” thesis.
There is good reason for this continued response. There are still many in the academy and at think tanks and other sites of cultural production who affirm Huntington’s racist and jingoistic argument. This argument first seeks to attribute the causes of violence ahistorically to cultural identities, and second, argues—with all the empirical pretenses of social science—for the normative superiority of the “west.” The latter is a construct associated with modernity and secularity, which we should understand not as part of a binary of the religious and secular but rather as a politico-theological settlement. Elizabeth Shakman-Hurd exposes this settlement in Beyond Religious Freedom: The New Global Politics of Religion.
Norton’s book constitutes a robust addition to the genre of scholarship that contests the “clash” of civilizations”thesis.
Norton’s book captures how the “Muslim Question” is deployed, by whom it is deployed, and the purposes it serves specifically in Euro-American cases. Sexual politics, whether veiling, unveiling, or queering, is evident on all fronts where a civilizational logic of othering Muslims is deployed. Norton’s book illuminates the dynamics of sexual politics and how they operate to exclude, securitize, and otherize Muslims. As I demonstrate by drawing on my encounters with Huntington below, this thesis continues to hold a grip on conversations about Islam in the US academy, even as those who oppose it try to imagine new possibilities beyond it. Following this discussion, I turn to the relationship between “the Jewish question” and the “Muslim question” to help us imagine those possibilities.
Grasping for Andalusias
Norton’s book is a compelling demolition of the persistent orientalism that has defined modernity and, specifically, the project of liberal political citizenship, which was born with western Christian colonialism. Under this project, attaining freedom and capital depended upon slavery, depopulation, exploitation, and genocide in colonial spaces. This is Paul Klee’s Angelus Novus which Walter Benjamin described as propelled by a destructive wind that piled up debris and suffering as it moved into the future. But the “progress” narrative conceals the debris—how it was caused and who caused it. Benjamin writes powerfully: “There is no document of civilization which is not at the same time a document of barbarism.” Norton’s book documents this barbarism.
But Norton’s book is also compelling for illuminating moments of interruption to this progressive and violent narrative. Like Benjamin’s concept of messianic time and his rejection of victors’ history of progress, Norton, to quote Benjamin, “seize[s] hold of a memory as it flashes up at a moment of danger.” This is the memory of Andalus, a moment in Spanish history where one can find “a Europe shaped by more than Christianity” (156). Norton continues: “All three faiths still live in Andalusia. They still mix. They still exchange people and ideas. Catholic schoolchildren on field trips pose at the feet of the statue of Maimonides. Modern Spaniards, like the Spaniards of the past, still move between the Abrahamic faiths” (157). Al-Andalus, Norton underscores, is not “a singular paradise, incomparable and lost” (157). Rather, there are other Andalusias that offer “alternative pasts and open to alternative futures” (157). One such Andalusia, Norton finds in Juha, a “gay Hawaiian Palestinian” band “that challenges not only the clash of civilizations thesis but the politics of sexuality” (200). Juha, for example, weaves Hawaiian kitsch with the traditional call for prayers (201). Another historical irruption is the graphic novel Cairo by G. Wilson and M. K. Perker. The latter, Norton notes, captures an Andalusia by tracing how “the enemy [an Israeli soldier] becomes the ally and friend” (207). Norton reads Cairo as retrieving and reimagining an “ancient, non-Western cosmopolitanism” which unsettles the self-righteous certainty (the progress narrative) of “the liberal model of prescriptive cosmopolitanism fielded by John Rawls and Martha Nussbaum” (208). Accordingly, Norton tells us that “[t]he novel challenges the rule of law as a transcultural panacea; it refuses the divide between sacred and secular that buttresses the ‘clash of civilization’ thesis” (208). Her aim here is not a conservative and reactionary one that would seek to reclaim a “golden age” before the script of European barbarity began to be written on the bodies of marked humans. Neither is her aim to recover a lost tradition destroyed by the imposition of liberal accounts of the law. Rather, she hopes to find in contemporary Andalusias a robust source for an anti-racist re-scripting of the secular. Another Andualisan indicator she highlights is Paul Gilroy’s concept of “conviviality,” which denotes a life together (196) where ordinary and “everyday projects of hybridity and synthesis” interrupt the ugly world that Huntington saw (196). Norton’s Andalusias are sites for reimagining the secular rather than romantic longing for past utopias. Unfortunately, the Huntington thesis is still haunting us and before moving too quickly to these alternatives, we must spend more time countering it.
Her aim here is not a conservative and reactionary one that would seek to reclaim a ‘golden age’ before the script of European barbarity began. . . . Rather, she hopes to find in the contemporary Andalusias a robust source for an anti-racist re-scripting of the secular.
I now turn to my own experience with Huntington to show how his thesis reflects an anti-Andalusian and ideological account of history, politics, and religious traditions. Here, I will highlight Norton’s discussion of the intimate relations between the “Muslim Question” and the “Jewish Question” in Christian European modernity. I will show how it unsettles, like the recovery and reimagining of Andalusias, the Huntingtonian ahistoricity and ideological differentiation between Jews and Muslims as the former become assimilated into Whiteness and the latter remain constructed as Europe’s other.
Haunting the Syllabus
Over twenty years ago, I was a graduate teaching fellow in Harvard University’s Religion and Global Affairs course. The course was typically co-taught by my dissertation advisor David Little, and then alternately by Jessica Stern and Michael Ignatieff as well as Monica Toft as a second professor. For at least three iterations of the course, it was also taught by Samuel Huntington. The late political scientist provoked and upset many students while he confirmed the biases and ideological stances of others. I was a teaching fellow for this course multiple times. Huntington haunted the syllabi in person or through his false and harmful thesis when he was not physically present. At a particularly memorable moment, he exclaimed, “the problem with all religion is sexual repression.” During that moment, he was referring to the sex scandal in the Catholic Church. Still, his proclamation was intended for all who see themselves as religious. A robust contingent of female Muslim students, some wearing hijabs and some without covering, erupted and demanded an apology. He did not offer one. He proclaimed that this was just a fact.
As a professor, I teach versions of this course today, and Huntington is still haunting and lurking in the background and foreground, although I never assign him. Instead, I have students read Edward Said’s critique of the original 1993 Foreign Affairs piece. Huntington’s piece offered policymakers the paradigm they needed when the Cold War framework was supposedly eroding. The same Huntington of the “clash of civilizations” then wrote a book that is highly consistent with the ideological thrust of the “clash.” In the book, he looked globally at the international system and blocks of civilizations (which he used interchangeably with religions) and claimed that inter-civilizational conflict needed to be managed because of the essential incompatibility of civilizations. This value reductionism is harmful as it robs people of their complex histories, politics, and social lives. In a later book, Who Are We? The Challenges to America’s National Identity (2005), Huntington turns to a discussion of what he interprets as the religio-cultural forces threatening what he deems the “true” Anglo-Saxon Protestant identity (the tripartite Protestant, Catholic, Jewish frame) of the US. What is unmistakable here is a tragic connection between the “Global War on Terrorism,” the securitizing of Muslims globally (including at mosques and community centers in places such as the UK, France, and the US), and the emergence of Trump. Indeed, the reactionary fear around the ontological security of the US, both in terms of its physical and ideological borders, is highly connected to the policies that Huntington’s thesis has informed, the xenophobic fear-mongering rhetoric it has fueled, and the simplistic ways in which it is so deeply ahistorical.
Stencil representing a scene from the torture of Iraqi prisoners that took place at Abu Ghraib Prison during the US war on Iraq. Via Flickr User Duncan Cumming. CC BY-NC 2.0.
Over twenty years ago, in the classroom, we were preoccupied with 9/11 and the invasion of Iraq and Afghanistan. Devastating events twenty years later, including a hurried and disorganized US withdrawal from this “graveyard of empires,” should have finally put this clash argument to rest and led to a reassessment of the horrific policies that informed the US in the aftermath of 9/11. Yet, this has not been the case, and given the previous years’ events, it is not surprising. Norton brilliantly takes the reader through an analysis of the torture and sexualized images that emerged from Abu Ghraib and what they signify. Here the “iconic” image of “a hooded prisoner standing on a box, his outstretched arms attached to electric wires” (181) evokes “religious images” but also one of the Klan: “the campaign against the Arab and the Muslim tried to identify Arabs and Islam with bigotry against Jews and Christians, and made the bigotry the license for invasion, war, and war crimes” (182). Indeed, this historic moment during an unjustified war—which built on the conflation of secularity with Christian democracy during the Cold War, the promotion of religious freedoms as a rhetorical weapon, and the “cleansing” of Christian Europe’s long legacy of antisemitism through its acquiescence and active support of Zionism—set the stage to pivot to anti-Muslim policies, securitizing racialized and gendered postcolonial Muslim subjects and bodies, and developing a set of policies called “countering violent extremism.” These policies were too large (and invested in) to fail even when analysts repeatedly concluded that the evidence did not support the ideological claims (as Lydia Wilson has shown). Indeed, it is not surprising that the sequel to Huntington’s “clash” was “who are we” because the securitizing of Muslims as part of the supposedly global war on terrorism directly relates to the consolidation of right-wing exclusionary ethnoreligious populist movements. These movements deploy civilizational language often through the registers of incompatibility between supposedly “Judeo-Christian values” and Islam.
What about the Jewish Question?
The emergence of racist right-wing populism in recent decades in multiple contexts—from France, Italy, and the Netherlands to the US and India—share an anti-Muslim racism that is often conveyed through the idioms of values, heritage, and religion (including laïcité). As I have already telegraphed, one of Norton’s most critical theoretical moves is to reconnect Europe’s “Jewish Question” with its “Muslim Question.” She shares this significant move with thinkers such as Yolande Jansen and Anya Topolsky, as well as Santiago Slabodsky and Gil Anidjar. This is an important move because it is an Andalusian interruption of the logic of the “clash” that assimilated (White) Jews into a civilizational discourse, as Slabodsky notes. It is an assimilation of the Jews into a Judeo-Christian construct that erases Jews and imposes violent supersessionism in the relation between Christianity and Judaism. Anidjar powerfully examines the Musselman in the death camps of Nazi Germany to explain the inextricable link between the Muslims and the Jews as Europe’s others. For Anidjar, 1492 and the Inquisition are significant points in the chronology. They denote the end of Andalusia and the beginning of the racialization of religious communities and their exclusion and targeting as a mechanism of proto-nationalism, the political project of modernity. Muslims and Jews were both targets of the Inquisition, which disrupted the interwoven socioreligious fabric of Spain.
Norton’s foregrounding of the Jewish Question in her discussion of the Muslim Question is a critical interruption of the ‘clash’ and connects with the constructive yet neither romantic nor utopian aspiration for an alternative Andalusian logic of the secular.
It is beyond the scope of this reflection to go into the historical work and contextualization of anti-Muslim and anti-Jewish praxis and theologies in the formation of modernity. I’ll here only underscore that Norton shows how a certain amnesia about the “Jewish Question,” which is otherwise definitional of European modernity and the formation of secular conceptions of citizenship, obscures reality on the ground. Any discussion of the “Muslim Question” in isolation from the “Jewish Question” reflects an ideological move that must be resisted. Instead, what is necessary is an Andalusian frame or what Gil Hochberg has recently described as an “archive of the future,” where it is possible to identify messianic interruptions of violent narratives of history. This move is critical for finally pushing the “clash” out of our syllabi. Indeed, it is not so much an amnesic issue but rather a presumption that the “Jewish Question” was somehow solved with the establishment of Israel. Marc Ellis explains it in terms of an “ecumenical pact” agreed to on the backs of Palestinian natives. This is the same Europe that created the skeleton Musslemann of the camps: the racialized bare life Jewish skeleton, nicknamed “Muslim,” who was clearly marked for imminent death by starvation. The problem with presuming that the Jewish Question has been solved is not only that it was “solved” on the back of Palestinians and through settler-colonial mechanisms, but also that it is nowhere to be found in anti-Muslim securitizing discourses. What is present is a vague appeal to Judeo-Christian civilizational roots, an appeal that itself telegraphs centuries of classical antisemitism. Here it is important to recall the Algerian French public intellectual Houria Bouteldja’s interpellation to the Jews to join the struggle and to leave behind their position as a “buffer people,” which leaves them operating under a persistently colonial logic. Hence, Norton’s foregrounding of the Jewish Question in her discussion of the Muslim Question is a critical interruption of the “clash” and connects with the constructive yet neither romantic nor utopian aspiration for an alternative Andalusian logic of the secular. I conclude by referring to Ebrahim Moosa’s profound point about being a critical traditionalist. What does it mean to be a critical traditionalist within the modern/secular world, but through an Andalusian frame?
On September 16, 2022, twenty-two-year-old Mahsa Amini died in custody in Tehran following her arrest by the Guidance Patrol (Gasht-e Ershad). Instantly, her death became a rallying cry for young Iranian women against the existing political order that has imposed and maintains unyielding patriarchal restrictions on women’s legal rights and life choices. Captured in the mantra Zan, Zendegi, Āzādi (“Women, Life, Liberty”), the protests that began in Saqqez, Mahsa Amini’s hometown in Iran’s Kurdish north, soon became a nation-wide revolt against the Islamic Republic. The judiciary, the police, and the state-controlled media made an absurd attempt to attribute Ms. Amini’s death to natural causes. But why, people asked, was a young woman in police custody for failing to observe an arbitrary dress code in the first place?
The speed with which the protests spread throughout the country and were radicalized into an anti-regime revolt surprised the government. They were ill-prepared to respond, as was evidenced in its brutal show of force on the streets and in the rapidly unfolding propaganda war inside and outside the country. Finally, after two weeks of mystifying silence, the Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Khamenei, spoke. He blamed Western powers for fomenting unrest in the country and manipulating “naïve young people” into executing a sinister plot to overthrow the Islamic Republic. He refused to acknowledge the deep and palpable discontent over a variety of issues that had motivated the unrest. The increasing pauperization of people from all walks of life (caused partly by the crippling US-led sanctions); the anguish and hopelessness of a new generation that feels deeply alienated from the culture and values that ruling classes promote; the feeling of abandonment of marginalized regions, particularly Kurdistan and Baluchistan; rampant corruption that plagues the state agencies and top officials; and many other legitimate grievances of the nation have found no place in the state’s narrative of the revolts that have shaken the foundations of the Islamic Republic.
It is true that there are regional and global state actors who are trying to instrumentalize and exploit these protests in order to topple the Islamic Republic or to coerce the regime in Tehran into submitting to the demands of western powers. But the regime’s failure to acknowledge the legitimate grievances of an entire population will only deepen the protesters’ antagonism and further polarize the political situation.
The ongoing uprisings in Iran might ultimately end the experiment that was Islamic Republicanism. Unlike the common analyses that attribute the current events in Iran to either the total failure of the Islamic revolution or an instance of the impossibility of the Islamic state, I see the present revolt, ironically, as the realization of Islamic Republicanism. I use the term “realization” in a dialectical sense to suggest that the Islamic Republic negates itself through its own realization. In other words, the republican process—with references to teachings of Islam—unleashed massive participation of otherwise excluded social groups (particularly women) who would eventually question the dominant ideology that made that participation possible. This dialectical process began to unfold from the moment when Ayatollah Khomeini, for the first time during his exile in Paris in 1978, spoke of the establishment of an Islamic Republic. He made that declaration with the full consciousness of the essence of republicanism that lies in the principle of peoples’ sovereignty and their right to self-determination.
Unlike the common analyses that attribute the current events in Iran to either the total failure of the Islamic revolution or an instance of the impossibility of the Islamic state, I see the present revolt, ironically, as the realization of Islamic Republicanism.
From the very beginning of the establishment of the Islamic Republic in 1979, the conflicting institutional sources of sovereignty and legitimacy of the state became a contested political predicament. The Majlis (Parliament), the office of the presidency, the prime minister’s office, the office of the velāyat-e faqih (the guardianship of the jurist), and the Guardian Council all struggled to reconcile the sovereignty of the people with the Islamic character of the new republic. The constitution of the Islamic Republic recognized the right of self-determination, so long as its exercise does not contradict the principles of Islamic creeds. In practice, however, rather than a point of reference, Islam became a contested body of religious discourses with competing interpretations from inside and outside of clerical establishment. The framers of the constitution believed that once they established the form of governance, Islam would shape its substance. They wanted to establish a religious state by sacralizing politics, making Islam the point of reference for good politics; in practice they secularized religion, making the state’s expediencies the arbiter of the right interpretations of Islam. In other words, rather than a religious state, the clerical establishment created a state religion. By doing so, not only did they suppress voices of dissent from outside of the polity, but they also marginalized the seminaries and the seminarians and turned them into an appendix to the state and its interests.
The struggle over who could legitimately claim authority in interpreting Islam and its teachings on good governance gave rise to a reformist movement in the 1990s. Now lay intellectuals, lawyers, journalists, women activists, young seminarians, and other social groups claimed authority in interpreting Islam and in defining the meaning of the right of self-determination and its relation to Islamic principles. The reform movement that culminated in the two-term presidency of Mohammad Khatami (1997–2005) emerged from the unintended consequence of making Islam the point of reference for good governance. The remarkable mobility of women, their unprecedented access to education and health care, and their demands for equal rights, particularly in the cases of divorce, children’s custody, and inheritance, had a constitutive significance in this movement.
Although the reformists theorized their movement on the principle of “bargaining from the top and pressuring from the bottom,” for the most part, they remained a movement for participation in political power. Civil society—the publication of private newspapers, the strong publishing industry, the formation of vibrant intellectual circles, and various forms of women’s groups (reading groups, sports, professional associations)—flourished in precarious terms. Nevertheless, it generated and sustained a deep sense of transformative power among people of all walks of life. Despite the omnipresence of state repression, this collective sense of empowerment and civic engagement grew rhizomatically, without a vertical hierarchical structure. The state, with its complex and oversized system of intelligence gathering and surveillance, remained suspicious of all political parties, professional associations, and other formal institutions that could possibly mobilize their constituents for any form of political and/or civil action. But these informal and loosely connected, or disconnected, networks grew exponentially among a new generation that cared little for the revolutionary mores and values that defined both the ruling classes and those who had hitherto defied them.
The economic crises that were perpetuated by the US’ crippling sanctions, which had intensified during the two-term presidency of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad (2005–2013), hastened the separation and antagonism between the state and civil society. Rampant corruption and virulent crony capitalism, disguised as the privatization project of the state-owned industry, increasingly deepened this antagonism. To reframe this growing discontent, to justify its own patriarchal repression, the state adopted an instrumental relation with Islam, labeling all expressions of discontent conspiracies against Islam and the sovereignty of the Islamic Republic.
Since its inception, there has been a major divide within the polity of the Islamic Republic between those who advocate a totalitarian ideology that operates based on the notion of insider/outsider and friend vs. enemy, and a disappearing minority who promote something similar to an agonistic democracy. The latter aims to turn enemies into adversaries and transform all antagonisms into agonism. The final nail in the coffin of the agonistic tendency was the election of Ebrahim Raisi to the presidency in 2021. Raisi prevailed in an election in which the Guardian Council disqualified all other viable candidates from running. Popular participation was the lowest in the forty-year history of the republic. The conservatives cynically seized all three branches of the government and took a major step toward the realization of their totalitarian dreams.
Women stand at the forefront, driving this nationwide revolt because there exists the deepest contradiction between their massive participation in social affairs (artistic-cultural production, journalism, education, civic engagement) and the patriarchal laws and denigrating regulations that seek to govern their bodies and appearances.
The Supreme Leader, along with the Guardian Council, tried in vain to delink the regime’s legitimacy to electoral participation. For the first time since its inception, the absence of competing factions in elections created a clear rupture between the Islamic Republic’s polity and its constituents. By monopolizing all three branches of the government, the conservatives created a state that defined itself in the self/other binary terms without leaving any institutional forms for the expression of dissent for the “other.”
The protests of the past few months demonstrate how this binary of self/other was translated into open hostilities and seemingly unresolvable antagonisms fought on the streets of every urban center in the country. Women stand at the forefront, driving this nationwide revolt because there exists the deepest contradiction between their massive participation in social affairs (artistic-cultural production, journalism, education, civic engagement) and the patriarchal laws and denigrating regulations that seek to govern their bodies and appearances. We do not know whether this movement will lead to regime change or a major overhaul of the existing order. Those at the top might succeed in using the uprising to entrench the authority of the Islamic Republic through a brutal reign of terror. We all hope fervently that the latter does not come to pass. But one thing is certain as Iranian women have demonstrated these past several months: A nation that has inherited a revolutionary spirit and has perpetuated it through collective expressions of discontent over the past four decades will not easily submit to naked repression, regardless of how it is exercised or justified.
*I would like to thank Julie Livingston for her comments on an earlier version of this essay.
Behrooz Ghamari-Tabrizi is Professor and Chair of Near Eastern Studies Department and Director of Sharmin and Bijan Mossavar-Rahmani Center for Iran and Persian Gulf Studies at Princeton University. He is the author of Foucault in Iran: Islamic Revolution after the Enlightenment (University of Minnesota Press, 2016) and Remembering Akbar: Inside the Iranian Revolution (O/R Books [Counterpoint], 2016). He works on topics related to social theory and Islamist political thought and is currently working on a project on Mystical Modernity, a comparative study of the philosophies of history and political theories of Walter Benjamin and Ali Shariati.
March 24, 2022; Prof. Ebrahim Moosa speaks at the Mirza Family Professorship Dinner. (Photo by Peter Ringenberg/University of Notre Dame).
This essay is adapted from the Mirza Family Chair Inaugural Lecture given by Ebrahim Moosa on March 24, 2022. To learn about the gift that established the chair, read more here. A video recording of the lecture is also availableas is a recap of the event. A PDF version of this lecture is also available.
Introduction
Map of the famine in India in 1897, published on page 10 of the Chicago Sunday Tribune, January 31, 1897. Public Domain. Via Wikimedia Commons.
In 1897 a famine affected the Bombay Presidency in India. Also known as the Bombay Province, this administrative territory of British India included some regions south and north of what is today the city of Mumbai. A drought preceded the 1897 famine, which continued into 1899. Famines in British India, the Nobel prize winning economist, Amartya Sen found, were not due to a lack of food (338–54). Instead, inequalities in the distribution of food and the absence of democracy, especially media coverage of the famine, were their main causes. In short, famines had political origins. My ancestors too were refugees affected by a combination of colonial mismanagement and ecological catastrophe long before these terms were invented.
In 1898, at the height of this particular famine, the fourth son of Essa Vally named Moosa was born. His village was known as Vahalu and was located 12.8 kms/8 miles away from the city of Bharuch. Today it is an overcrowded city on the banks of the great Narmada River. As subsistence farmers, my great grandfather’s family was badly affected by the drought. As a result, some started to look for job opportunities outside India, this time made possible by the ability to travel and work in other British colonial holdings. At the turn of the twentieth century, Moosa and his two brothers, Bagus and Adam, followed in the path of several Gujaratis who made their way to southern Africa. When they reached the port city of Durban on the coast of the Indian Ocean, they found the place over traded. They thus travelled further south to Cape Town, which is where they settled around 1902. If we allow for some errors in documentation, one can with some confidence say that Moosa Essa, as he was known, was somewhere between 12 and 16 when he arrived in Africa with his two brothers. Life in the Cape was difficult. There were few people of Gujarati descent, and as such the place felt alienating. His two elder brothers found the rigors of the Cape so unbearable that they hastily returned to India.
Not knowing how to read or write in English, Moosa Essa often used his thumb imprint as his signature on official documents. Our family took his first name as our family name, Moosa. He persevered as a fruit seller, carrying his produce on his shoulders and hawking it to customers in the city of Cape Town. He took up residence in the area known as District Six, which the planners of apartheid destroyed in the 1970s because it defied the policy of racial segregation. Later he opened a store on the famous Grand Parade and by the time he died was known as a fierce businessman, specializing in the banana wholesale trade popularly known as Moosa Cape Town. As a subsistence farmer he knew the value of land. He invested most of his wealth in property both in South Africa and in India. By the time he died, he accumulated a substantial amount of farming land in Vahalu and not an insignificant amount of property in Cape Town.
From famine-ravaged poverty to modest wealth, Moosa Essa never forgot his origins nor his duty to society. He was instrumental, for example, in the building of a mosque in the District Six neighborhood of Cape Town. He also never forgot his origins in his village in India and did not abandon his faith and culture in the very westernizing environment of colonial South Africa under British and later Afrikaner rule.
One could say that my great grandfather was obsessed with his duty to serve his village and community in India and South Africa. No, he loved and reveled in service. This devotion to service stemmed from his faith. He personally supervised every major construction project he undertook. He embodied the truth in the sense that, as Vikram Chandra puts it in his breathtaking novel, Sacred Games, “Love was duty, and duty was love.”
Using his own wealth but also contributions from others, he was the pioneering spirit who oversaw the building of a mosque in Vahalu as well as a grand elementary madrasa, the equivalent of a Sunday School for the daily religious instruction of young girls and boys. He also constructed a water-tower for the storage of well water and built stairs leading into the village pond for the safety of women who used the pond for sundry purposes, including the washing of clothes and utensils. This was long before the village had running water installed in homes. In addition, he built a grand three-level house for himself hoping that his offspring would one day return to enjoy the respite offered by village life and its pastoral environment. No one returned, though I did visit the village during my student years in India. A secular primary school was incomplete at the time of his death on May 15, 1965, but was later completed.
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Moosa Essa with groups in village, at the stairs to well, attending a ribbon cutting in the village, the water tower he helped construct, and the school he constructed
In 2005 the entire school building was rebuilt. The doors of the old school that were handpicked and paid for by my great grandfather were preserved and retrofitted into the new school in preservation of his memory. My great grandfather was a man of strong character. He was resilient and kind, but he also had a fierce determination to get his way. A lover of fine horses for his carriage, part of his daily routine in India was to stop and get off his carriage at the shrine of an unnamed saint in the village square, offer a prayer, and then go on to the city of Bharuch to conduct his business. He never stopped trying to improve himself and his community.
The Mirza Chair
I am honored to be the inaugural holder of the endowed Mirza Family Chair in Islamic Thought and Muslim Societies in the Keough School of Global Affairs and with an appointment in the Department of History. One of the key themes of the Keough School is integral human development, an idea drawn from Catholic social teachings. In different iterations, however, this value is espoused by other faith traditions, including Judaism and Islam, but also secular ideologies like Marxism and socialism.
When I study my grandfather’s legacy, I can honestly say that integral human development was baked into his DNA. His philanthropy and altruism centered around service to humanity. His means to these ends were the mosque, faith, and his practical knowledge of the Islamic tradition. He also had a sense of the importance of education as he was not formally educated. Even though he was not literate in matters of faith—he could not read the Qur’ān—and did not read books about religion, he embodied the tenets of his religion in a unique way. He integrated his faith with his society. My wish is for some of these tenets that my great grandfather inculcated in himself to continue to run in our DNA and in our practice as his descendants.
With the inauguration of the Mirza Chair, the irony will not be lost on you that two diasporic legacies come to fruition at the University of Notre Dame, the premier Catholic University in the United States. My family’s history goes back to colonial pre-partition India, then to colonial apartheid and post-apartheid South Africa, and now the United States. Muzzafar Mirza, the late husband of Susan Scribner-Mirza, who endowed this chair in memory of him, came from Pakistan to study in the US and then later made this country his home with Sue.
I am relating this story of my ancestors and some parallels to the history of the late Mr. Mirza for two reasons. One is to locate myself in my family’s history, a journey that now connects me to three continents. The other reason is because of the themes which are central to this lecture: history and progress. Many people have the experience of coming from distant lands and locales to this country. Each migration story makes history in one or another way. Does it also represent progress from a worse situation to a better one? What do we mean when we use the language of progress? How does one imagine it and what is its relationship to history? How can we go beyond common sense to grasp these issues? And what does any of this have to do with human flourishing?
The Question of Progress
The idea of progress originates from certain biblical themes of an apocalyptic end along with a mechanistic view of the world wherein its inhabitants aim to create a New Jerusalem. “The idea of progress . . . represents a secularized version of the Christian belief in providence,” wrote Christopher Lasch in his 1991 classic, The True and Only Heaven (40). In numerous apocalyptic writings, according to Ernest Tuveson, history was endowed with a plot and encompassed a narrative of what happened before and what was expected to come. Building on the Hebraic tradition, Christian thinkers and pioneers adapted the Bible’s moral narratives into their own special interpretations of the divine. Saint Augustine, for example, found compelling the idea that history was ultimately progressive, leading to an eschatological end. Later Protestant attitudes also implicitly held that history moves through divinely preordained and revealed stages to a final resolution of human dilemmas.
After centuries of experience, we can now see that there are more deterministic and less deterministic versions of progress. In its strongest posture, progress signifies a particular relation to history: that history has an end (telos) and a predetermined goal. In a more benign way progress could mean advances in knowledge, the betterment of the human condition, and the acquisition of some abilities and the loss of others. In short, on this more benign and less deterministic account, progress might be reframed as improvement.
Paul Klee, Angelus Novus, 1920. Public Domain. Via Wikimedia Commons.
In his “Theses on the Philosophy of History,” Walter Benjamin meditates on Swiss painter Paul Klee’s (d. 1940) Angelus Novus. This painting of an angel for Benjamin represents the beguiling angel of history. Benjamin’s caution and deep ambivalence towards historicism surfaces in this analysis. Historicism is the theory that social and cultural phenomena are determined by history or that history is the most basic aspect of human existence. In Benjamin’s view, adherents of historicism tend to empathize with the victors in history. They might forget that there are other claimants of history, a lesson Francis Fukuyama ignored in his book, The End of History and the Last Man.
What intrigues Benjamin in the Klee painting is how the angel flies: his wings are spread but his face is turned towards the past. The wings of the angel cannot close because they are kept open by a violent storm from Paradise that propels him into the future. With a strong dose of irony, Benjamin comments: “This storm is what we call progress” (257–58). Even before Benjamin, earlier Romantic thinkers like Herder, Jacobi, Haman, and T. S. Eliot refused to accept the inevitability of progress. In modernity, the possibility of change for the better is a crucial element in how we conceptualize history. This focus on change in history was central to the Enlightenment episteme of ethics and moral philosophy. Modern science as well during this time began to give us a very different understanding of nature than the medieval Aristotelian worldview. The revelations of nature continuously challenged the truths that were taken to be immutable in earlier stages of human history. In late modernity, as I will later explain, we are beginning to question the assumptions of the Enlightenment and its truth because of the ecological challenges we face. Even as the Enlightenment upended certain aspects of the medieval worldview, it maintained its teleological focus on an ultimate “end’ towards which human action tended. In doing so, it recast a Christian worldview that set up humans as having dominion over nature in secular terms. Today the study of history grapples with all the philosophical challenges in late modernity and the Muslim tradition is no exception.
Philosophy of History in Muslim Traditions
What kind of trajectory of time and change does the Muslim tradition offer? To answer this question, I turn first to the period immediately prior to Islam known as the Jahili period. This era was renowned for its poetry, and the Arabs took pride in it as their choicest repository of wisdom. It was a repository in the sense, writes Tarif Khalidi, that it “supplied much of the wisdom and the practical moral standards handed down from one generation to the next.” Proverbial wisdom involved a heroic conception of life where the “unforeseen change from prosperity to wretchedness, the fleeting character of life and friendships, the exhilaration of love and wine, pride in lordly generosity or even-handed revenge” featured in human life (4).
History also often seeks to understand what moral lesson every epoch provides, and thus what improvements might be made as we move into the future.
With the advent of Islam, some of this wisdom was translated into Islamic categories. The Islamic vision of history added a sense of space and time to them. Space and time were ideally inhabited by those who acknowledge God’s lordship and majestic power in creating the world for the use of humans. Human responsibility involved being a witness of God on earth and undertaking the task of stewardship. Time, however, is less of a chronology of events in the Qurʾān and more of a continuum in which past, present, and future are collapsed. Adam, Abraham, Moses, and Muhammad are “eternally present” says Khalidi, and all of history is present to God in terms of divine omniscience. Humans are invited to see the parables in the scriptures and in the handiwork of God in nature. Truth is captured in knowledge and humans are obliged to seek knowledge from the cradle to the grave. By the fifteenth century the writing of history in Islamicate societies had already “transitioned” to new a new conception of history. The earliest phase was a transition from prophetic wisdom to history; from “providential to communal history.” “[F]rom the overwhelming and monumental Qurʾānic time,” writes Khalidi, “to the sequential listing, dating and recording of individual actions performed by members of a community that was beginning to realize the merit of its progress in time . . . and the coming into being of a time scheme which strove to historicize early Islam and to use it to establish hierarchies of moral or social seniority or prestige” (34). History, in my view, can best be described as a series of responses to contingencies and explanations of the conditions in the world. Sometimes these contingencies are expressed in distinctive genres and topics. In some eras, history is preoccupied with the exploits of prophets and kings. At other times, it meticulously documents the lives of influential scholars and pious figures as servants of knowledge and learning. History also often seeks to understand what moral lesson every epoch provides, and thus what improvements might be made as we move into the future.
Two brief illustrations exemplify how history is conceived of in modern Muslim experiences.
In his book, The Road to Mecca, Muhammad Asad documents six years of his travel on camel-back in Arabia after his conversion to Islam in 1926. He talks movingly about his very close friend Zayd with whom he traveled the length and breadth of Arabia. Asad also had a close relationship with King Ibn Saud, the founder of Saudi Arabia. Zayd however was a member of the Āl Rashīd, a rival kinship group to the Āl Saʿūd clan. In the early years of the 20th century the Āl Rashīd lost out to the Āl Saʿūd in control of the Arabian Peninsula. At one point in the book, Asad and Zayd reach a city called Ḥāʾil. Zayd had not been to the city for many years because the city was now in the control of the Āl Saʿūd.
“How does it feel Zayd, to be back in the town of thy youth after all these years?” Asad asked his companion. Zayd had always refused to enter Ḥāʾil whenever he had the occasion to visit. “I am not sure my uncle,” he replies slowly. “Eleven years since I was here last. Thou knowest my heart would not allow me to come here earlier.” After citing a passage from the Qurʾān about God being the one who gives and takes sovereignty, Zayd adds:
No doubt God gave sovereignty to the House of Ibn Rashīd, but they did not know how to use it rightly…they were reckless in their pride. So God took away their rule and handed it back to Ibn Saʿūd. I think I should not grieve any longer—for is it not written in the Book, ‘Sometimes you love a thing, and it may be worst for you—and sometimes you hate a thing, and it may be the best for you?’ (italics in original)
Muhammad Asad’s comment that follows this exchange is illuminating and wise:
There is a sweet resignation in Zayd’s voice, a resignation implying no more than the acceptance of something that has already happened and cannot therefore be undone. It is this acquiescence of the Muslim spirit to the immutability of the past—the recognition that whatever has happened had to happen in this particular way and could have happened in no other—that is so often mistaken by Westerners for a ‘fatalism’ inherent in an Islamic outlook. But a Muslim’s acquiescence to fate relates to the past and not to the future: it is not a refusal to act, to hope and to improve, but a refusal to consider past reality as anything but an act of God. (159) (emphasis mine)
In this example there is not only a sensibility of history from below, but also an experiential philosophy of life of which history is only a reflection. Important to note is his insight into how Muslims have dealt with the past as an immutable fact. It is a sense of history that leaves the future open, for humans will not achieve except that for which they strive (this is according to a piece of Qurʾānic wisdom). It is that striving that is critical to making history.
If the past is rendered immutable it does not preclude one to act, to hope, or to improve, as Asad put it. Nor is it a future that is preordained, as in the secularized version of progress. In this past century especially we have learned that progress can come at a cost to humans and nature. One thinks of the rain forests in the Amazon that are cut down in the name of economic “progress.” Such actions render the earth more vulnerable to global warming and deprive Indigenous peoples of their homes. Such examples remind us of the importance of Asad’s insight. If the end of history is already set, then there are no contingencies—whether they are ecological or planetary disaster—which might require us to reset or reconfigure our aims.
Fazlur Rahman was a Pakistani émigré scholar to the US and professor of Islamic thought at the University of Chicago who influenced my thinking early on in my career. He expressed his conception of history in the following words: “Islam is the first actual movement known to history, that has taken society seriously and history meaningfully because it perceived that the betterment of this world was not a hopeless task nor just pis aller [a last resort or expedient] but a task in which God and man are involved together” (86).
While history and society feature as crucial elements in Rahman’s writings in the 1960’s, his task at the time was to depict Islam as a civilizational force as well as a faith tradition for individuals. The idea of history nonetheless played an important role in Rahman’s thought. His various studies led him to an understanding of history that allowed one to reshape the normative questions in Islamic thought. For Rahman the story of the advent of Islam, its scripture, norms and symbols, the actual forces of Arabian culture, were all constructively manipulated for a moral cause. “If history is the proper field for Divine activity,” Rahman wrote, “historical forces must, by definition, be employed for the moral end as judiciously as possible” (21). In other words, early Islam revealed the proper end of human action, but it was up to humans to progress towards that end.
Rahman was, of course, a Muslim modernist. He proudly wore that label and thus had a different viewpoint from Asad. Muslim philosophy of history, or more accurately philosophies of history, are somewhat compelled to discern the providential element in history. In the hands of earlier historians, the past was dissected as an act of God. For modernist Muslim thinkers like Rahman, however, there was a greater emphasis on historicism that was similar to that of his earlier counterparts in Egypt, notably Ṭāhā Ḥusayn. On this view, it was necessary to inscribe moral ends as the telos of history. We see here that the secular idea of progress did indeed impact certain trends in Muslim thinking. And on the face of it, few can quibble with these moral ends. The question is: Whose morals are we trying to bring into being? How do you know which morals are the right ones to hold? And should the moral ends necessarily be hitched to the wagon of history? Even when Rahman does rethink his position, he cannot extricate himself from the modern moral circle. “‘Progress’ we all want,” Rahman the philosopher-theologian clarifies, “not despite Islam, nor besides Islam but because of Islam for we all believe that Islam, as it was launched as a movement on earth in the seventh century Arabia, represented pure progress-moral and material” (70).
Here I have hopefully more than telegraphed two modern Muslim modes of thinking with competing accounts of the meaning and end of history. For Asad, the present and the future we create can be an improvement upon the past, but there is no end or guarantee of this. For Rahman, however, history has a moral purpose that ties the past and future together in the march of progress.
Philosophy of History in the West
As already suggested above, the story of history in the west has also shaped the story of history around the globe. The German historian Reinhart Koselleck has explained how the idea of history changed in modernity. For Koselleck this change occurred with a new way of conceptualizing time. Part of this new conceptualization stems from modernity’s prioritization of immanence, in other words the preference for human indwelling in the here and now, over transcendence. For Koselleck, “time is no longer simply the medium in which all histories take place, it gains a historical quality. Consequently, history no longer occurs in, but through time. Time becomes a dynamic and historical force in its own right” (246).
If in the pre-modern world we recounted what happened in the past and called it history, in modernity things have changed. Koselleck says that time is not independent from us, nor does it transcend us, because history is now more about the future and the modern historian is intimately involved in the making of that future. We are time: in our performance of history we embody time. In other words, the individuated self is coterminous with a modern historicism that has now taken center stage in service of “growing united of world history” in pursuit of a collective singular progress (256). A radical insight that requires greater reflection and critique is when Koselleck writes: “History was temporalized in the sense that, thanks to the passing of time, it altered according to the given present, and with growing distance the nature of the past also altered.” (250)
Given the impact of colonization in different parts of the world, history itself acquired a world-historical quality. Because of colonization, it was not unusual that the modern conception of history also affected Muslims around the world. They too wanted to imagine themselves as coterminous with time itself, moving towards an eschaton, be it improvement in the view of some or progress in the eyes of others. During the first half of the twentieth century, many modern educated Muslims emerging from the dark night of colonialism surely wanted to better their lives. To do so, they often willingly adopted certain notions of western and colonial history. In that era to be a progressive or a modern Muslim was a badge of honor; this is no longer the case today in light of the resurgence of both traditionalism and fundamentalism. It is surprising to find that even some thinkers with a traditional background accepted this almost Whig idea of history as progress.
Some Muslim traditionalists thought of every epoch of history as different and an improvement on the past. They argued that this view dated back to a long tradition in Muslim history, which easily fed the modern historical narrative of progress. So, in the view of a fairly broad spectrum of writers, especially those with a predisposition to modernity, one can glean from their writings a sense of a world that can be improved upon. But more generally the accumulation of experiences, technologies, wealth, and resources do make things easier for those who have it compared to those who did not—hence the rich have a duty towards the poor. The idea of progress, in the modern western sense, was embraced by modernists but approached with a sense of ambivalence by Muslim traditionalists. Nevertheless there was indeed a sense of advancing in history and making things easier for people: instead of laboring like a beast, it was better to use a beast and employ tools and implements to make human life more comfortable. There was also a sense that when you use a beast as a means, the treatment should be humane and with integrity; this too was an improvement upon the previous ways animals were treated.
The Ironies of History
Over time, my own work has shifted in dramatic ways. For the story of how I ended up in the madrasas of India for my formative education in Islamic thought I invite you to read my book What is a Madrasa? Post-madrasa life, for me, had several stages. First, I took up journalism in the UK and then South Africa. This was followed by community activism in the Muslim Youth Movement of South Africa as national director—alongside Professor Rashied Omar who was president of the same organization—which combatted apartheid on an Islamic platform. Following this public service, I attended graduate school and began my life in academia.
My extensive studies of tradition, social practices, and the need to develop solutions for faith communities confronting the challenges of modernity often led me to one question: How does a faith tradition—with its myriad practices, beliefs, morals, and ethical ideals—countenance change over time? A faith tradition with seventh-century Arabian imprints that develops and grows into multiple cultures and civilizations must cope with change. Different aspects of a religious tradition, in my view, change according to different rhythms: law and theology has a slower momentum of change compared to economic and political practices. By now you probably have realized that the discursive tradition of Islamic thought has always been a central thread of my practice and intellectual life, as well as to my identity and professional preoccupations.
In pursuit of this question of change, I studied the work of Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī, (d. 1111), a Persian scholar who enjoys an enviable stature in the Muslim tradition. Saint Augustine and Saint Thomas Aquinas are figures of similar stature in the Christian tradition. Some of my ideas were documented in Ghazālī and the Poetics of Imagination and have bearing on the discussion here concerning history and progress.
In my view, Ghazālī made two major contributions to Islamic theology and philosophy. One was to expand the knowledge framework with which he explained his faith tradition. The second was to allow for spiritual and mystical experiences to also have a place in the epistemic realm. He robustly introduced philosophical and logical arguments in his many theological writings to frame his tradition in the elite idiom of his time, which consisted of philosophical and metaphysical arguments. He was so enamored by philosophy that fellow scholars, both during and after his time, chastised him for grafting Greek and Persianate ideas onto the tapestry of knowledge provided by the Arabian Prophet. He frequently drew on the experiences of mystics to elaborate the inner meanings and subtleties of religious practices. Ghazālī gave equal weight to intuition and discursive reason in a dialectical sense. Ghazālī realized there was a need to ensure religious practices produce ethical outcomes and the “technologies-of-the-self” developed in Islamic mysticism met these goals (see chapter 5). He perceived that there was a need to improve the articulation and practice of Islam that was consonant with a living tradition.
What for Ghazālī might have appeared to be an improvement, development, even progress with a small “p,” was for others the very opposite. And let’s remember that this contestation happened long before the advent of what we call the era of modernity. One such critic was the Kurdish thinker Ibn Ṣalāḥ (d. 1245), a Shāfīʿī traditionalist and an expert in prophetic traditions. Ibn Ṣalāḥ lamented Ghazālī’s claim that whoever did not master logical thinking was not qualified to delve into matters related to legal theory and jurisprudence, a critical discipline in Islamic religious discourses. Ibn al-Jawzī (d. 1201), a Ḥanbalī, was extremely critical when Ghazālī endorsed a controversial sufi practice whereby a spiritual novice who was consciously combatting his pride and arrogance sought out means to be humiliated. One technique was for the novice to go to the bath house and “steal” the clothes of the patrons, and then slowly walk out in order to be detected and thus berated as a “thief” or worse, being beaten. In theory, with such rebuke or beating the novice subdues his ego. In endorsing such a practice, Ibn al-Jawzī proclaimed that Ghazālī disqualified himself from being a jurist, i.e., an expert in legal and ethical topics.
Portrait of Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī by Kahil Gibran, 1917. Public Domain. Via Wikimedia Commons.
Another critic of Ghazālī was the famous Taqī al-Dīn Ibn Taymīya (d. 1328). Most philosophers, as well as some theologians and mystics, held the fairly standard view that prophecy was a divine gift. Prophecy was not something one could attain based on one’s effort. However, many orthodox authorities nevertheless held that the essence of prophecy was the imagination. Imagination was related to the quality and luminescence of the soul. The gift of the imagination enabled the Prophet and his followers to deal with the contingencies of life guided by the creative imagination burnished by prophecy. Coupled with this view on prophecy, Ghazālī also viewed the development of the soul through spiritual practices to be the culmination of a religious life. Here he welcomed and endorsed many of the practices adopted by Muslim mystics known as sufis.
Ibn Taymīya, by contrast, was clearly opposed to a concept of prophecy that gave an opening to the imagination and certain forms of sufi practices, especially if such spiritual practices had no scriptural mandate. The fear was that these might corrupt Islamic doctrine and practice. In his view, revelation depended on a fideistic, no questions asked, commitment to God. Only such a commitment could demonstrate one’s utter reliance on the teachings of God. This was accompanied by a belief that these teachings were transmitted to prophets via angels. Ghazālī, of course, accepted the traditional doctrine of revelation. But he also made it more expansive to create a significant place for the imagination, since this was, in his view, the highlight of the prophetic event. Ibn Taymīya consistently refuted Ghazālī and later he also targeted the Muslim mystic Ibn ʿArabī (d. 1240) with even stronger theological accusations. Ibn Taymīya was unable to come to terms with how revelation affectively works through the power of the soul. To do so would require reexamining the theological guardrails that he insisted such a doctrine must adopt. In Ibn Taymīya’s view, Ghazālī swallowed too much philosophy and this poisonous dose corrupted his thinking and made him divert from strict scripturalist renderings of the faith. Ghazālī, in other words, had betrayed tradition in an attempt at improving it.
For all his fascination with philosophy, Ghazālī nevertheless found fault with the views of the philosophers. He singled out Ibn Sīnā or Avicenna (d. 1037) as someone whose philosophical claims clashed with three theological doctrines. The philosopher, he argued, firstly, denied bodily resurrection and claimed that resurrection on the day of judgment would be in the form of the soul and not the body. Secondly, Avicenna believed that God only partook or knew things that were universal, not particular. And third, the philosopher claimed that the world emanated from God and thus was eternal. On all three issues Ghazālī took a harsh line and declared that such beliefs placed one outside the standard and accepted doctrines of Islam. In my opinion, Ghazālī could have found extenuating circumstances and explanations for the ideas of the philosopher, but he showed no leniency. Later, Averroes, also known as Ibn Rushd (d.1198), in a heroic defense of the philosophers, did a point-by-point rebuttal of Ghazālī’s arguments. He showed that Ghazālī contradicted some of his own canons of interpretation in his theological critique of the philosophers.
Ghazālī thought that he was engaged in improving the discursive tradition of Islamic theological thought through his forays into philosophy, and many welcomed this as an advance on the old ways. In a certain sense this development represented improvement. While his ideas did receive broad reception across the sectarian divide, his approach, as I have shown, was not seen as an improvement by everyone. For some purists his work was a distortion of the original purity of Islam. So already in the eleventh century we can see the contestation over improvement.
History and Tradition
After the collapse of the Ottoman empire in 1922, a range of Muslim thinkers in both Arabic-speaking and non-Arabic speaking regions took stock of their fortunes in order to deal with both their civilizational challenges and the need to engage modernity and the nation-state. One resource these intellectuals and Muslim thinkers turned to was “the heritage or tradition,” called the turāth. The turāth is technically the archive of the Islamic tradition, but the use of the term signifies tradition, broadly speaking. The call to study the tradition stemmed from the fact that the thinkers who made this call were a class of intellectuals who benefited from the West, but were also seeking validation from within Muslim societies. Hence engaging tradition was critical in their efforts to refashion society. In the face of Europe’s rise and of the virtues of enlightenment reason and rationality, Muslim thinkers also wanted to build a civilizational future based on the virtues of rationality. They asked: Why did Muslims miss the boat of enlightenment when Islam and Muslims had a civilization that valued reason and rationality? Did Islamdom not preserve and advance the wisdom of the Greeks and the Indians? How did they lose this wisdom despite the Qur’ān’s constant exhortation to deploy one’s thinking? The answer they landed on was a rather flawed one: they erroneously concluded that Muslim civilization had neglected reason and abandoned rationality for other alternatives such as mysticism. Their fingers often pointed to Ghazālī as the thinker that sparked this turn away from reason.
Those who made this diagnosis claimed that rationalism declined because philosophy was evacuated from Muslim culture. This argument, however, was not substantiated by any sustained and serious historical analysis. Often times, these investigations were animated by nationalisms of different sorts, including Arab nationalism, which was shadow-boxing Iranian and Ottoman claims to preeminence in Islamic thought. Several recent studies have shown that these rather shallow analyses of the tradition as proposed by thinkers like the late Muhammad ʿĀbid al-Jābrī and Ḥasan Ḥanafī are palpably wrong, but the myth continues. The myth continues because it makes for an easy scapegoat. The twentieth century diagnostic myth is as follows: rationalism was replaced around the eleventh century by superstition and an extreme reverence for charismatic spiritual authorities, irrespective of whether the latter were dead or alive. Living spiritual authorities created the cult of saints who exercised their power at mausoleums and shrines. This power was exercised on the minds of their unwitting followers with debilitating consequences, the allegation went.
Many today continue to swat at Ghazālī like one beats a piñata at a birthday party. You will also find this narrative that blames Ghazālī for the decline of Islam in popular discourse, such as in public television documentaries like Neil deGrasse Tyson’s reboot of Carl Sagan’s Cosmos.
For a more robust vision of how to grapple with history and tradition than these critics of Ghazālī we can turn to Tunis-born historian ʿAbd al-Raḥmān Ibn Khaldūn (d.1406), who enjoyed a distinct reputation in the past and present for his exacting empirical standards in history but also his philosophy of history. His ideas circulated widely, especially among Ottoman intellectuals and later Western scholars interested in Islam. Among the things a historian needs to know, Ibn Khaldūn impressively lists:
The author of this discipline of historiography needs to possess knowledge of the rules of politics, the true nature of existing things, the differences between different commonwealths of people, locations, periods with respect to ways of living, character traits, customs, sects, schools of learning and all relevant and associated conditions. And how the present is comprised by these elements. The historian must be able to gauge the similarities between the present and the past and the distance between the present and past in terms of their differences. And the historian must be able to analyze the causes of the similarities and the causes of the differences. So too must the historian grasp the foundations on which political dynasties and religions were established; the causes that made them become manifest; the reasons they came into existence and the incentives for their being as well as the conditions of those who established these dynasties and religions and their respective histories. This is necessary for the historian to fully grasp the material cause of every event and the rational principle behind every account. Then only can the historian evaluate transmitted reports based on what he possesses of rules and rational principles. If the narrative complies with the rules and principles and meet their criteria it is deemed sound; otherwise, the historian deems it spurious and dispenses with it. (1:55–56)
Ibn Khaldūn also laments the fact that much historiography fails to account for the changes that occur among a collectivity of people. When one political dynasty dies and another is given birth to, various customs and political practices will undergo change. Additionally, after several decades of rule practices might look very different from how they did at the beginning.
A historian must not project her or his own subjective experiences onto the past when examining it, he warned. But this is also a warning against presentism: reading history in terms of our own experiences. Ibn Khaldūn admits that it is natural for humans to see similarities and analogies at first blush. But often this is a recipe for error. Someone even well-versed in history can sometimes be oblivious to the changes that societies have undergone. Unhesitatingly the person projects the knowledge of the present onto the past and then measures the past based on one’s own experiences. This is a capital error on Ibn Khaldūn’s understanding. Many modern historians of Islam project the experiences of the present to bizarre causes in the past.
At the beginning of Islam and through the Umayyad and Abbasid dynasties, Ibn Khaldūn asserts, knowledge was not a craft or discipline. Knowledge was equal to a handed-down body of teachings, a tradition that enjoyed a different status. Knowledge was what one had heard from the Lawgiver, meaning from the authority of the Prophet and what he taught of the Qurʾān. The main function of knowledge of the faith was to guide people in specific ways of living.
Bust of Ibn Khaldūn at the entrance of the Kasbah of Bejaia, Algeria. Public Domain. Via Wikimedia Commons.
More importantly, knowledge of the tradition in this early period was shouldered by persons of prestige, dignity, and influence who wielded the power of persuasion (aṣabiyya), like the Umayyad governor Ḥajjāj b. Yūsuf al-Thaqafī (d. 714), who hailed from a family of influential teachers. In other words, the knowledge actors were also in a sense the political leaders. Hence, the knowledge of faith was baked into the political system of early Islam. Today we will say that the faith tradition was mirrored in the political theology of the early community and vice-versa. If worldly success and ethical living are the requirements for afterworldly success, as the Qur’ān taught, then it was not inconceivable that there should be a relationship between the order of the political and that of the spiritual realm. The Prophet appointed his most senior Companions to the task of transmitting knowledge because it was critical to the identity of the community, reported Ibn Khaldūn. His crucial point is this: in this early stage the transmission of knowledge of the faith was closely associated with people of prestige, influence, and those who had ties of solidarity with the political dynasty that Islam established. It was in the form of a tradition, naql, that they grasped what Islam meant.
Several generations later the character of the knowledge of the faith tradition changed. Ibn Khaldūn is a bit vague on when this exactly happens. But based on his experiences in Mamluk Egypt in the fourteenth century, he was confident that knowledge of the tradition was no longer part of a founding political narrative during his time. The political tradition became somewhat quasi-independent, with profound consequences for the knowledge tradition that regulated theology, law, and philosophical ethics. Muslims had by his time, seven centuries later after the founding of Islam, developed an entire corpus of laws dependent on the early tradition. The corpus of knowledge also advanced different understandings of these laws compared to the early tradition. So, examining Islam as a fully-fledged discursive tradition, as Talal Asad describes it, requires a complex sensibility of the various mutations of tradition, especially the role of politics in the making and practice of tradition. Multiple understandings of tradition were made more complex by debates centered on knowledge of the tradition, a perspective seriously ignored in earnest contemporary studies of tradition.
As part of a unique Muslim Republic of Letters across multiple geographical regions, this discursive tradition not only expanded in terms of substance but also in terms of space. It consisted of contributions from Muslims in Persia, Central Asia, India, North Africa as well as the regions of Western Sudan and the Iberian Peninsula. This vast emerging corpus of scholarship gradually became canonized via an extensive and dizzying array of disciplines, each with protocols and rules of interpretation. In other words, diversity was a major hallmark of Muslim knowledge traditions. Gradually organized scholarship became part of a habitus, an organized way of living. But this organized way of living around a knowledge tradition was now arranged differently and conceived of differently compared to how it was imagined at the very inception of Islam.
Given the needs to educate the emerging communities of early Islam, scholarship became separated from the centers of political power and was independent from the individuals who now led the political enterprise, according to Ibn Khaldūn. He observed that in the later period those who conducted royal and political affairs were too arrogant and preoccupied with their governmental authority to devote attention to education related to the faith tradition. Hence, less powerful people now took up the mantle of education. Some of them were descendants of former slaves and others came from humble backgrounds. As a result of the esteem conferred upon them as carriers of the knowledge tradition of Islam, their status was elevated, but their status was different compared to the political classes.
Ibn Khaldūn’s somewhat jaundiced view of the disinterest of the political elites in knowledge of the faith tradition might be clouded by his personal experiences. Nonetheless, the critical insight Ibn Khaldūn offers is a persuasive account of how knowledge of the tradition also changes with a change in time, place, and political context. It augurs improvement as well as difference.
This insight ought to be helpful to contemporary Muslims and their thought leaders, for it is precisely in the domain of knowledge and how to construe knowledge of tradition in which there is a great deal of hesitation for promoting change today. But what remains unsolved and a dilemma for scholarship to this day is this: If the founding template of knowledge was very much hewed to the order of obedience to God and tied to the order of the political then how can one unscramble the teachings of obedience to God, dīn, from political obedience? Is the political order merely the domain where practical questions are taken up? In the past, the rise of Sufism created some distance between the concerns of the soul and the realm of the political by insisting that faithful living should avoid the realm of the political as much as possible. And in the modern period this historical template is still very much the arena in which Muslims are experimenting with different kinds of approaches to unscrambling or reassembling the architecture of religious thought, especially in relation to the rise of the secular and secular politics. Debates in this sphere involving political and intellectual discussions goes under the moniker of Islamic reform. The question we can now turn to is: What constitutes progress in this schema?
The Ambivalence of Progress: Progressive or Critical Traditionalism?
Muslims in modernity are not immune to the dominant view of progress. In other words, the secularizing influences in the Islamic world are real. What distinguishes a dyed-in-the wool modernist from someone who is less enamored by everything modern is that the modernist believes in the inevitability of progress. However, the opposing view, say the critical traditionalist perspective that I have been advocating, sometimes grudgingly concedes to the possibility of change or improvement. Improvement as fortuitous, rather than as inevitable, holds the promise that change might occur in diverse and multiple forms. This stands in contrast to the totalitarian narrative of progress driven by scientism and liberal capitalism. The deterministic or apocalyptic theory of progress locks everyone in a suffocating straitjacket of a singular modernity. Ignoring this subtlety can produce some of the most irreconcilable dilemmas and forces one to choose between science and religion, rationality and faith, and progress and tradition.
In my work with recent graduates of the madrasas of India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh in the Madrasa Discourses program which operates within the Contending Modernities project at the University of Notre Dame, we confront endless dilemmas about how to deal with a plethora of knowledge traditions, the histories and geographic locations of dominant knowledge traditions, and the multiplicity of human ecologies they serve. The invitation to help prepare the next generation of madrasa graduates to meaningfully deal with their lived realities came from the leadership of a section of the madrasa community. Mawlana Amin Usmani, the secretary general of the Islamic Fiqh Academy of India, repeatedly implored me to help him train the next generation through a stream of letters and emails. This invitation was acted upon when I moved to Notre Dame and started the program with the generous funding of the John Templeton Foundation.
Participants in the Madrasa Discourses Intensive in Doha, Qatar at the site of the 2019 Winter Intensive.
In the same way as I once learned to encounter the challenges of modernity, many of the participants in our program also wanted to engage modernity while still retaining their Islamic tradition. Here it is a question of negotiating multiple literacies while being aware that modern literacy can be both enchanting and alienating when it is brought to bear on a historical tradition.
This kind of grappling with tradition in the face of modernity is not new, though it is perhaps underexplored in the scholarly literature. An exemplar who wrestled with tradition is Abul Kalām Āzād (d. 1958), the famous anticolonial activist and political figure who served in the post-independence Indian government as minister of education. Āzād is well known for his significant political role as a leader of the Indian National Congress alongside the peace activist and freedom fighter Mahatma Gandhi and independent India’s first prime minister Jawaharlal Nehru. However, there is another dimension of his formation that has received less attention. He was also a virtuoso traditional Muslim scholar, whose education was meticulously crafted in his father’s madrasa. Few have paid attention to his subtle and insightful understanding of tradition against a backdrop of doubt and anxiety produced by the rigors of modernity.
In dealing with his own Islamic tradition there is something poignant, if not tragic, that haunts Āzād. As an innovator of ideas, Āzād sought to remake his state of mind, in short, his psychology. We can follow Nietzsche’s wisdom on this matter. Nietzsche urged one to turn against oneself and arouse fear of oneself, in one’s quest “to overcome the gods and the tradition in themselves” (115). Āzād was fully aware of the burden and risk of turning against oneself and one’s tradition.
At some point as a young adult, he sought out a teacher in the fringe neighborhoods of Calcutta to teach him to play a musical instrument. This was a scandalous desire for a Muslim theologian who was destined to become his father’s spiritual successor. Why? Listening to music was already controversial and viewed as unlawful in the eyes of some who identify as orthodox guardians of the Islamic faith. Āzād knew that in such an environment becoming a musician was suicidal and reckless. But his transgressive search to play a musical instrument was part of a wider questioning attitude that overtook Āzād. This episode of self-questioning is not uncommon to people who study at a madrasa, yeshiva, or seminary. Āzād wrote that at the age of fifteen the certainties provided by tradition began to disintegrate and “the peace of my mind began to tremble, and the thorns of doubt and skepticism pierced the heart.” He continues: “In addition to the voices I heard from all sides, I also felt that something else was lacking. I felt that the universe of knowledge and reality is not limited to what was in front of me. As I advanced in age these pricks of conscience continued to grow” (99–100).
Assailed by doubts, all his beliefs disintegrated and he himself pushed over the remaining ramparts of his convictions. He then set out to find new fortifications.
Indian postage stamp featuring Abul Kalām Āzād. Public Domain. Via Wikimedia Commons.
Āzād not only found rhetorical support in literature, but also deployed literary resources to reach into the depths of the human condition. Dwelling on his conditions of doubt and the remaking of the constitution of his mind, he found solace in the poetry of the Persian émigré poet to India, Kalīm Kāshānī (d. 1651), who was buried in Kashmir.
Kāshānī wrote: “My desire to know has never ever thwarted me/Even on the day of the richest harvest, I still do go out in search of sustenance” (100). In one passage from his famous memoir and literary masterpiece titled Accumulated Dust, which consisted of letters written from jail, Āzād very honestly grapples with the multiple worlds he has to negotiate:
One’s traditional convictions are the biggest obstacles in the path of one’s mental development. No power can incarcerate a person as much as the chains of traditional convictions can fetter one. One is unable to break these chains easily because one does not really wish to do so. In fact, one prizes these fetters of tradition like precious ornaments. Each doctrine, practice and viewpoint gained through one’s family heritage and by means of one’s foundational education, accompaniment, and apprenticeship (sohbat) will be cherished as a sacred inheritance. One will defend this heritage at all costs. But one will never have the courage to meddle with it. Sometimes the grasp of inherited convictions is so strong that even the most effective education as well as environmental changes cannot unshackle its hold. Education will to some extent influence the mind, but it cannot influence the constitution of the mind. One’s mental edifice is always constituted by a line of descent, by family and by centuries of successively transmitted traditions, and whose hand will always effectively do the work of tradition. (100)
Here Āzād exemplifies the dilemmas produced when one must negotiate very different legacies of knowledge at a time when the space for difference and multiplicity is radically shrinking. His words speak to us today as much as they did to those during his time.
History and Tradition in the dihlīz (interstice)
What I have learned from my studies and experiences has made me more tentative in pronouncing muscular solutions to complex problems. What I learned from Ghazālī was the immense value of the in-between space (dihlīz) of daily living and reflection. The spatial metaphor of a threshold or portal, a dihlīiz—an intermediate portal separating the Persian home from its exterior—represents a productive dialogical space. From Ghazālī and countless others we learn how intellectual productivity was enhanced at the interstices of cultures. Ghazālī imagined and theorized all thought and practices to be a continuous dialogical movement between the inner and the outer; the esoteric and exoteric; body and spirit in a productive fashion. He did not configure the dialogic in a simplistic binary relation, but he imagined these to be the multiple nodes in a force field.
Suspended within this force field was the subject diligently tending to the needs of both matter and spirit. Underlying all our critical activity is a complex hybridity and fuzziness, despite our every pretension to smooth it out. And while over the longer duration we can sometimes observe dramatic shifts in knowledge, on most occasions we pass through transitions, creases, and folds in knowledge and time. Improvement is possible, in other words, but progress is halting.
The perpetual quest is to seek emergent knowledge arising out of our struggles and transitions for alternative futures. We do know one thing taught by experience: the dominant paradigms need to be continuously contested with alternative ways of knowing, different types of knowledge, and novel models for society-building. The future, as Boaventura de Sousa Santos pointed out, has become a personal question for us, a question of life and death. Or, as Amitav Ghosh tells us in The Nutmeg’s Curse, something more fundamental needs to be addressed: we have to revise our understanding of matter and the vitality of natural and celestial objects. As he put it, “The hold of the economy on the modern imagination has progressed to the point that capitalism has come to be seen as the prime mover of modern history, while geopolitics and empire are regarded as its secondary effects” (116).
We do know one thing taught by experience: the dominant paradigms need to be continuously contested with alternative ways of knowing, different types of knowledge, and novel models for society-building.
In order to pursue better and improved futures we also need the past, we require the insights of history. We need history to help us imagine, not ready-made solutions, but creative problems to be addressed. “Certainly we need history,” Nietzsche wrote. “But our need for history is quite different from that of the spoiled idler in the garden of knowledge,” he continued, adding: “…[W]e require history for life and action, not for the smug avoiding of life and action, or even to whitewash a selfish life and cowardly, bad acts” (7).
Many of the thinkers I have discussed were in one or another way compelled to reread the past and now view it as an immutable act of God empowering us to hope and act in search of an open future. Unfortunately, too many thinkers have understood the betterment of civilization in stoutly economic terms, linking the division of labor to the development of society. It may well be part of the truth, but certainly it is not the whole of the truth. For it is practice, as secular moralists would describe it, or the prophetic activity as religious actors would articulate it, that allows us to dedicate ourselves to life. A life premised on balance and distribution is one that avoids a nihilistic end. The improvements we make in giving shape to that prophetic spirit—a life of practice and the will to power—opens the possibilities for new histories, not the inevitability of history and certainly not the end of history. For those, like Ahmet Karamustafa, who view history as a continuous struggle, a gift carrying the possibilities of improvement, the cultivation of civilization remains inviting and utterly tempting.
In conclusion, I want to share from the writings of the littérateur, proponent of mysticism and philosopher, Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī (d.1023). Tawḥīdī was the protégé, if not the “Boswell,” meaning an amanuensis, of Abū Sulaymān al-Manṭiqī al-Sijistānī (d.c.985), his mentor. It captures the messiness of the human condition and especially our earnest efforts to understand complex realities and mysteries. The citation comes from Tawḥīdī’s meditations on coincidences and oddities. But the terms coincidence (ittifāq) and the unexpected (falatāt) do not do justice to the meditation. I think what he intends to say is that things like history, progress, and improvement are complex, imbricated, meshed and messy, yet also distinguishable, and appear to us as the unexpected. Tawḥīdī attributes the fulsome nugget of wisdom to Abū Sulaymān who says:
Things are distributed according to the limitations of nature, psychical powers, intellectually indivisible elements, and divine wonder. What exists here on earth is therefore necessarily either something familiar that is related to nature, or something rare related to the soul, or something unique that is related to the intellect, or something wonderful that is related to the divine being. The unexpected is among the last-mentioned kind; I mean it permeates these various classifications.[2]
History is about contingency. The unexpected is perhaps the most fertile ground of history and where the possibility of improvement, rather than progress, exists. What Tawhidi’s insight reminds us of is that the unexpected is enmeshed in our understanding of nature, our psychology, and divine wonder. Nature, the person, the human mind, and the role of the divine cannot be separated in our understanding of history. If we ignore them, we do so at our own peril. But more so, the result is an impoverished understanding and appreciation of history and the discontents it brings.
*The author wishes to thank Joshua Lupo for his editorial assistance in preparing this post.
[2]Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī, Kitāb Al-Imtāʿ waʾl-Muʾānasa, ed. Aḥmad Amīn and Aḥmad al-Zayn, 2 vols. (Beirut: Manshūrāt Dār Maktabat al-Ḥayāt, c. 1960), 2:160; With emendations the translation is from Geert Jan van Gelder, “On Coincidence: The Twenty-Seventh and Twenty-Eight Nights of Al-Tawḥīdī’s Al-Imtāʿ wa-l-Muʾānasa. An Annotated Translation,” in Medieval Arabic Thought: Essays in Honour of Fritz Zimmermann, ed. Rotraud E. Hansberger, et al. (London; Turin: Warburg Institute; Nino Aragno Editore, 2012), 216.
Ebrahim Moosa is Mirza Family Professor of Islamic Thought and Muslim Societies in Notre Dame’s Keough School of Global Affairs and Department of History. He co-directs Contending Modernities with Atalia Omer and Scott Appleby. Moosa’s interests span both classical and modern Islamic thought with a special focus on Islamic law, history, ethics and theology. He is the author of Ghazali and the Poetics of Imagination, winner of the American Academy of Religion’s Best First Book in the History of Religions (2006), and What is a Madrasa? (2015).
The Erez Barrier, the only crossing point between Israel and the Gaza Strip. Photo via Flickr user Michael Rose. CC-BY-NC-ND 2.0
In the introduction to our edited volume When Politics are Sacralized: Comparative Perspectives on Religious Claims and Nationalism we investigate the sacralization of politics in a variety of nation-states and highlight three modes in which states engage in such sacralization. Sacralized politics sanction the power of one group over others in the same state or territory and empower that group’s exclusive sovereignty, political authority, and belonging to a homeland. The first modality centers around managing consciousness, including the construction of self-identity in relation to others. The second works through territoriality and the expansion or exclusion of land at the expense of other groups. The third operates through political governance and employs violence and a necropolitical regime of control dictating who may live and who may die. Of these three modalities that create religio-racialized constructions of the nation-state and produce exclusivity within the political space, violence has attracted the most attention and debate.
This volume is an effort to respond to a major gap in the western literature that has focused on non-state actors when discussing sacralized politics in general, and violence in particular. We suggest that when multiethnic states employ sacralized politics, particularly in cases of intrastate conflict, colonialism, and settler colonialism, the state produces some groups, including groups of citizens, as legal, cultural, spatial, and/or political “others.”
The four insightful reviews engage critically with main themes of the volume and with its various chapters. The reviews strengthen some arguments, question others, broaden the context of sacralized state politics, offer astute challenges for future research, and most importantly pose vital questions that require sharpening the arguments of the chapters in this volume.
Elizabeth Shakman Hurd’s review criticizes the goal of liberal secularism to purify politics of religion—a critique that we acknowledge and the contributors to the volume focus on in some chapters that address Zionism and the Israeli state. She asks an important and challenging question focusing on the modality of violence. In our introduction, we write, and Hurd quotes, “Ethnic and religious nationalism . . . can play the destructive role of promoting an ethnically exclusive state, and the religious claims can play a double purpose—not only to increase the extent of exclusivity but also to provide legitimation for such exclusion (usually translated into political domination) and means of violence. These means can take extreme forms, precisely because of the religious legitimation” (emphasis added by Hurd). Hurd then adds: “As I interpret this account, the problem with Israeli Jewish nationalism—and perhaps other nationalisms as well—is that it is violent because it is insufficiently secular. Religiously based justifications are ‘particularly venomous.’ Yet would the challenge posed by (settler) state violence be resolved if nationalism were freed of religionism, or in this case, ‘Israeli Jewish nationalism from religionism’” (17)? The answer to this question is empirical and it is hard to answer definitively. Yet, our argument contrasts with what Hurd seems to suggest and is neither based on secularist critique nor secular/religious dialectic. In the case of Israel, for example, it is not that the violence of Zionist nationalism is extreme because its form of nationalism is “insufficiently secular.” Actually, some of Israel’s worst forms of violence—the ethnic cleansing of hundreds of thousands of the native Palestinian population, dozens of massacres, destroying hundreds of towns, and taking over the natives’ lands—were enacted under what many Israeli scholars called “the secular phase” of Zionism (which we believe was always undergirded by religious claims).
But since the continued unfolding of the settler colonial project was masked by religious claims, it is much more difficult for Israeli society to face its own reality or to even acknowledge Zionism and its defining and continuing state violence as a settler colonial project. The religious claims also help interpret some global politics, particularly Western international politics, that resist seeing Israel as a settler colonial project despite the overwhelming evidence that it is. Therefore, this example of settler colonialism is more lethal than a settler colonial project obliquely masked by religious claims. Furthermore, whether in the discussions of India, Israel, Sri Lanka, or elsewhere, our concern was not religious-secular dialectics per se, but rather the justification and legitimization of violence with claims anchored in sacred texts. Such anchoring moves the logic of violence itself into the space of the sacred—a space in which a deity is claimed by its followers to be the single authority and arbitrator.
Some of Israel’s worst forms of violence—ethnic cleansing of hundreds of thousands of the native Palestinian population, dozens of massacres, destroying hundreds of towns, and taking over the natives’ lands—were enacted under what many Israeli scholars called “the secular phase” of Zionism (which we believe was always undergirded by religious claims).
But violence is not the only modality we highlighted. Let us look briefly at constructing consciousness based on religious claims. We will give a recent example to further explain our argument. The minister of religious services in Israel’s “center-left” government told Israeli high school students in June 2022 that “[b]ecause we were expelled from our country 2,000 years ago, for 2,000 years we dreamed, we prayed, we wrote songs, we returned to our country. We believe that God, gave us the country, promised it to us in the covenant . . . , the Bible is our Kushan. No one will tell us that it is not ours, all of it. But the Arabs have a different story. We know it’s nonsense, we know it’s not true . . . ” (italics added). Even though Zionism emerged as a modernist/secularist discourse drawing on the language of nationalism, it has been undergirded and authorized by this biblical covenantal narrative. So if one’s God makes a promise based on a covenant, political and religious consciousness are constructed accordingly and the views that fall outside this promise become simply “nonsense”; in such a context, only God can change one’s views. This is different and much less self-conscious than how other forms of settler colonialism progressed, let us say South Africa or North America, in which God has stakes—albeit in the contexts the “promised land” was used metaphorically. A fundamental and defining difference is that while in other cases the bases for legitimacy were transformed by invoking democracy, equality, recognition of past historical wrongs, and facing the settler colonial realities, Zionism has been moving in the opposite direction. Not only is Zionism, in most of its political streams, doubling down on invoking religious claims as foundational for legitimacy, it is also making them increasingly central to its project in Palestine. It openly speaks and acts the sacred, non-negotiable, word of God.
The analyses offered in the various chapters of the book are context- and time-bound, as Raef Zreik’s intervention points out. While highlighting many of the same main points on the relationship between nationalism and religion in different historical contexts and different political arrangements of power relations, he asks a challenging question. Focusing on Zionism, he asks what the discussion would look like if the volume’s title (and the research it has undertaken) was reversed and instead focused on “when the sacred is politicized”? While this would have been an interesting intellectual exercise, it does not address the new intellectual space the book seeks to bring to the public discussion: a focus on the state which invokes sacred texts in order to justify modern politics. Zionism is a case in which the political project came first (albeit always with an underpinning of religious claims), and its overt religious claims came later and continue to this day with a more earnest pace (in Zreik’s view, the political followed the sacred). Yet reversing the question can help us better understand the current stage of hyper-religious Zionism. It is, for example, sometimes difficult to distinguish between a political act and a religious act, and which one is following the other (such as in Jerusalem, Hebron, Bethlehem and Nablus). In this regard Zreik is right to contrast the “here and now” of Zionism when it comes to the relationship between religion, nationalism, and (settler) colonialism. One needs to “dig deep to reveal the intimate relation between these concepts” in Europe’s past, particularly in relationship to colonies in Africa, Asia, and the Americas. Indeed, the book poses the challenge about the present: What states are using religious claims drawn from religious texts to justify their policies of ethnic politics and state identity, violence, land grabbing, and international politics? It is most revealing that while other settler colonial projects gradually moved away from the religious discourse used to justify their project of overtaking lands of other groups, Zionist religious claims increased with time. This is an inevitable development meant to obscure the ongoing settler colonial project.
A mural by Irish Republican artist Danny Devenny on the Solidarity Wall in the Republican Falls Road area of Belfast, Northern Ireland. The Arabic text translates “Palestine will return no matter how long it takes.” June 2008. Image via Flickr user Philip Hopper. CC BY 2.0
Gladys Ganiel rightly observes that colonialism and settler-colonial theory is at the heart of the book. Thus, referring to Lloyd’s chapter on Northern Ireland, she points out that while the postcolonial conditions in the Republic of Ireland after 1922 gradually dimmed the salient differences between Protestant and Catholic identities, in Northern Ireland, which remained a settler colonial state, the social and political structures continued to manufacture colonial mentalities. Ganiel highlights the importance of external support for structures—like those in Northern Ireland—that can counter colonial practices, consciousness, and mentalities. This observation is of great importance to our central argument: how can external support initiate structures that counteract mentalities of exclusion and racialization anchored in religious claims?
Ganiel emphasizes the two cases where religious claims are not integral to national politics: Palestine and Northern Ireland. But even if religious claims are not significant at the national level in Northern Ireland, religion still operates as a group marker and therefore might carry significance in other forms. While she welcomes O’Dowd’s concept of vernacular religion in which religion is not reduced to belief but is part of everyday practice, she warns against “reducing religion to high-level religious claims.” Both her own scholarly work and her review of the edited volume resist the reduction of religion and religious claims and emphasize the way the mundane invocation of religious claims and practices construct, transform, and sacralize the political. She argues that in many cases the clergy played a peacebuilding role in Northern Ireland out of intense personal convictions and in doing so have resisted “sacralizing politics.” This observation is important to keep in mind when thinking of positive role that religion can and does play in various settings.
Joram Tarusarira makes an insightful comparison between the current political context in Zimbabwe and some of the case-studies discussed in the book such as India, Israel, and Iran. He discusses the troubled postcolonial constitutionally secular Zimbabwe to show how religion and politics are intertwined. In this particular context, he argues that “the fusion of religion and nationalism is not a necessary outcome.” For example, the fusion between religious claims and nationalism in the legitimation of land and power-politics is often used as an instrument “by political elites to justify and legitimate particular political policies, actions, and imaginaries.”
Tarusarira’s point about the instrumentality of the fusion between religion and nationalism is essential. When are religious claims employed for political sacralization? Are they inevitable? In what cases? For example, in the case of Zionism we argue that sacralization is inevitable because it is necessary for claiming legitimacy. But in India and Sri Lanka such sacralization was not necessary. So, under what circumstances are religious claims invoked and how do they relate to nationalism? Tarusarira uses the case of modern Iran to highlight what Banuazizi also shows in his chapter, namely that religious claims and nationalist claims were interchangeably used as state legitimizers. Religious claims were undermined in favor of nationalist ones after the 1979 revolution in Iran. But the revolution conveniently invoked religious rhetoric as needed during the 1980s war with Iraq. Tarusarira concludes, “The lesson we might take from Banuazizi is that the relationship between religion and nationalism depends on the political interests of those drawing on them. Both religion and nationalism ultimately serve the same purpose, namely political mobilization and state legitimacy.” This same logic of political purpose was employed in Zimbabwe: “What makes religion so powerful and compelling in this context is that it dogmatically sacralizes, and thus provides an absolute and non-negotiable quality to policies and actions. Sacralization thus closes off debate over policies.” This non-negotiability, supported by the sacred text, can potentially bring political debate to a dead end. This conclusion prompts some of the same questions raised by reviewers: Can nationalism not supported by a religious claim can bring politics to a dead end? We argue that indeed, it can. But, as in the question about violence discussed above, violence and political deadlocks that are not anchored in religious claims are contested in a space that remains outside the prescription of the scripture. As Tarusarira notes, the contestation over policies is not locked by the sacred text, and this difference matters for how legitimacy is constructed and maintained.
When Politics are Sacralized seeks to comparatively reveal racially based nationalist-religious claims, along with the social, cultural, and political articulations of those claims and their significance.
Engaging with the insightful reviews leads us to emphasize that our concern in this volume was not religion per se, but rather the justification and legitimization of violence (as one of the other modalities of sacralizing politics) with religious claims. The political impact of this process engenders racialization as religious difference. Thus, in Israel, our central case study, theorizing the state as solely a settler colonial project is complicated by the fact that its ideology is also embedded in claims derived from a religious text. These claims were also employed to construct racial differences, exclusivity, and national identity that were inseparable from its religious justifications/politics. When Politics are Sacralized seeks to comparatively reveal racially based nationalist-religious claims, along with the social, cultural, and political articulations of those claims and their significance. What the various chapters and case studies point out is more the political than the religious per se. They seek to show how political, colonial, or settler-colonial violence often relies on religious text. This text, in turn, is also employed to ensure the privileging of one religious/ethnic group over another in every socio-political, legal, and territorial domain. The book stresses how the sacralization of politics and the invocation of religious differences has become the modality through which power politics, racism, and colonialism operate. Hence, the state’s sacralization of politics turns religious differences into racial differences and legitimizes a racially constituted division of rights, space, and modes of life.
Nadim N. Rouhana is Director of the Fares Center for Eastern for Eastern Mediterranean Studies at the Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy at Tufts University. His research includes work on the dynamics of protracted social conflict, collective identity and democratic citizenship in multiethnic states, the questions of decolonization and transitional justice in settler colonial regimes. His publications include Palestinian Citizens in an Ethnic Jewish State: Identities in Conflict (Yale University Press, 1997) and Israel and its Palestinian citizens: Ethnic Privileges in the Jewish State (Ed., Cambridge University Press, 2017). He has held various academic positions in Palestinian, Israeli, and American universities including at Harvard University, Boston College, MIT, and Tel-Aviv University. He was a co-founder of the Program on International Conflict Analysis and Resolution at Harvard’s Weatherhead Center for International Affairs where he co-chaired the Center’s seminar on International Conflict Analysis and Resolution from 1992-2001.
Nadera Shalhoub-Kevorkian, a Palestinian feminist, is the Lawrence D. Biele Chair in Law at the Faculty of Law-Institute of Criminology and the School of Social Work and Public Welfare at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem and the Global Chair in Law- Queen Mary University of London. Her scholarship focuses on knowledge production in relation to accumulative trauma, state criminality, surveillance, gender violence, and law and society. She is the author of of Militarization and Violence Against Women in Conflict Zones in the Middle East: The Palestinian Case Study (Cambridge University Press, 2010; Security Theology, Surveillance and the Politics of Fear (Cambridge University Press 2015); Incarcerated Childhood and the Politics of Unchilding (Cambridge University Press, 2019). She is the co-editor of Engaged Students in Conflict Zones: Community-Engaged Courses in Israel as a Vehicle for Change (Palgrave Macmillan Press, 2019); When Politics are Sacralized: Comparative Perspectives on Religious Claims and Nationalism (Cambridge University Press, 2021). She is currently finalizing The Cunning of Gender Violence (Duke University Press, 2023).
In the postsecular moment that the humanities now finds itself in, it is tempting to regard the questioning of the role of religion in politics as one that is old hat. Religion has always been political postsecular critics of liberalism and its secular framework have argued. In this instance, the postsecular represents the demystification of secular reason as neutral with regard to religion and invites renewed inquiry into the theological roots of secularity. Given this claim, our duty as scholars is to reveal the entanglements of religion with the state rather than contest them. And yet, without necessarily questioning the analytic truth of the co-constructed nature of religion and politics, When Politics are Sacralized: Comparative Perspectives on Religious Claims and Nationalism, edited by Nadim N. Rouhana and Nadera Shalhoub-Kervorkian, reminds us that the concepts of the secular and sacred are mobilized in ways that often have devastating real world political and social consequences. More specifically, in this wide-ranging volume, Rouhana and Shaloub-Kervorkian show that religion has served states across the world in legitimating claims to sovereignty in order to justify oppressive policies.
Whether it is Zionist claims to an exclusively Israeli Jewish state, Hindutva claims to an exclusively Indian Hindu state, or Sinhalese Buddhist claims to an exclusively Buddhist Sri Lankan state, in various settings political leaders in ostensibly secular states have drawn on religious claims to shore up their authority and suppress dissent. In addition to these examples, others discussed in the book include Northern Ireland, Saudi Arabia, Serbia, and Palestine. The risk in bringing so many different examples together under one volume is that any generalizable results will be lost in the details. However, by laying out a framework within which these essays operate in their introduction, the co-editors persuasively show how nationalism, religion, and the state have been forged in the fires of western modernity and spread around the world.
The contributors to the symposium on this important book toggle between providing their own examples of the sacralization of political claims and the wider theoretical claims with which the book asks us to reckon. Gladys Ganiel draws on her research in Northern Ireland to show the importance of analyzing political and social structures in changing political and social realities. She contends that future work on religion should also focus on the everyday, intimate experiences of religion. Joram Tarusarira, meanwhile, compares the cases in the book with that of Zimbabwe, especially in the religious rhetoric surrounding former President Robert Mugabe and the churches that shored up his authority. His claim, in the end, is theologically normative (and echoes the prophetic strain in Christianity): When Christians become more invested in shoring up political power, they risk forgetting their mission to challenge authority.
Elizabeth Shakman Hurd and Raef Zreik move in more theoretical directions. Hurd engages with the risk inherent in the co-editors contention that secularization would lead to more peaceful societies. Unlike the postsecular critics mentioned up front in this essay, however, Hurd is keen to show that unravelling the theological roots of the secular is not simply an academic exercise, but instead is one that allows us to address substantial issues of inequality more directly. It does so by drawing our attention to different modes of religious interpretation that might otherwise be obscured if we were to assume that all religion is poisonous. Raef Zreik wrestles with the need for conceptual knowledge but also the need to tie conceptual knowledge to material contexts. He traces the desire for abstraction back to Immanuel Kant and follows it through to other major figures and trends in US and European philosophy. In doing so, Zreik asks us to reckon with the deeper theoretical stakes of comparative work like that carried out by the contributors to this book.
Given the genealogical turn that has no doubt also influenced the postsecular turn, comparative studies are often seen as inherently risky. Do they not obscure the particularities of a situation in order to advance a generalizable thesis? What Rouhana and Shaloub-Kervorkian, along with the contributors to this edited volume and symposium show, is that it is possible to engage in comparative work that is attentive to history, social and political complexity, and diversity without losing track of the more abstract concepts that are necessary to compare cross-culturally. In doing so, they remind us that we cannot restrain our work to one context. This is because even though modernity, secularization, and nationalism may have roots in the west, their effects have extended far beyond that origin.
Joshua S. Lupo is the Assistant Director of the Contending Modernities research initiative. In this role, he serves as the editor and writer for the Contending Modernities Blog and the classroom coordinator for the Madrasa Discourses program. He has published articles and reviews in Sophia, Soundings, Critical Muslim, Reading Religion, and Religious Studies Review. With CM Co-Director Atalia Omer, he is the co-editor of Broken Solidarities: Feminism, Race, and Transnationalism (Notre Dame Press, 2022) and Religion, Populism, and Modernity: Confronting White Christian Nationalism and Racism (Notre Dame Press, 2023). His current book project is titled After Essentialism: A Critical Phenomenology for the Study of Religion.
Miniature showing the expulsion of Jews following the Edict of Expulsion by Edward I of England (July 18, 1290). Marginal Illustration from the Rochester Chronicle (British Library, Cotton Nero D. II.), folio 183v. Via Wikimedia Commons. Public Domain.
This essay is based on a talk given during the “Antisemitism, Anti-Zionism, and the Critique of Israel: Towards a Constructive Debate” conference held at University of Zurich from June 29–30, 2022.
To confront the relationship between antisemitism, anti-Zionism, and the critique of Israel is a daunting challenge. In light of this monumental task, a remark from the Talmud comes to mind. Rabbi Tarfon said, “The day is short, the task is great. You are not obliged to complete the task, but neither are you free to give it up” (Bab. Tal., Ninth Tractate Avot, 2:20–21). This sums up my situation perfectly. My space is limited and the task is great. I could not possibly complete it, but neither am I capable of giving it up. Far from giving it up, the question of the Jewish Question is now at the center of my work on antisemitism, anti-Zionism, and the critique of Israel.
This post is divided into two parts. In part I, “Asking the Jewish Question,” I argue for one reading of the Question. I call it, for a reason that I hope becomes clear, “the antithesis reading.” In Part II, “Questioning the Zionist Answer,” I concentrate on an alternative reading, “the national reading,” which I see as underlying political Zionism in all its different forms. (In this essay, whenever I refer to Zionism I mean political Zionism and not the cultural Zionism associated, in the first place, with Ahad Ha’am.) There are many angles of approach to questioning Zionism. In Part II, I refer only to “the postcolonial critique” advanced by the Left —but I barely scratch the surface. (Barely scratching the surface is a good way to describe my essay as a whole.) I argue that, on the one hand, Jews who react against anti-Zionism (or come to the defense of Israel) tend to slip unawares between one reading of the Jewish Question and the other. On the other hand, the Left (including a section of the Jewish Left) tends to be too quick to dismiss their reaction when giving a postcolonial critique of Zionism and Israel. The combination of these two tendencies generates impassioned confusion—confusion that is not merely intellectual—on both sides. The analysis points to self-critique—on both sides—as a condition for the possibility of constructive debate.
I. Asking the Jewish Question
The so-called “Jewish Question” is a question in the sense of being a problem that needs to be solved. But who set the problem? For whom—in whose eyes—is there a problem about the Jews, the Jews as Jews? I suppose the first person who saw the Jews as a problem was Moses, who, time and again, complained to God about them; or maybe it was God who first saw the Jews as problematic. I don’t know. In any case, the problem they saw is not exactly the problem to which the so-called “Jewish Question” refers. The “Jewish Problem” is set by Europe: it is a question Europe asks itself about the Jews.
The term “the Jewish Question” became current in the 19th century. This was, says Holly Case in her book of the same name, “the age of questions,” by which she means questions with the form “the X question.” The X questions were a motley lot, but, by and large, they could be grouped under three headings: “social,” “religious,” or “national.” The Jewish Question, rather like the Jews themselves, had no fixed abode: it could be housed under any one of these headings. I shall focus on the view that, au fond, it was a national question, keeping company with such questions as the Armenian, Macedonian, Irish, Belgian, Kurdish, and so on. I do so because the national take on the Jewish Question is the one that is especially relevant to our conference, “Antisemitism, Anti-Zionism, and the Critique of Israel: Towards a Constructive Debate.” From Herzl to the present day, the Jewish Question has been construed in political Zionism as a national question; and Zionism lies at the heart of the current debate about Israel and antisemitism.
The “Jewish Problem” is set by Europe: it is a question Europe asks itself about the Jews.
The national take, however, is a mis-take. The Jews were not another case of a European nation whose future on the political map was the subject of debate. Rather, whether the Jews collectively are a nation in the modern (European) sense was up for debate: it was an integral part of the Jewish Question. Nor was there anything novel about querying their collective status: the status of the Jews was seen as problematic for a thousand years or more before the political formations that were the subject of the National Question in the 19th century came into being. And, while there were other groups in this period whose status as nations was up for debate, the case of the Jews was radically different. How so? The answer to this question gets to the core of the Jewish question.
I noted earlier that the Jewish Question is a question Europe asks itself about the Jews. But, although ostensibly about the Jews, ultimately it is about Europe: it is about Europe via the question of the Jews. It always has been, ever since antiquity and the days of the original European Union (as it were), the one whose capital city was Rome. Anti-Jewish animus is older than the Roman Empire, of course. But the story I have in mind begins with the conversion to Christianity of Flavius Valerius Constantinus, otherwise known as Constantine the Great, Emperor of Rome. Constantine’s conversion on his deathbed gave birth, in a way, to the question that came to be called “Jewish.” From this point on, Europe has used the Jews to define itself. The question, which we might rename “the European Question,” was this: What is Europe? Answer: not Jewish. Down the centuries, as Europe’s idea of itself changed, this “not” persisted, though it took different forms.
Granted, in the “New Europe” that emerged after the shock and tumult of the Shoah and the Second World War, the role of Jews collectively has, to some extent, been inverted. We are now liable to function for Europe (as I have discussed elsewhere) more as an admired model than as a despised foil, with consequences for Western European policies towards the State of Israel. Furthermore, a thread of philosemitism runs through Europe’s history. Neither of these points, however, contradicts the account I am giving here of the negative role played by Jews down the centuries in Europe’s self-definition.
Clipping from The Jewish Chronicle of piece by Theodor Herzl entitled “A ‘Solution of the Jewish Question.'” January 17, 1896. Via Wikimedia Commons. Public Domain.
Thus, the Jewish Question existed as an issue for Europe avant la lettre. Seen as being in Europe but not of Europe, the Jews were the original “internal Other,” the inner alien to the European self, the Them inside the Us. First, in antiquity, Judaism was the foil against which Europe defined itself as Christian. Then, in the eighteenth century, the Jews were, as Adam Sutcliffe puts it in his book Judaism and the Enlightenment, “the Enlightenment’s primary unassimilable Other,” but no longer as the immovable object to Christianity ‘s irresistible force (254). Esther Romeyn explains: “For the Enlightenment, with its investment in universalism and civilization, the Jew was a symbol of particularism, a backward-looking, pre-modern tribal culture of outmoded customs and religious tutelage” (92). In the following century, the symbol flipped. Romeyn again (partly quoting Sarah Hammerschlag): “For a nationalism based on roots, the distinctiveness of cultures, and allegiance to a shared past, the Jew was an uprooted nomad or a suspect ‘cosmopolitan’ aligned with ‘abstract reason rather than roots and tradition’” (92; Hammerschlag, 7, 20). Europe now saw itself as a patchwork quilt of ethnic nationalities and the question arose: “How do the Jews fit in? Do they fit in? If they do not, what is to be done with them or with their Jewishness?” This was the Jewish Question in the 19th century, a new variation on a very old European theme: the theme of the anomalous Jew; or, more precisely, the antithetical Jew.
In short, the National Question was about ethnic difference and how Europe should deal with it. The Jewish Question was about the alien within—so deep within as to be internal to Europe’s idea of itself. Other groups and peoples, such as Arabs and Africans, have played the part of Europe’s external Others; this is written into the script of European imperialism and colonialism. They too have provided a reference point for Europe to define itself by way of what it is not. But Jews as Jews are not part of the colonial script. As Jews, we have been, ab initio, “insider outsiders,” a people who, in any given era, are the negative—the internal negative—to Europe’s positive: belonging in Europe by not belonging. Certainly, the Jewish Question, as it has been asked in different European places at different times, has features in common with other “X questions.” Moreover, the Jewish Question is not unique in being unique! Each “X question” is unique or singular in its own distinctive way. But the singularity of the Jewish case is such that it escapes the boxes in which other “X questions” are placed. Being seen as antithetical to Europe, like the alien race in the 1960 horror film Village of the Damned: this is what underlies the questionableness of “the Jews.” It is why (to allude to the title of my paper) the Jewish Question is different from all similar questions. I call this reading of the Jewish Question “the antithesis reading.” Whether it adequately describes the Jewish space in the European imagination, the salient point is this: this is how the Question sits in Jewish collective memory, continually working in the background of the Zionist answer to the Question.
II. Questioning the Zionist Answer
The mass of Jews, if only subliminally, bring collective memory to their embrace of Zionism and the State of Israel. They keep slipping, in the process, between two different readings of the Jewish Question, eliding the one with the other: the one I have just given and the one that Theodor Herzl gives in Der Judenstaat. Herzl’s (mis)reading has become a staple of the State of Israel as it defines itself (and, simultaneously, defines the Jewish people). In Der Judenstaat, he fastens onto the category of “nation.” He writes: “I think the Jewish question is no more a social than a religious one, notwithstanding that it sometimes takes these and other forms. It is a national question …” (15). The subtitle of Der Judenstaat calls his political proposal, a state of the Jews, “An Attempt at a Modern Solution of the Jewish Question”; he means the national question. The indefinite article (“a Modern Solution”) is misleading. Herzl wrote to Bismarck: “I believe I have found the solution to the Jewish Question. Not a solution, but the solution, the only one” (245). Several times (four to be precise) the text refers to “the National Idea,” which, as Herzl envisages it, would be the ruling principle in the Jewish state and, as I read him, in the rest of the Jewish world too (see Der Judenstaat, 49, 50, 54 and 70). The latter idea, if not explicit, is coiled up inside Herzl’s text. I call his reading of the Jewish Question “the national reading.”
Zionism, both as a movement and as an ideology, has changed a lot since Herzl wrote his foundational pamphlet. It has developed two political wings (left and right); it has both secular and religious varieties; and it has produced a state: the State of Israel. But, fundamentally, Herzl’s take on the Jewish Question—figuring it as a national question, putting “the National Idea” at the heart of Jewish identity—has persisted to the present day. This is reflected in the Nation-State Bill (or Nationality Bill), which, upon being passed in the Knesset in 2018, became a Basic Law: Israel as the nation-state of the Jewish People. The law is “basic,” not only for the constitution of the Jewish state but also for the Zionist goal of reconstituting the Jewish people as “a nation, like all other nations” with a state of its own, as Israel’s 1948 Declaration of Independence puts it. This means reconstituting Judaism itself.[1]
Why do so many rank and file Jews across the globe appear to accept this reconstitution of their identity? Why did Britain’s current Chief Rabbi, Ephraim Mirvis, call Zionism “one of the axioms of Jewish belief”? How could he write: “Open a Jewish daily prayer book [siddur] used in any part of the world and Zionism will leap out at you.” Zionism, noch, not Zion. When exactly did Judaism convert to the creed of “the National idea”? in January 2009, when Operation Cast Lead was in full swing in Gaza, why was London’s Trafalgar Square awash with Israeli flags held aloft by British Jews? I witnessed this for myself. I was part of a small Jewish counter-demonstration that was spat at and jeered by some of the people—fellow Jews—in the official rally. How did people who are otherwise decent, people who uphold human rights, suddenly become ardent fans of forced evictions, house demolitions, and military violence against unarmed civilians? No doubt, there are zealots who would tick this box in the name of “the Jewish nation-state.” But zealotry is not what moves the mass of Jews to flock to the flag. If they identify with Israel (or defend it at all costs), it is not because they are persuaded intellectually by the “National Idea” (which is what underlies Herzl’s “national reading” of the Jewish Question), but because they feel viscerally the unbearable burden of the Question (which underlies the “antithesis reading”). When they wave the Israeli flag, it is certainly a gesture of defiance, and possibly hostility, aimed at Palestinians; but, at bottom, it is aimed at Europe—not just at the centuries of exclusion and oppression, but at the sheer chutzpah of Europe’s asking “the Jewish Question”—a question to which there is no right answer, because there is no right answer to the wrong question.[2]
But we Jews, understandably, are hungry for an answer that will put an end to the price we have paid for the nature of our difference. Political Zionism might appear to provide the answer. Paradoxically, the Zionist answer consists in taking Jews out of Europe to the Middle East in order to be included in the European dispensation. (Or you could say: normalizing by conforming to the European norm; it’s as if, by leaving, we’ve arrived.) Leading Zionist figures, from Herzl to Nordau to Ben-Gurion to Barak to Netanyahu, have placed “the Jewish state” in Europe, or see it as an extension of Europe. As Herzl wrote, “We should there form a portion of the rampart of Europe against Asia” (30). More recently Benjamin Netanyahu was quoted saying, “We are a part of the European culture. Europe ends in Israel. East of Israel, there is no more Europe.” So, the concept of the Jewish people becomes ethno-national—just like the real European thing; newcomers, who are largely from Europe, create a home for themselves by dispossessing the people who previously inhabited the land—just like a European colony; they turn their home into a state, just like certain former European colonies (such as the “White” dominions of Canada and Australia). Then there is the way their state—Israel—conducts itself in what is generally regarded as part of the Global South. It subjugates, à la Europe, the previous inhabitants of the land; it systematically discriminates against them; it expands its territory via settlers—a classic European practice; and it enters the Eurovision song contest. In all these respects (except perhaps the song contest), Israel courts a postcolonial critique. The Left are happy to oblige. In a way, the postcolonial critique is the ultimate compliment, the capstone on Zionism’s European solution of Europe’s Jewish Problem.
This prompts a surprising question, one that might seem ludicrous or at least redundant, but follows logically from the argument so far. It is this: Since political Zionism locates the state of Israel in Europe, and since Israel conducts itself in the manner of a European colonizing power, what is so objectionable to the generality of Jews—those who close ranks around Zionism and the state of Israel—about a critique that precisely treats Israel as a European state? The answer is that there is a piece missing from the stock postcolonial discourse, a discourse that folds Zionism completely, without remainder, into the history of European hegemony over the Global South, as if this were the whole story. But it is not; and the piece that is missing is, for most Jews, including quite a few of us who are not part of the Jewish mainstream regarding Zionism and Israel, the centerpiece. Put it this way: For Jews in the shtetls of Eastern Europe in the late 1800s and early 1900s (like my grandparents), the burning question was not “How can we extend the reach of Europe?” but “How can we escape it?” That was the Jewish Jewish Question. Like Europe’s Jewish Question, it too was not new; and it was renewed with a vengeance after the walls of Europe closed in during the first half of the last century, culminating in the ultimate crushing experience: genocide. Among the Jewish answers to the Jewish Jewish Question was migration to Palestine. But, by and large, the Jews who moved to Palestine after the Shoah were not so much emigrants as (literally or in effect) refugees. This does not, for a moment, justify the dispossession of the Palestinians, let alone the grievous injustices inflicted upon them by the State of Israel from its creation in 1948 to the present day. But it does put a massive dent into the story told in the postcolonial critique. We need another, more nuanced and inclusive, story.
For Jews in the shtetls of Eastern Europe in the late 1800s and early 1900s (like my grandparents), the burning question was not ‘How can we extend the reach of Europe?’ but ‘How can we escape it?’
In a sense, both the “national reading” of the Jewish Question, which Zionism assumes and Israel embodies, and the postcolonial critique of Israel and Zionism, are culpable in the same way: both take an existing European paradigm and apply it to the Jewish case, without so much as a mutatis mutandis. Neither passes muster. Moreover, the omission of what is, for most Jews, the centerpiece of the story behind Zionism and the creation of Israel erases a crucial feature of Jewish historical experience and collective memory. Not only does this erasure vitiate the postcolonial critique, it also feeds the suspicion that many Jews harbor that the critique is malign. It has a familiar ring. They feel, in their guts, that it is another slander against the Jews, a new expression of an old animus—antisemitism by any other name. To put it mildly, this is an exaggeration. The Left, in turn, are skeptical about this reaction. It has a familiar ring. They feel, in their guts, that it is disingenuous, a cynical ploy to suppress criticism of Israel. This too, to put it mildly, is an exaggeration. The more one side reacts to the other side, the more the other side reacts to them. This is not a debate. It is a bout, a wrestling bout, where the two antagonists are locked in a clinch, as inseparable as lovers.
The analysis in this essay suggests that each of the adversaries is in the grip of certain states of mind, connected to particular blind spots. In one case, it is confusion about the meaning of the Question that Europe has persisted in asking about the Jews, plus obliviousness to the injustices done to Palestinians by the Jewish “nation-state.” In the other case, it is confusion over the limits of a postcolonial critique, plus obliviousness to what it is that leads so many Jews to react understandably and, to an extent, legitimately, against that critique. The upshot, on the one side, is demonization of the Left; on the other side, demonization of Zionism. Accordingly, the question each side needs to ask is not “How can I break the hold of the other?,” but “How can I break my hold on the other?” “How,” that is to say, “can I loosen the grip that certain confused ideas and powerful passions have over me?” In short, if a futile bout is to turn into a constructive debate, what is needed is self-critique. This is not asking too much of ourselves. But the task is great, and life is short.
Brian Klug is Hon. Fellow in Social Philosophy at Campion Hall, University of Oxford; Hon. Fellow of the Parkes Institute for the Study of Jewish/non-Jewish Relations, University of Southampton; and Fellow of the College of Arts & Sciences, St Xavier University, Chicago. He is an Associate Editor of Patterns of Prejudice and a member of the Boards for “Negotiating Jewish Identity: Jewish Life in 21st Century Norway” (The Norwegian Center for Holocaust and Minority Studies), Islamophobia Studies Yearbook, and ReOrient: The Journal of Critical Muslim Studies. His books include A Time to Speak Out: Independent Jewish Voices on Israel, Zionism and Jewish Identity(2008, co-editor); Offence: the Jewish Case (2009); Being Jewish and Doing Justice: Bringing Argument to Life (2011); and Words of Fire: Selected Essays of Ahad Ha’am (2015, editor). He took part in The Vienna Conversations (Bruno Kreisky Forum) and was one of the drafters of the Jerusalem Declaration on Antisemitism (2021).
Pope Francis holds a meeting with the Indigenous People’s of Canada on April 1, 2022. Photo used with permission of Vatican Media.
On April 1st, 2022, Pope Francis met with a delegation of First Nations, Métis, and Inuit peoples. He publicly apologized, naming “indignation and shame” for the violence and harm done to their peoples, especially in residential schools run by local Catholic parishes and religious orders. This statement came after a long and tenuous struggle within the Canadian Catholic Church and with the Vatican as to how to respond to growing historical awareness of persistent and horrifying abuse of children and the dissolution of families and cultures through the residential school system. “All these things,” lamented Francis, “are contrary to the Gospel of Jesus Christ. For the deplorable conduct of those members of the Catholic Church, I ask for God’s forgiveness, and I want to say to you with all my heart: I am very sorry.”
Joining with the Canadian Catholic bishops, Pope Francis’s pastoral visit and his unequivocal apology is an important step in the reconciliation process. Apologies matter. In the structure and focus of his April 1st, 2022 statement, he navigates the institutional role of the Church and social sin effectively. In doing so, Pope Francis demonstrates that he understands the importance of memory and a good apology more so than his predecessors. Thinking critically about the apology, I want to briefly put it in context, examine what makes for a good apology (and why it often feels like the Catholic church struggles to make a good apology), and look forward to the pope’s upcoming visit to Canada.
Setting the Stage: A Persistent Call for Apology?
From 1870–1997, more than 150,000 children and young adults went through the Indian residential school system in Canada. This system was part of an official state program, but seventy percent were operated by the Catholic Church or Catholic religious orders. These schools were infamous among Indigenous communities for their intentional suppression of indigenous culture, widespread physical abuse, and neglect. In 2015, the National Truth and Reconciliation Commission issued a call to action with 94 action items. Item 58 specifically called for an official papal apology delivered in Canada like the one Pope Benedict XVI gave to Irish victims and survivors in 2010.[1] In 2017, Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau asked Pope Francis to visit Canada and to publicly apologize for the Catholic Church’s participation in the violence and abuse that characterized the Indigenous Residential School system.
Responsibility for what happened in the Indian residential school system rests with both the Canadian government and the Catholic Church. There have been many apologies both before and after the call to action from the Canadian Conference of Catholic Bishops and individual bishops. Popes John Paul II and Benedict XVI both made statements of apology and regret for the unjust treatment of Indigenous peoples in Canada (and elsewhere). Yet, calls for a more robust apology from the Vatican and even from the Canadian Conference of Catholic Bishops remained. From the perspective of the Indigenous communities, the previous apologies were not sufficient. Benedict XVI’s expression of “great sorrow,” still fell short of an apology and they continued to call for an apology from Rome in Canada, addressing the entire Canadian Catholic Church, not diocese by diocese, religious order by religious order. Additionally, questions remain about access to documents and participation in the financial settlements. Ultimately, the situation became acute once more in October 2021 with the discovery of one mass grave of 215 children at Kamloops Indian Residential School in British Columbia.
A Good Apology: Recognizing more than Sorrow and Complicity
According to a Catholic peacebuilding framework, a good apology is central for creating justice and healing within a community. On John Paul Lederach’s account, “Acknowledgment is decisive in the reconciliation dynamic. It is one thing to know, it is a very different social phenomenon to acknowledge. Acknowledgment through hearing one another’s stories is the first step towards restoration” (26). In Fratelli Tutti, Pope Francis echoes this: “we can never move forward without remembering the past, we don’t progress without an honest, unclouded memory” (para. 249).
A good apology is necessary, but it is a practice which the Catholic church as an institution has struggled to carry out. All too often the ecclesial apologies concerning historical violence done to indigenous communities and racialized minorities, or in the case of the clergy sexual abuse crisis, feel inadequate. Most often they express deep sorrow while taking pains to frame transgressions as being carried out by a minority or a few bad individuals who committed a harm. The apologies fall short because they apologize for complicity but not culpability in the horrible violence that has occurred.
All too often the ecclesial apologies concerning historical violence done to indigenous communities and racialized minorities, or in the case of the clergy sexual abuse crisis, feel inadequate.
Complicity acknowledges some involvement, largely centered around an individual failure to stop or correct an injustice. However, while doing so, it lessens the responsibility of those within that larger system which enabled that failure to address injustice. Moral culpability, meanwhile, is about taking actual responsibility for wrongdoing. In common parlance, complicity is passive and culpability is active when it comes to one’s relationship to the harm committed. The good apology must go beyond complicity by recognizing culpability in wrongdoing and harm when one was an active participant. The bad apology, on the other hand, avoids including the speaker in the story either by focusing on their feelings or making the harm about the actions of other outliers.
“We do not usually rush to expose our vulnerability and our sinfulness,” noted Archbishop Desmond Tutu reflecting upon South African’s TRC, “but if the process of forgiveness and healing is to succeed, ultimately acknowledgement by the culprit is indispensable–not completely but nearly so” (270). For the Catholic Church in the Americas, this means a recognition that as an institution we were not just complicit in the oppression of non-European persons in the so-called “New World,” but a powerful participant in shaping, implementing, and reinforcing those systems. This requires a deep and nuanced understanding of social sin and our moral culpability in taking active part in committing harms.
Roman Catholic Indian Residential School Study Time, Fort Resolution, Northwest Territories, Canada.
Pope Francis is not the first pope to apologize for the historical injustices committed on behalf of the Church. Pope John Paul II famously did so on several occasions. Catholic social teaching has also long condemned all forms of colonialism and neo-colonialism. The difference here is that Pope Francis more clearly recognized when the Church was implicated in moral harm and identifies with the victims in doing so. This is deeply present when in Bolivia and in his apostolic exhortation Querida Amazonia, he apologized to the Indigenous peoples of the Americas, “not only for the offenses of the Church herself, but also for crimes committed against native peoples during the so-called conquest of America.” This is in stark contrast, for example, with the way Pope John Paul II began his 1995 Letter to Women framing the role of the Church in patriarchy and sexism without accepting institutional culpability, “And if objective blame, especially in particular historical contexts, has belonged to not just a few members of the Church, for this I am truly sorry.”
In his recent apology, Francis noted, “it is chilling to think of determined efforts to instill a sense of inferiority, to rob people of their cultural identity, to sever their roots, and to consider personal and social effects that this continues to entail: unresolved traumas that have become intergenerational traumas.” One lingering barrier to healing and reconciliation is the unresolved trauma tied to the Catholic Church’s role as arbiter among Catholic nations during the Age of Discovery. In the last decade, I have been part of two very different Catholic listening sessions with Indigenous leaders in the Americas and in both cases, someone called for the pope to publicly rescind the fifteen century papal bulls tied to the doctrine of discovery. Historically, Inter Coetera (1493) was nullified by the Treaty of Tordesillas in 1494 and by other papal bulls such as Sublimis Deus (1537) which upheld the dignity and property rights of indigenous peoples encountered by Christians.[2] Technically, Church leaders in the United States, Canada, and from the Holy See are all completely correct that any invocation of these papal bulls or the doctrine of discovery by nations and courts bears no connection to the ecclesial. They are not valid for the Catholic church. Nonetheless, at the 2018 Assembly of First Nations members concluded that these existing repudiations were “not enough.” Practically, the papal bulls, the participation in shaping the “Age of Discovery,” and the legacy thereof remains an unresolved trauma for the indigenous of the Americas.
The difference here is that Pope Francis more clearly recognized when the Church was implicated in moral harm and identifies with the victims when apologizing.
The Catholic church, including the current pope, still struggle with the legacy of Catholic missionaries during and after colonization. The last six papacies have sought to put the Catholic church on a path of evangelization that focuses on engagement, inculturation, and the valuing of freedom of religion and peoples. They all spoke critically of earlier periods of missionary cooperation with conquest and colonialism. Yet, for the reasons identified above the apologies have felt insufficient. There is a deep unease about Pope Francis’s decision to canonize Junipero Serra as someone who “sought to defend dignity of the native community” in 2015 over the vocal objections of indigenous communities because of the way in which Serra intentionally sought to eliminate indigenous customs and culture.
Hope for Dialogue and Friendship: Grappling with the Past to Move Forward
Good apologies are merely a step upon which a path of more fruitful dialogue and friendship can be walked. This is another place where the April 1st apology, building on the statements in Bolivia, in Querida Amazonia, and in Laudato Si’, are instructive. Pope Francis’s engagement with Indigenous peoples and traditions seeks to praise insights from their traditions from which non-Indigenous peoples should learn, especially with respect to protecting non-human creation. This also involves giving specific attention—as both the pope and the Canadian bishops have attempted to do—to ongoing injustices that are often ignored, such as exploitation related to extractive industries and the “inquiry into missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls.”
Pope Francis is scheduled to visit Canada on July 24–29, 2022. Papal visits are a unique time of excitement. They energize the local church and have a deep symbolic power unlike much else. Take, for example, Pope Francis’s decision to personally open the Holy Door at Bangui’s Cathedral in anticipation of beginning the year of mercy on November 29th, 2015. Opening the holy door to usher in a year of mercy in the Central African Republic revealed a broader and more inclusive vision of mercy focused on those at the margins. There is much anticipation and anxiety over how Pope Francis will address the legacy of harm done by Catholics and the Church itself to the First Nations peoples of Canada (and to the Native Americans in the United States). The pope himself describes the trip as “a penitential pilgrimage, which I hope, with God’s grace, will contribute to the journey of healing and reconciliation already undertaken.”He understands the importance of a good apology and the deep pastoral recognition that we “have to learn how to cultivate a penitential memory, one that can accept the past” in order to move forward in dialogue and friendship (para. 226).
[1] Item 58 is one of two specifically relating to the Catholic Church. The other, item 48, called upon the Catholic Church and other churches to “publicly adopt and comply” with the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous peoples. This is something the Holy See was already a party to at the United Nations, and on which the Canadian Conference of Catholic Bishops similarly made a public statement of support as part of their responses to the Call to Action.
Meghan J. Clark is Associate Professor of Moral Theology in the Department of Theology and Religious Studies, St. John’s University in New York. She earned her Ph.D. in Theological Ethics from Boston College. Her research focuses on Catholic social thought, global development, human rights, peace, and justice. She is author of The Vision of Catholic Social Thought: The Virtue of Solidarity and the Praxis of Human Rights (Fortress Press, 2014). In 2015, she was a Fulbright Scholar at Hekima University College, Nairobi, Kenya. In 2018, she was a Visiting Residential Research Fellow at the Centre for Catholic Studies at the University of Durham, UK. In 2017-2018, she was awarded a Vincentian Studies Grant to conduct fieldwork research with the Daughters of Charity in Kenya, Ethiopia, and Tanzania. From 2010-2013, she served as a Consultant to the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops Committee on Domestic Justice. Her research has been published in Theolgoical Studies, Journal of Catholic Social Thought, Journal of Moral Theology, Heythrop Journal, among others.
Orthodox priests saying offices during the Euromaidan protests, Jan 21, 2014. Image via Wikimedia Commons, CC BY 3.0
Western interpretations on the war in Ukraine commonly ignore the importance of both nationalism and religion, even though such elements are arguably essential for understanding the sources of democratic resistance in Ukraine, the motivations behind Russian aggression, and the complex futures that confront the Ukrainian and Russian peoples. The following post critiques one example of western liberal reportage and offers an alternative reading that takes nationalism and religion seriously in the interpretive process.
The War in Ukraine: Beyond Western Framing
In the weeks leading up to the Russian invasion of Ukraine, a campaign begun in 2014 and escalated with criminal brutality on February 24, 2022, many in the west began thinking about the political and social makeup of the Ukrainian nation for the first time. For millions, the New York Times’ flagship podcast The Daily became a place to hear expert analysis and reportage on the war in Ukraine interwoven with explanations of history and place in ways that are brief, digestible, and accessible. For instance, the episode of February 15—‘How Ukrainians View This Perilous Moment’—arranged a suite of powerful personal stories told from the capital Kyiv and several regional contexts into a narrative challenging President Putin’s assumptions about Ukrainian submission to the looming Russian takeover. How insightful such a report proved to be: since the 2022 invasion, the refrain Slava Ukraini (“Glory to Ukraine”) has evoked images of defiance in the face of tyranny, national sacrifice in the struggle against oppression, and of hope and despair on the outer edges of catastrophe.
The magnitude of western solidarity with Ukraine, both its military and humanitarian expressions, can arguably be explained by both the moral gravity and existential proximity of the conflict. These factors are embodied in how civilians have become collateral victims and strategic targets of Russian aggression. Of equal significance, I suggest, is the translatability of the Ukrainian resistance into the idioms of western liberalism. In particular, the discursive superstructure of “democracy versus autocracy” situates the war in Ukraine in a Manichean world that pits the struggle for freedom against the demagogic intentions of a tyrant. The name of Ukraine’s president, Volodymyr Zelenskyy, has become universally associated with democratic liberty, much as the names of others before him in different times and contexts. Such inspiring dynamics of solidarity-making are clearly welcome, especially as a sustained humanitarian response by the west toward millions of Ukrainian refugees will no doubt be required.
Yet we are also provoked to ask what may be lost in translating the Ukrainian resistance through the discursive filter of “democracy versus autocracy,” and why this might impact the nature of our solidarity as well as long-term prospects for peace. How might the fight be reimagined beyond westernism and western interests? And how might this reimagining thicken our understanding of democracy and the resources that inform it? I return my thoughts to The Daily, the globally popular investigative podcast that also offers a portal into the liberal worldview, and arguably the best version of it. As its millions of followers would attest, The Daily is nothing if not highly scripted, tightly produced around dramatic pauses, metered interjections, the juxtaposition of serious content with tip-toe curiosity sound bites, evocative theme music, and the communication of mature and insightful analysis in tension with a kind of “explainer baby talk” where the listener is simultaneously informed and infantilized. The movement between these experiences, I suggest, mirrors liberalism itself, notably its nimble capacity to simplify collective phenomena for individual consumption via a reductively thin rendering of social space. In this context, what is left out of a story becomes as important as what is put in.
The Heavenly Hundred: Religion, the Sacred, and National Belonging
Street Memorial to the Heavenly Hundred Victims, 2018. Image via Flickr user Adam Jones (CC BY 2.0)
The initial encounter in the podcast episode on February 15, 2022 illustrates this dynamic. The report first visits a memorial site in Kyiv dedicated to the 100-plus people who are remembered as the Heavenly Hundred. They were killed in a popular uprising, known as both the Maidan Revolution and the Revolution of Dignity, that began in late-2013 against the Russian controlled government of Ukraine. Describing the site as “this black steel and granite monument with these kind of spectral faces taken from real life photos of individuals,” the Daily report accurately depicts the memorial as dedicated to a tipping-point event in the modern history of the Ukrainian nation, whose victims are lauded as heroes for the principles of democracy, human rights and freedoms. The podcast narrative twice emphasises the fallen as “individuals” who, collectively, “through the force of numbers, through the force of their own will,” overthrew the regime of President Viktor Yanukovych. Adding to the narrative is an encounter with “two elderly women there in headscarves, cleaning up the site.” As a final comment, the reporter conveys an explanation from one of the women about her actions. He says: “Every time one of the individuals who died during the uprising in 2014 has a birthday, she hangs their photos on a little holder here and rings a bell.”
End of scene.
The underlying emphasis of this brief account is one of civic defiance, of spontaneous ritualized choices by individual citizens, also depicted later in the report as “college students and history professors” joining volunteer brigades to fight the Russian incursion into Eastern Ukraine. Few would doubt the inspiration of such citizen courage, but as an educative process about the dynamics of resistance in Ukraine—of helping listeners to enter into a social and political space very different from their own; to understand, as the episode’s title suggests, “how Ukrainians view this perilous moment”—the Daily’s account at the memorial of the Heavenly Hundred is deficient in important ways. Such a criticism might seem unfair given the need to produce a fast-moving podcast, were it not that the missing elements in the story are also absent from all Daily reportage to date (again: what is left out is as instructive as what is put in). The elements to which I refer are those of religion and nationalism as formative resources of communal and institutional resistance to Russian aggression. Not coincidentally, I suggest, dynamics such as these also disrupt the ideological scripts of western liberalism.
The Daily scene at the memorial of the Heavenly Hundred begins near what the reporter describes as a “small wooden chapel.” Such a detail provokes us to interrogate the religious aspects of the site, whether they are a central or ancillary dimension, and whether they are an original or a later addition to the lived practices of remembrance that occur there. In an essay titled “Commemoration and the New Frontiers of War in Ukraine,” Catherine Wanner offers an incisive answer:
A popular outpouring of grief over the deaths of protesters in February 2014 resulted in individuals creating vernacular memorial shrines, sometimes in the form of graves, to honor those killed … From the beginning, a prominent religious idiom was incorporated into commemorations, as it was in the protests themselves. Candles, icons, and prayer beads, which evoke the veneration of saints, are among the other objects with clear religious meaning that are placed near the shrines (334, italics added).
In 2014 I was invited to write about the place of religion in the Maidan Revolution, and was immediately confronted by how to interpret powerful images of Orthodox priests placing themselves at the deadly center of the protests, actions that added a more traditionally sacral dimension to the events that preceded the vernacular rituals of the post-revolution memorials. Functioning as a corrective to my initial interpretation that religion was indeed ancillary to the struggles for economic and democratic autonomy—and that these priests had less agency, for instance, than in the earlier anti-Communist struggles in Poland—Wanner attributes religion with both a primary and ongoing role in revolutionary sentiment. For instance,
It has become a tradition for volunteers, soldiers, and others actively engaged in the war effort to come to the Maidan to light a candle near the portraits as a form of ‘blessing’ before they head to the front. In 2017 the exterior wall of St. Michael’s Monastery in downtown Kyiv, wherethe protesters notably took refuge during the Maidan protests, became the site of a ‘Wall of Remembrance for those Fallen for Ukraine.’ The notable presence of clergy during the protests gave way to a rapid expansion of the number of military chaplains who accompanied soldiers to the east (Wanner 334).
The Australian Stefan Romaniw, the first vice president of the Ukrainian World Congress and a participant in the Revolution of Dignity, recalls the coexistence of ecclesiastical leadership alongside grassroots activism at work in Maidan:
I recall the street rallies—many hundreds of thousands of people started at Taras Shevchenko National University and marched to Maidan. I remember Patriarch Lubomyr Husar [Patriarch of the Ukrainian Greek Catholic Church] in an open vehicle speaking to the crowd … Over the course of the revolution, politicians took to the stage, but slowly realized this was a civil revolution—a people’s movement. Civil society took charge.
For scholars seeking to reinstate religious actors, interests, and practices within the political landscape, the reframing of the Revolution of Dignity through the lens of both vernacular and formal religious expressions would constitute an important finding. Such a reframing, to be sure, represents an advance in applying religious literacy to the Ukrainian struggle because we perceive something thicker and more culturally embedded in the modes of Ukrainian dissent. Specifically, many participants in both the 2014 revolution and the anti-Russian resistance today are buoyed by a sacredness beyond the temporal order just as much as they are motivated to uphold democratic sovereignty within it—and much less by the autonomous citizen-self as the sole occupant and hero of thinner liberal narratives.
Yet the fusion of religion and national resistance could also be a legitimate cause for concern when applying perspectives more aligned with critical disciplines, such as the contribution of Diane Moore, which require religious literacy to include “an analysis of power and powerlessness” and ask, “Which perspectives are politically and socially prominent and why?” (384). Whatever roles history professors might have played, we do know for certain that the Maidan revolution was comprised of a variety of actors with a variety of interests, “from the liberal intelligentsia to hardcore nationalists.” The specter of a religious nationalism with strong affinities toward national chauvinism, therefore, creates interpretive dilemmas for understanding how some Ukrainians do indeed view this perilous moment. As Wanner observes,
Religious institutions have tremendous political valence because of their ability to create and morally legitimate new cultural boundaries and the often unsavory emotions that lead to delineations of ‘us’ and ‘them.’ … Many supporters of the Maidan validate religiosity as a fundamental component of Ukrainian nationality (334).
So we must ask, “nationality for whom”? Might religio-nationalist resolve not only galvanize resistance but also unlock historic legacies of social hostility toward religious minorities in Ukraine, including an increasing number holding to no religion? Critical approaches face a dilemma here: the recognition that religion has always been involved in the world of power has caused many to erase it as the mere epiphenomena of hegemonic structural interests, an inverted form of the modern liberal containment of religion as the mere expression of individualized ethics. In a departure from both approaches, and in solidarity with a scholarly tradition that wants to ask critical questions in-and-through religious beliefs, practices, and belongings, in what follows I suggest the legacies of religion in the war in Ukraine offer frameworks for understanding the broader constitutive forces of nationhood beyond western assumptions and a political hermeneutic guided by the frame of autocracy-democracy.
Religion in the Russian State and the Ukrainian Nation
It is important to briefly declare some of my assumptions and show how they apply to the context of the war. I understand the state to be a bureaucratic entity, and as a researcher more aligned to ethno-symbolic theories of nationalism, I part ways with modernist scholars of both a cosmopolitan and critical persuasion who assume that it is the state that creates the nation.1 While acknowledging the salient insights of a modernist like Siniša Malešević that states can powerfully mobilize nationalist sentiment via institutions, ideology, and networks of micro-solidarity, I also hold Benedict Anderson’s popular modernist idea of the nation as an “imagined community” to be far too anemic. To echo the writings of Anthony Smith, nations are not only imagined, they are willed, felt, remembered, and repurposed, and the deep cultural reservoirs from which such actions are often drawn predate the modern state and in some instances give rise to it.
While states differ in polity and efficiency (for instance, often less totalized and more random [or aleatory] in their actions toward the vulnerable), the long held axiom of critical theory that states “see” a certain way remains important. In classical terms, the state is more of a Parmenidean entity—defined by unity, where all movement ultimately must serve the One. The state can assert religion as an archetype, as a “first form” indispensable to the reinforcement of a patriotic standard (or canon) and the upholding of sovereignty. The principal example of religion as archetype in the context of the war in Ukraine is the Russian Orthodox Church (ROC) and its relationship with the Russian state. In an important essay, Shakhanova and Kratochvíl examine the “patriotic turn” of the ROC via the discursive movements of nomination (naming key actors and concepts), predication (assigning value to actors and actions against a patriotic standard), and argumentation (the construction of a persuasive narrative), leading to the creation of key rhetorical topoi that are employed in the discourses of Russian education and politics. In education, the “topos of indispensability whereby (the Church as the only one who can protect Russia from moral decadence)” develops into a “topos of superiority (Orthodox patriotism is superior to all other kinds).” In politics, the “topos of moral supremacy (the Church’s moral tutelage of the state)” develops into the “topos of power struggle (Orthodox Christians have to be influential in politics)” (120). Religion as archetype is also seen in the authors’ appeal to a 2014 study by M. D. Suslov on the creation of the idea of “Holy Rus.” Here, the archetypal first form is violently imposed upon a geopolitical space, as forecast in President Putin’s now infamous essay of July 12, 2021, “On the Historical Unity of Russians and Ukrainians.”
In contrast to the state, while different nations can be understood against common sets of ideals and concepts, the processes of their formation are both varied and dynamic. Thus, the nation is more of a Heraclitan entity—defined by movement and the possibility that the flows of history will yield new iterations at once recognizable and reconfigured. If the state can assert religion as a singular archetype, the nation can enable religion more as an ideal-type, that is, as a resource that can support multiple political forms. In the context of the war in Ukraine, religious traditions, practices, and interests have an ambivalent quality and can thus contribute to civil and political cultures of both inclusion and exclusion. Regarding inclusion, that President Zelensky is Jewish in a context shaped by histories not only of social hostility toward Jews but also their elimination as a people, becomes a powerful embodiment of democratic pluralism and the role that religious diversity plays to strengthen Ukrainian nationhood. The same can be said of the public unity in support of the Ukrainian resistance by Muslim, Jewish, and Christian leaders on March 21, 2022 in the ancient port city of Odesa.
Religion as archetype has been stridently challenged within the majority religious tradition of Christian Orthodoxy in the region. One such example can be found in the ideational texture of the recent statement, A Declaration on The “Russian World” (Russkii Mir) Teaching, by an international network of Orthodox scholars, clergy and lay people against the Russian ideology. First, the primary appeal is to interpretive practices of the Orthodox faith, notably the ethics that stem from situated readings of sacred text. Second, the affirmation of human equality (i.e. beyond confessional and partisan boundaries) is framed as a prophetic challenge to “all forms of government that deify the state.” Third, that a turning away (a metanoia) from the current conflict is also seen as a turning toward “the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.” The sentiments of the Declaration were also echoed in the Statement of Solidarity against Christian Nationalism signed by an international coalition of scholars instigated by a conference at the Blavatnik School of Government at Oxford University. The Tabletreports a detail from the conference that is relevant to the notion of religion as ideal-type:
At a public lecture during the conference, Archimandrite Cyril Hovorun encouraged Orthodox theologians to “weaken symphonia with the state, and strengthen symphonia with civil society.” The Ukrainian priest and academic used the metaphor of “symphonia” or musical unison to describe Orthodoxy’s relationship with the polity.
Religion understood as a set of both distinct yet malleable communal practices and a metaphor for civic unity encapsulates well the potential of religions as ideal-types in the service of the common good, the challenge to hegemonic injustice, and the building of nations.
Of course, symphonia also possesses an ambivalent quality. As William Schweiker has recently noted, in the case of the alliance between Putin and the ROC symphonia has led to belligerence over civility, thereby highlighting the importance of situating symphonia within the ideal-type of the nation rather than the archetype of a religio-state. Such a rejection would also restore transnational Orthodox unity. Notably, in a recent interview Fr. Cyril Hovorun appeals to Orthodox tradition for support of this idea:
To restore such a unity, in my opinion, the Orthodox churches must condemn the ideology of the Russian world. Such a condemnation would be an update of the famous condemnation of “phyletism” (nationalism applied to ecclesiastical affairs) at the Council of Constantinople in 1872.
Latent within Hovorun’s appeal for a symphonia with civil society is a traditional rejection of the archetype of the religio-state in favor of a preferential option for the plural nation.
“Glory to Ukraine”: Religion and the Sacred Nation
In the case of Russia’s war on Ukraine, we are arguably presented with a geopolitical adaptation of R. Scott Appleby’s prismatic and enduring concept of the “ambivalence of the sacred”: on the one side, “Holy Russia” founded on the archetype of a singular religio-political ontology; on the other, the Ukrainian nation in a resistance struggle understood by its citizens to be contextually and metaphorically “sacred.” The national exaltation of the Heavenly Hundred memorializes the Revolution of Dignity by infusing this sacredness throughout institutional and popular forms of Ukrainian resistance: the advocacy of traditional hierarchs—religious and civic—on behalf of an oppressed and endangered nation; and the accountability of those same hierarchs to the standards of sacred justice believed in traditional and vernacular ways by a citizen community. For the Ukrainian nation, therefore, the bifurcated discourse of “autocracy vs democracy” does not do justice to all that is at play in the circumstances of this terrible moment, nor to the multilayered and situated meanings of the refrain “Glory to Ukraine.”
The dynamics of religion and nationalism are inextricably entangled in the scenarios that will unfold in the coming months and years, not only for Ukrainians but also for Russians. To not acknowledge those dynamics presents a serious deficiency in our understanding and our solidarity. When an elderly woman, whose history is intimately bound up in the story of both peoples, rings a bell at a grave of the fallen, it is unlikely that she intends to channel the powers of western liberal individualism to her cause; it is instead more reasonable to assume that she is releasing a sound that reverberates through spaces that are as primordial as they are modern, linked to communities of both the present and the past, and ritualized in the hope that the sustaining presences of a sacred social order will one day give rise to a renewed and better life for her people.
Slava Ukraini.
____
1 For example, I have employed ethno-symbolic theory to argue that the constitutive dimensions of nationalism can be employed to counter the forces of national populism. See John A. Rees, “Religion, populism, and the dynamics of nationalism,” Religion, State and Society, 49, no. 3 (2021): 195–210. For a recent use of Anthony D. Smith’s ethno-symbolic approach in the study of religion and nationalism, see Gurharpal Singh and Giorgio Shani, Sikh Nationalism: From a Dominant Minority to an Ethno-Religious Diaspora (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2021).
John A. Rees, PhD. is Professor of Politics and International Relations at The University of Notre Dame Australia, where he co-convenes the Religion and Global Ethics program at the Institute for Ethics and Society. Dr. Rees was the 2022 Milward L. Simpson Visiting Fulbright Professor at the University of Wyoming (January-May). This article is based on a public talk cohosted by the Kroc Institute for International Peace Studies and the Nanovic Institute for European Studies, delivered at the University of Notre Dame on April 28, 2022.
Image of various archival materials discussed by Moore in Kindred Spirits. Image courtesy of the author with permission.
Thank you so much to my three generous colleagues, Kathleen Holscher, Niloofar Haeri, and Scott Appleby for their smart and thoughtful readings of my work, and to Atalia Omer and Joshua Lupo for creating this space for a conversation about Kindred Spirits. It is an honor to see how the book has stretched to speak to scholars working in fields adjacent to my own, and engaging with them is a welcome chance to think more explicitly about shared themes in our field—modernity, colonialism, and spirituality—that may have been undertheorized in the book. All of the thinkers have asked me to be a bit more explicit in my conceptual thinking. I’ll take this as an opportunity to deepen and clarify, and this is a most generous and welcome gift.
To begin with Scott Appleby’s essay, I must say that while reading it, I was seized with sudden flashbacks to my earliest semester teaching undergraduates fourteen years ago, when I would painstakingly try and define modernity for my students. I used Gustsavo Benievides’s Critical Terms essay, and would re-trace, whiteboard marker in my trembling hand, the various meanings of the Latin term modernus, and how it changed over time. More than a decade later now, I am in total agreement with Appleby that those debates seem to have fizzled out; I now rarely engage discussions about what we mean when we say “modernity.” Nonetheless I do appreciate Appleby’s point that I sometimes evoke the term more confusingly than maybe I should, sometimes descriptively, other times with a critical edge.
Grateful for the chance to clarify, I would say that my research relied on scholars of race and transatlantic modernity like Paul Gilroy to make an empirical point about the world that formed the protagonists of Kindred Spirits. Like those Gilroy writes about, some of the writers, poets, and activists in my book also experienced forced exile, fled violence, and lived rootless, vulnerable lives. This form of existence made friendship such an important anchor. This rootlessless also was something that writers like Claude McKay and Gabriela Mistral evoked in the art that give their works a wide, eclectic appeal and reach. This is a descriptive way of thinking about modernity: the global circuits carved from the violence of modernity—enslavement, wars, genocide—and the internationalist, eclectic art that came out of those same circuits. But the critical edge Appleby points to evokes the idea of the modern differently. One example here is where I suggest that male friendship offers an alternative to the dominant modes of male subjectivity that the modern world has on offer (think of the controlled, tough, independent “bottled up version of masculinity”). I do think that modernity is a swirl of cultures, fantasies, hopes, and imaginations, but in the west, despite this empirical mix, there are dominate cultural ideals that define what it means to be modern. I would say that one of these is that men should be emotionally restrained, untethered, and unencumbered. This suspicion of male intimacy was also central to colonial ideologies. Fantasies of male intimacy and sexuality in colonial countries were recoded as sexual sin, in need of Christian intervention and restraint. Or, as Marie Griffith and others have shown, these fantasies became the grounds of elaborate romanticization of sexual freedoms unburdened by western religious constraints. In either case, the Christian west was seen to be the space where men lived lives of independence and restraint when it came to intimacy. Though living in Europe and the United States and Christian, the men I describe in Kindred Spirits lived lives in radical disjunction to that dominant norm. And much of the ideas for this alternative did come from medieval monks (whose affective lives were more “uncorked,” to use Appleby’s words). Marie Magdeleine Davy wrote on the elaborate love expressed among Cistercian monks and Brian Patrick Maguire has written beautifully on medieval male friendship. These were models of alternative ways to embody masculinity taken up by people like Jacques Maritain and Louis Massignon. The affective, even queer way Maritain and Massignon carried themselves is “modern” in a sense because modernity creates space for the perpetuation of hegemonic norms as well as their subversion. I hope this clarifies the point I was trying to make in the book.
I will add here that when Appleby writes that I exhibited a “reluctance to stand back from the reporting of . . . richly detailed research” in some places, I felt he was peering into my soul a bit! The archival sources I used were so vast, so personal, so difficult to excavate, and the authors themselves were so prolific that it sometimes overwhelmed me. I feared I would never get out from under the sources. It is refreshing to now truly step back and bring these larger conceptual points into focus.
I do, however, depart from the conclusion that the “collective agency” of the men and women in my book “did not amount to much,” especially compared to “champions of the ressourcement such as Henri de Lubac and Marie-Dominique Chenu” and those like “Jacques Maritain….who interacted consistently with the Vatican.” I would emphasize here that the world I describe in Kindred Spirits includes Maritain and de Lubac, but by centering those more on the margins (like Davy, Massignon, McKay, Mistral) I move away from centers of Catholic power. White male priests like de Lubac or those White men loved by priests like Maritain were always invited into the halls of power. They looked like that power, and places like the Vatican and Notre Dame recognized them, applauded them, and welcomed them. Black writers like Claude McKay or the Chilean poet Gabriela Mistral were illegible to the people in those places and operated in another sphere. As artists, McKay and Mistral worked at the level of imagination untethered to the levers of power in the 20th century. It is thus much harder to track what impact artists had on the cultural imagination than those invited to Geneva or Rome. But I would be reluctant to say they had no impact: McKay offered up in his poetry a completely new vision of what Black resistance could look like, and he is still read today. Mistral won the Nobel Prize for literature. Louis Massignon completely transformed the study of Islam for Catholics and inspired many of the Dominicans who remain prominent and influential scholars of Islam today. But this is a different kind of power. One of their impacts was in dispersing Catholic spirituality to places beyond the reach of the Vatican.
And I am so grateful to Katie Holscher who raises the important issue of coloniality and friendship, especially in U.S. contexts. I had a long section on the language of friendship in relationship to colonialism, associations exactly like those Holscher describes as the “Friends of the Indians” that “worked to dispossess Native peoples.” But this ended up being too far afield from the figures in my book. Still, I don’t want to let the figures in the book off the hook too easily. I especially related to Holscher’s evocations of Catholic confraternities that prayed for the living and the dead, a mix of spiritual and social bonds, in the language of love. Despite the softness of the language and the depth of the mysticism and the fact that it was Catholicism in a secular-Protestant country like the United States, the Catholic mystical imagination in communities like Friends of the Indian still worked to further colonial dynamics. She is exactly right on this point. Although the figures in my book tended to be critical of state power, there is a range in their approaches to this issue. Early in his career, for instance, Louis Massignon’s efforts at friendship with Muslims entailed a mix of prayer and pressure for conversion and we can see the colonial dynamics at work in the way Holscher describes. The most tragic figure in my book is that of the young Muslim scholar Muhammad abd Jalil, who converted to Islam under Massignon’s friendship and care, and was more or less disowned by his parents. Jalil spent time in a mental institution and had a very difficult life. Massignon’s ideas evolved over time, but the issue of friendship as a language that can soften the sound of colonialism is part of the story indeed. As I was writing, I had to remind myself that friendship is much like any other basic human endeavor: eating, walking, play, childbirth, swimming, loving, talking, fighting – something so basic and universal that it can be invested with an almost infinite range of meanings. But a story of the spirituality and politics of Catholic friendship with ties to Paris is one that should never exclude the ways in which this world has been entangled with colonialism. I appreciate this point and could have done more to stretch this. I imagine the possibility of a rich and needed volume on friendship in modern religion, where one would see friendship’s range across geographic, linguistic, and cultural contexts. When taken together, we could see what theoretical insights we could glean from a wide ranging set of data that reveals different stories friendship, spirituality, colonialism, and decolonialism in the modern world. This is so important with words like friendship, words that are warm, spiritual, and seemingly harmless. It is important to not simply show that there is always hegemony lurking there, but to open it up, explore it empirically, and be able to stretch our understanding of this important mode of human experience.
Shifting more from the political realm of structures and back into the inner domain, in terms of academic specialty, the scholarship of Niloofar Haeri, an anthropologist of Islam, is furthest from my own. It means a great deal that she connected to Kindred Spirits, and her own scholarship on friendship, kinship, prayer, and poetry has been an important influence on my thinking. Her essay here reminds me why. The language she uses keeps us tethered to the spiritual and the interior, even if it is always, in her hands, entangled with the external realms of language, culture, and embodiment. But nonetheless it has its own kind of integrity. She describes my work on friendship in this way: “There were beloved saints and some contemporaries whose being seemed to emanate a certain blessedness (very similar to the concept of those who are seen to have baraka in Muslim communities). That members of this group saw sacredness as not limited to the divine and to saints and prophets is one of the most interesting discussions in the book.” Reading Haeri I am forced to confront my own habits. For example, I often emphasize the political nature of experiments and efforts of the friendship networks I describe. But for them, it was how friends embodied some part of the supernatural that was most fundamental. The beautiful phrase “to emanate a certain blessedness” (baraka) inspires in me a desire to learn more about the idea in Muslim communities.
Thank you again so much to Katie, Scott, and Niloofar for these incredibly helpful readings that pushed me at last to stand back and clarify my conceptual thinking. I find myself now looking to future projects as a chance to be more explicit in my analysis of how experiments in Catholic spirituality worked to advance or undermine the French colonial project – I was too subtle on that point and need to tackle it more directly. I am also reminded too of the need for further elaboration of second, rather distinctive impulse to consider the experiential aspects of religion, the piety and devotion that requires a somewhat different set of analytic tools. In future projects I hope to go further with both of those rather distinct set of questions, both of which I find fascinating and can tackle more explicitly head on. Thank you again to my generous readers and colleagues.
Brenna Moore is Professor of Theology at Fordham University. She works in the area of modern Christianity, with a focus on Catholic intellectual and cultural history in Europe. Dr. Moore’s teaching and research centers on mysticism and religious experience, gender, a movement in theology known as “ressourcement,” (“turn to the sources”) that paved the way for Vatican II, and the place of religious difference in modern Christian thought. She is most recently the author of Kindred Spirits: Friendship and Resistance at the Edges of Modern Catholicism(University of Chicago Press, 2021). This project explores a remarkable network of Catholic historians, theologians, poets, and activists who pushed against both the far-right surge in interwar Europe and the secularizing tendencies of the leftist movements active in the early to mid-twentieth century.
Modernity, it would seem, makes little room for friendship. Its economic logic, which often goes by the moniker neoliberalism, seeks to isolate us as individuals from the wider communal contexts in which we live. The Protestant reformation, as some scholars have contended, played no small part in ushering in modernity’s mechanistic and individualistic ethos and the economic system that accompanied it. The result of this process has been to reduce human beings down to their component parts so that we might be more active consumers and more disciplined workers. In the early part of the twentieth century, this reduction birthed totalitarian and liberal modes of governance alike.
It is this story of modernity and its logics that the figures examined in Brenna Moore’s Kindred Spirits: Friendship and Resistance at the Edges of Modernity seek to push back against. Whether in the close circle of friends formed between Gabriela Mistral and Jacques and Raïssa Maritain, or in the spiritual connection formed between Marie-Magdeleine Davy and Simone Weil, these charismatic and avant garde figures drew on Catholic theologies and cultures that stood against the totalitarian worldview that had come to shape many nations in Europe. Without ignoring the role that Catholicism played historically in the colonization of the world and in promoting fascist politics, Moore shows how these thinkers developed an alternative Catholic modernity to the modern world order. With regard to the latter, Claude McKay, another figure that Moore examines, analyzes the links between racism, Protestantism, secularism, and colonialism in the US. In Catholicism, he saw a spiritual alternative to the dry, Protestant, and racist culture of the U.S. While perhaps naive in his embrace of Catholicism as anti-racist and anti-colonial, his critique nonetheless opened up space for being-with-others that pushed back against the dominant trends of his day. McKay, and the other names mentioned above, are only some of those that appear in Moore’s deeply researched and profound book.
The interlocutors invited to participate in this symposium—Niloofar Haeri, Kathleen Holscher, and Scott Appleby—all bring to bear different disciplinary, tradition-based, and geographical expertise on Moore’s book. The result is a symposium that resembles the form of the book itself. By bringing Moore’s insights to their work, these contributors open up space for thought that break through the modern boundaries of nation, discipline, and thought.
In her response, Niloofar Haeri weaves in her own ethnographic research on women’s prayer in Tehran, Iran, with reflections on the contributions Moore’s book makes to our understanding of religion and modernity. She notes that one of the many lessons of Moore’s book is that doctrine is rarely what attracts people to a religion. Rather, it is more often how a religion speaks to the political and social moment in which people find themselves that brings them to it.
Kathleen Holscher, meanwhile, brings Moore’s account of friendship into her own work on the role of friendship in relations between Catholics and Native peoples in the context of the US settler colonial project. By looking at two examples, one from a Protestant religious organization and one from a Catholic organization, she draws out the differing dynamics of friendships in the traditions as they were practiced at the time—the Protestant idea of friendship in service of the nation-state and the Catholic idea in service of more supernatural ends. While Catholics recognized their responsibility towards the plight of the Native peoples—and ultimately a kind of friendship with them that extended beyond the state—Holscher argues that they nonetheless participated in settler colonial practices that deprived Native peoples of their land and religious practices. Holscher asks us to consider, then, the challenging, and sometimes contradictory, dynamics of friendship among these communities, and others.
Scott Appleby, finally, closely analyzes three key questions that are already marked in the title of the book: (1) What do we mean by modernity? (2) What is the relationship between friendship and political activism? (3) What is modern about modern Catholicism? Appleby contends that there is some terminological instability throughout the text, but that this terminological instability perhaps reflects the shifting grounds of the tradition itself as it has found its way into modernity.
In her response, Moore responds to each of these interlocutors, reflecting in particular on the conceptualization of modernity in Appleby’s essay, the intertwining of her subjects with colonial dynamics in Holscher’s response, and the integrity of the inner spiritual experiences of those she writes about in Haeri’s post. She also looks forward to how the contributors’ responses will impact her future work.
As Appleby notes in his essay, Moore’s book “advances Contending Modernities’ exploration of how ‘identity’ is constructed, contested, policed, and transformed under the shifting conditions of what we loosely refer to as ‘modernity.’” Here, I would add that the contributors, in each of their responses, also further that end by engaging Moore’s insights and taking them beyond the borders of the book and into their own research projects.
Joshua S. Lupo is the Assistant Director of the Contending Modernities research initiative. In this role, he serves as the editor and writer for the Contending Modernities Blog and the classroom coordinator for the Madrasa Discourses program. He has published articles and reviews in Sophia, Soundings, Critical Muslim, Reading Religion, and Religious Studies Review. With CM Co-Director Atalia Omer, he is the co-editor of Broken Solidarities: Feminism, Race, and Transnationalism (Notre Dame Press, 2022) and Religion, Populism, and Modernity: Confronting White Christian Nationalism and Racism (Notre Dame Press, 2023). His current book project is titled After Essentialism: A Critical Phenomenology for the Study of Religion.
Poster for a presentation titled “Who was Frantz Fanon.” London, May 2017. Via Wikimedia Commons. CC BY-SA 4.0.
Religion remains an underattended area in contemporary study of Frantz Fanon. This is likely due to the misunderstanding informed by the normative secularistepistemic framework that dictates conversations in humanities and social sciences. The prevailing misunderstanding or bias that pits religion against decoloniality often fails to recognize the ideological (that is, colonial) baggage of the secular and its episteme. The rather simplistic, yet widely held view on Fanon’s relationship with religion, overlooks the numerous nuanced references to religion that he makes. In short, Fanon’s relationship with religion is far more complex and complicated. He constantly appeals to religion even as he deliberately turns away from it. The various streams of decolonial struggles he sets his feet in—be that a political movement or an intellectual tradition—are already entangled in a dynamic and complex interaction with religion. Both his critique of the pernicious presence of religion in social-political life and his gesture to repurpose it (as a vessel to resignify Blackness) remain understudied in contemporary Fanonian scholarship.
Beyond the Western-Secularist Framework
Fanon’s work reveals an ambiguous view of religion overall. He seems mostly critical of the role religion plays within the colonial order and often expresses strong repugnance against indigenous religions, identifying them with myth, superstition, and magic. At the same time, Fanon acknowledges religion’s place in culture as a vital ingredient that fosters national identity. As Federico Settler observes, Fanon “recognized the significance of the sacred in cohering social collectivities and in the recovery of the black self” (5). In “Daily Life in the Douars,” Fanon offers a comprehensive report on the general socio-cultural constitution of the Muslim community bound by a unifying religious identity. Here he gives one of his most sympathetic accounts of religion, sketching out the constructive function that religion plays by providing the foundation for community, security, and order (379–81). The ambivalent understanding of religion that fluctuates between two contrasting views reflects perhaps his own ongoing personal anxiety about the subject, an anxiety that often overwhelms the man who inhabits the crossroad of conflicting desires. This is a man who is constantly negotiating the negative colonial affects of denial, refusal, shame, and the desire to restore to wholeness a self split between the two radically contrasting worlds. He was at times critical of the problematic association of native religions with irrationality made by western critics even as he simultaneously reproduced the same questionable associations himself. We can see this in his different treatments of institutional religions (such as Catholicism and Islam) and indigenous religions. The latter is often an object of shame and abhorrence for Fanon. Fanon’s treatment of Islam was different from Christianity as Islam played a significant role in the Algerian revolution. He acknowledged Islam’s contribution to revolution despite his lack of a deep understanding of Islam and the full extent of its connection to the revolution. His limited understanding of the intricate interaction between religion and culture, particularly of Islam, partly overshadows his views. He did not fully understand the degree to which the tradition of anticolonial struggle in modern history of Algeria was deeply Islamic in nature. Fanon praised the self-organization of Algerian peasants in their involvement in the anti-colonial resistance but failed to understand that the origin of these movements was Islam. Fouzi Slisli unpacks the numerous cultural and historical references that Fanon makes to Algeria without acknowledging their connection to Islam.[1] Slisli wonders, “Was he ignorant of this Islamic tradition or did he choose to ignore it?” (97). Whatever the case may be, Fanon’s harsh stance towards Christianity and African (and Afro-diasporic) indigenous religions did not extend to Islam. Still his otherwise ambivalent attitude towards religion also informed his characterization of some Islamic practices. For example, he refers to the mystical Islamic worship of holy men in Algeria as maraboutism and lists it among the list of “old superstitions,” alongside witchcraft and djinn (Arabic spirits).
Fanon’s critique of the pernicious presence of religion in social-political life and his gesture to repurpose it (as a vessel to resignify Blackness) remain understudied in contemporary Fanonian scholarship.
Such a view of religion is not surprising when considering Fanon’s professionalization in western medical practice. A great part of Fanon’s deep immersion in the worldview of North African Muslims came through his clinical observation and study as a psychiatrist. During his time at the Blida-Joinville psychiatric hospital in Algeria, he treated a large group of Muslim patients. There he observed that many of his clinical tools (which came from western science) did not work efficiently on his Muslim male patients. The main reason for this discrepancy was cultural difference. The local population adhered to a completely different worldview informed by religion, which made the seamless application of western methods difficult. A dismaying aspect for him as a clinical practitioner was how often the patients’ religion-based worldview conflicted with the scientific method of the psychiatric approach. The traditional worldview grounded in religion did not help with the procedures as there was a widespread tendency among locals to attribute mental illness to a spiritual problem. Yet Fanon does not let go of his ambivalent position towards religion. Even in his characterization of Islam as rather primitive and traditional, he would not set a strict binary of values that stigmatized Islam in its entirety while uplifting the secular worldview. Discussing the traditional tribal structure of the local Muslim society, Fanon describes the transformation of land ownership implemented by the French. The process of land (wealth) redistribution aggravated the economic condition of the poor. Prior to the privatization of property, there were poor people, but not proletarians. What Fanon implies is that even when certain western innovations reflect advanced (and potentially beneficial) technology, not all such customs and implementations signify a true sense of progress.
Fanon’s views were influenced by western-secularist categories that informed modern science and academic conversations. He insinuates the link between the secular and the colonial ideology of the west, yet he often employed the dominant secularist definition of religion.[2] It is far from difficult to identify the same oversight we find in Fanon across numerous examples in contemporary conversations in critical theory. Many interlocutors in contemporary decolonial theory are critical of the secularist discourse, yet they often overlook the secularist categories that reduce religion to a narrow notion. The compound interaction between religion and power is eclipsed by the reductive concept of religion in their works. For instance, the critical study of the formation of race and (de)coloniality in the Americas is often overshadowed by the erasure of religion, an important constitutive element of (de)coloniality. The secularist epistemic framework at play here consigns knowledge and knowledge production to particular forms and locations. Like the normative ideal of the human (Man), this unmarked normative epistemic framework universalizes a particular mode of knowing as the sole arbiter of knowledge. Forms of knowing that emerge from non-western locales are measured and classified according to these normative principles. These unmarked principles are in fact heavily marked with a western-secularist inflection (rooted in Euro-Christian history), and they underlie the study of religion, particularly of non-western religions. In his latest article on Fanon, Nelson Maldonado-Torres makes an important point on the reception of Fanon’s writings by the contemporary academy. A frequent oversight when approaching Fanon’s work, Maldonado-Torres observes, is to interpret it as a traditional academic text by taking his statements at face value, thus disregarding the complex layers of the clinical and revolutionary context from which he was writing. Religion, be it a conceptual apparatus or a constitutive element of the social fabric, occupies a substantial place in the formation of anticolonial struggles and thoughts of which Fanon was a part. Reading Fanon and religion with these complexities in mind lends an interesting twist and insight: Fanon’s critique of religion (political theology) ends up being a critique of the secular, even when he is not naming it as such. His turn to secularist language as an alternative to religion seems to suggest, in turn, an alternative notion of the sacred. The disavowal of colonial religion need not disclaim the diverse forms of religion-making that take place in and through various forms of decolonial movement and imagination. The sacred molds the spirit and movement of decolonial resistance in the colony. But unlike the institutionalized forms (and understandings) of religion, the diverse registers of the sacred usually take murky shapes. And at times, they are presented as antitheses to the sacred, that is, as a disavowal of the dominant notion of the sacred (and of religion more broadly). Yet even in negation, they are not renounced. Fanon’s critique of religion winds up being a powerful critique of the secular. Contrarily, Fanon seeks refuge in the secular in order to resignify the human but he ends up repurposing religion along the way.
Many interlocutors in contemporary decolonial theory are critical of the secularist discourse, yet they often overlook the secularist categories that reduce religion to a narrow notion. The compound interaction between religion and power is eclipsed by the reductive concept of religion in their works
It is not possible to fully unpack and elaborate on the claim I made above in this limited space. I have elsewhere articulated these ideas partially and I develop them further in my forthcoming book, The Coloniality of the Secular.[3] In what follows, I briefly point to a couple of sites (among others) in Fanon’s work that offer possible directions for advancing meaningful conversations on Fanon’s anticolonial critique and the problem of religion.
Two Possible Readings
(1) Fanon offers an insightful phenomenological analysis of the political by tracing how political life is constituted by the violent sanction of normative universals and the distribution of regulative identities in the colony. A paramount insight Fanon offers here concerns religion’s place as the metaphysical foundation of the political. Fanon continuously insinuates that colonial governance cannot be administered by coercion alone. Its fundamental mechanism requires metaphysics: a theological worldview that makes the colonized accept the colonial structure as the only possible reality. A Manichean worldview of good and evil that requires “a reference to divine right… to justify [the] difference” (Fanon, 1963, 5). This is a theology that legitimates the Manichean dualism dictating colonial reality and its values. It is a theodicean order in which the White/colonizer embodies the Good and the Black/colonized represents absolute evil (50). In other words, Fanon attributes the primary characteristics of colonial violence to theology. As Michael Lackey observes, instead of suggesting that theology benefits from colonization, “Fanon argues colonization is at the service of theology, that theology is the parent and original.” Political life is a theological problem as well as a colonial problem. Fanon brings to light the ways in which the category of secular humanism often overshadows the theology (the colonial theology of Whiteness) that constitutes European humanism and its concomitant colonial vision. The secular dilutes the theological edifice of both modernity and coloniality, thus fostering a notion of modernity that distinguishes itself from normative (dogmatic) values, sectarian positions, and power. The violence of its theology and the theology of its violence are obscured by the nominal framework of the secular. The secular hinges the two ends of modernity/coloniality. Fanon’s piercing analysis of colonial modernity implies, in a way, a nuanced critique of the theological edifice that sustains the necropolitical (Mbembe) management of the colonial world.
Plaque on Frantz Fanon Street in Paris, France. Via Wikimedia Commons. CC BY-SA 4.0.
(2) Much attention has been paid in Fanonian scholarship to the effects of the damage that dehumanization and violence enact on racialized beings, socio-politically and otherwise. Some of these voices also suggest that we pay close attention to the generative ideas that Fanon evokes. They find important constructive ideas in Fanon’s visions such as care, love (Nelson Maldonado-Torres, Houria Bouteldja), fugitivity (Fred Moten), poetics (Sylvia Wynter, Achille Mbembe), and rehumanization (Lewis Gordon), among many others. The bleak outlook we glimpse in Fanon’s penetrating diagnosis does not signal a retreat to resignation, that is, political pessimism. Fanon’s writings and commitment to political struggle consistently demonstrate that the essence of being a human lies in the possibility and capacity of praxis born out of love and solidarity. Building on these insights, we can bring our attention to the sites in Fanon that often go unnoticed, that is, some of the generative ideas that he gestures to in his poetics. Despite his complicated relationship with religion, there are numerous moments in which his appeal to generative concepts and alterity seems to beckon at a certain sense of the sacred, however alternative or unnamed it may be.