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Global Currents article

Remaking Indian Secularism: The Fearless Grannies (Dadis) of Shaheen Bagh

Wooden model of a house explaining the Constitution created by activists in Ahmedabad, India. Photo courtesy of RAJEEV KHANNA/TheCitizen.in. Used with permission.

Beginning on December 14, 2019, and lasting until they were forcibly removed when India went into lockdown to address COVID-19 on March 24, 2020, protesters occupied a major road in the neighborhood of Shaheen Bagh in the southern part of Delhi in order to demonstrate against the combined effects of the Citizenship Amendment Act (CAA) and the National Register of Citizens (NRC)—a 24/7 protest that has lasted over 100 days. Susan Ostermann’s post explains these new laws in greater detail. At the heart of this peaceful protest were women from the middle-class neighborhood itself who were often identified in the press as “housewives.” Many of them were middle-aged or older and many were wearing hijab. Around them sprung up street art, a revolutionary library, children’s activities, and more. The protest inspired solidarity protests around the country. Protesters faced threats from far-right Hindu groups to forcibly clear the area. These threats materialized into actual violence when vigilantes fired guns into crowds of nearby protesters. On social media and in the press, protesters at Shaheen Bagh describe protesting not just against the CAA and NRC (and the Bharatya Janata Party [BJP], the ruling party in government that passed these laws) but on behalf of India’s constitution and the secularism it enshrines, offering an argument about how to define Indian democracy, and who best represents that democracy. They do so by deploying precisely the identity markers that supposedly mark them as oppressed and other: their status as women, female family members, and Muslims.

The Shaheen Bagh protests deploy representations of kinship and home to underscore the vision of a secular, inclusive democracy enshrined in the constitution. Rather than understanding the home as a passive space to which persons retreat from the “real” world, the protesters at Shaheen Bagh demonstrated the enormously generative potential of home and kinship for rewriting democratic values. The Shaheen Bagh 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. Shaheen Bagh’s protesters offer lessons for how to reconceptualize links between public and private, providing new terms for inhabiting domesticity and democracy. Such reconceptualizations are especially valuable as  the COVID-19 crisis underscores connections between private labor and public value which are typically hidden from view.

The protesters at Shaheen Bagh address and invert the representations of Islam, gender, and family that the BJP has deployed to defend the CAA and other legislation that many see as Islamophobic. In passing the CAA, India’s ruling party has suggested that some people belong in the Indian nation-state while others do not, depending on religious affiliation. This notion builds on longstanding efforts to portray Muslims in India as outsiders, “invaders,” or, more recently, “guests” of a Hindu nation who ought to follow the norms of their hosts. The supposed negative treatment of women at the hands of Muslim men plays a central role in these representations (while conveniently distracting from the many ways the Indian state has failed to support women from all backgrounds). Since 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. Some on the Hindu right have even suggested that gender inequality in contemporary India stems from the arrival of the Mughal empire. These strategies allow right-wing Hindu nationalists to co-opt critiques of gender inequality in contemporary India for the sake of undermining the status of Muslims in India more broadly. Narratives of oppressed Muslim women draw on a long-established, globally circulating Islamophobic discourse that treats the status of women as an index of how “civilized” a social group is. Such anxieties about the status of women were a trope in civilizing missions going back to India’s colonization by the British, and continue to justify Western imperial missions in the Middle East and Central/South Asia (as numerous historians and anthropologists have demonstrated, including Lata Mani, Antoinette Burton, Mrinalini Sinha and Lila Abu-Lughod).

As the contemporary life of these narratives shows, binary distinctions such as civilized/uncivilized, oppressed/liberated, and public/private are highly portable, easily translated from one scale of comparison to another (what anthropologists call “recursion”). For example, longstanding distinctions between the “West” as “civilized” in comparison with “uncivilized” colonized societies (or, today, the “developing world”) can, in turn, be used by powerful groups within so-called “developing” countries like India to distinguish between more or less “civilized” citizens based on religious identity. The cruel irony of these recursive translations is that they enlist people in reproducing the very distinctions that, at other scales of comparison, are used to marginalize them. On the other hand, such interpretive practices can allow people to remake those categories by applying them to new contexts. In Shaheen Bagh, for example, a group of “housewives” domesticates the public space of a major road, and in so doing emphasizes that such public spaces were home all along.

Image courtesy of Anirban Ghosh (https://www.instagram.com/anirban_ghosh/). Used with permission.

The Shaheen Bagh protests invert representations of Muslim women as oppressed by the men of their community by centering a leaderless group of Muslim women who emphasize their status as women and as family members. Instead of being trapped at homes run by men who are not themselves full, “real” citizens of the nation, they present themselves as representatives of the nation by invoking their status as female kin. They draw on the language of family to describe their relations with fellow protestors. The older protesters are frequently described as “dadis,” grandmas, and visitors describe being addressed as betis, daughters. To those who paint Muslims as guests overstaying their welcome, these invocations of female kinship provide a different language of belonging in the nation state: grandmothers always ready to welcome you home. In claiming ties of intergenerational kinship, protesters draw on shared understandings of female familial solidarity. Such claims of kinship push back against the NRC, which requires citizens to prove citizenship via documentary evidence of property ownership and descent from male kin—documentation less readily available to women than to men.

At the same time, such invocations invert assumptions that female kin are subordinate or passive, shared across communities in India (and beyond). These aren’t just dadis—they’re described in the press as dabaang dadis, bold or fearless grannies. In invoking female ties of kinship, these dabaang dadis respond to the aggressive, austere models of masculinity that inform the Hindu right, where leaders emphasize a virility that derives from ascetic discipline. These are best encapsulated in representations of Prime Minister Modi, who lives alone, or in representations of the Chief Minister of Uttar Pradesh, Ajay Mohan Bisht, known as Yogi Adityanath, who dresses in the saffron robes of a mendicant. For these leaders, such discipline must also be applied to the nation itself, which must be defended via borders and bullets. Against this model, the women of Shaheen Bagh draw on longstanding ideas about home and family to experiment with other modes of belonging, one where citizens are strengthened rather than weakened through their relations with diverse others, where open-ended relations of pyaar, love and affection, draw citizens to the nation. When vigilantes chanting right-wing slogans fired at protesters, protesters responded with a nara, a protest slogan of their own, while holding signs that said “not bullets but flowers:” Desh ke in pyaaron pe phool barsao saaron pe (Let flowers rain on the heads of those beloved of the country).

In reframing the links between gender, kinship, and citizenship, Shaheen Bagh’s protesters are remaking the definition of secularism in India. Against those who seek to use religion to define who can call India home, offering, at best, a space of tenuous tolerance for “guests,” protesters at Shaheen Bagh and others are reimagining constitutional secularism as a kind of home, a space of belonging. This approach is beautifully encapsulated in images that circulated in the wake of the CAA’s passage, documenting efforts to create educational “constitution houses” that embody India’s constitution as a literal house, with key tenets providing the foundation, windows, and roof. Along the roofline, above the door, reads the words: “this home belongs to people of all religions.”

Julia Kowalski
Julia Kowalski is Assistant Professor of Global Affairs and a concurrent faculty member in the Gender Studies Program and in the Department of Anthropology. A cultural anthropologist by training, she has been conducting fieldwork in north India since 2007, focusing on issues of gender, kinship, women’s rights, personhood, gendered violence, and institutional practices.

Kowalski’s research draws upon methods and theories from cultural, medical, and linguistic anthropology to understand how people work together across differences of culture, social status, and political commitments to create social change. Her current project examines how elite activists, middle-class female staff, and clients facing household violence debate the meaning of women's rights, via an ethnographic study of family counseling centers run by women’s rights NGOs in Rajasthan.
Global Currents article

Distancing Religion Online: Lessons from the Pandemic Prompted Religious Move Online

Closure at the New York Ave Presbyterian Church during COVID-19 outbreak. Photo credit: dmbosstone.

March 2020 was a time of unprecedented change and innovation for religious organizations around the world. The global COVID-19 pandemic resulted in many countries shutting down their borders and banning public gatherings to combat the spread of the virus. As a result, hundreds of places of worship were forced to close their doors and quickly find alternative ways to meet and conduct services. As public lock-downs and quarantines continued into April, the challenges were heighted for religious groups. Rituals surrounding Jewish celebrations of Passover and Christian observances for Holy Week and Easter had to be reinvented. The inability of religious communities to meet in person over these key religious holidays raised questions about how well religious groups are able to adapt to such unexpected changes. What would it mean for religious groups if social distancing continued to be required and enforced? What becomes of religion if its traditional practices and regular forms of gathering are not allowed?

The common response during the pandemic in America was for Christian churches to opt for technology-based solutions. This meant transitioning away from long established embodied practices that take place in the church building such as communal prayer, celebratory meals, or responsive readings to disembodied practices that take place on digital platforms. Several studies conducted during this time by Church groups and researchers found pastors were both overwhelmed and excited by these changes.

New Challenges

A survey of 1573 pastors conducted by a collaboration of church consultancy groups found many churches conducted online services for the first time ever in March 2020. Because of this, most pastors (41%) reported feeling ill-equipped to use the digital tools required, such as internet streaming and video conferencing. A follow-up survey by the same group in April reported that while pastors were beginning to get a handle on the new technologies, they were now becoming aware that doing church online did not automatically create opportunities for community engagement, which many of their members were missing. This shows that churches’ sudden dependency on technology did not come without problems for leaders.

Many religious leaders have seen this forced engagement with new technology as an unplanned challenge. The Barna Group, a Christian resource and research company, found that nearly half of pastors (48%) said that the unexpected growth and “innovation around technology” in their churches made them uncomfortable. Barna’s online survey of 434 Protestant Senior Pastors found that most of leaders’ time in the first few weeks of the pandemic were taken up with implementing technology. The transition from in-person services to online gatherings required hours of impromptu media trainings, the redesigning of sanctuary spaces to accommodate cameras, and the modification of traditional service structures and liturgy.

In addition, leaders suggested that trying to bridge the physical separation between members and leaders during worship through technology-driven alternatives has, rather than overcome such social distance, simply created another form of it. Some noted that worshiping online seemed to encourage members to be passive-observers, rather than engaged worshipers.

Transferring, Translating, and Transforming Worship

Yet, this critique of online spaces—that it encourages observation over interactivity—could also be made of many churches offline worship services. This is something I argue in a recent essay from an eBook collection that brings religious leaders and scholars of digital religion together to reflect on how the COVID-19 Pandemic might be altering religious practice in America. Here I assert that American religious culture since the mid-20th century has become primarily event-focused, where pastors spend most of their time planning and preparing for their weekly worship service. This observation is also echoed in the research data cited above, as pastors ranked the Sunday worship service and it’s adaptation at this time as their number one priority.

Reverend David Silverkors of the Church of Sweden engages his members in a liturgical response during a livestreamed service online. Photo courtesy of author.

My essay discusses three common approaches to doing church online that I observed over a month of participant-observation in over 60 online Protestant and Catholic worship services. These include transfer, translation, and transformation approaches to services.

The transfer or broadcast approach attempts to replicate the traditional service online as closely as possible. Here most churches set up a single camera in the center of an empty sanctuary and attempt to get a wide angle shot of a service conducted as if it were any other gathering.

Other church leaders focused on translating and adapting certain elements of their traditional in-person services, such as communal singing or liturgical readings, into a space constrained by camera angles or the screen dimensions of the streaming platform.

Zachary Lambert, Lead Pastor of Restore Austin, discuss children’s worship opportunities provided online during a livestreamed service on Facebook. Photo courtesy of author.

Yet, just as the pastor’s survey noted, these transfer and translation strategies still created  challenges for religious leaders. 59% of pastors surveyed felt online church services struggled to create opportunities for social engagement and conversation within the community. This concern was also voiced by Christian religious leaders outside America who are seeking to build and adapt to a new form of remote worship and church life. In March 2020, a survey of Australian pastors similarly found church leaders were concerned with how to build community in this new environment in ways that encouraged true connectivity over feelings of isolation.

These concerns point to the third strategy, transforming church, an approach taken up by only few of the churches I observed. It is here where we can see the sense of excitement amongst pastors that the survey pointed toward. In this approach, religious leaders reflected both on what new forms of gathering digital technology could facilitate, as well as on the needs voiced by their members for online experiences that would help support and build community. Transforming worship online looked like a pastor turning his home study into a space where he could give nightly “fireside chats” to his church, responding to the issues people had voiced to him that day via phone calls, emails, and texts. It also looked like a minister in England using her blog to get people to participate in a group conversation about the themes to be addressed in her sermon, integrating their responses, photos, and artwork into the actual service.

Reverend Bryony Taylor the Rector of Barlborough and Clowne in Derby UK presents the results of a corporate worship activity she posted online to help member prepare for “Palm” Sunday. Photo courtesy of author.

I argue that this moment, when churches are forced to abandon old models and reimagine church in new ways, creates a unique opportunity for religious communities to reflect on the needs of people in contemporary society. The COVID-19 pandemic offers an important moment for religious institutions to re-evaluate whether or not their models of ministry truly meet people’s desires for community and connection with others. This is not only true of Christian communities; Jewish and Muslim groups have also been forced to re-evaluate their practices concerning valued religious traditions and gatherings at this time, from communities turning Passover into a mediated family affair to cancelling the hajj to holy sites in Saudi Arabia.

Pastor Steve Evoy of the Wolverine Free Methodist Church in Michigan invites members to spiritually reflect on their day during his nightly “Fireside Chats” on Facebook. Photo courtesy of author.

These disruptions also point to the event-based focus of many contemporary religious groups.  Individuals’ commitment to religious rituals and public gatherings remain the central way most religious institutions evaluate religious commitment.

The use of ritual events as the basis for determining community membership or investment defines community primarily in institutional and place-based terms. Yet, over the last three decades people’s understanding and practice of community have shifted. The reality is that most people, both religious and non-religious, experience and live out community as a social network of relations. This means that for most people, community is something that is dynamic and changeable, holds multiple connections, and is determined by personal needs and choices.  This idea of the network challenges most religious group understanding and practices of the community.

Conclusion

This global pandemic calls into question religious group’s dependence on older models of community and religious commitment. It also amplifies the need for awareness that religious communities now function on a network model, a fact made visible by offering mediated online interactions and gatherings. Being forced from offline religion to online religion requires religious communities to reconsider what it means to truly practice and live out community and their faith. Recognizing this moment will help religious groups not only create viable worship-based social distancing strategies. It will allow them to consider the changes that are in store for them as they play catch-up to these societal changes, and seek to prepare for a post-pandemic future for religion.

 

Suggested Readings:

Campbell, Heidi A and Osteen, Sophia (2020). Research Summaries and Lessons on Doing Religion and Church Online. Available electronically from https://oaktrust.library.tamu.edu/handle/1969.1/187806

  • This is a synopsis of ten research articles written by Professor Heidi Campbell over the past two decades addressing important Issues of how religious communities use the internet,

Hutchings, Timothy (2017). Creating Church Online: Ritual, Community and New Media. New York: Routledge.

  • This book is a comparative study of how online churches function as internet-based Christian communities and traces three specific groups’ development and engagement over a ten year period.

Campbell, Heidi A (2020). The Distanced Church: Reflection on Doing Church Online. Available electronically from  https://oaktrust.library.tamu.edu/handle/1969.1/187891

  • This eBook of 30 essays brings ministers and priests, reflecting on their moving religious service online during the COVID-19 pandemic, into conversation with media studies scholars and theologians who have extensive research expertise in religion online so they can learn from one another.
Heidi Campbell
Heidi A Campbell is Professor of Communication and Presidential Impact Fellow at Texas A&M University. She is also Director of the Network for New Media, Religion & Digital Culture Studies and author of over 100 articles and books on religion and technology. This includes When Religion Meets New Media (Routledge, 2010), Networked Theology (Baker Academic, 2016) and a forthcoming book Digital Creatives and the Rethinking of Religious Authority (Routledge). She is an expert on religion and digital culture having been quoted in such outlets as the Houston Chronicle, USA Today, Los Angeles Times, Wall Street Journal, and on the BBC World Service.
Global Currents article

India’s Winter of Protests: A Potential Constitutional Crisis in the Making

Central Wing of the Supreme Court of India where the Chief Justice’s courtroom is situated. Photo Credit: Subhashish Panigrahi, Wikimedia Commons.

In December of 2019, India’s Hindu-nationalist majority parliament enacted into law the Citizenship Amendment Act (“CAA”). Like it sounds, the 2019 CAA amended India’s 1955 Citizenship Act. What the CAA does is provide a faster path to citizenship for certain individuals who entered India as refugees prior to 2015. According to the Act, individuals who may receive special treatment are Hindus, Sikhs, Buddhists, Jains, Parsis, and Christians. And, in particular, the Act specifies that the residential wait period for citizenship for these individuals is reduced from 11 years to 5 years. The Act was intended to functionally aid non-Muslim refugees from Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Bangladesh, all three of which are Muslim-majority countries. It treats Muslim refugees from Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Bangladesh, as well as largely-Hindu Sri Lankan refugees, Nepali refugees from Bhutan, Burman refugees (who are mostly Rohingya Muslims), and Tibetan refugees differently from the preferred category described above. Because of its overt discrimination on a religious basis, many believe it to be an attempt to augment the body politic in India and, perhaps more to the point, the voting public. This is particularly true in light of India’s strong, constitutional commitment to groups that have traditionally been discriminated against. Indeed, the India Supreme Court has held, in Nagpur Improvement Trust V. Vithal Rao and Others (AIR 1973 SC 689) that “the object [of a law] itself cannot be discriminatory, for otherwise, for instance, if the object is to discriminate against one section of the minority, the discrimination cannot be justified on the ground that there is a reasonable classification.”

Alongside the CAA and, in fact, a trigger of it, is the National Register of Citizens (“NRC”). The NRC was mandated by a 2003 Amendment to the 1955 Citizenship Act, which passed with little or no contention, even though it introduced the “illegal migrant” category that is now the source of much acrimony. It was only 10 years later, however, that, at the Supreme Court of India’s behest, it was implemented in a single Indian state, Assam, located in India’s North East. NRC implementation in Assam resulted in 1.9 million people present in India who claim to be Indian citizens not meeting the documentary requirements for registration and, therefore, being in danger of losing their citizenship. Many of these individuals were Bengali-speaking Hindus, who may or may not have originally been immigrants from Bangladesh. The Hindu-nationalist BJP government took up their cause and drafted the CAA with their particular issues in mind. The fact that a Hindu-nationalist party drafted the CAA to specifically help Hindus is, at least in part, why some believe the CAA to be a non-secular effort to change the nature of Indian citizenship.

Importantly, the NRC has not been implemented outside of Assam, but the government plans to do so in 2021. And it is the combination of the CAA and the NRC that is concerning many citizens. Whether their fears are well-founded or not, many are worried that the NRC will be used to essentially strip individuals born in India of their citizenship and then the CAA will be used to deport them. Whether their fears will materialize remains to be seen, particularly as it is unclear if the CAA will pass constitutional muster when it is tested in the courts.

The courts, for their part, and the Indian Supreme Court in particular, have played an interesting, and sometimes inadvertent role, in India’s winter of protests. To start, the Supreme Court has steadily been forcing the executive branch of the government to carry out its own laws in Assam. It is important to note that the Assam case is unusual though, as the locals who back it, the “Assam Movement,” are anti-immigrant, but not anti-Muslim. Local opposition to the CAA and NRC in Assam is, therefore, based upon the CAA’s permissive stance with respect to non-Muslim immigrants. Still, without the Supreme Court’s push, the NRC might not have been implemented when it was and the combined power of the CAA and NRC might not have been as obvious to the wider population. One might even say that the Indian Supreme Court’s insistence on its institutional role, especially vis-à-vis the executive and legislative branches of government, has precipitated what may become a constitutional crisis if either of these latter, more overtly political branches insists that the CAA is within its constitutional rights.

Anti CAA NRC protestors in New Delhi. Jamia Millia Islamia students and locals. Photo Credit: DiplomatTesterMan, Wikimedia Commons.

In addition to its role in forcing NRC implementation in Assam, the Supreme Court has acted permissively with respect to Foreign Tribunals. Those excluded from the NRC rolls can argue their cases before Foreigners Tribunals. These are fast-track, quasi-judicial bodies that put the burden of proof of Indian citizenship or long-term residence in India on the accused. Anyone who fails this test is sent to Assam’s detention centers or is deported. There have been reports of families separated in detention centers and individuals spending years in them, under very poor conditions, before finally proving their citizenship and being released.

The Supreme Court also acted, inadvertently, to fuel protests this fall when it released its ruling that granted Hindus a right to build a temple to Ram on the place in Ayodhya where the Barbri Masjid once stood. The Barbi mosque was torn down by Hindu nationalist activists, after several failed attempts, in 1992. While the Supreme Court certainly didn’t mean to provide advance fuel for the CAA fire, it contributed to a public sense that all branches of the government had turned anti-Muslim, leaving those concerned with protest as the only meaningful route to secure change.

Finally, anyone who follows India’s activist courts should not be surprised that, despite incredible backlogs, the CAA is already before them. The Supreme Court received over 140 petitions to stay the law and issued a ruling in late January that gives the central government four weeks to respond to the petitions. It also issued orders to India’s high courts to not take CAA and NRC-related petitions, thus centralizing Supreme Court control over this particular issue.

The question that activist lawyers would like to get before the Indian Supreme Court is, in some ways, a simple one. Is the government allowed to discriminate on the basis of religion? India’s constitution, in Article 14, clearly states that it cannot. Given that the CAA is, on its face, religiously discriminatory, against citizens and non-citizens, as Assam has proven, it will be difficult for the court to find otherwise. What the court can do is regularize and slow down the process, provide a forum through which to channel public debate, and hope that a political solution is reached before it must provide a legal one, potentially causing a constitutional crisis. If it comes down to the latter, the court, for its part, would likely have to act as a conservative force, insisting that the government adhere to India’s founding constitutional principles.

Susan Ostermann
Susan L. Ostermann is Assistant Professor of Global Affairs at the Keough School of Global Affairs at the University of Notre Dame. She completed her Ph.D. in the Travers Department of Political Science at the University of California, Berkeley. She also holds a law degree from Stanford Law School and worked for several years as a practicing litigator, focusing on class actions and intellectual property disputes. While Professor Ostermann’s research focuses mainly on regulatory compliance in South Asia, she is broadly interested in understanding rules and norms and how they change. Towards this end, she has published on inter-caste marriage, the role of skin color in Indian politics, the Indian Election Commission, state capacity in South Asia, and conservatism in modern Indian political thought.
Global Currents article

Painted into a Corner by the Blood of the Lord

“The name of Jesus is above COVID-19.” Message on a sign at Joy Christian Center in St Cloud, Minnesota. Photo Credit: Lorie Shaull.

The woman leans confidently out of her car window, her right hand at high noon on the steering wheel. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” she tells the reporter for CNN, who has just asked about her decision to attend a crowded late afternoon evangelical church service in the middle of a deadly global pandemic. “Aren’t you concerned you could infect other people inside?” the reporter presses. The woman swings her head defiantly, her straight black hair catching the overhead lights. “No, no, I’m covered in Jesus’s blood,” she says. People who don’t go to her church “could get me sick,” she says, when she goes to Walmart or Home Depot, “but I’m not, because I’m covered in Jesus’s blood.” Then she drives off.

It may protect this woman against infection, but Jesus’s blood paints me into an epistemological corner. I have argued for an approach to religion I’ve been calling plural ontological realism, which in this case means I take this woman at her word: her experience of Jesus being really present to her in the community of other Christians (she was clear in her brief comments how important the church was to her) protects her from infection (and perhaps from infecting others, although she seemed to care less about this). I am committed to resisting the impulse, deep in the theoretical inheritances of the modern study of religion, to lift this woman out of the ontology in which she became (or remade herself as) a subject and through which she lives her subjectivity in relation to others, among whom are, in this instance, the people she meets in Walmart and Home Depot. Any theoretical work about the role of religion must begin (although it does not end) with the reality of this woman’s claim of immunity, within her world, without translating it, and relocating her, into alien ontologies. This is not to suggest that her world is singular: it is adjacent to and cross-cut by other ontologies (such as the reporter’s). Amid this ontological diversity, evangelical Christianity of a particular sort is determinative for this woman, at this moment in history and in her life.

Every sentence of the preceding paragraph requires discussion, but this is not why I am here right now. Rather, I want to think outwards from the corner. I begin by wondering why, ever since I heard this woman’s comment on the night’s news, I have been feeling I needed to do something about it. What is this imperative and where does it come from? Is it the disciplinary impulse to speak for others (she seems to be doing ok on this front); or, is it the drive to translate her to others? If it’s the latter, then to what end? The way the question insisted on itself to me was specifically in the form: what is to be done about this woman? Eventually, I came to see this as an articulation of the drive to power that moves through the study of “religion” in modernity. We scholars of religion are more aware of this drive now, but, still, the temptation exists to offer our services as deputies of law and order. Resisting this is the first thing to do in response to this woman’s statement about being washed in Jesus’s blood. I accept the ontology of facts as given: she continues to shop at Walmart in a pandemic because she is protected by the blood of the Lord in which she has been washed.

Ontology is not a structural or structuring given; it is the living environment of experience, imagination, relationship, and understanding. This woman leaning out of the car on an Ohio evening lives amid “a plurality of actual worlds,” in philosopher Markus Gabriel’s words, and so do we who do not share her vision (16).[1] This plurality calls for, in response, a disciplined agility in moving among worlds, a sort of ontological multilingualism. Sometimes, in certain circumstances, such agility is possessed by religious practitioners themselves (and not just in the modern or contemporary eras). This woman might have thought to herself, well, when I’m in Walmart, I will be among people who do not live in my world and I must act accordingly. Why she apparently does not is itself a question for religious, historical, psychological, and sociological analysis. To accept the plurality of actual worlds is to recognize discrepancies of power among them, as well as within them. This woman’s world appears to be underwritten by the privileges of whiteness, social class, and a certain kind of Protestantism that has been aligned—as much by scholars of evangelicalism as by politicians—with US nationalism in its most exclusivist iterations.

Leaning out of her window, the evangelical Christian woman in Ohio was speaking a world that was as much political as religious, as racially white as Christian (although African American and Latinx evangelical Christians have been heard to say similar things, which raises some interesting questions too), and as nationalist as evangelical. It is neoliberal in its qualified individualism (qualified by the allusion to the fellowship of others like her, in the context of which her supernatural immunity is given). It is exclusionary. Christ’s blood is circulating through all of this. And it is circulating through the insistence of Georgia’s governor on opening bowling alleys, tattoo parlors, hair salons, and fitness clubs well before knowledgeable health experts think it is safe to do so, even though he makes no reference to Christ or his blood. In this way, plural ontological realism renders the old sacred/secular dualism otiose.

If I am not thinking about what I might do about this woman, what’s on my mind in the corner? I am curious about how this woman’s neighbors are responding to her confidence in Jesus’s blood, if they do not share it, or her non-evangelical family members, and how she will deal with their concerns in turn. Why is she (seemingly) unable to extend Jesus’s protective ablution to all people or to align it with the self-sacrifices of health care professionals in this time, to see the holy in the work of doctors, nurses, and orderlies? I am aware that her most strident construction of her ontology comes in response to a question posed by a representative of what has been framed in her world as “fake news.” Would she be as strident were her voice not amplified at the highest levels of political and economic power? I wonder if this woman is ever drawn to realities that are alien to the ones she knows and, if so, where she may encounter them. I also acknowledge—as a citizen of this democracy—that I find her position on the pandemic absolutely terrifying. I have been intrigued by an idea circulating among my solidly left-wing Twitter friends that asks people who refuse social distancing on ontological grounds to accept responsibility for their health care if they are infected with Covid-19 and to be taxed accordingly for the health of others. Ontology creates responsibility, for this woman—and for those of us who live alongside her.

I cannot reassure anyone that what this woman says is “not religion,” “not Christianity,” that she is crazy, that hers is an example of bad Christian evangelicalism versus some putatively good version of it, or that her claim of supernatural immunity is alien to the world that “we” moderns ostensibly inhabit. That is modern religion on display in the Ohio parking lot. The attempt to cauterize it with any prefix—anti/pre/alternative—is self-delusion. Religion(s) have rarely been “modern” in the normative sense of the word. The other-than-modern quality of modern religion empowers the challenge particular religious actors pose to contemporary political conventions, for instance. It also makes religion(s) exceedingly dangerous. We need new ways of thinking about how to live with, and against, ontologies as threatening to our common life as this woman’s is, before she kills us all.

[1] Gabriel defines “ontology” as “the systematic investigation into the meaning of ‘existence,’ or rather the investigation of existence itself aided by insight into the meaning of ‘existence’” (5). There is a new interest in ontology and in what might be called lived metaphysics across the disciplines. A helpful overview may be found in Greg Anderson, The Realness of Things Past: Ancient Greece and Ontological History (New York: Oxford University Press, 2018).

Robert Orsi
Robert Orsi is Grace Craddock Nagle Chair of Catholic Studies at Northwestern University, where he is also Professor of Religious Studies, History, and American Studies. His most recent book is History and Presence, which was published in 2016 under the Belknap Imprint of Harvard University Press. Orsi is currently at work on a book called Give Us Boys about the formation of young men at a Jesuit high school in New York City in 1967–1971 as an episode in the broader history of modern Catholic sexuality, class, and urbanism.  
Decoloniality article

Decolonial Ethics and Just War Reasoning

The arrival of Cortés in Veracruz and the reception by Moctezuma’s Ambassadors. {{PD-Art}}

The ethics of war might be the single area of study within ethics for which it is most difficult to imagine a decolonial approach. War is, of course, one of the primary tools of imperialism. Very recent events such as the targeted assassination of an Iranian military leader in Iraq and the presidential pardon of former U.S. servicemembers who committed war crimes against civilians only serve to confirm that fact. Though the tradition of just war reasoning attempts to introduce ethics into the theory and practice of armed conflict, many of this tradition’s critics suggest that ethical discussions about war have in many historical cases done as much to enable war as to restrain it. My own recent work, for example, has focused on how just war reasoning has functioned to enable harm to noncombatants by facilitating the evasion of responsibility for inflicting and responding to such harm. Here, I want to briefly consider how a decolonial approach to ethics can help to explain the degree to which this enabling is not merely an accidental outcome or intentional distortion of, but is rather an intrinsic characteristic of, modern just war reasoning—and, more significantly, how such an approach might help to counter it: by recognizing and treating vulnerable persons in war not merely as human rights-bearers but as embodied, relational, particular human persons.

In his essay on decolonial ethics, Nelson Maldonado-Torres suggests that to fully understand the colonial implications of our modern concepts of race and religion, we must critically examine the ways they were transformed during the “age of discovery.” Similarly, to address whether and how just war reasoning is a colonial discourse, we must look at the early modern period in which much of contemporary ethics of war is founded. Doing so reveals that the justification of colonial violence was in fact one of the primary objectives of highly influential just war thinkers.

Sculptures created by Joseph Mendes da Costa of three Dutch generals of the East Indies over the main entrance of the De Bazel building (Amsterdam City Archives) at Vijzelstraat, Amsterdam, the Netherlands. The generals are from left to right: Jan Pieterszoon Coen (1587 – 1629), Herman Willem Daendels (1762-1818) and Joannes Benedictus van Heutsz (1851-1924). Photo Credit: Slaunger, Wikimedia Commons.

Francisco de Vitoria (1483–1546) and Hugo Grotius (1583–1645), often regarded as two of the most significant figures in the modernization of just war theory, were both motivated to write about war in response to the contemporary colonial activities of their respective homelands (Spain and the Netherlands). While this context has been widely recognized by scholars of the history of the just war tradition, few have offered a more critical account of how their resulting just war theories were themselves tools of colonialism. One exception is Richard Tuck. Tuck emphasizes the way Grotius, motivated by a desire to defend the violent activities of Dutch companies in the East Indies, expanded individual rights to include the rights of private individuals and companies to punish violators of natural law and to seize land deemed uncultivated.[1] This new understanding of natural rights, according to Tuck, had “often brutal implications” (108).

Grotius is sometimes characterized as unique and innovative in his use of just war arguments to support imperialism. Vitoria, by contrast, is often considered to have been strongly opposed to describing the conquest of indigenous peoples as justified war, in part because he recognized indigenous people as rights-bearing human beings.[2] However, as Ashley Bohrer has recently noted, while Vitoria did reject the popular claim that Europeans could justly punish indigenous peoples for reasons such as their lack of Christian faith, he yet endorsed Europeans’ right of “self-defense” against indigenous people who prevented Europeans from exercising their natural right to engage in free travel and commerce in any part of the world.[3] Indeed, as Bohrer puts it, for Vitoria,

The inclusion of indigenous peoples in the universal brotherhood of humanity had the effect of binding them to a putatively equal and universal system [of global commerce], even if it had vastly unequal effects…. [P]recisely because Amerindians are rational humans, they are bound by the laws of nature to accept the Spanish colonial presence. (29)

In a different context, feminist philosopher Kate Manne makes a similar argument about the workings of misogyny; misogyny does not rest on the assumption that women are not human beings but rather requires the identification of women as responsible human beings, such that certain women can then be identified as having failed to meet their socially defined responsibilities (xv–xix).

What these accounts, taken together, suggest is that there is a way in which, in spite of the apparent progress they represent from earlier discourses that made identification as “Christian” the prerequisite for land ownership and protection from attack, seemingly universalizing concepts such as “humanity” and “rights” can imply symmetry where it does not actually exist. Moreover, moral discourses based on these concepts can force vulnerable populations into systems that make claims to equality but are in practice aimed at their own domination and exploitation, and that enable appeals to claims of violation of natural law (or dereliction of natural duty) to justify treating someone as less than human. Just war reasoning generally presumes a kind of symmetry of rights and duties between belligerents; in recent years, more just war thinkers have begun to question this presumption, focusing on issues such as the increasing frequency of asymmetric warfare and whether combatants on either side of a conflict necessarily share “moral equality.”

But less attention has been given to an even more dramatic asymmetry—one that may be more analogous to the relationship between invading Europeans and indigenous peoples: that between combatants (and civilians living in combatant states where war is not being fought) and noncombatants living in regions where armed conflict is taking place. The protection of civilians from direct harm is a longstanding value of just war reasoning. Medieval canon law listed classes of people (such as clerics, travelers, and farmers) whose social roles meant that they did not participate in war. Because people in these classes were innocent (meaning that they did not perpetrate harm to others), targeting them was considered unjust and dishonorable. This reasoning is similar to classical Islamic jurisprudence that identifies protected classes of people based on their lack of participation in war.[4]

Modern western just war theory’s principles of discrimination and noncombatant immunity recognize noncombatants as a single class made up of persons whose rights as humans preclude their being intentionally targeted during war (unless they give up those rights by participating in warfare as combatants). But those same rights do not prevent a vast range of harms understood as unintentional (what is typically characterized as “collateral damage”), nor do they entitle noncombatants to the redress or repair of such harms when they occur. Indeed, much as defining indigenous persons as humans was central to Vitoria’s argument that Europeans might use armed force against them in self-defense, Neve Gordon and Nicola Perugini have argued that in some contemporary cases defining noncombatants as civilian persons is a necessary prerequisite to legitimizing violence against them, when they are illegally used as “human shields” (183–84). Gordon and Perugini note that while international humanitarian law clearly prohibits the use of civilians as “human shields,” it also maintains that an enemy’s doing so does not render otherwise legitimate targets off-limits (172). Should civilians being used as human shields be harmed in a proportionate attack on a legitimate military target, their deaths or injuries are classed as lawful “collateral damage” rather than as an unlawful attack on civilians (174). The modern war context thus replicates and reiterates the colonial context in which its moral foundations were located, insofar as its discourse of equal human rights obscures (and enables) a very unequal distribution of harm and vulnerability to harm.

A Palestinian student inspects the damage at a UN school at the Jabalia refugee camp in the northern Gaza Strip after the area was hit by Israeli shelling on July 30, 2014. UN Photo/Shareef Sarhan.

A decolonial analysis suggests that part of what is happening here is that noncombatants are recognized as human only in an abstract sense—as part of the universal community of rights-bearers. Yet of course being human encompasses much more than bearing rights and duties. Maldonado-Torres emphasizes that the racism inherent in colonialism has a profoundly anti-ethical impact, instituting a notion of “sub-ontological difference” according to which some people are not fully human and from which “fundamental ethical distortions” follow (705–706). Like Western colonizers in relation to indigenous persons, Western combatants have regularly failed to see noncombatants in non-Western regions as persons in a full, particular sense—as embodied and emotional and embedded in relationships.

This failure enables including noncombatants in a universal regime of rights and duties while simultaneously evading responsibility for the particular ways in which that regime and its maintainers inflict upon them grave harms. In this model, noncombatants are ostensibly recognized as persons who have a right not to be targeted. But this right turns out to not protect them from a great deal of harm, because so long as that harm can be determined to have been inflicted unintentionally and proportionately (as the vast majority of harms to civilians inflicted by Western militaries are), that harm is legally permissible and no one bears any responsibility to repair it or even to acknowledge it. The failure to see non-Western noncombatants as full and particular persons makes it impossible to account for—and to take responsibility for—the fullness and particularity of the harms they suffer.

Rejecting the idea that ethics is possible only in conditions of mutual freedom and equality, Maldonado-Torres identifies the most profound ethical relationship in a colonial situation as that of love between persons characterized by the colonizer as “sub-other.” Such a relationship challenges the system according to which sub-alterity is maintained because through it, individuals whose personhood has been systematically denied enact and affirm their status as ethical subjects (707). Building on Fanon, Maldonado-Torres notes that this kind of relationality demonstrates the existence and power of the inner life or soul that racism obscures and denies.

Seeing noncombatants as particular persons with bodies and relationships and inner lives is a practice that shares some similarities with the medieval Christian and Islamic account mentioned above—according to which noncombatants were identified by their particular social roles and the relationships those roles implied—but that also moves beyond those precedents by making embodiment and particularity central. In other words, to take this approach is not necessarily to adopt a form of reasoning completely foreign to the just war tradition, and it may also strengthen existing points of contact between moral traditions on the ethics of war. At the same time, to see noncombatants as persons in the full sense described above does not reject but rather strengthens the force of the human-rights-based account that now dominates just war reasoning by requiring just war thinkers to conceive of the human in a manner that recognizes the particularity and relationality that makes humans persons. Seeing noncombatants as persons means, in part, seeking and responding to their testimonies about the harms war inflicts on the various particular aspects of their personhood. War is not harmful to noncombatants only when it violates their right to not be intentionally targeted. Hearing the words of persons harmed by war makes this very clear, as survivors recount suffering caused by harm to their bodies and minds and relationships and life plans. Yet these voices are almost entirely absent from just war reasoning (whereas the study of the state of mind of soldiers and their commanders has a long and rich history within this tradition).

A decolonial critique of just war reasoning, then, might begin with an attempt to bring noncombatants as persons into the conversation. Only when just war thinkers enter into relationship with persons harmed by war as persons can they begin to understand and account for the myriad forms of violence perpetuated by war (and thus potentially authorized by their ethical discourse). Achieving a more complete understanding of the variety and pervasiveness of harm that war and warriors inflict on persons should radically change how just war thinkers view the prudence and justice of specific acts of war. It should also lead us to a much more critical view of the very concept of just war, given its imperial and racist history and the way a disproportionate share of its harmful effects has been borne by innocent and otherwise vulnerable persons. Importantly, while such critique will likely lead to radical changes in how just causes for and just conduct of war are understood, such changes would promote what has long been stated to be the central aim of just war reasoning: the achievement of just and lasting peace.[5]

[1] On the concept of “private war,” see Grotius, De Iure Belli Ac Pacis (1625) Book 1, chap. 3. For the argument that one may wage a just war for the purpose of punishing violations of natural law, see Grotius, De Iure Belli Ac Pacis Book 2, chap. 20. In that chapter, Grotius noted that such violations need not result in any injury to the punisher in order for the punishment to be permissible. He also specified that such violations may include religious beliefs and practices that were commonly (though often incorrectly) attributed to indigenous persons, such as denial of the existence of God, worship of evil spirits, or human sacrifices.

[2] In Part I of De Indis (1532), Vitoria argued that indigenous persons did possess reason and bear rights of self-defense as well as rights to own land, even though they were “unbelievers.”

[3] Vitoria argued against the right to make war against indigenous persons because they refused to accept Christianity in Part II of De Indis. But in Part III, he added that the law of nations, derived from natural law, granted Europeans the right to travel within indigenous peoples’ land, search for natural resources there, and preach the Christian gospel there—and to “defend” themselves against indigenous persons who denied them the exercise of those rights.

[4] For more on this history and the similarity in the reasoning employed in both traditions, see Rosemary Kellison, “Tradition, Authority, and Immanent Critique in Comparative Ethics” (Journal of Religious Ethics 42.4, 2014), 733–35.

[5] Thank you to Joshua Lupo and Atalia Omer for their very helpful feedback and suggestions on an earlier draft of this post.

Rosemary Kellison
Rosemary Kellison is Associate Professor of Philosophy and Religion at University of West Georgia. Her recent book Expanding Responsibility for the Just War: A Feminist Critique (Cambridge University Press, 2019) presents a feminist immanent critique of just war reasoning focused on the issue of responsibility for harm to noncombatants.
Global Currents article

The Sound of Solidarity? The Adhan and the Possibility of a New Civic Body in Europe

The exterior of the Sehitlik Mosque, Berlin. Photo courtesy of author.

This week, the adhan (Muslim call to prayer) can be heard throughout Germany and the Netherlands. Sometimes, it joins with the sound of church bells, an unfamiliar and evocative symphony, as religious institutions offer support not only to their constituents, but to whole, shaken societies. For the first time in history, both countries have allowed the adhan to regularly penetrate public space. This is unquestionably a response to the COVID-19 crisis, a desperate grappling for social unity and godly protection. Calling out, with the knowledge that no one can come together, over a hundred mosques seek to soothe collective wounds. These wounds, of course, cut deeper in particular communities, as we have seen in African American communities in the United States—those already marginalized are affected at far more devastating levels than the economically and socially sheltered.

Still, this public call to prayer is remarkable not only in sound but even more so in its social meaning. Just months ago, such a move would have appeared nearly impossible. In my forthcoming book, Mosques in the Metropolis, I critique the European project of modernity by unsettling assumptions about “progress” and “civility” through two mosque communities in London and Berlin. Exposing the deep and unrelenting inequality faced by diverse Muslim populaces, as well as their capacities to exert agency, the mosque rises as both a threshold space and an interstitial opportunity for building solidarity. Such solidarity may center on fomenting deep mutual support within, and yet extending beyond, Muslim communities into the cities and states in which they live. This includes focusing on shared concerns, from the natural environment’s decay to supporting vulnerable populaces, and building knowledge that can transcend taken-for-granted assumptions about Islam. In Berlin, such solidarity emerged at the Sehitlik Mosque under the leadership of Ender Cetin, who invited the whole city into the mosque through daily tours, and yet also encouraged mosque community members to deeply engage in the city, through participation in civic activism, educating on pluralism in schools, and running for political office.

Today, as the world comes to a grinding halt, the mosque rises as such again, offering an opportunity for deepened solidarity through a medium that can touch us even in isolation, uniting us through sound.

My book project, and my personal surprise in the public adhan, are both rooted in the reality that Europe has long resisted the inclusion of its Muslim populaces, who largely migrated as post-colonial migrants and guestworkers, called to rebuild fractured European countries after World War II. It has since delimited their rights, resisting the bestowal of citizenship for decades (for instance, Germany only changed its citizenship laws from blood-based to birth-based in 2000). Even with legal equality, politicians and media outlets long continued to suggest that Muslims and/or Islam cannot fully belong to European nation-states. Over the last few years, Dutch and German politicians like German Interior Minister Horst Seehofer have continued to debate whether Islam belongs to their respective nation-state.

Muslim bodies, and institutions like mosques, have been regulated, even demonized in European public life. We have seen the Muslim body as site of conflict emerge in the so-called headscarf debates, which limit Islamic garb in public life, across countries like France, Germany, Spain, and Denmark. We have witnessed the securitization of Muslim bodies in xenophobic and violent government anti-radicalization agendas. And we have watched the form of the nation-scape shaped by fear, such as through the banning of minarets by popular referendum in Switzerland in 2006. Until recently, the far-right wing has been on the rise, building its base specifically on anti-immigrant and anti-Islam platforms. In Germany, for example, the Alternative für Deutschland (AfD) Party, capitalizing on discontent with the massive refugee migration in 2015, received enough votes to enter parliament in 2017.

In such contexts of resistance to plurality, discourses of tolerance have emerged. As Wendy Brown critiques in her book Regulating Aversion: Tolerance in the Age of Identity and Empire, “tolerance” is at once a “discourse of power and practice of governmentality” (8) achieved through a practice of toleration, a making do with that which makes the dominant group in society uncomfortable. Tolerance, often attached to rhetoric about Muslims in Europe, is a bitter civilizing discourse disguised by a saccharine rhetorical wrapper of the enlightened, liberal sensitivity—a contronym, perfectly synonymous with its own antonym: intolerance.

Instead of tolerance, late sociologist and philosopher Zygmunt Bauman argued in “Postmodernity, or Living with Ambivalence,” that we must move to solidarity; in the words of Bauman scholar Shaun Best, true solidarity emerges when “the ‘I am responsible for the Other’ and ‘I am responsible for myself’ come to mean the same thing” (317). As another Bauman scholar Keither Tester asserts, this shifts the goal away from being “with” the other to being “for” the other. Solidarity in this sense does not equalize but rather locates value in each person and each community on its own grounds. A public adhan is arguably an expression of such solidarity, rather than tolerance, as it transcends the usual attempts to reshape Islam vis-à-vis mainstream secular norms.

COVID-19 has changed everything, turning our worlds upside down. It is as if we have all tumbled down Alice’s well to Wonderland, where big is small and small is big, and nothing looms larger than our new, collective fear. This new normal has, in many ways, lifted us out of ourselves. And it holds pain and lessons for us all. In Flesh and Stone, social theorist Richard Sennett eloquently argues that solidarity can emerge through a recognition of pain—of the self and of the other—creating a civic body anew. Today, support for the AfD is suddenly waning, as many of the same refugees once demonized serve as frontline medical workers, responding to a call to save lives.

From our new vantage point, former fears seem small, our former, open lives filled with the lives of others not just big but beautiful. This evokes Freud’s conceptualization of “the narcissism of minor differences”: focusing on what we do not share in order to construct distinct, and superior, selves—occurring on the cultural, as much as individual, level. Through such “narcissism of minor differences,” Europe has long defined itself against and above its religious minorities, both Muslims and Jews. And this has, over a thousand years, eroded opportunities for deep and lasting solidarity time and again.

Has COVID-19 shaken Europe, and the so-called “Western” world writ large, awake from their dreams of superiority? Does it have the power to invoke a reckoning with the deep and lasting inequalities and violence faced by Muslim communities across the continent?

These questions remain unanswered, if not unanswerable in this still-acute moment. Yet in this crisis, we are revealed together and apart as equally fragile and equally human. And our shared humanity nests within our shared fragility. Within this metaphorical set of nesting dolls, we can see solidarity emerge: in individuals devoting their days to making medical supplies and neighborhood supports for the vulnerable. And we can hear the rumblings of solidarity in the adhan, answering the so-called “question of Islam” in Europe with a prayer, perhaps once and for all laying it to rest.

Of course this has not erased a deep colonial and imperial history that led to the migration of Muslim populaces to Europe in the first place; nor the violence perpetrated against their bodies then, and their bodies now, in the form of formidable security states. But it does make visible, or rather audible, Islamic forms so long excluded from the public sphere. As Jeanette Jouili and Annelies Moors show in their special issue on Islamic soundscapes, Islam is deeply rooted in auditory practices and histories; public forms of “sonic” Islam contribute to what they term “a politics of listening.” The sound of the adhan permeating German and Dutch publics today shows the sociopolitical power of a soundscape transformed and through it, the nationscape is transformed as well. Here we are confronted with the opportunity of not only seeing or hearing, but really listening.

The interior of the Sehitlik Mosque, Berlin. Photo courtesy of author.

I visited the mosque that began this new tradition in 2014, located in Duisburg-Marxloh, a neo-Ottoman form facing a church, where tour guides stressed that their community belongs not only to the global Muslim ummah, but to Germany. I remember the face of an old man sitting on a stone bench outside of the mosque, hands folded on his lap, who greeted me with warmth, and an old woman who patted my hand when I first entered the mosque. The mosque community’s openness, its vulnerability, and its willingness to push back against the so-called Islam/Europe divide, moved me then. The soothing sound of its adhan moves me now.

Today, from Duisburg-Marxloh to Amsterdam, mosques are singing a prayer across Europe. In this prayer made out of song, a newfound togetherness rises, and with it an invigoration of a solidarity I never imagined possible (but who among us imagined the current state of the world to be possible?). Who knows if and whether it will deepen and last; that is a conscious choice to be made when the world moves to its familiar rhythm again. Yet this is a moment of reckoning not to be overlooked, where boundaries—so deeply etched in our geographies, and deeper in our imaginaries—can be overcome. Let us not forget this lesson when the dust settles, and we, of all religions, ethnicities, races, nationalities, mourn our dead. Let this serve as a reminder that so much more unites us than that which divides us, and that we can—and should—be for one another, when we begin again. And until then, let us find comfort in this harmony found in crisis, in a new civic body constructed from the pain, and the hope, that we share.

Elisabeth Becker
Elisabeth Becker is a cultural sociologist and postdoctoral fellow with the Religion & Its Publics Project and the Institute for Advanced Studies in Culture at the University of Virginia. Her research explores Muslim communities in urban contexts across Europe and the United States. She is currently completing her book (Mosques in the Metropolis), a comparative ethnographic work on European mosques, contracted with University of Chicago Press, and has published with the Journal of the American Academy of Religion, Ethnic & Racial Studies, Annual Review of the Sociology of Religion, International Journal for Islamic Architecture, and Annals of Tourism Research.
Decoloniality article

Decolonial Politics and Religious Ethics: Dismantling Hierarchies

Location of detention center, 419 Emancipation Avenue, Houston, Texas. Photo Credit: Patrick Feller.

When comparing and contrasting decolonial and postcolonial approaches to ethical categories like freedom, scholars of religious ethics must address how those working in the field of ethics may uncritically reproduce power hierarchies. The need to address such concerns is not entirely new to religious ethics. Saba Mahmood’s work, as well as that of Talal Asad’s, shares with decolonial and postcolonial approaches a deep skepticism of the ability of ethical inquiry to transcend the power structures of which it is a part. If the study of ethics in religion is associated with making valuations that sustain, rather than challenge or question, existing social hierarchies, it is easy to see why those who study, and/or belong to, historically marginalized populations may be ethics-avoidant.

The decolonial ethics of Maldonado-Torres offers a conception of human freedom rooted in love, primarily through relationality or solidarity with others. This is a stronger normative claim than we would find in the ethnographic studies of Mahmood or Asad’s critical theoretical forays into ethnographic reflections. However, his focus on the moral capacities of those historically relegated to the “zone of nonbeing”— a phrase first introduced by Frantz Fanon and developed by Sylvia Wynter which insists that colonized people (and people of color more generally) lack souls and moral agency, and by implication, being—has resonance with Mahmood’s and Asad’s accounts because it attends to how racism and colonialism continue to shape the identities and politics of various communities.

“We revolt simply because for many reasons we can no longer breathe.” Frantz Fanon. Banner outside the Minneapolis Police Department fourth precinct following the officer-involved shooting of Jamar Clark on November 15, 2015. Photo: Tony Webster. tony@tonywebster.com

One question we ought to pursue more systematically is why historians of religion and anthropologists—whose work often addresses colonialism in some form or another—tend to avoid the terminology and frameworks of ethics. Maldonado-Torres illuminates how ethicists have failed to examine race in relation to religion, which may indicate that methodology in ethics on the whole has not engaged sufficiently in a systematic analysis of power. Although Mahmood does not address race specifically, it is useful to consider what she achieves by revealing the ineffectiveness of Western ethical concepts in the context of the Egyptian women’s mosque movement. Ethicists should ask: Why do scholars like Mahmood dismiss the discourse of ethics when focusing on the experiences of people who have been excluded from the shared realm of politics—or of being and freedom—on account of their otherness? How has ethical discourse been rendered inaccessible, unimportant, or even harmful to the types of inquiry at hand?

The modern field of philosophical ethics was engendered by the development of Western secular liberalism, and is connected to colonialism and Western hegemony. This has had important implications for religious ethics and the field of religious studies more generally. To name one example, Robert A. Orsi interrogates the dominance of the white liberal Protestant view as historically normative within the field of religious studies, arguing that by foregrounding questions of morality, it determined which types of religion are “good” or “bad.” This resembles the distinction that Maldonado-Torres discusses in the categories of human/subhuman and civilized/uncivilized and corresponds to the same colonial history.

Both decolonial and ethnographic approaches confront scholars of religious ethics with several important tasks. First, we must consider how the fields of religious and philosophical ethics have been shaped by political interests and power differences. Specifically, this work entails engaging the question of how colonialism and racism continue to influence who, how, and what we study. There is an imperative for scholars to recognize how the modern history of categorizing others in the zone of nonbeing has filtered into our consciousness, our assumptions, and at times, our arguments.

Second, to Maldonado-Torres’s point, ethicists have a responsibility to include—by inquiring about, describing, and attending to—the moral agency of subjects on the social margins, and who reside in the (ontological) zone of nonbeing. ­­That imbalances of power shape frameworks and categories does not obviate the need to conceptualize the agency of the disempowered. Yet we cannot do so at the cost of excluding their voices, and thus it is necessary to develop more inclusive methods and frameworks. Feminist ethnography constitutes a strong resource in this regard. In the context of American Islam, the work of Juliane Hammer, Debra Majeed, and others offers insight into how we can better theorize moral agency in light of colonial histories of violence, patriarchy, and the evolving question of religious and cultural identity.

Additionally, scholars in the field of religious ethics can continue to develop a more robust discourse around agency and power using the insights of feminist philosophy. Such work focuses on the relationality of persons and the ways that structural injustices shape ethical subjects and their choices. It also addresses how relative differences in social power and material resources can generate different degrees, and types, of responsibility. My work on feminist virtue ethics and religious freedom is critical of how ethical discourses exclude women on topics pertaining to their embodied and material flourishing. In feminist ethical inquiry generally, we are less interested in identifying the obligations of a universal subject, and more invested in comprehending the conditions under which subjectivity and responsibility are possible, and whether they are recognizable as such by others.

Overcrowding of families observed by OIG on June 10, 2019, at Border Patrol’s McAllen, TX, Station. Faces were digitally obscured by OIG. Photo Credit: US Office of Inspector General.

A more inclusive approach to ethics follows from a willingness to question and modify our ethical categories, as well as our methods, when they do not comport with, or omit, the experiences of marginalized communities. To put it another way: the integrity of religious ethics as a field depends on scholars’ ability to listen to, and take seriously, structural oppression and its relation to definitions of personhood. According to Maldonado-Torres, sub-ontological difference serves as a basis for structural injustices. When we consider the case of migrant children and others who are imprisoned at the U.S.-Mexico border, a relationship between the zone of nonbeing and the reality of material and legal deprivation becomes clear. Hannah Arendt’s observation of the paradoxical “right to have rights” (296) is particularly salient: if only citizens can claim human rights, what about the human rights of those who languish at the border? Scholars of religious ethics must attend to the political and ethical realities that emerge from these places of contradiction.

In summary, scholars in religious ethics must work consistently to produce approaches to ethical inquiry that counter exclusionary variants of it that have been practiced in the past. We must continue to dismantle the binaries of good/bad and civilized/uncivilized religion and people, and to pursue clarity in our descriptions of moral agency. How religious ethicists respond to these challenges will shape the direction and viability of the field in future years.

 

 

Shannon Dunn
Shannon Dunn is Associate Professor of Religious Studies at Gonzaga University. Her research addresses gender, violence, and human rights, with particular focus on global Muslim communities. She is currently the president of the Society for the Study of Muslim Ethics (SSME).
Global Currents article

Who Are We the People? Unpopular Sovereignties in the United States and India

United States President Donald J. Trump and Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi stand together on stage before a cheering crowd at the Namaste Trump Rally Monday, Feb. 24, 2020, at the Motera Stadium in Ahmedabad, India. (Official White House Photo by Shealah Craighead)

Following a massive rally with India’s prime minister, Narendra Modi, in Gujarat last month, Donald Trump tweeted a message of international comity. “Our two national constitutions begin with the same three beautiful words: ‘We the people.’ That means,” he wrote, “that in America and India alike, we honor, respect, trust, empower, and fight for the citizens we proudly serve!”

Hours earlier, three people—a police officer and two Muslim civilians—had been killed in Delhi in protests over India’s new Citizenship Amendment Act, which excludes Muslim migrants from amnesty. At least 51 people have now been killed, three-quarters of whom were Muslim, and the Delhi police have been implicated in the violence.

During his 2016 presidential campaign, Trump had promoted a ban on Muslim immigrants to the United States and a wall along its southern border with Mexico, and his term in office has been marked by anti-immigrant and anti-Muslim rhetoric.

The U.S. president’s reference to the respective preambles to the U.S. Constitution and the Constitution of India resonates with a core principle of modern democracy, the doctrine of popular sovereignty. Governments—the American Declaration of Independence declares—derive “their just powers from the consent of the governed.”

In its insistence that power belongs to the people, popular sovereignty is a liberal, potentially emancipatory, ideal. But it has repeatedly been invoked historically to oppress and exclude. Speaking in Minnesota recently, Trump sought to rouse anti-immigrant sentiment against the “large numbers of refugees to your state from Somalia” by appealing to popular sovereignty: “You should be able to decide what is best for your own cities and for your own neighborhoods and that’s what you have the right to do right now,” he told his supporters. Ostensibly a secular republic, India has recently invoked the doctrine on behalf of laws widely viewed as discriminatory toward Muslims.

This ambivalence points to a perennial question at the heart of democratic citizenship. Who are “we the people?” What makes this question puzzling is that it cannot, without circularity, be answered democratically, by appealing to the will of the people.

While the doctrine of popular sovereignty presupposes the existence of a “people”—or demos—to which government is answerable, “peoples” are not naturally occurring, well-bounded units. The respective histories of the United States and India suggest a more complicated picture: the state helps to create and maintain, through force, the people from which it claims to derive its authority.

Following independence from British colonial rule and the trauma of partition from Pakistan along a line carved by the British, which resulted in countless deaths and ongoing population transfers on a scale of approximately 14.5 million, the contemporary nation of India came into existence along with Pakistan at midnight of August 14–15, 1947. In his novel Midnight’s Children, Salman Rushdie recalls the anticipation as the clock counted down:

[T]here was an extra festival on the calendar, a new myth to celebrate, because a nation which had never previously existed was about to win its freedom, catapulting us into a world which, although it had five thousand years of history, although it had invented the game of chess and traded with Middle Kingdom Egypt, was nevertheless quite imaginary; into a mythical land, a country which would never exist except by the efforts of a phenomenal collective will—except in a dream we all agreed to dream; it was a massive fantasy . . . and would periodically need the sanctification and renewal which can only be provide by rituals of blood. (112)

News headline announcing partition and creation of the sovereign nations of Pakistan and India. Photo Credit: Shankar S.

One hundred seventy-one years earlier, the United States had similarly imagined itself into existence by force of will. As Jacques Derrida has noted with respect to the Declaration of Independence, “this people does not exist. They do not exist as an entity, it does not exist, before this declaration, not as such. If it gives birth to itself, as free and independent subject, as possible signer, this can hold only in the act of the signature. The signature invents the signer” (10). By speaking in the name of a nation yet to exist, the signers invented the sovereign “people” they claimed to represent, and from whom they purported to draw their authority.

The American Revolution was not, like India’s independence struggle, a de-colonial movement but a settler-colonial revolt, which drew upon colonial tropes to imagine a “good people,” oppressed from above by the British crown and harried from below by what the Declaration of Independence calls “merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare, is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.” Alluding to this dramatic performance of auto-authorization, the philosopher Stanley Cavell has written, “[B]efore there was America there was no America. America was discovered, and what was discovered was not a place, one among others, but a setting, the backdrop of a destiny. It began as theater” (344).

The paradox of popular sovereignty—the inevitable circularity of appealing to “the people” for the authority required to decide who the people are—haunts the origins of both nations, their differences notwithstanding, and reverberates through their respective histories, permitting the co-existence of lofty democratic ideals with ruthless oppression, a performative fantasy requiring periodic renewal through blood ritual.

Thomas Jefferson, who penned the words “All men are created equal,” enslaved more than 600 people over the course of his lifetime, and at the time of independence, twenty percent of the U.S. population lived in bondage. How ought we to make sense of the relationship between these brutal facts of history and the philosophical ideal of popular sovereignty? According to the Supreme Court’s infamous 1857 decision in Dred Scott v. Sandford, the former are entirely consistent with the latter, because persons of African descent were never part of “the people.”

We The People Inscription at the National Constitution Center. Photo Credit: Housefinch1787.

The case involved Dred Scott, an enslaved man who had been brought from Missouri—a state where slavery was legal—to a free territory and back again. Scott argued that, by residing in a free territory (a territory in which slavery had been outlawed) he had effectively been freed and could not legally be re-enslaved in Missouri. The Court disagreed: being of African descent, Scott was not one of “the people” and so lacked the legal standing necessary to challenge his effective statelessness and the legally sanctioned oppression it made possible.

“The language of the Declaration of Independence is . . . conclusive,” Chief Justice Roger Taney wrote. It says, he acknowledged, that “all men are created equal,” and that governments derive “their just powers from the consent of the governed.” Nevertheless, he opined, the founders did not intend to include the “African race”: “The general words quoted above would seem to embrace the whole human family, and if they were used in a similar instrument at this day, would be so understood. But it is too clear for dispute, that the enslaved African race were not intended to be included, and formed no part of the people who framed and adopted this Declaration.”

To construe the words of the Declaration so as to include persons of African descent would be to imply a mismatch between the Founders’ words and their actions, which included enslaving human persons. Since, according to the Court, “the men who framed this Declaration were great men—high in literary acquirements—high in their sense of honor, and incapable of asserting principles inconsistent with those on which they were acting,” they cannot have had in mind “the negro race, which, by common consent, had been excluded from civilized governments and the family of nations, and doomed to slavery” (italics added).

Before the Court, Scott was rendered mute, unable to lodge an audible complaint. Scott did not sue for his freedom and lose; rather, he was not permitted to sue. To borrow a phrase from Hannah Arendt, what Scott lacked, in the opinion of the Court, was “the right to have rights” (296).

Beyond the light it casts on the white supremacy at the heart of the Republic—the normative whiteness of the body politic—what  Dred Scott’s case reveals is that ostensibly democratic government constructs the people from which it purports to draw its authority. In its insistence that “the people” is determined by the law and does not name a preexistent reality, Dred Scott v. Sandford exposes the sleight of hand on which the law’s legitimacy depends: the state is materially prior, if conceptually subsequent, to the ostensible source of its legitimation.

In effect, the Dred Scott decision gerrymanders the boundaries of “the people” by constructing a nation which confers legitimacy on the state’s exclusions and silences its victims. To put it another way, it is the consent not of the governed as such that matters, but of those comprised by the popular sovereign, where the latter cannot itself on pain of regress or circularity be constituted democratically, by allowing the people to decide who are the people.

Not only was the doctrine of popular sovereignty not thought to be at odds with slavery, in the Antebellum period it was repeatedly invoked on its behalf. During his three terms representing Illinois in the Senate, Stephen Douglas argued that each state should be allowed to decide for itself whether or not to permit or outlaw slavery, an approach he termed popular sovereignty. In his famous debates with Abraham Lincoln in 1858, Douglas sought to reconcile slavery with democratic ideals by appealing to the sovereign power of each state:

Mr. Lincoln, following the example and lead of all the little Abolition orators, who go around and lecture in the basements of schools and churches, reads from the Declaration of Independence, that all men were created equal, and then asks, how can you deprive a negro of that equality which God and the Declaration of Independence awards to him? … Now, I hold that Illinois had a right to abolish and prohibit slavery as she did, and I hold that Kentucky has the same right to continue and protect slavery that Illinois had to abolish it. I hold that New York had as much right to abolish slavery as Virginia has to continue it, and that each and every State of this Union is a sovereign power, with the right to do as it pleases upon this question of slavery, and upon all its domestic institutions. … And why can we not adhere to the great principle of self-government, upon which our institutions were originally based.

Douglas’s argument operates within the same logic as Dred Scott: popular sovereignty refers not to the sovereignty of people conceived of independently of their juridical relation to the state—would-be social contractors endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights—but to the sovereignty of the people considered as a single, transtemporal entity, membership in which is determined by the law it is invoked to underwrite.

Seal of Nebraska Territory. “Popular Sovereignty. Progress.”

Although, following the Civil War, the Dred Scott decision would eventually be superseded by the Fourteenth Amendment, which granted citizenship to “all persons born or naturalized in the United States,” its peculiar logic affords an important, if uncomfortable, insight into the deep structure of democratic state citizenship: “popular sovereignty” can be constrained by radically non-democratic conceptions of personhood, citizenship, and nation.

In these instances, the rhetorical function of appealing to the “will of the people” is precisely to render void the opinions of significant numbers of the governed. This is the notion of “we the people” Trump invoked in Minnesota, and which informs the exclusion of Bengali-speaking Muslims in Assam from the National Register of Citizens. It is necessarily by means of exclusion that the state empowers the citizens it serves.

This circularity coils through American history. It underwrote the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882. It lurks behind nativist antipathies toward Catholics, Communists, Jews, Muslims, and Mexicans. It explains why, in 1919, only men were allowed to vote on whether to extend the franchise to women. It was pointed out by the dissenting Justices in Rucho v. Common Cause, a partisan gerrymandering case decided by the Supreme Court last summer, who observed that allowing politicians to pick their voters turns “upside-down the core American idea that all governmental power derives from the people.” In a republic that purports to derive its just powers from the consent of the governed, it should come as no surprise that the biggest political disagreements and struggles have always concerned precisely the question of who belongs to the popular sovereign.

Often described as the world’s largest democracy, India today faces fundamental questions about its identity. So too, albeit in a different way, does the United States. Indeed, these questions constitute a receding horizon for any politics that purports to draw legitimacy from “the people.”

The circular logic of popular sovereignty means that legitimation can never quite catch up with itself. States invent peoples, but “the people” can be imagined to take many forms, some narrow and exclusionary, others open and expansive, and the people on which democratic politics relies need not be configured nationalistically at all. Democracy is not reducible to the modalities of state power. If, as Miguel Abensour has argued, “democracy is essentially a political institution of human sociality, then tensions, conflicts and even contradictions emerge between democracy and the State” (xlv). Rather than something given, the people is always a work in progress, a failure, an aspiration yet to be achieved.

 

Suggested Further Reading

Anderson, Benedict. 2006 [1983]. Imagined Communities. London: Verso.

Arendt, Hannah. 1963. On Revolution. London: Penguin Books.

Friedland, Roger. “The Institutional Logic of Religious Nationalism: Sex, Violence, and the Ends of History.” Politics, Religion, & Ideology 12.1: 65–88.

Honig, Bonnie. 1991. “Declarations of Independence: Arendt and Derrida on the Problem of Founding a Republic.”American Political Science Review 85.1 (March): 97–113.

Kahn, Paul W. 2006. “Political Time: Sovereignty and the Transtemporal Community.” Cardozo Law Review 28.1: 259–76.

Marx, Anthony W. 2003. Faith in Nation: Exclusionary Origins of Nationalism. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Smith, Anthony. 1998. Nationalism and Modernism. London: Routledge.

Wynter, Sylvia. 2003. “Unsettling the Coloniality of Being/Power/Truth/Freedom.” The New Centennial Review 3.3 (Fall): 257–337.

 

Richard Amesbury
Richard Amesbury works at the intersection of philosophy of religion and political theory. He is Professor of Religious Studies and Director of the School of Historical, Philosophical and Religious Studies at Arizona State University.
Decoloniality article

The Promise of Decolonization for the Study of Religions

 

Stockholm public library. Photo courtesy of the author.

Since the publication of Edward Said’s Orientalism in 1978, scholars of religion and other disciplines in the humanities have been looking for alternative methods and theories to represent the Other. But finding this alternative has been elusive. In a recent reflection, Birgit Meyer lamented the fact that the humanities remain Eurocentric. One of the challenges of decolonization is to address this desire for an alternative method and theory against the reality of a distorted field. Whilst scholarship has become steadily global, the field continues to be dominated by what V. Y. Mudimbe called a Colonial library.

The study of Islam in the modern world offers an opportunity to address this dilemma in a concrete way. From the US to Pakistan, there has been a renewed interest in applying theories of religion to Islam. In doing so, scholars turn to the comparative study of religions that emerged in nineteenth-century Europe during the highpoint of colonialism. While a postmodernist skepticism of the discipline of comparative religion is readily embraced in the field, there is no equivalent skepticism of the colonial condition. Thus, J. Z. Smith’s critical reflections on the study of religions are easily remembered against theologians who work in the field. In contrast, the colonial imbrication of the discipline is ignored or only briefly acknowledged. For example, Russell McCutcheon’s critical review of phenomenology is directed against Eliade and most scholars of religion who betray a hint of theological or sui generis thinking, but is virtually silent on the colonial condition of the discipline. Scholarship monitors the intrusion of theology into the discipline, while allowing colonialist assumptions to go unchecked and unthought. Colonialism is often euphemistically represented as modernization or a benign intervention that changed the world.

For Islamic and religious studies, critical voices within Islam offer a decolonial perspective that challenges these assumptions. These critical voices emerged in response to colonialism in different parts of the world, at the very time that the study of religions was taking off in the colonial centers of power. The contrast between the scholarship of the colonizers and colonized has, to my mind, never been seriously discussed. Critical voices in Islam have certainly not been ignored, but they have been evaluated against the backdrop of social processes or political alliances created by colonialism. For example, modernization, traditionalization, and postmodernism are first found in the West, and then adjusted and hyphenated for the rest of the world. Political alliances are similarly measured against new political realities created in the colonial and post-colonial centers of global power.

The author with the bust of Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan. Photo courtesy of author.

Paying close attention to the intellectual labour of critical voices from colonized contexts leads us to new insights on how to think about religion. In a book published in 2009, I focussed on how intellectuals like Muhammad Abduh and Sayyid Ahmad Khan grappled with new definitions for thinking about religion and Islam. I argued that a new intellectual discourse was developed on Islam for Muslim societies. This discourse was entangled with colonialism, but its intellectual labor on religion as a concept was unmistakable. My work was inspired by Talal Asad and David Chidester’s critical reflections on the construction of a discourse of religion in the Western tradition, in which Asad provincialized the discourse of religion in the history of the West, while Chidester showed its colonial roots. In a twist of irony, Asad and Chidester have been followed by many other reflections on Western scholars; their critical reflection has accentuated Western scholarship. As in similar navel-gazing exercises of critical scholarship, the Colonial Library became even more dominant than before.

In my book, I took a different approach. Following Asad and Chidester diligently, I could have paid attention to how the category of religion was used implicitly and explicitly by Western scholars of Islam. But taking a different course of action in this book, I paid attention to the intellectual labor of Muslim critical voices instead. In a decolonial gesture, I turned my gaze away from Western scholars on religion, and paid attention to how religion was theorized in different political and social contexts.

I have since realized that taking these critical voices seriously as intellectual labor goes against a dominant view of the study of religion. Since the nineteenth century, religion has been conceptualized in a number of diverse ways. But one dominant thread running through the discourse is captured in Peter Berger’s metaphor of a sacred canopy. Functionalist theories from Durkheim onwards emphasized that religion totally and completely envelops its members. Adherents to religious traditions can only see the world through its rituals, narratives, and beliefs. In a famous phrase by Clifford Geertz, religious symbols clothe the social world “with … an aura of factuality” (4). Notwithstanding critical reflections of religion, this perception of the power of religion remains dominant. Critique is not expected from religious discourse.

Alongside the totalizing effect of religions, the study of religion generally argues or assumes that only the modern scholar can see the truth of reality. Unlike the religious subject, the scholar is not enveloped in an “aura” of factuality, but sees things as they are really are. Self-criticism is not entirely missing in the study of religions, but it is believed that eventually secular critique is the only critique worthy of its name. In contrast, I would like to suggest that critical voices within Islam and other religious traditions should be counted within the tradition, and recognized for the work they do against such totalizing accounts of religious experience. These critical voices shatter the vision of religion as a sacred canopy, and call for a more complex and differentiated model of thinking about religion.

In conclusion, critical studies of religion have accepted the fragility of the concept of religion, but they have problematically focused entirely on the Western tradition. In response to Asad, Chidester, and others, the Western tradition is sometimes provincialized and exceptionalized in one move. In this latter practice, no other theorizing of religion is said to be possible. Religion belongs to the West and its academy. A decolonial approach such as I have offered pursues a comparative exercise in which the Western tradition is neither universal nor exceptional. It must enter into dialogue and conversation with other ways of thinking of religion and the religious.

A decolonial gesture in the study of religion must address the challenge laid down by Said. Since his significant publication, scholars have searched relentlessly for an alternative. But over this period of time, the Colonial/Western Library has become even more dominant and hegemonic. One way of addressing this anomaly is to seriously look at the critical intellectual labor that is found within religious traditions. Such a gesture may unseat a deep-seated assumption about religion, shared by nineteenth- and early twenty-first-century scholars, that religious worlds are totalizing.

 

Cited References

Asad, Talal. 1993. Genealogies of Religion: Discipline and Reasons of Power in Christianity and Islam. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press.

Chidester, David. 1996. Savage Systems: Colonialism and Comparative Religion in Southern Africa. Charlottesville; London: University Press of Virginia.

Geertz, Clifford. 1966. “Religion as a Cultural System.” In Anthropological Approaches to the Study of Religion, edited by Michael Banton, 1–45. London: Tavistock Publications.

McCutcheon, R. T. (1995). Review: The Category “Religion” in Recent Publications: A Critical Survey. Numen, 42(3), 284-309.

McCutcheon, R. T. (1997). Manufacturing Religion: The Discourse on Sui Generis Religion and the Politics of Nostalgia. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Meyer, Birgit. 2019. “Sozial-Und Geistenwissenchaften Und Die Welt.” Accessed 15 April, 2019.

Mudimbe, V.Y. 1997. Tales of Faith: Religion as Political Performance in Central Africa. New Jersey: The Athlone Press.

Tayob, Abdulkader. 2009. Religion in Modern Islamic Discourse. London: C. Hurst & Co.

Abdulkader Tayob
Prof. Abdulkader Tayob holds the chair in Islam, African Publics and Religious Values at the University of Cape Town, South Africa. He has published on Islam in South Africa, modern Islamic Thought, and Islam and the History of Religions.
Decoloniality article

Religious Studies and/in the Decolonial Turn

The Waldseemüller map from 1507 is the first map to include the name “America” and the first to depict the Americas as separate from Asia. There is only one surviving copy of the map, which was purchased by the Library of Congress in 2001 for $10 million. Credit: Martin Waldseemüller / Public domain.

The history and study of the anthropological category of religion is deeply entangled with the formation of modernity/coloniality. In this context, whoever defines, identifies, and explains religion wields much power. Modernity/coloniality is not meant to describe the experience of modernity in the colonial territories, as opposed to modernity in the metropolitan European empires or the “developed” world. Rather, modernity/coloniality refers to the logic of colonial differences and hierarchies that are constitutive of the idea and project of Western modernity since at least the sixteenth century.

It was in the context of the early formation of Western modernity as an idea and a project that the category of religion emerged as an indispensable term for making sense of the difference between the colonizers and the colonized. Since then, “religion” as a category of classification and analysis has served as a dispositive of the coloniality of power, knowledge, and being in the formation and solidification of “modern Western civilization.” It has been crucial in the constitution of the “secular line” and the “color-line,” understood broadly, that are at the center of how the globalized Western human sciences and the modern state understand and forcibly construct a “world.”

Religious Studies and the various sub-fields that constitute it can participate in the collective struggle for ideas, practices, and institutions that aim to overcome the limit of the “modern world order” by engaging in a decolonial turn. This turn involves enriching, complicating, and sometimes moving away from a focus on the classical debates in the field of Religious Studies and Theology to an embrace of fields and epistemic practices grounded in decolonial transdisciplinarity, such as Ethnic studies and related bodies of thought and practice.

Religion and the Colonial Project

An initial question that scholars during the sixteenth century pursued in the context of conquest and colonization was whether the indigenous peoples of the Americas had religion or not. The question indicated a break with the general presumption that the Orbis Christianus (Christian world) was populated by people with religion and that the main difference between them resided in the degree of truth or falsity in their beliefs. It was a dangerous question to explore: having no religion could indicate the lack of a soul, which pointed to an ontological difference, and not merely to an epistemological difference, between the beliefs of conquistadors and those they colonized. In short, if religion was a universal characteristic of humans, then not having religion indicated a lack of humanity.

In the Christian theocentric paradigm, a religious other was someone whose beliefs can be questioned, and the main goal was conversion. In the emerging paradigm, on the contrary, the non-religious other is someone whose very humanity is put into question, which opens up a horizon of unexpected possibilities in terms of practices of engagement and behavior. Determining who has religion and who doesn’t, as well as what kind of religion they have, then, became crucial not only for social organization, but also for making sense of the globe. This was not a small matter given that European Christian kingdoms and the emerging nation-states became the largest empires that the world has ever seen, and that European travel narratives, racial thinking, as well as economic and geo-political ambitions, informed the creation of maps and narratives that were used to navigate, order, and make sense of space and time in the world.

The differentiation between people with religion and those without it had important precedents in the “Old World,” which is why Columbus was able to deploy the concept in his first contact with Taino peoples on the island of Guanahani in 1492. It is necessary to continue studying these uses prior to 1492, just like it is important to consider the Middle Passage, after 1492, to understand the full scope of how the differentiation between people with religion and people without it came to define Western attitudes toward colonized peoples in the unparalleled planetary expansion of the system of presuppositions, symbols, and institutions that is called Western modernity. It is also important to consider that more crucial than the specific categorical distinction between people with religion and people without it is what it creates: an environment where, no matter how well a racialized group performs, demonstrates, or is simply assumed to have “religion” or any features reserved for humans, their full humanity is still continually put into question.

Dr. W.E.B. Du Bois. Credit: Bain News Service, publisher / Public domain.

Looking back from the vantage point of the late nineteenth century and early twentieth century, the formidable social scientist and thinker W. E. B. Du Bois recognized the problem well when he wrote, “Between me and the other world there is ever an unasked question”: “How does it feel to be a problem?”[1] This perpetual question is a manifestation of the Manichean misanthropic skeptical attitude toward Black people, indigenous people, and people of color that entered Western modernity perhaps most clearly through the distinctions between having religion (and a soul) and not having religion.[2] This skeptical attitude is like a dangerous poison that turns a desire for progress and civilization into genocidal acts.

Du Bois confirms the ever-present character and reach of this modern/colonial attitude when he writes that “above [the] actual words and obligato of tune and tone” of “even the sweeter souls of the dominant world” continually plays the following recommendation:

‘My poor, un-white thing! Weep not nor rage. I know too well, that the curse of God lies heavy on you. Why? That is not for me to say, but be brave! Do your work in your lowly sphere, praying the good Lord that into heaven above, where all is love, you may, one day, be born—white!’”[3]

Du Bois describes a social reality where Manichean misanthropic skepticism is no longer a doubt or a question, and not merely a matter of science and fact that can be refuted with evidence, but a belief and a tenet of faith. The audacity of such a religion, a “religion of whiteness” or “white religion,” to use Du Bois’s terms, is such that the recommendation of a prayer for whiteness turns the racist question about the humanity of someone into the expectation of self-annihilation—to kill the Black in oneself so that the white can be born.

Misanthropic skepticism thus generates its own colonial and racist spirituality as well as a prayer that serves as a constant reminder about the meaning and value of whiteness: “whiteness is the ownership of the earth forever and ever, Amen!”[4] The identification and critical analyses of questions, attitudes, prayers, religions, and spiritualities that harbor and reproduce coloniality is as important as the analysis of “religious” formations that counter the prayers and spirituality of whiteness. These are all important areas for decolonial religious studies, decolonial philosophy of religion, and decolonial theologies.

In short, the anthropological discourse about religion was from the outset deeply implicated in the discourse of race and in projects of global expansion and socio-political control. It is thus not possible to understand the genesis and power of the anthropological category of religion without understanding race and modern colonialism, and it is not possible to understand the formation and workings of race without understanding the various uses and functions of “religion” in the modern/colonial world. Determining who has religion and what kind of religion they have is clearly then, not merely a disinterested scholarly affair, but a crucial endeavor in the design of an increasingly globalized modern/colonial order.

The Spread of Colonial Logics

Surely, with time, Western societies conceded (or were made to concede) that basically all peoples around the globe had one religion or another, just as they had culture. But it is important to recognize that this only happened in a context where the West found other markers by which to distinguish itself and maintain its sense of superiority over non-Western others. This was the case especially in relation to “Black” people, whom they regarded as natural slaves. The new terms used to discriminate were philosophy and science, which opened up the possibility of formally conceiving the study of religion as a scientific affair or as an extension of philosophical reflections on religion or religious ethics.

The entanglement of science and philosophy in the reproduction of modernity/coloniality is clear in the reproduction of racist taxonomies, craniometry, and presuppositions about the intellectual capacities and autonomy of non-Western peoples through the 19th century, for example. In the United States, these found a home, probably less in religious seminaries than in the emerging universities of the time, which in turn became homes for Religious Studies. There were also notions of high culture and low culture, as well as of rational religions and primitive religions that came to inform work in the field. The classification of the religions of the colonized as primitive or irrational was instrumental to sustain the dehumanizing logic that justified colonialism and slavery.

The conception of religion as truly universal, including collectives that had been considered as lacking religion before—although not so clearly including people who were considered to be natural slaves—did not challenge the racist differentiation between the colonizers and the colonized. It rather became another form of colonization via inclusion. That is, Christian categories for understanding Christianity—as well as modern/colonial distinctions between the religious and the secular—became the optics through which other “religions” would be observed and analyzed. The religious would be distinguished from the secular, and Christianity would often be conceived as the religious formation most attuned with modernity and the secular organization of society.

In this framework, non-Western religions could only aspire to be represented as “world religions.” However, achieving this status would still keep them at odds with modernity because the number of followers and geographical extension of a religion does not endow it with the capacity to offer a ground for or to complement a rationally organized society. For regardless of geographical reach and size, in relation to Christianity any “world religion” could be represented as irrational. The political repercussions of this should be clear since the more irrational any “religion” is represented the more threatening it appears—take the discourse on Islam and Islamophobia today, for instance. Coloniality, therefore, takes place not only when certain practices are excluded from the category of religion, but also when they are included in it. A decolonial turn in the study of religion takes a critical engagement with this logic of categorization as a necessary step in the production of any new knowledge about religion or the religious.

Religious Studies and Decoloniality

Religious Studies has certain advantages over traditional disciplinary formations when it comes to engaging in a decolonial turn. To start, its interdisciplinary character can make the religious studies scholar less attached to the methods and organizing principles of any discipline than mono-disciplinary scholars. Interdisciplinarity can lead to a healthy skepticism of the powers of any given discipline in light of the way the categories it employs are bound up with categories central to other disciplines. And yet, interdisciplinarity falls short of introducing a decolonial turn because the modern Western disciplines are themselves typically built on the epistemological edifice of coloniality.

“La presión” by Giovani Diaz Morales. Mural in Old San Juan, Puerto Rico. Photo courtesy of the author.

Combining Western-centric disciplines does not make the combination any less Western-centric or colonial. For example, religious studies scholars could employ linguistics and geography to study the Middle East and still reproduce Orientalism. Studying Judaism through the lenses of archaeology and hermeneutics could remain confined within and reproduce an anti-Semitic framework. Cultural anthropologists could add area studies to their scholarly tool set and also remain limited by explicitly or implicitly approaching indigenous populations as if they are passive or largely ignorant. In short, the proliferation of inter-disciplinarity by itself does not challenge the color-line. The same is true of reassertions of mono-disciplinary formations and of defenses of science, the humanities, and the liberal arts. More creative and audacious thinking is needed to turn academic disciplines and inter-disciplines, including Religious Studies, into consistent engines of decoloniality.

Given how instrumental the identification and study of religion has been for the conceptualization and legitimization of the modern/colonial order, Religious Studies has to engage in self-critique along with a wider critique of the modern European sciences to help dispel the limitations and dangerous effects of modernity/coloniality. For this, a positive relation with emancipatory and decolonial transdisciplinary spaces such as Ethnic Studies and related fields becomes necessary. These fields not only have a long history of critical engagement with the traditional disciplines, but they have also formulated questions and produced approaches that are crucial in uncovering coloniality. They generate knowledge that contributes to decolonization, and seek to create border zones of decolonial activity in between the university and a wide array of knowledges that are found outside it. A decolonial turn in Religious Studies through a generative interaction with Ethnic Studies and related fields, and with other decolonial projects inside and outside the university as well as in different parts of the world, is crucial to produce a twenty-first century Religious Studies. Likewise, as I hope that the analysis of white religion and prayer above demonstrates, fields such as Ethnic Studies and decolonial projects outside the academy could gain much from the analyses and insights of decolonial Religious Studies, decolonial philosophy of religion, and decolonial forms of religious thought and theology.

 

[1] W. E. B. Du Bois, The Souls of Black Folk. Authoritative Text. Contexts. Criticisms, ed. Henry Louis Gates Jr. and Terri Hume Oliver (New York: W. W. Norton & Co., 1999), p. 9.

[2] For an exploration of misanthropy, white supremacy, and an analysis of a white God in an anti-black world see Lewis R. Gordon, Bad Faith and Antiblack Racism (Atlantic Highlands: Humanities Press, 1995).

[3] W. E. B. Du Bois, “The Souls of White Folk,” in Darkwater: Voices from Within the Veil (New York: Humanity Books, 2002 [1920]), p. 56.

[4] ibid., 56. A picture of “religious leaders” praying in the Oval Office with Donald Trump after he signed the proclamation for a national day of prayer on Sept. 1, 2017 lends itself to further analysis of the prayer of whiteness, white religion, and white Christianity. J. Kameron Carter uses the picture in his column entitled “Behind Christianity Today’s Editorial is a Deeper Crisis of America’s Religion of Whiteness,” Religion News Service, Dec. 24, 2019.

Nelson Maldonado-Torres
Nelson Maldonado-Torres is Professor of Philosophy at the University of Connecticut, Professor Extraordinarious at the University of South Africa, and Honorary Professor at the University of KwaZulu-Natal in Durban, South Africa. A former President of the Caribbean Philosophical Association, he co-chairs the Frantz Fanon Foundation, and is a senior associate of the Soweto-based Blackhouse Kollective. His work focuses on the philosophical dimensions of coloniality, race, and decoloniality, and he has published extensively in phenomenology, the theory of religion, the philosophy of race, and the theoretical foundations of ethnic studies. His publications in English include the monograph Against War: Views from the Underside of Modernity (Duke University Press, 2008), and the co-edited anthologies Latin@s in the World-System: Decolonization Struggles in the 21st Century U.S. Empire (Routledge, 2005), and Decolonial Feminism in Abya Yala: Caribbean, Meso, and South American Contributions and Challenges (Rowman and Littlefield, 2022). Relevant articles and book chapters include “Religion, Modernity, and Coloniality,” Religion, Conquest, and Race in the Foundations of the Modern/Colonial World,” “The Meaning and Function of Religion in an Imperial World,” “Secularism and Religion in the Modern/Colonial World System: From Secular Postcoloniality to Postsecular Transmodernity,” “What is Decolonial Critique?,” and the forthcoming “Combative Decoloniality and the Abolition of the Humanities” (Routledge Companion to Postcolonial and Decolonial Literature, ed. L.R. Brueck, and P. Gopinath).