Undergraduate Journal of Near & Middle Eastern Civilizations – Issue 11

UNDERGRADUATE JOURNAL OF

Near & Middle Eastern Civilizations

ISSUE XI

UNDERGRADUATE JOURNAL OF

Near & Middle Eastern Civilizations

ISSUE XI

Staff & Credits EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Ofelia Tychon EDITORS Farida Abdelmeguied Charlie Gordon Salwa Iqbal Ritika Lal Christopher Legerme Mohamed Serageldin Catharine Solomon ILLUSTRATOR Meagan Jahrles LAYOUT Catharine Solomon THANK YOU Near and Middle Eastern Civilizations Students’ Union Arts & Sciences Students’ Union

2

Table of Contents 5

Letter from Editor-in-Chief

6

A Study of the Royal Ontario Museum’s Shabti of Senkamanisken Evelyn Hayes

14

Sounds Like Multiculturalism: “Paramount”, Home, and Consuming Diversity Ahmed Hegazy

20

Can the Lebanese Phalange Be Considered a Fascist Movement? A Critical Examination Using Stanley G. Payne’s Typology of Fascism Callum Hutchinson

38

Coptic vs. Christian: A Question of Cultural Identity in the Medieval Cemeteries of Lower Nubia Jason Silvestri

50

Cultural Consciousness and the Evolution of Islamism in the Iranian Revolution of 1979 Nazanin Zarepour

3

4

Letter from Editor-in-Chief

Dear Reader, I am honoured to present to you the eleventh edition of the Undergraduate Journal of Near and Middle Eastern Civilizations. This year marks the Journal’s 15 year anniversary. The Journal is proud to continue to provide a platform to showcase the intellectual depth of the undergraduate students of the Department of Near and Middle Eastern Civilizations. Spanning three millennia, this edition’s articles embody the diversity of the Department’s ancient, medieval and modern streams. They were written by your fellow University of Toronto undergraduate students, and I hope their work inspires your continued interest in the field.

I would like to especially thank the Journal’s talented team, without whom this edition would not have been possible. It is also important to acknowledge the unwavering support of NMCSU and the Department itself.

Finally, I would like to thank you for reading the Journal – please enjoy.

Ofelia Tychon Editor-in-Chief 5

A Study Of The Royal Ontario Museum’s Shabti Of Senkamanisken Evelyn Hayes

6

Introduction The following is a translation and discussion of an Ancient Egyptian funerary figurine, called a shabti. The artifact under inspection is from the Royal Ontario Museum, and is itself a replica of a shabti belonging to an interactive children’s gallery called the CIBC Discovery Gallery (Figures 1 and 2). The original shabti is currently on display in the museum as well, in the Nubian section of the Gallery of Africa. Its accession number is 926.15.1 (“Shabti of King Senkamanisken”).

The shabti is 17.8 centimetres tall, 7 centimetres wide, and 3 centimetres thick. The Royal Ontario Museum’s collections website states that it is likely made of serpentine or ankerite (“Stela of King Senkamanisken”), materials that were used for other Napatan shabtis as well, such as the one belonging to King Taharqa (“Stela of King Taharqa”).

It belonged to, and represents, the Nubian King Senkamanisken. He is depicted wearing the royal nemes headdress topped with a double uraeus and a braided false beard. He also wears a thick collar or pectoral necklace. Joyce L. Haynes and Ronald Leprohon’s study Napatan Shawabtis in the Royal Ontario Museum describes several other features of the original shabti which are not visible on the replica which was the primary subject of this study. These are namely that the king is holding a bladed hoe in his right hand along with a broad one in the left, and a seed bag slung over his left shoulder (Haynes and Leprohon 1987, 19). There is also an ankh incised into the base of the statuette.

The text is written over six horizontal lines, right to left, and separated by engraved lines (Leprohon, 1987, 19).

Figure 1. (left) The front of the replica (photo by Evelyn Ullyott-Hayes) Figure 2. (right) The back of the replica. The seed bag is visible on the left shoulder (photo by Evelyn Ullyott-Hayes)

7

Hieroglyphic Text This is the text as it appears on the shabti; divided into six lines as they are inscribed.

Transliteration and Translation Here I have divided the text into different lines than shown above, based on what I judge to be the most apparent sentences: sḥda wsir ntr nfr nb t3wy sḫpr·n-Rc pw m3c-ḫrw May the Osiris, the Good God, the Lord of the Two Lands Sekheperenre, justified, be illuminated ddb i šbty He says, “O shabti!” ip·tc ir ḥsb·td wsir nsw snk3-Imn-skn pw m3c-ḫrw If one counts, if one reckons the Osiris, King Senkamanisken, justified r irte k3t nb irtf im m hrt-ntr To do all the works that are to be done there in the necropolis, r srwdg sḫt r smḥyh wdbw To cultivate the fields, to irrigate the riparian lands r hnti šcy n i3btt r imntt ts p hr To transport sand of the East to the West and vice versa iry·ij mk wi k3·kk “I will do it! Here I am!” you shall say.

8

Grammatical Notes a) prospective sdm·f as a main clause wish/exhortation, see Hoch’s Middle Egyptian Grammar §72 (88) b) circumstantial main clause sdm·f c) sdm·tw, in this case the tw is the indefinite particle ‘one’ rather than making the verb a passive d) sdm·tw, in this case the tw is the indefinite particle ‘one’ rather than making the verb a passive e) future tense r sdm·f f) “irt im m hrt-ntr” is a participle, the subject being “k3t”; “the works” g) future tense r sdm·f h) future tense r sdm·f i) future tense r sdm·f j) prospective sdm·f, made obvious here by the use of the dual reed leaf y k) prospective sdm·f, in this case with the suffix pronoun. Here the prospective means ‘(one) is to (do)’, see Hoch §73 (89)

Notes on the Names The two names given, Sekheperenre and Senkamanisken, are the prenomen and nomen of Senkamanisken, respectively (“Senkamanisken”). They are both written using honorific transposition, with the gods’ names (Rc and Imn) appearing at the beginning of the cartouche.

The name Sekheperenre was also used by a Fourteenth Dynasty Egyptian king although his was spelled slightly differently, the r and n were included as

(von Beckerath 1984, 110). According to Leprohon in The Great Name: Ancient Egyptian Royal Titulary (Leprohon 2013, 217) this name means “The One Whom Re Has Brought Into Being”. It consists of the sdm·n·f form of the verb sḫpr and the god’s name Rc. I believe the whole name is a participle, with “The One” functioning as an unwritten antecedent.

The nomen Senkamanisken is much more enigmatic. From what I can tell it does not seem to be composed of Egyptian words; it could possibly be a transliteration into hieroglyphs of a native Kushite name or phrase. He also had a Horus name, a Two Ladies name and a Golden Horus name which are not included on the shabti. These are supplied by Török (1997, 201), with English translations and are presented below, with brief grammatical commentary of my own: Name

Transliteration Translation

Comment

Horus name

šhr-t3wy

Pacifier of the Two Lands

Nominal form of the verb šhri, ‘to make content’

Two Ladies name

ḫc-ḥr-m3ct

Who Appears in Equity

The initial verb is ḫci, which usually means ‘to appear (in glory)’

Golden Horus name

wsr-pḥty

Whose Strength Is Mighty

Two nouns in bound construction, ie ‘x of y’

The Two Ladies and Golden Horus names are also possible particles, with the unmentioned ‘one’ for the king as the antecedent.

The Prayer This text is a version of Chapter Six of the Book of the Dead, commonly found on shabtis. Also called the Book of Going Forth by Day, this is a collection of funerary texts often found in burials copied onto papyrus (Leisko 2005). Some sections of this book contain magical or religious spells of various effects, 9

including this one which is intended to ‘animate’ the shabti so it can answer any summons and perform its work.

According to Hans D. Schneider’s classification, this version of the text is version VIIA, which is standard of Late Period shabtis (Schneider 1977, 120).

However, there are some differences. In Schneider’s version the word ushebti is used, while shabti is employed here, and unlike his other variants of VIIA there is no demonstrative pronoun after this word (see Schneider 1977, 121: most are “these ushebtis” or “this ushebti”). The most striking difference is its lack of what Schneider calls the ‘obstacle clause’, a sentence along the lines of “now indeed, obstacles are implanted therewith” (Schneider 1977, 121). This would usually come after “to do all the works that are to be done there in the necropolis” whereas this text jumps straight to description of said tasks. The use of the word pw before m3c-ḫrw after the king’s names is also unusual.

Shabtis Shabti is one of three names for a particular type of ancient Egyptian funerary statuette, the other two being shawabti and ushebti (Schneider 1977, 2). They are small statuettes representing either mummies or living people whose purpose was to work for the deceased by performing any tasks needed in the afterlife (Spanel, 2005).

The history of shabtis begins with the appearance of statuettes of servants in Old Kingdom tombs and linen-wrapped wax mummy figurines in Herakleopolitan burials at Saqqara. During the Middle Kingdom these began to be made of stone, and during either the Thirteenth or Seventeenth Dynasty some begin to be inscribed with a short version of Chapter Six of the Book of The Dead. In the Eighteenth Dynasty other materials began to be used, including wood, faience, terracotta, metal and rarely, glass. During this time the Book of the Dead inscription grew longer, and numbers found within individual tombs grew from “a few” to dozens to hundreds (Spanel, 2005). It was during the reign of Thutmose IV that the agricultural tools seen in this example came into use, with some carrying baskets, sacks, hoes and mattocks (Spanel, 2005).

Schneider (1977, 43) describes the spell written on the shabti figurine as being “conceived in order to minimize the risk of being called upon for manual labour. It was a magical means by which the master was substituted by others, if his name happened to be mentioned at the roll-calls.” In addition to being a magic spell, the text serves as a legal document, “a kind of decree in miniature” (Schneider 1977, 43). The act of writing it on the shabti itself records the ‘contract’ between it and the owner and binds it to perform the described tasks.

In the Kushite kingdom, shabtis were only produced for kings; no non-royal 10

burials excavated have yet to contain any (Haynes and Leprohon 1987, 22).

They were also distributed with precise positioning, placed against the tomb walls and sarcophagus. This is in contrast to the Egyptian method, in which they were buried in more varied locations (Haynes and Leprohon 1987, 23). A number of other characteristics distinguish Kushite shabtis from their Egyptian counterparts, some of which can be seen in this example. The Kushites revived an earlier Egyptian practice of using hard stone for shabti construction, which

by Dynasty 25 had not been used in Egypt for four hundred years (Haynes and Leprohon 1987, 23). Another antiquated feature they adopted was the nemes headdress. On this shabti and atop of his headdress, Senkamanisken sports a double uraeus cobra, which is a common feature in Kushite royal statuary, but he is the only one whose shabtis wear it (Haynes and Leprohon 1987, 24). The single-seed bag it carries is also characteristic of the shabti of Senkamanisken.

Indeed, shabtis holding bags at all is a uniquely Kushite feature, although most have two rather than his one. The bags used are distinctly Kushite as well in their shape and use of tassels along the bottom edge (Haynes and Leprohon 1987, 25).

Senkamanisken Senkamanisken was the eighth king of Kush, who reigned between 640-620 BCE (Kendall, 1997). As László Török explains (1997, 362), the archaeological and textual evidence of his reign is scant.

He and his father Atlanersa (c. 650-640 BCE) collaborated to construct a temple dedicated to Amun at the site of Jebel Barkal near Khartoum, referred to as Temple B700 (see Figure 3). Besides the obvious religious connection, the temple was also distinctly Egyptian in style and decor. It housed a finely carved stand for Amun’s sacred barque which was carried out for special ceremonies, and had two main rooms behind a porch and pylon (Kendall, 1997). Senkamanisken also built three colossal cultic statues within the temple (Török 1997, 364).

Figure 3. Plan of Temple B700 at Jebel Barkal (image

by Timothy Kendall, “Temple B700: A Brief History”)

11

The Kingdom of Kush The area known to the Egyptians as Kush, part of modern-day Sudan, became independent from Egypt during the eighth century BCE under a native monarchy based in the city of Napata (Kendall, 2005). Although they conquered and began to rule Egypt in 712 BCE as the Twenty-Fifth Dynasty, the Kushites were expelled by Assyrians in 663 BCE and re-established power at Napata and Meroë. From here emerged the Napatan Period, whose culture, including funerary practices and language, were heavily influenced by Egypt (Kendall, 2005).

The Egyptian influence on funerary beliefs can be seen starting with the tomb of Tanwetamani (c. 664-656 BCE). Paintings on the walls of the two chambers in his tomb show scenes of the king in the afterlife, ones which are “purely Egyptian” according to Derek A. Welsby (1996, 93), as are representations of the sky goddess Nut and uraei. The first king to have a triple-chambered tomb was Senkamanisken, who was buried in a pyramid at the royal necropolis at Nuri. Its two outer rooms were inscribed with texts from the Book of the Dead, including the Negative Confessions (Welsby 1996, 93).

Pyramids were not the only Egyptian funerary practice popular with Napatan kings. King Piye (c. 760-747 BCE) adopted the use of shabtis and had over 60 inscribed with his name (Welsby 1996, 87). Senkamanisken’s grandfather Taharqa (c. 690-664 BCE)1 had over 1070 of them, made from granite, alabaster and ankerite (Taylor 1991, 45). Senkamanisken himself had a total of 1277, over three times the average number found in contemporary Egyptian burials (Taylor 1991, 45). Of these, 410 were made of stone, including this one, while the rest were faience (Haynes and Leprohon 1987, 23). Evidence suggests that the manufacture of shabtis, likely including the one in the present study, was done locally as a number of moulds were found in the Temple of Amun at Sanam (Welsby 1996, 168).

This shabti, therefore, is a piece of evidence for the adoption and importance of Egyptian culture, art, religious beliefs and royal iconography in Late Period Kush. Its features set it apart from contemporary, comparable shabtis. These unique features which are shared by shabti belonging to Senkamanisken suggest some individuality, something which could be illuminated by further study of him and his reign. The text itself further belies the adoption of Egyptian royal titulary and religious associations by Kushite kings.

1 Dates are provided by Török (1997, 201).

12

Bibliography

von Beckerath, Jürgen. Handbuch der ägyptischen Königsnamen. Munich: Deutscher Deutscher Kunstverlag, 1984.

Haynes, Joyce L. and Leprohon, Ronald J. “Napatan Shabtis in the Royal Ontario Museum.” Journal of the Society for the Study of Egyptian Antiquities 17, no. 1/2 (1987):18.

Hoch, James E. Middle Egyptian Grammar. Mississauga: Benben Publications, 1997.

Kendall, Timothy. “Temple B700: A Brief History.” Learning Sites, Inc. February 27, 1997. http://www.learningsites.com/GebelBarkal-2/GB-B700v2_css3-update.php.

Kendall, Timothy. “Kush.” In The Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Egypt, ed. Donald B. Redford.

Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005.

Leprohon, Ronald. The Great Name: Ancient Egyptian Royal Titulary. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2013.

Lesko, Leonard H. “Book of Going Forth By Day.” In The Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Egypt. Edited by Donald B. Redford. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005.

Schneider, Hans D. Shabtis. Leiden: Rijksmuseum van Oudhen, 1977.

“Senkamanisken.” University College London. Accessed March 16, 2018. http://www.ucl. ac.uk/museums-static/digitalegypt/chronology/nubia/senkamanisken.html “Shabti of King Senkamanisken.” Royal Ontario Museum. Accessed March 8, 2018. http://collections.rom.on.ca/objects/187661/shabti-of-king-senkamanisken “Shabti of King Taharqa.” Royal Ontario Museum. Accessed March 8, 2018. http://collections.rom.on.ca/objects/188797/shabti-of-king-taharqa Spanel, Donald B. “Funerary Figurines” in The Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Egypt. Edited

by Donald B. Redford. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005.

Taylor, John H. Egypt and Nubia. London: British Museum Press, 1991.

Török, László. The Kingdom of Kush. Leiden: Koninklijke Brill, 1997.

Welsby, Derek A. The Kingdom of Kush: The Napatan and Meroitic Empires. London: British Museum Press, 1996.

13

Sounds Like Multiculturalism: “Paramount”, Home, And Consuming Diversity Ahmed Hegazy

14

As I open the glass doors of a Paramount branch situated in Toronto’s historic Old Town, I am met with an aroma of freshly baked bread. After waiting for less than a minute, I am greeted by a waiter, who speaks to me in English, but has an accent that resembles that of my Egyptian father’s. Fairuz plays in the background as I approach the modern walnut colored wooden table and chair I am to be seated at (Angry Leb, 2006). Fairuz sings a song about a bird flying all over the world to share stories with loved ones. It is a familiar song, though only because my Syrian friend told me about it when we heard it playing at another branch of Paramount we went to about three years ago. To some extent, I know that I identify with it – the Arabic words and the musical scales.

I am also aware it is meant to represent “me” to non-Arabs – the tenderness of the sounds of the Arabic language and the serenity in Fairuz’s heavenly voice. This is what one would expect from popular, standardized “Middle Eastern Cuisine” restaurant like this – predictability and harmony (Selftranslation, Lama TV, 2014, 4:18). However, this does not come naturally; it is actively framed as part and parcel of the Paramount brand (Sterne, 1997, p. 35). I argue that through a mediated musical atmosphere, Paramount sells a version of Middle Eastern culture that is harmonious, predictable, and easy to consume – succumbing to the myths of Canadian multiculturalism.

Paramount Fine Foods is a paragon of “Middle Eastern Cuisine” in Canada.

It has 40 operating branches and continues to grow, both in Canada and internationally (Paramount Fine Foods, 2018a). Paramount is led by CEO Mohammad Fakih, a Muslim Lebanese immigrant (Paramount Fine Foods, 2018b; Fakih, 2017). Mohammad Fakih has continued to advocate for unity within Arab Canadians and between Arab and non-Arab Canadians, openly supporting the Liberal government in the 2015 elections (Self-translation, Lama TV, 2015, 0:52.

In one interview, he notes that the Arab diaspora needs to leave its tensions and grievances in the home countries and work together in Canada (Selftranslation, Lama TV, 2014, 40:34). Paramount, he posits, is an example of this coming to fruition, where people, Arabs and non-Arabs alike, come together to support the growth of the business (Self-translation, Lama TV, 2014, 9:36).

This sentiment can be seen in the restaurant I visited, with the message “love for other people what you love for yourself ” displayed on a poster of a man carrying bread as he cycles in the streets of an unnamed country. One of Fakih’s missions is for Arabs to feel at “home” in Paramount as they listen to the likes of Fairuz and Wadih El Safi, both of whom are Lebanese artists (Self-translation, Lama TV, 2014, 37:08). This aligns with Ronald Radano’s (1989) notion that the incorporation of music is an “attempt to “domesticate” public spaces by placing familiar music in an unfamiliar place” (as cited in Sterne, 1997, p. 44). As such, Fakih’s vision is an Arab-centric one – one where his Paramount, the harmonious and predictable entity that it is, is an encompassment of “who we are” (Lama TV, 2014, 38:07). There is an 15

expectation that Arabs or Arab-Canadians should embody this, and that nonArab Canadians should experience this.

Paramount’s music curator appears to know this too. During my visit, the restaurant plays a calming song by Fairuz, titled Ya Tayr, followed by Assala’s playful Ya Magnoon, then Kathem Al-Saher’s romantic Qoulee Ouhibbouka, and lastly, Shereen’s thumping Ah Ya Leil (Angry Leb, 2006; Mazzika, 2011; Rotana, 2012; Free Music, 2009). There are several things these songs have in common: they are sung in Arabic, speak primarily of love, and are created in the Middle East (Frishkopf, 2014). They are also Arab state-approved, commercial songs. While the artists who sing them come from countries that are active with political strife – Lebanon, Syria, Iraq, and Egypt – the artists do not speak of this strife (Frishkopf, 2014). When I asked one of the waiters at Paramount about the song choices, she claimed, “the manager chooses them – since we are a Middle Eastern restaurant, he chooses songs that are famous in Arab countries” (unnamed, personal communication, March 16, 2018).

As such, the music in Paramount is mediated; it provides the Arab visitors with what would feel like a slice of “home” according to the manager’s view, irrespective of location (Sterne, 1997; Hage, 1997).

However, this mediation does not just link the Arab customers to their countries of origins; it creates its own culture – that of “being there here” (Hage, 1997, p. 31). “There” is not specified; these artists have varied followings in different national contexts (Hage, 1997, p. 7; Frishkopf, 2014). Yet “here” is where this is not supposed to matter; it is where, as an Arab in Canada, you are part of the ingroup by virtue of understanding what these artists are singing about and feeling at “home” with this experience (Hage, 1997, p. 7). This active framing of what it means to be Middle Eastern in Canada, as promoted and embodied by the CEO, has a clear message; Arabs need to be unified beacons of love if they want to collectively succeed in this country (Sterne, 1997, p. 35).

This reasoning makes way for another kind of nationalism - that of Canadian “multiculturalism.”

Canadian multiculturalism has garnered critiques from academics and activists alike in recent years (Ziadah, 2017). According to Ziadah, stateregulated multiculturalism is upheld as the way to promote equal rights and opportunities for people of all ethnic origins. However, in practice, it most often entails the “celebration of specific cultural tropes (dance, song, food) at the expense of broader structural inequalities” such as those upheld by settler-colonialism, capitalism, and white supremacy (p. 8). As Hage (1997) notes, this version of multiculturalism, as it manifests in cultural avenues such as Paramount, is more about the experience rather than the people this experience is supposed to represent (p. 19). By extension, since listening to the music is part of experiencing Paramount, it has more to do with “consuming an experience” of diversity rather than accepting true diversity or calling for 16

more meaningful representations of it (Sterne, 1997, p. 40; Ziadah, 2017). For example, an anti-immigrant guest could become a Paramount regular and not feel threatened by the music. Whether this person speaks Arabic or English is unnecessary, as the songs are stripped of “threatening” notions, words such as “Allah,” “terrorist,” or “Western imperialism.” The music also does not fall under historically anti-establishment genres such as hip-hop and rock (Maira, 2008, p. 173). Therefore, the set-up of the restaurant, from the emphasis on compassion, to the easygoing, unthreatening music about love, facilitates an environment where fulfilling this consumerist need should be guaranteed, insofar as the consumer pays for it.

Arab and Middle Eastern are used interchangeably by Paramount heads.

However, by framing a unified, homogenous ideal of an Arab “home,” the music played at Paramount erases the diversity within Middle Eastern communities themselves (Sterne, 1997, p. 35). Although the category of “Middle East” is itself unclear, ever-changing, and constructed by imperialist powers to meet their geopolitical desires, many groups across the Middle East may not consider themselves Arab and instead, make music in their own language (Blanford, 2016; Bentahar, 2017; Blume and Hassanpour, 1996). These artists are not included in Paramount. Additionally, many Arab musicians that do not succumb to “traditional” Arab musical standards, like those that critique authoritarian and capitalist powers, rap, or sing in English, are not played in Paramount either (Maira, 2008). As Sterne (1997) notes, music played at the foreground of commercial spaces “strives for an absolutely consistent identity and unchanging mood” (p. 32). This erases the diversities and complexities of music by Middle Eastern people and further affirms the logic of “multiculturalism” – that a pleasant experience of the Middle East, one characterized by Paramount, is one that is harmonious, predictable, and easy to consume.

Paramount is not the only restaurant that does this; many “ethnic” restaurants employ similar tactics to sell a representation of their cultures (Ebster and Guist, 2005). However, what distinguishes Paramount from many other restaurants is that it is part of a nation-wide franchise that controls and homogenizes culture, thereby aligning itself with the nation-wide Canadian multiculturalism (Paramount, 2018a; Ziadah, 2017). Canadian multiculturalism entails that “cultures” may be celebrated if they are harmonious, predictable, and easy to consume (Ziadah, 2017). What this fails to consider, however, is that cultures are made up of people who are diverse, complex, ever-changing, and capable of a range of expressions and identities (Yahiaoui and Al Ariss, 2017). Very often, music becomes an avenue for these people to express these layers, unpoliced. As a result, these expressions, particularly if manifested or read as anger or divisiveness, are barred from commercial spaces, lest they threaten the myth that Paramount and the Canadian nation-state actively seek to uphold (Ziadah, 2017).

17

Bibliography

Angry Leb. (2006). Fairouz - Ya Tayr. YouTube. Retrieved from: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qZADJUtABjU Bentahar, Z. (2017). Minorities and the Modern Arab World: New Perspectives ed. by Laura Robson (review). Canadian Review of Comparative Literature / Revue Canadienne de Littérature Comparée 44(2), 351-353. Canadian Review of Comparative Literature / Revue Canadienne de Littérature Comparée. Retrieved March 21, 2018, from Project MUSE database.

Blanford, N. (2016). Why 100-year-old borders drawn by two Europeans still define the Middle East. The Christian Science Monitor. Retrieved from: https://www.csmonitor.com/ World/Middle-East/2016/0516/Why-100-year-old-borders-drawn-by-two-Europeansstill-define-the-Middle-East Blum, S., & Hassanpour, A. (1996). ‘The morning of freedom rose up’: Kurdish popular song and the exigencies of cultural survival. Popular Music, 15(3), 325-343.

Ebster, C., & Guist, I. (2005). The role of authenticity in ethnic theme restaurants. Journal of Foodservice Business Research, 7(2), 41-52.

Fakih, M. (2017). How I turned a struggling Lebanese restaurant into a successful 20-outlet chain. The Globe and Mail. Retrieved from: https://www.theglobeandmail.com/reportonbusiness/small-business/sb-growth/how-i-turned-a-struggling-ethnic-restaurant-into-asuccessful-20-outlet-chain/article26357914/ Free Music. (2009). Sherine - Ah Ya Leil (Music Video) | (‫ نيريش‬- ‫بيلك ويديف( ليل اي هآ‬.

YouTube. Retrieved from: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lCaX2-MK_D8 Frishkopf, M.(2010-11-15). Introduction: Music and Media in the Arab World and Music and Media in the Arab World as Music and Media in the Arab World: A Metadiscourse.

In Music and Media in the Arab World: American University in Cairo Press. Retrieved 21 Mar. 2018, from http://cairo.universitypressscholarship.com.myaccess.library.utoronto. ca/view/10.5743/cairo/9789774162930.001.0001/upso-9789774162930-chapter-1.

Hage, G. (1997). At home in the entrails of the west: multiculturalism, ethnic food and migrant home-building. Home/world: Space, community and marginality in Sydney’s west, 99-153.

Lama TV. (2014). ‫ تنوماراب معاطم بحاص هيقف دمحم عم صاخ ءاقل‬-‫يلودلا نوسريب وتنوروت راطم‬.

YouTube. Retrieved from: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QA5iApKR74E Lama TV. (2015). ‫ هيقف دمحم يبرعلا لامعألا لجر ربع اودورت نتساجل ةيبرعلا ةيلاجلا مع‬Justin Trudeau.

YouTube. Retrieved from: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=In0Qhm0yKMw&t=290s Maira, S. (2008). “ We Ain’t Missing”: Palestinian Hip Hop—A Transnational Youth 18

Movement. CR: The New Centennial Review, 8(2), 161-192.

Mazzika. (2011). Ya Magnon - Asala | ‫ةلاصأ – نونجم اي‬. YouTube. Retrieved from: https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=0RJgiPCCH38 Paramount. (2018a). Franchising. Paramount Fine Foods. Retrieved from: https://www.paramountfinefoods.com/franchising/ Paramount. (2018b). Our Team. Paramount Fine Foods. Retrieved from: https://www.paramountfinefoods.com/ourteam/ Rotana. (2012). Kadim Al Saher ... Qoulee Ouhibbouka - Video Clip | ‫ رهاسلا مظاك‬... ‫كبحا ىلوق‬ - ‫بيلك ويديف‬. YouTube. Retrieved from: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0J0sbZDimjE Schwarz, O. (2014). Arab sounds in a contested space: life quality, cultural hierarchies and national silencing. Ethnic and Racial Studies, 37(11), 2034-2054.

Sterne, J. (1997). Sounds like the Mall of America: Programmed music and the architectonics of commercial space. Ethnomusicology, 41(1), 22-50.Unnamed. (2018, March 16). Interview.

Yahiaoui, D., & Al Ariss, A. (2017). Diversity in the Arab World: Challenges and Opportunities. In Management and Diversity: Perspectives from Different National Contexts (pp. 249260). Emerald Publishing Limited.

Ziadah, R. (2017). Disciplining dissent: multicultural policy and the silencing of ArabCanadians. Race & Class, 58(4), 7-22.

19

Can the Lebanese Phalange Be Considered a Fascist Movement?

A CRITICAL EXAMINATION USING STANLEY G. PAYNE’S TYPOLOGY OF FASCISM

Callum Hutchinson

20

Introduction The Lebanese Phalangist Party (Ḥizb al-Katā’ib al-Lubnānīya), hereafter referred to as the Phalange (al-Katā’ib), is one of the most influential political parties in the modern state of Lebanon. Heavily dominated by Maronite Catholics, the Phalange served as the primary political and military vehicle for Lebanon’s Christian population from the country’s independence in 1943 until the death of its founder, Pierre Gemayel, in 1984, midway through the Lebanese Civil War of 1975-1990.

For a multitude of reasons, it is tempting to view the Phalange as a fascist political movement which proves that fascism is not an exclusively European phenomenon and can thrive in the Middle East as well. The creation of the Phalange was clearly inspired by European fascism. Prior to forming the party, Pierre Gemayel had attended the 1936 Summer Olympics in Berlin, and professed to being struck by the “‘discipline, order, purpose and nationalist zeal’ of the [Nazi] German spectacle.”1 Moreover, the party’s name, originating from the Greek word for “battalion”2 – that is, a phalanx – has common roots with the name of the Spanish fascist party, the Falange Española. Beyond these obvious ties, the Phalange’s Christian nationalism, anti-communism, paramilitarism, violent actions, and admiration of the ancient Phoenicians as racial ancestors all echo European fascists. Indeed, Rola el-Husseini characterizes the Phalange as “fascist-leaning.”3 For the purpose of critical examination of the claim that the Lebanese Phalange party is fascist-leaning, I employ Stanley G. Payne’s typological description of fascism, a thirteen-point set of criteria divided into Ideology and Goals, Fascist Negations, and Style and Organization. Payne cautions that this typology is “suggested merely as an analytic device,” and does not establish a “rigidly reified category” for a fascist movement4. Nonetheless, he identifies a relatively large number of key fascist principles, while still allowing for flexibility on one or two criteria, so long as the fascist movement in question conforms to the rest5. Thus, his typology is ideal for examining supposed fascist movements outside of Europe, which will necessarily differ on some criteria due to varying historical, political, and cultural circumstances.

It is additionally significant to note that unlike the European fascist parties, the Phalange has a relatively long history. Having been created in 1936, it continues to exist in the present day as a party within the March 14 Alliance of 1 Rola El-Husseini, Pax Syriana: Elite Politics in Postwar Lebanon (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2012), 41.

2 El-Husseini, 40.

3 El-Husseini, 10.

4 Stanley G. Payne, A History of Fascism, 1914-1945 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1996), 6.

5 Payne, 7.

21

the Lebanese Parliament. For the purposes of this paper, I focus on three key historical periods for the Phalange: its years under the French Mandate, 19361943; the pre-war years of 1944-1974; and its activities during the Lebanese Civil War from 1975-1984, after which the party lost much of its influence upon the death of its founder, Pierre Gemayel.

Brief Contextual Outline The first use of the term “Maronite” occurred in the eighth century, describing a group of Syrian Christians of Aramean origin. The group lives almost entirely within Lebanon, having no notable diaspora in neighbouring countries.

Moreover, since the creation of the modern Lebanese state, Maronites have held many positions of power in the government and its institutions6.

The Phalange was formed on November 31, 1936, by Maronite Pierre Gemayel and four other Christian men, three of them Maronite7. The formation of the movement, which was initially a paramilitary rather than a political party, was partially in reaction to the 1932 birth of the Syrian Social Nationalist Party. The Syrian Social Nationalist Party saw Lebanon as part of Greater Syria, not as an independent country8. Having campaigned against the French Mandate as an underground movement, in 1943, the Phalange’s dream of an independent Lebanon was achieved. The new country was governed by an unwritten National Pact between various religious groups, which divided parliamentary seats and government positions along sectarian lines, in a system known as “confessionalism.” The position of President, with full executive powers, was reserved for a Maronite.9 In 1945, the Phalange ran for elections for the first time, but its rise to power occurred after it assisted the Lebanese government in suppressing a Nasserist revolt in 1958. In gratitude, Pierre Gemayel was made part of a four-man cabinet, and the party enjoyed continuous electoral success. By 1973, the party’s membership had increased to 60,000 out of a population of three million10, and 85% of the members were Maronite11. In April 1975, after two of Pierre Gemayel’s colleagues were killed by unidentified gunmen, his son Bashir Gemayel blamed the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO), which had created a state-within-a-state in the refugee camps of Southern Lebanon.

6 Marie-Christine Aulas, “The Socio-Ideological Development of the Maronite Community: The Emergence of the Phalanges and the Lebanese Forces,” Arab Studies Quarterly vol. 7, no. 4 (1985): 1-2.

7 El-Husseini, Pax Syriana, 41.

8 Aulas, “The Socio-Ideological Development of the Maronite Community,” 16.

9 Ibid.

10 Frank Stoakes, “The Supervigilantes: The Lebanese Kataeb Party as a Builder, Surrogate and Defender of the State,” Middle Eastern Studies vol. 11, no. 3 (1975): 215.

11 El-Husseini, Pax Syriana, 42.

22

In retaliation, Bashir ordered an attack on a bus carrying Palestinians, killing twenty-seven. This incident ignited the Lebanese Civil War12, which pitted the Phalange against the PLO, the Lebanese National Movement, the intervening Syrian Army, and rival Christian factions. In 1982, Bashir Gemayel was elected President of Lebanon, after assuming the leadership of a new coalition of Christian militias called the Lebanese Forces, of which the Phalange played a leading role13. However, before he could assume Presidential duties, he was assassinated, and succeeded by his brother Amine Gemayel, who was more conciliatory towards Lebanese Muslims, and therefore considered a “traitor to the Maronite cause” by some in the Christian community14. At the end of Amine’s term in 1988, he appointed the Christian general Michel Aoun as President, who launched an unsuccessful campaign against the Syrian forces in the country, leading to the consolidation of the Syrian occupation and the end of the civil war15. Under Syrian occupation, the Phalange lost its political significance, becoming a “puppet organization” for Syria.16 The Phalange’s resurgence in the mid-2000s and Aoun’s election as President of Lebanon in 2016, while fascinating, are beyond the historical scope of this paper.

Critical Examination of the Phalange Using Payne’s Typological Description of Fascism PART A: IDEOLOGY AND GOALS 1. Espousal of an idealist, vitalist, and voluntaristic philosophy, normally involving the attempt to realize a new modern, self-determined, and secular culture The idealist philosophy of the Phalange can be identified as a desire for an independent Lebanon, where multiple religious groups can co-exist. However, ingrained within this ideal is a sense of superiority, for the Phalange saw themselves as the protectors of that independent Lebanon, and especially of the “civilizing influence” of Western Christian culture on the otherwise Arab region17. To illustrate, an editorial of el-Amal, the Phalangist newspaper, states that “the veritable Christian nature of Lebanon” is to be found in “the spirit of freedom... the laws and their good application... [and] the tools of civilization through which we live. The day they want to deny the Christian character of Lebanon, they will have to replace the sciences, the arts and the technologies that elevate man.”18 Indeed, the Phalange applied the French 12 El-Husseini, 43.

13 Aulas, “The Socio-Ideological Development of the Maronite Community,” 21.

14 El-Husseini, Pax Syriana, 45.

15 El-Husseini, 46.

16 Sami Moubayed, “Lebanon’s Phalange Party: Back from the grave? (Letter from the Levant),” Washington Report on Middle East Affairs vol. 21, no.4, (2002): 32.

17 El-Husseini, Pax Syriana, 42.

18 Ghassan Hage, “Religious Fundamentalism as a Political Strategy: The Evolution of 23

imperialist discourse of mission civilisatrice to the Lebanese state, arguing that Lebanon is independent, rather than a part of Arab Syria, because it has a mission (rissala) to accomplish. As Ghassan Hage notes, the term rissala has religious implications, meaning “mission, calling, or vocation,” and is the term used when describing Jesus Christ’s purpose on Earth19. As such, the Phalange had a vitalist and voluntarist view of the Lebanese state itself, seeing it as having been given the spark of life to fulfill a divine mission.

The belief in Lebanon’s idealist rissala can be seen in multiple Phalangist texts.

In a 1961 issue of el-Amal, Joseph Saadeh, a Phalange military commander, wrote, “Lebanon is a country with a humanist tendency and a humanist rissala.”

Later, the party intellectual Elie Boustani “defined Lebanese nationalism as involving ‘faith’ and ‘embracing a rissala.’”20 Moreover, another el-Amal editorial refers to Lebanon as “‘a resistant spiritual entity’” beyond mere material existence,21 a vitalist conception that is only logical, given Lebanon’s divine rissala.

The Phalange also had an idealist, vitalist, and voluntaristic philosophy toward itself, as the protectors of Lebanon and the executors of its rissala.

Samir Geagea, Bashir Gemayel’s successor as leader of the Lebanese Forces, stated in 1983 that his “ultimate ambition was to make true the Lord’s Prayer’s passage: Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”22 This fulfillment of the rissala required that the Phalange militia prepared each member “to perform nationalistic and humanitarian duties to the utmost of his ability,” as stated in the Phalange’s 1966 Report of the Secretary-General23. This sense of voluntarism was further reflected by the self-perceived notion of tajarrud24, meaning “disinterestedness.” As Hage articulates, the Phalangists believed they had “only one interest, and it is the higher interest of Lebanon,” as reflected in their regulation booklet, which called for “the national youth [to] join the Party with tajarrud.” Lastly, the Phalange had a vitalist view of themselves as Christians, seeing their religion as their spark of life. Bashir Gemayel lamented the fate of Middle Eastern Christians outside Lebanon to a reporter from Le Nouvel Observateur, arguing that living in Muslim states had reduced them to the status of animals: “They eat, they drink, they work, they procreate. Their lives are reduced to this.”25 Samir Geagea took an even more the Lebanese Forces’ Religious Discourse During the Lebanese Civil War,” Critique of Anthropology vol. 12, no. 1 (1992): 30.

19 Hage, 29.

20 Ibid.

21 Hage, 30.

22 Hage, 43.

23 John P. Entelis, “Structural Change and Organizational Development in the Lebanese Kata’ib Party,” Middle East Journal vol. 27, no. 1 (1973): 34.

24 Hage, “Religious Fundamentalism as a Political Strategy,” 33.

25 Hage, 35.

24

explicitly vitalist viewpoint: “The Christians have a choice, either they live as biological entities, or in a society carrying Christian values.”26 Evidently, the Phalange carried on the fascist tradition of an idealist, vitalist, voluntaristic philosophy.

The second part of Payne’s criterion, “the attempt to realize a new modern, self-determined, and secular culture,” can be found in the Phalange’s espousal of Phoenicianism. Phoenicianism is an ideology that states that modern Lebanese are descendants of the Phoenicians, the ancient inhabitants of the Lebanese coast, rather than sharing a common heritage with Arabs27. This stance creates a culture of brotherhood among Lebanese, unifying them through secular rather than religious bonds, while simultaneously identifying the surrounding Arabs as ethnic others, undermining the Nasserist cause of Pan-Arabism. Despite its ancient themes, Phoenicianism certainly qualifies as a modern and self-determined culture, as the concept of Phoenicia was only introduced to Lebanon following the 1860 civil war between Maronites and Druze, whereupon layman Tanyus Shidyaq noted the similarity between ancient Phoenicia’s borders and those of the Ottomans’ Mount Lebanon Emirate28. Phoenicianism as a cultural ideology was not fully articulated until the writings of pre-independence poet Charles Corm, who “preached the Phoenician origin of the Maronites,”29 and the Christian nationalist Youssef al-Sawda, who viewed Lebanon “as an eternal entity, rooted in the Phoenician and biblical past,” and who greatly influenced the Phalange.30 In summary, Phoenicianism can be regarded as a new modern, self-determined, and secular culture, meaning the Phalange fully satisfies Payne’s first, and highly nuanced, criterion.

2. Creation of a new nationalist authoritarian state not based on traditional principles or models For much of its existence, the Phalangists fail this criterion for the simple reason that they sought to defend the Lebanese state, rather than overturn it. During its years as an opposition movement to the French Mandate, the Phalange mostly fulfilled this criterion, except the new nationalist state outlined in the National Pact was not an authoritarian regime, but a confessionalist democracy. Whatever the state’s shortcomings in the eyes of the Phalange, the party was aware of the worse danger of Syrian absorption. As Frank Stoakes says, based on his fieldwork studying the Phalange Party in 1973, 26 Hage, 43.

27 Marwan George Rowayheb, “Lebanese Militias: A New Perspective,” Middle Eastern Studies vol. 42, no. 2 (2006): 310.

28 Aulas, “The Socio-Ideological Development of the Maronite Community,” 11.

29 Aulas, 15.

30 Hage, “Religious Fundamentalism as a Political Strategy,” 29.

25

“the two primary goals of the party are the preservation of the state and the advancement of society, and the second is subordinate to the first; without the state there can be no progress.”31 To prove this argument, Stoakes points to the Phalange’s interventions on the government’s behalf in 1958, 1967, 1969, and 1973, and further claims that “Party militia and auxiliaries have prevented infiltration through the army defences, supplemented state protection of foreign residents, of business areas and of individual establishments, and have been ready to aid minorities.”32 Overall, the Phalange exhibited reactionary rather than revolutionary tendencies post-independence.

However, during the civil war, the Phalange created a de facto nationalist authoritarian state in the territory they controlled, mostly inhabited by Christians. The state administration and the Lebanese Army were quickly taken over by the Phalange,33 and through intimidation and propaganda, the Phalange, along with its umbrella organization the Lebanese Forces, “monopolized public opinion in the Christian camp” and enforced “an image of order and unanimity.”34 As Marie-Christine Aulas states, “the two extremist Christian forces... converged to make Lebanon a pro-Western, and even proIsraeli, Maronite/Phalangist state,”35 in stark contrast to the 1943 National Pact they had once supported. Indeed, Bashir Gemayel proudly claimed that the National Pact was “dead, buried, and we put a big stone on its tomb so that it does not resurrect.”36 Moreover, in the 1980s, the Lebanese Front – the political counterpart to the Lebanese Forces – issued the Historical Document (al-Wathiqa al-Tarikhiyya), which officially withdrew the constituent parties’ support from the National Pact and instead called for the reform of the Lebanese system into a federal structure, rather than a centralized unitary state.37 This was, above all, a pragmatic gesture: the civil war had proved that a centralized state under Christian domination was not sustainable, so the Phalange and its allies demanded a federal structure, such that Lebanese Christians could enjoy a measure of autonomy after the war.

To conclude, the Phalange followed Payne’s second criterion during the Lebanese Civil War. However, its lack of consistency, such as its pre-war support for the state and its later espousal of a federal system, undermine the notion that the pursuit of a new nationalist authoritarian state was a main goal of the Phalange.

31 Stoakes, “The Supervigilantes,” 217.

32 Stoakes, 231.

33 Aulas, “The Socio-Ideological Development of the Maronite Community,” 23.

34 Aulas, 22.

35 Aulas, 23.

36 El-Husseini, Pax Syriana, 43.

37 Rowayheb, “Lebanese Militias: A New Perspective,” 312.

26

3. Organization of a new highly regulated, multiclass, integrated national economic structure, whether called national corporatist, national socialist, or national syndicalist The Phalange paid lip service to several corporatist ideas. In the “Movement of July 7, 1980” speech, Bashir Gemayel echoed the Phalangists’ original ideals in 1936, calling for, in Aulas’s words, “a social revolution within the Maronite national context, a new version of the peasant revolt of the previous century.”38 Moreover, in addition to its militia squads and regional branches, the Phalange utilized the khaliyah cell, a workplace unit that grouped together all party members within a particular profession, regardless of geography.

One of the main goals of these cells was to arouse social responsibility in its members.39 Thus, the khaliyah can be considered an analogue of a corporate body or syndicate, albeit one implemented only at the party level, and not the government level. Finally, Stoakes writes that the Phalange embraced “state-assisted private enterprise,”40 which could be loosely interpreted as a corporatist model, although the tendency of modern capitalist nations to assist private enterprise through such activities as bailouts brings that interpretation into doubt.

Nevertheless, despite these nods to corporatism, the pre-civil war government oversaw a successful free-market economy,41 and as detailed in the previous section, the Phalange defended this government rather than challenged it.

Moreover, the Phalange embraced capitalism in its financial dealings. For example, the Phalange’s financial network included the Capital Trust Bank, owned by the son of a Phalangist parliamentary deputy, as well as the First National Bank of Chicago, tellingly renamed the First Phoenician Bank in 1982. Additionally, Roger Tamraz, identified by Najib Hourani as the Phalange’s “primary financier,” partially nationalized Lebanon’s largest bank, the failed Intra Bank, and transformed it into the semi-governmental Intra Investment Company.42 Intra owned significant stakes in local print media, Middle East Airlines, the Beirut Port Company, France’s second largest shipyard, and numerous real estate and banking companies.43 Beyond these mostly private business initiatives, in 1982, newly appointed president Amine Gemayel morphed the Phalange’s economic planning wing into the Council for Foreign Economic Relations, a government institution which was, as Hourani writes, “empowered to negotiate bilateral economic accords and to develop 38 Aulas, “The Socio-Ideological Development of the Maronite Community,” 22.

39 Entelis, “Structural Change and Organizational Development in the Lebanese Kata’ib Party,” 35.

40 Stoakes, “The Supervigilantes,” 216.

41 Najib Hourani, “Capitalists in Conflict: The Lebanese Civil War Reconsidered,” Middle East Critique vol. 24, no. 2 (2015): 139.

42 Hourani, 143.

43 Hourani, 144.

27

Lebanon’s offshore financial services.”44 Overall, Hourani claims, “as the oligarchs had done before, the party sought to capture both governmental and non-governmental institutions in the financial sector,” questioning whether the Phalange are any different from the capitalists who preceded them.

4. Positive evaluation and use of, or willingness to use, violence and war There is little room for doubt that the Phalange fulfills this criterion. The name “Phalange” itself implies belligerence, due to its roots in the ancient Greek phalanxes, meaning a body of troops of police officers. The Phalange began as a paramilitary organization, and the fact the militia came before the party, and not the other way around, is telling of the group’s militant mentality.

Indeed, the party organized combat training programs for its members, even during the relatively peaceful time of 1943-1957.45 Admittedly, Stoakes is right to point out the group’s reactionary nature, stating that the officers “do not like to lose their men, nor can they afford the loss... [and] as part of the Establishment, the party has the duty to prevent emergencies.”46 Nonetheless, when a perceived “emergency” occurred, the Phalange was committed to using violence to solve it. They had already demonstrated this tendency during their intervention on the government’s side in the 1958 conflict, but it became all the more prominent during the Lebanese Civil War. By the early 1970s, the presence of Yasser Arafat’s PLO in southern Lebanon had so drastically increased tensions that, as Aulas writes, “slogans on the order of ‘the only good Palestinian is a dead Palestinian’ were appearing on walls in Beirut’s Christian neighborhoods.”47 As mentioned before, the Phalangist attack on a Palestinian bus in response to the assassination of two of Pierre Gemayel’s colleagues is widely regarded as the start of the war.48 Moreover, Bashir Gemayel began the war with the main objective of violently expelling the PLO, perceiving them as having violated the sovereignty of Lebanon,49 and he was described by his colleague, Joseph Abou Khalil, as a wartime leader who believed force was the only effective way to establish power.50 Throughout the war, the Phalange committed numerous atrocities in order to ensure “sectarian and ideological homogeneity,” such as the “massacres in Hadith, Antilyas, Maslakh, al Nab’ah, Qarantina,” and “the execution of Christian communists in Kurah and of Palestinians living in the camps of Dubayyah, Jisr al-Basha, and…Tal al-Za’tar.”51 However, perhaps the most infamous 44 Ibid.

45 El-Husseini, Pax Syriana, 41.

46 Stoakes, “The Supervigilantes,” 232.

47 Aulas, “The Socio-Ideological Development of the Maronite Community,” 19 48 El-Husseini, Pax Syriana, 43.

49 Moubayed, “Lebanon’s Phalange Party: Back from the grave?,” 32.

50 El-Husseini, Pax Syriana, 43.

51 Aulas, “The Socio-Ideological Development of the Maronite Community,” 19.

28

war crime committed by the Phalange, under the supervision of the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF), was the 1982 massacre of Palestinians in the Sabra and Shatila refugee camps. The massacre was a retaliation for the assassination of Bashir Gemayel, believed to have been committed by Palestinians,52 and thus a clear example of the Phalange’s positive evaluation and use of violence.

5. The goal of empire, expansion, or a radical change in the nation’s relationship with other powers Unlike European fascist parties, which formed in less diverse nation-states, the Phalange’ Maronite Christian membership constituted only one ethnoreligious group in a diverse country. Thus, this criterion must be looked at within the Lebanese context: the expansion of Christian territory and influence within Lebanon should be regarded as analogous to the fascist states’ irredentist and imperial pursuit of territory. Similarly, “a radical change in the nation’s relationship with other powers” here means no more than the acceptance of an independent Lebanon, given the Syrian and pan-Arabist interests in the region.

On the latter point, the Phalange was fairly consistent. During the French Mandate, whereas some political organizations collaborated with France, and others sought union with Syria, the Phalange maintained its desire for an independent Lebanese state.53 As stated at a conference in Beirut in 1949, the Phalange believed that “Lebanon is a separate nation with a separate and a distinct destiny different from its Arab surroundings.”54 Indeed, Stoakes’ 1973 study affirms that “the core of the party’s doctrine is that Lebanon constitutes an independent entity which has the right to exist.”55 One seeming contradiction is the Phalange-backed government’s request for the Syrian Army to intervene in 1976, given the threat of Syria to Lebanon’s independence. However, when this request was made, the Phalange was on the defensive against the PLO and its allies in the Lebanese National Movement,56 and Bashir Gemayel perceived the PLO as having already threatened Lebanon’s independence. Moreover, having land borders with only Syria and Israel, and given the diplomatic fiasco that an official channel to Israel would have incurred, Syria was the only option. Finally, when it became apparent that the Syrian Army was not going to leave, the Phalange began military operations against it,57 staying true to their commitment to Lebanese independence.

52 El-Husseini, Pax Syriana, 45.

53 Moubayed, “Lebanon’s Phalange Party: Back from the grave?,” 32.

54 Rowayheb, “Lebanese Militias: A New Perspective,” 310.

55 Stoakes, “The Supervigilantes,” 234.

56 Aulas, “The Socio-Ideological Development of the Maronite Community,” 20.

57 Aulas, 21.

29

On the question of expansion, as mentioned in the previous section, the Phalange embarked on a campaign of sectarian cleansing during the war, to the point that it hoped to extend its territory beyond the Christian demographic presence.58 From 1977-1982, they were largely successful, controlling a distinct and homogeneous area.59 Overall, within the Lebanese context, the Phalange can be seen as pursuing a radical change in the nation’s relationship with other powers, and during the civil war, it pursued a policy of expansion.

6. Antiliberalism

PART B. THE FASCIST NEGATIONS

The Lebanese National Movement, one of the Phalangists’ chief enemies in the civil war, is described by Aulas as seeking to end “economic segregation” and “neo-feudal practices,” and being comprised of “progressive political parties.”60 In this respect, the Phalange can be seen as antiliberal. However, the Phalange engaged in practices itself that might be considered liberal. As noted before, between independence and the civil war, the Phalange defended a government that, aside from its confessional division along sectarian lines, followed the model of parliamentary liberal democracy. Moreover, the economy this government oversaw was that of a liberal free market, and the Phalange’s capitalist economic activities from 1975-1977, mentioned under criterion 3, constituted a liberalization of a financial sector that had been dominated by oligarchs.61 Most “damning” of all is the Phalange’s later espousal, as part of the Lebanese Front, of a federal system. In particular, the 1978 Saydat al-Bir document, a precursor to the aforementioned Historical Document, emphasized that any changes to the Lebanese political system should respect the pluralistic character of the country through either a decentralized or federal system, and advocated the autonomy of each confessional group.62 Altogether, the Phalange’s own liberal practices prevent it from being characterized as antiliberal, despite its opposition to multiple liberal and left-wing groups.

7. Anticommunism The Phalange followed unquestionably anti-communist policies throughout its existence. During the 1958 crisis, the opposition coalition against which the Phalange fought included the Nasserists, a left-wing and socialist-leaning movement itself, and the Lebanese Communist Party.63 In peacetime, the 58 Aulas, 19.

59 Aulas, 21.

60 Aulas, 18.

61 Hourani, “Capitalists in Conflict,” 144.

62 Rowayheb, “Lebanese Militias: A New Perspective,” 312.

63 El-Husseini, Pax Syriana, 42.

30

Phalange’s occupation-oriented khaliyah cells were explicitly designed to combat communist tendencies in the workplace. They were meant to penetrate workers’ unions in order to direct union activities away from politics and towards the apolitical social good, as well as to provide the party with an opportunity to confront communist and radical socialist tendencies.64 During the Lebanese Civil War, as mentioned, the Phalange executed Christian communists, and the psychological conditioning of the Christian population by the Phalange and its allies emphasized communism and the Palestinians as the twin sources of all evil.65 Additionally, the Lebanese Civil War pitted the Phalange against its old enemies from 1958, the Nasserists and the communists, as part of the Lebanese National Movement militia coalition.

8. Anticonservativism The Phalange occupies a problematic position within the stance of anticonservativism. On the one hand, it embarked on many practices to discredit prominent conservative groups. On the other hand, aspects of its ideology and practices were conservative themselves, most obviously the party’s slogan of “God, Family, Motherland.”66 Starting with the Phalangists’ anticonservative practices, the party’s khaliyah cells, in addition to their aforementioned purposes, were meant to “combat all anti-national obstacles, confessionalism, feudalism, and exploitation in places of work,” according to a 1955 resolution by the party’s maktab, or political bureau.67 Moreover, beginning in the 1940s, the party helped organize labour unions and pushed for their right to strike, in addition to bearing the main responsibility for drafting and enacting a comprehensive social security law.68 Later, Bashir Gemayel launched verbal attacks on the feudal and mercantilist nature of pre-war politics,69 and he refused to allow the official Lebanese Army access to his territory north of Beirut.70 Finally, the Phalange’s financial and banking activities had the objective of undermining the Beirut-based oligarchy, in favour of a developmental state.71 However, their expanding business network meant the party leaders were simply replacing the positions of the conservative oligarchs to an extent. Moreover, the Phalangists maintained a close relationship with the Maronite Patriarchate, and supported its non-religious roles, including 64 Entelis, “Structural Change and Organizational Development in the Lebanese Kata’ib Party,” 35.

65 Aulas, “The Socio-Ideological Development of the Maronite Community,” 18-19.

66 Aulas, 16.

67 Entelis, “Structural Change and Organizational Development in the Lebanese Kata’ib Party,” 35.

68 Stoakes, “The Supervigilantes,” 236.

69 Hage, “Religious Fundamentalism as a Political Strategy,” 40.

70 El-Husseini, Pax Syriana, 44.

71 Hourani, “Capitalists in Conflict,” 42.

31

that of a symbol for Lebanese nationalism.72 Overall, the balance seems to tip towards anticonservativism. Nevertheless, as with the case of antiliberalism, the Phalange’s conservative practices make a concrete judgment difficult.

PART C. STYLE AND ORGANIZATION 9. Attempted mass mobilization with militarization of political relationships and style and with the goal of a mass party militia While it was common for Lebanese political parties to possess a militia, the Phalange is notable for having started as one. In contrast, the Lebanese Communist Party only created an official militia after the start of the war in 1975.73 From the Phalange’s creation in 1936 until 1942, the basic unit of the movement was a squad of 25 men, part of a pyramidal structure that started with a 600-strong phalanx and ended with a six-man patrol.74 In 1942, the basic unit was changed to the qism, or section, which corresponded to a specific geographic area.75 The purpose of the qism branches, which were established even in small villages, was for mass mobilization in elections, and to prepare citizens to join the party militia when necessary.76 Due to this strategy, Aulas calls the Phalange “the only mass based political party in the Christian camp.”77 Nonetheless, the squad unit still persisted as the firqah, the base unit of the party militia, which had been reformed after the 1958 crisis.78 Membership in the militia was mandatory for all members under twenty-one who were not students, and nearly all party members, male and female, militia and civilian, were given pistol and rifle training.79 The combined numbers, training, and equipment, which included automatic rifles, machine guns, light mortars, made the Phalangist militia the strongest private force in the country, with the exception of the PLO.80 Overall, the qism shows the Phalange’s commitment to mass mobilization, while the power of its mass party militia is evident. Moreover, the consolidation of the various Christian militias, including the Phalange, under Bachir Gemayel’s 72 Hage, “Religious Fundamentalism as a Political Strategy,” 32.

73 Rowayheb, “Lebanese Militias: A New Perspective,” 307.

74 Entelis, “Structural Change and Organizational Development in the Lebanese Kata’ib Party,” 23.

75 Entelis, 25.

76 Entelis, 29.

77 Aulas, “The Socio-Ideological Development of the Maronite Community,” 19.

78 Entelis, “Structural Change and Organizational Development in the Lebanese Kata’ib Party,” 33.

79 Entelis, 34.

80 Stoakes, “The Supervigilantes,” 224.

32

Lebanese Forces umbrella, is an excellent example of the “militarization of political relationships.”

10. Emphasis on aesthetic structure of meetings, symbols, and political liturgy, stressing emotional and mystical aspects This aspect of fascism is present in the Phalange in multiple ways. To begin, from 1936 to 1942, all Phalangists had to wear a uniform, and they participated in parades.81 Additionally, they reacted to any insults against the President, including the removal of his picture from public places, or the desecration of the Lebanese flag, with mass demonstrations or physical reprisals.82 The Lebanese cedar, present on the Lebanese flag, became a symbol of Phoenicianism due to the importance of cedar lumber as a trade good for the ancient Phoenicians. Moreover, the long lifespan of the cedar invoked the notion of “the eternal Lebanon,” connecting the country to its Phoenician past and to its future.83 The cedar is also present on the Phalangist flag, but in contrast to the leafy, organic cedar on the Lebanese flag, it is drawn using rigid geometric shapes, and ends in a point, evoking the spears of the Greek phalanxes to which the party owes its name.

In addition, Christianity served as a vital part of Phalangist symbolism and political liturgy, to the point where most Phalangists “generally claimed that the special character of Lebanon was Christianity.”84 The most striking example was the sanctification of Bashir Gemayel as a Christ figure after his assassination. The Lebanese Forces erected a giant painting of Bashir on a busy road, and Hage describes the painting as such: “...the Lebanese flag wrapped around him just like the robe of Christ, raising his hands just like Christ, and saying, according to the painting: ‘I will forgive those who did me harm, but I will never forgive those who have harmed Lebanon.’”85 Similarly, Bashir’s collection of political speeches became regarded as a “corpus of ‘teachings’.”86 11. Extreme stress on the masculine principle and male dominance, while espousing a strongly organic view of society The early Phalange adhered to male dominance, with membership open only 81 Entelis, “Structural Change and Organizational Development in the Lebanese Kata’ib Party,” 23.

82 Stoakes, “The Supervigilantes,” 224.

83 Hage, “Religious Fundamentalism as a Political Strategy,” 29.

84 Rowayheb, “Lebanese Militias: A New Perspective,” 310.

85 Hage, “Religious Fundamentalism as a Political Strategy,” 37.

86 Hage, 38.

33

to men with the correct “moral conditions and physical aptitude.”87 However, as time went on, the role of women in the party became more pronounced.

In 1942, a women’s auxiliary was created as the party’s separate thirteenth department,88 and post-1952, there was an official Women’s Affairs department,89 culminating in full membership being available to both men and women.90 Nonetheless, the masculine principle remained, with the 1966 Report of the Secretary General stating that the Phalangist militia was aimed at “developing a personality of membership while working to strengthen their spirit of manliness.”91 Additionally, Bashir Gemayel echoed the fascist discourse of the “new man.” As Hage explains, “Bashir Gemayel constantly advocated the creation of a ‘new Lebanese man,’ free from both the extreme individualism and the servility associated with [pre-Civil War] politics.”92 As for the organic view of society, this is a difficult criterion to judge, but given the implied interconnectedness of the three components of the Phalangist motto, “God, Family, Motherland,” it might be said that they indeed had this view. Overall, the Phalange maintained an understanding of the masculine principle, but it lacked the “extreme stress” stipulated by Payne’s typology.

12. Exaltation of youth above other phases of life, emphasizing the conflict of generations, at least in effecting the initial political transformation Emphasis on the conflict of generations can be found as part of the Phalange’s anticonservative activities and rhetoric, and the Phalange had a strong connection to youth. Its five founders were all young and middle-class,93 and Bashir Gemayel was only 34 when he was elected President and assassinated.

In addition, most of the professional men who were members of the party were relatively young, and not as well-established as their older peers.94 Beyond these circumstantial considerations, the Phalange initially presented itself as a youth and sports movement,95 devoted to athletic training for the purposes of combat,96 and it retained respective departments for sports and students even in its later years.97 In addition, according to the 1966 Report of the Secretary87 Entelis, “Structural Change and Organizational Development in the Lebanese Kata’ib Party,” 23.

88 Entelis, 24.

89 Entelis, 29.

90 Stoakes, “The Supervigilantes,” 216.

91 Entelis, “Structural Change and Organizational Development in the Lebanese Kata’ib Party,” 34.

92 Hage, “Religious Fundamentalism as a Political Strategy,” 40.

93 El-Husseini, Pax Syriana, 41.

94 Frank Stoakes, “The Supervigilantes,” 216.

95 Aulas, “The Socio-Ideological Development of the Maronite Community,” 16.

96 Entelis, “Structural Change and Organizational Development in the Lebanese Kata’ib Party,” 22.

97 Entelis, 29.

34

General, the Phalangist militia had the goal of “dissipating the attitude of indifference among the youth.”98 Evidently, the Phalange appreciated the importance of youth, and was mobilized by the younger generation, while making efforts to engage that same generation.

13. Specific tendency toward an authoritarian, charismatic, personal style of command, whether or not the command is to some degree initially elective Due to the strong leadership of the Gemayel family, the Phalange fits this final criterion. Party leadership was supposedly elective, but Pierre Gemayel and his two sons, Amine and Bashir, led the party for most of its existence, from its creation until the end of the civil war.99 Indeed, while John P. Entelis is able to trace the Party’s transformation from an autocratic centralist system of organization to a democratic centralist system,100 until Pierre Gemayel’s death in 1984, no decision could be made without his approval.101 Meanwhile, the Phalange closely controlled its parliamentary deputies, insinuating that their success was owed entirely to their loyalty to the party.102 As for individual leaders, Pierre Gemayel was given the honorific “Sheikh,” and was regarded as the Phalangist closest to Christ.103 This is evident in the writings of the party’s historians, who refer to Pierre as having a “halo of saintliness.” Another writer stated, “Along your path we walk... You are to us more than a leader. You are a higher example we yearn to follow.”104 The cult of personality surrounding Bashir Gemayel was even more prevalent.

As Aulas writes, “Tough, thick-set and rough-mannered, he called to mind the traditional peasant of the mountains. His simple mores and his constant presence among the rank and-file militants and militiamen earned him the image of a warrior-monk. He expressed himself in the everyday dialect that everyone understood, and had a gift for those quick, simple formulas that excite the spirit and lend purpose to action.”105 Unsurprisingly, he also became a Christ figure upon his death. Said one Phalangist reporter, “If Jesus, the son of God, wanted and had to go through death to save us, why would we want it to be otherwise for our regretted cheikh Bashir whom we have called, and rightly so, the saviour of Lebanon?” Moreover, his death was given a theological significance, with his followers finding 98 Entelis, 34.

99 Moubayed, Sami Moubayed, “Lebanon’s Phalange Party: Back from the grave?,” 33.

100 Entelis, “Structural Change and Organizational Development in the Lebanese Kata’ib Party,” 23-25.

101 Rowayheb, “Lebanese Militias: A New Perspective,” 310-311.

102 El-Husseini, Pax Syriana, 42.

103 Hage, “Religious Fundamentalism as a Political Strategy,” 31.

104 Hage, 32.

105 Aulas, “The Socio-Ideological Development of the Maronite Community,” 21.

35

meaning in details such as the fact that he made his final speech under a cross which bore the inscription, “By this sign, you will vanquish.”106 Clearly, between Pierre and Bashir Gemayel, the Phalange followed an authoritarian, charismatic, and personal style of command.

Conclusion While the Lebanese Phalangist Party possesses many of Payne’s fascist characteristics, it is lacking in several key areas, namely statist authoritarianism, corporatist economics, antiliberalism, anticonservativism, and an extreme stress of male dominance. On the other hand, the Phalange closely conforms to many of Payne’s criteria, such as its idealist philosophy, willingness to use violence, anticommunism, mass party militia, aesthetic structure, and a charismatic, authoritarian style of leadership. Thus, while the Phalange cannot be considered “fascist” according to Payne’s typology, it serves as an example of how fascist characteristics can manifest in political groups in Lebanon, and to a broader scope, the Middle East.

106 Hage, “Religious Fundamentalism as a Political Strategy,” 37.

36

Bibliography

Aulas, Marie-Christine. “The Socio-Ideological Development of the Maronite Community: The Emergence of the Phalanges and the Lebanese Forces.” Arab Studies Quarterly vol. 7, no.

4 (1985): 1-27.

El-Husseini, Rola. Pax Syriana: Elite Politics in Postwar Lebanon. Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2012.

Entelis, John P. “Structural Change and Organizational Development in the Lebanese Kata’ib Party.” Middle East Journal vol. 27, no. 1 (1973): 21-35.

Hage, Ghassan. “Religious Fundamentalism as a Political Strategy.” Critique of Anthropology vol. 12, no. 1 (1992): 27-45.

Hourani, Najib. “Capitalists in Conflict: The Lebanese Civil War Reconsidered.” Middle East Critique vol. 24, no. 2 (2015): 137-160.

Moubayed, Sami. “Lebanon’s Phalange Party: Back from the grave? (Letter from the Levant).” Washington Report on Middle East Affairs vol. 21, no. 4, (2002): 32-33.

Payne, Stanley G. A History of Fascism, 1914-1945. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1996.

Rowayheb, Marwan George. “Lebanese Militias: A New Perspective.” Middle Eastern Studies vol. 42, no. 2 (2006): 303-318.

Stoakes, Frank. “The Supervigilantes: The Lebanese Kataeb Party as a Builder, Surrogate and Defender of the State.” Middle Eastern Studies vol. 11, no. 3 (1975): 215-236.

37

Coptic vs.

Christian A QUESTION OF CULTURAL IDENTITY IN THE MEDIEVAL CEMETERIES OF LOWER NUBIA

Jason Silvestri

38

Introduction Perhaps one of the most rushed archaeological surveys ever to be conducted was that of the Lower Nubian Nile River Valley directed by the American archaeologist, George Reisner, from 1907 through 1911 under the auspices of the Egyptian Department of Finance. Shortly before the turn of the century, the Khedive, Abbas Hilmi Pasha, declared his intent to control the flow of the Nile so as to better control irrigation patterns and to lengthen the agricultural season. This required the construction of the First Aswan Dam in the southernmost region of Egypt, so as to stop the annual inundation and regulate the amount of water flowing into Egypt’s breadbasket. The dam flooded a large portion of the Nile Valley, roughly from Aswan in the north to around Sebua in the south, rendering many important archaeological sites in Lower Nubia inaccessible to further research. The Egyptian Department of Finance contracted George Reisner to document the most important features of the major archaeological sites within the flood-zone (Maṣlaḥat al-Misāḥah 1910, 5).

The product of his work was the several-volume Archaeological Survey of Nubia, which documented his highly systematic excavation of 151 cemeteries within the flood zone, as well as rough surveys of interesting archaeological sites and landmarks just outside the flood-zone (Firth 1927, 45).

One important outcome of Reisner’s survey expedition is the establishment of the chronology of Nubia, a civilization often overshadowed in academia by its northern neighbor. Reisner documented phases of inhabitation at the various Nubian sites and managed to relate them to contemporary Egyptian archaeological and historical periods. While much ink has been spilt on the various interactions between native Egyptian and Nubian civilizations, and even interaction between Nubia and the Hellenistic and Roman worlds, little attention has been given to the material culture of Christian Nubia. Textual evidence points to clear links, both in theology and ecclesiastical history, between Nubian Christianity and the Coptic Church in Alexandria, though there is remarkably little that suggests cultural affinities between Copts and Christianized Nubians (“Evangelization of Nubia”, 1801a). Rather, it is the academic consensus that the people who inhabited Nubia were not of the same ethnic or cultural group as the native inhabitants of Egypt, though they shared similar cultural and religious practices, likely formed by virtue of the physical limitations imposed upon their urheimaten by the geography of the Nile Valley (Shaw 2000, 308-309).

The shared religious practices of Nubian Christians and Coptic Christians were further emphasized after the schism between the Oriental Orthodoxy and the Orthodox Patriarchate of Constantinople, with the Nubian church falling under the jurisdiction of the Coptic Orthodox Patriarch of Alexandria in the sixth century CE (“Evangelization of Nubia”, 1801b). The quasi-nationalist character of the post-schism Coptic Church is further reflected in the Nubian Church’s decision to change its liturgical language from the foreign Koine Greek to the local Old Nubian, in addition to following similar theological decisions made by the Coptic Church in an effort to distance itself from the more rejectionist Byzantine Church.

39

Despite the somewhat nationalist substrata in Nubian theology, the fragmented political situation in Medieval Nubia did not allow for a full nationalization of the Nubian Church, and rather sought to divide Nubian peoples along political lines, while disregarding any theological threads of Nubian cultural cohesion (“Ballaña Kingdom and Culture”, 332b).

This lack of theologically mandated cultural cohesion is further reflected in the burial practices of everyday Nubians, as uncovered by Reisner’s archaeological survey. Whereas their Coptic Egyptian neighbors were heavily influenced by the theological concept of monasticism, and particularly by asceticism, anachoritism, and coenobitism, it seems, from the archaeological and epigraphic evidence, that the contemporary Nubian peoples were not largely affected by monasticism, and rather continued to live in smaller agricultural communities (Adams 1993, 33).

The lack of monastic character of Nubian settlements has been explored in later archaeological expeditions to Nubia, though the lack of monastic characteristics typical of Coptic graves in the Nubian cemeteries unearthed by Reisner’s survey is notable. Of the dozens of Christian cemeteries excavated and documented by the Archaeological Survey, only a select few contained graves of monks (Maṣlaḥat alMisāḥah 1910, 104-108). In order to better understand this non-monastic character of Nubian graves in the light of Coptic burial practices, it is necessary to explore the various extant grave types in Nubia and some of their Coptic Egyptian counterparts.

Grave Typology The following will serve as an enumeration of Nubian Christian Grave types, synthesized from several publications of the Archaeological Survey of Nubia. They will be named and numbered according to their first attestations in the survey. The renaming and re-categorization of the grave data is necessary for the organization of the data, as Reisner’s team did not have a standardized typological method of categorizing grave types, and rather relied on a confusing method in which the gravetype numbering would reset for each site, to the extent that, when viewed on a supraregional level, there were multiple identical grave types with different typological numbers. This work seeks to ameliorate any sense of confusion gained from working with Reisner’s grave typology through a comprehensive re-categorization of the graves’ architectural types and sub-types. This is a necessary preliminary step to the examination of the graves’ contexts on local, societal, and comparative levels.

The first encountered Christian grave type in the survey was found in the “Coptic cemetery” on the island of Hesa, just to the south of Aswan. Reisner and his team labelled the grave type, “Chr[istian] type I” (Maṣlaḥat al-Misāḥah 1910, 96), but for the purposes of this synthesis, it will be relabeled as the Hesa I grave type (see Figure 1). This type consists of a vaulted substructure, containing the burial or extended burials, which would have been roofed and sealed. This substructure would have stood under another, similarly vaulted superstructure (Maṣlaḥat alMisāḥah 1910, 96). The vaulted superstructure was entered by a doorway located 40

on its eastern wall, often flanked by pillars. It has been posited that the pillars supported arches.

On the northern wall, there was a ceremonial niche, perhaps once filled with a funerary stele. All burials of this type were oriented along an eastwest axis, in keeping with the general orientation of the tomb structure itself, and likewise in keeping with the other burial types of Christian Nubia (Maṣlaḥat al-Misāḥah 1910, 97).

Figure 1: Hesa I-type vaulted-grave with chapel

Figure 2: Hesa II-type terrace graves

The second type, deemed “Chr. Type IIa,” which will be relabeled as the Hesa II type (see Figure 2), was closely related in superstructure to the Hesa I grave type, as it also consisted of a vaulted superstructure, though it was entered through doors on the north and south sides of the structure. There was a third door on the western side of the structure leading to a granite terrace structure, upon which a colonnade stood, similar in construction to Hesa I’s entrance colonnade (Maṣlaḥat al-Misāḥah 1910, 97). The eastern wall of the interior chamber contained two lamp niches. The burial itself was merely dug into the floor of the superstructure; thus, the major practical difference between Hesa I and Hesa II grave structures is the presence of a substructure. Additionally, it is noted in the archaeological survey that both the Hesa I and II types were finished with white plaster. There was some variation in the placement of entryways and the lampniches among the various Hesa II-type tombs excavated throughout Lower Nubia (Maṣlaḥat al-Misāḥah 1910, 98). A third type of Christian terrace grave, very similar in layout to the Hesa II grave type but un-plastered, will be designated as a subtype of Hesa II – thus Hesa IIa – whereas Reisner classified it as belonging to a different class of graves, due to its unfinished nature (Maṣlaḥat Figure 3: Hesa III-type al-Misāḥah 1910, 99). kiosk graves

The next grave type, Hesa III (see Figure 3), consists of a large vault supported by “eight irregular mud-brick pillars” and formed a sort of open-air burial kiosk.

Gaps between the pillars were sometimes filled with rubble, though at least one 41

was always left open so as to allow re-entry for extended or familial burials. The bodies were placed on the floor, and often wrapped in cloth and oriented along the typical Christian east-west axis. This was likely a funerary stele mounted in the rubble somewhere on the southern wall (Maṣlaḥat al-Misāḥah 1910, 99). This burial type is highly reminiscent of Egyptian Coptic burials excavated in a roughly contemporary cemetery at al-Bagawat, though the Bagawat graves of similar type were built as kiosks standing on four pillars (Grossman et.al. 1991, 327a).

The next grouping of grave structures, found at Hesa, is reminiscent of earlier native, pagan, Egyptian and Nubian grave types, and are much simpler in nature than the vaulted and pillared structures also present in their stratum. For this reason, they will all be classified as subtypes of the same general structure, deemed Hesa IV, with subsets ‘a’ through ‘c’. These types correspond to Reisner’s types V through VII. The general structure of the Hesa IV series is that of a tumulus-like semicylindrical superstructure, aligned with a burial pit, which, in addition to the body, would have sometimes also contained a lamp-niche.

Hesa IVa, corresponding to “Chr. V” in Reisner’s typology, is a simple vaulted pit with a solid stone superstructure (Maṣlaḥat alMisāḥah 1910, 99). While only one was discovered in Hesa’s cemetery, many more were found in Cemetery 5 at the nearby site of Biga (Maṣlaḥat al-Misāḥah 1910, 104).

Hesa IVb (see Figure 4 in Appendix II), or Reisner’s “Chr. VI” consists of a large, cylindrical, sarcophaguslike superstructure, oriented along an east-west axis with a small lamp-niche constructed on the face of the western end.

42

Hesa IVc (see Figure 5), or Reisner’s “Chr. VII,” has the same structure as Hesa IVb, but lacks the cylindrical superstructure; it only has a rubble mastaba type superstructure. It should be noted that while Hesa IVb is made from stone or mud-brick, Hesa IVc is constructed entirely from rubble (Maṣlaḥat al-Misāḥah 1910, 99).

The final few grave types noted by Reisner at Hesa will not be included here, due to the fact that they were in such a poor state of preservation that their basic architectural features could not be determined at the time of excavation (Maṣlaḥat al-Misāḥah 1910, 99).

The next major Christian cemetery excavated by the survey was Cemetery 5 at Biga, another island in the Nile, just south of Aswan. There were two new gravetypes established at this site, which will be re-identified as Biga I and Biga II. These correspond to Reisner’s Chr. IV and Chr. V grave types, respectively.

Figure 6: The Biga I double-vaulted grave

The Biga I grave type (see Figure 6) consists of a doublevaulted superstructure with a semi-subterranean burial shaft. The outer superstructure consists of a sepulchral temenos,1 in the center of which stands a vaulted superstructure, with an entryway in its western side.

This structure was either made from mud brick (fired or unfired) or stone. The grave itself lies under a second, interior vault, and was accessed directly though the exterior entryway. Of all grave types extant in Lower Nubia, this type provided the most epigraphic evidence of Coptic Christian use, as many of the burials found within Biga I graves contained either wooden labels or funerary stelae identifying the tomb owners as affiliates of various local monastic institution (Maṣlaḥat alMisāḥah 1910, 102).

The Biga II type tomb (see Figure 7) is very similar in structure to the Hesa IVa structure except it is more commonly found doubled or tripled, and is commonly made a communal grave. It consists of a simple semisubterranean brick vault.

Figure 7: A triple-Biga II semi-subterranean vaulted grave

Lastly, there was one uncommon grave type – Biga III – of relatively low importance, noted by Reisner to have been present at Biga. This type, to which Reisner

1 A thin layer of plaster, covering the ground immediately surrounding the grave structure.

43

had assigned a label already assigned to another grave type, consisted of a simple superstructure created from similarly-sized stone blocks, conforming either to a tumulus shape or to a small vault. The grave itself was dug as a simple shaft, at most a meter in depth, below the superstructure. There was no chapel element to this grave type, though there was sometimes a lamp niche in one of the exterior walls of the superstructure (see Figure 8 in Appendix II) (Maṣlaḥat al-Misāḥah 1910, 103).

The other graves at Biga and the remaining cemeteries excavated by Reisner in the 1907-1908 season all conformed to one of the Figure 8: A Biga III simple stone superstructure with shaft grave aforementioned structures, or had unidentifiable structures due to severe denudation of the superstructures or disturbance of the burials themselves. The 1908-1909 and 1909-1910 seasons of the survey focused on the area of Ginari and its regional surroundings. This area, now submerged under Lake Nubia, is particularly rich in its archaeological record, and many sites have well-preserved Christian cemeteries.

44

Figure 9: Ginari I type, bicameral shaft grave

The graves at Ginari were arranged into a carefully planned grid and all shared roughly the same structure, Ginari I (see Figure 9 in Appendix II). Their structure is most similar to the Hesa IVb type, though it shares certain key cultural elements, like the placement of funerary stelae and lamps, with the Biga I type.

Ginari I tombs consist of a large, sandstone and rubble, filled, vaulted superstructure, with a funerary stele mounted on the western exterior face of the vault, sometimes accompanied by lamp niches. Its exterior was finished with white plaster and was occasionally painted with floral, vegetal, or faunal motifs. The superstructure was constructed above a large shaft, on average two meters in depth, with a large sandstone slab separating the shaft into two chambers. The uppermost chamber was filled with rubble, so as to better support the superstructure, while the lower chamber

housed the burials. It is common to find multiple burials in each tomb, and the two cemeteries of Ginari (Cemeteries 54 and 55) held a total of 3,000 to 5,000 graves, a fraction of which were excavated by the Archaeological Survey of Nubia (Firth 1912, 40). It should be noted that many Ginari I graves were built over older, pagan X-Group (Ballaña Culture) graves, and it appears that they may have also been an outgrowth of an earlier bi-cameral grave structure (Firth 1912, 41).

Sites south of Ginari, investigated in later seasons of the survey under the supervision of Colin Firth, seem to have exhibited similar or identical grave types (Firth 1912, 41). In his (somewhat unclear) descriptions of the architecture, Firth references to the presence of graves with cupolas in the Nubian Christian cemeteries south of Ginari, but fails to describe them further. It can be inferred that these structures conform roughly to the Biga I grave type (Firth 1927, 32).

Cultural Identity While ethnic identity was a subject much debated by the early scholars of Nubian civilization, including Reisner and Firth themselves, the cultural identity and interaction of Christian religion and native cultural practices in Nubia is a topic that has been heavily underrepresented in academic pursuits, even of Christian Nubia. This is partially due to the primarily funerary nature of the archaeological data accessible to specialists of this period.

In his synthesis of the grave data from all excavations of Christian sites in Nubia, Arthur Obłuski notes a significant change in the burial practices of Lower Nubians, allegedly corresponding to their adoption of new religious practices with the introduction of Christianity by Egyptian and Byzantine missionaries. This change in burial rite, according to Obłuski, is demonstrable in the change from a dromos structure, common to the funerary cultures of all pre-Christian Nubian groups, to a series of structures less conducive to the practice of leaving offerings for the dead (Obłuski 2011, 529a). Obłuski’s claim that the change in grave architecture reflects a theologically-mandated change in funeral rite holds truer for some grave types than others, particularly when coupled with the epigraphic evidence from the more monumental grave types, such as the Biga I type.

Reisner and Firth’s archaeological surveys of the Christian cemeteries of Lower Nubia had the explicit goal of documenting as many architectural and osteological features unique to the region as possible within their limited timeframe. Thus, it is understandable that their reports lack some of the more specialized subdisciplines of Christian Nubiology, most notably epigraphy.

Included throughout the many volumes published by the Archaeological Survey of Nubia are many small funerary inscriptions, mainly composed in Greek, but occasionally in Coptic, found primarily within tombs of the Biga I type. Two of such inscriptions in particular highlight the association between this type of tomb and monasticism, an institution whose origins can be definitively place in Coptic 45

Egypt. The first of these directly refers to the deceased as an “anchorite” (see Inscription I). The second inscription comes from a lamp, and serves as a marker of monastic activity. Its association with a monastery of St. Sergios also contributes to the general link between the Biga I type tombs and monastic activity (see Inscription II). The direct association of the owners of Biga I type tombs with monastic institutions leads one to associate these people, by proxy, with a more Coptic Christian identity, seeing as the concepts of monasticism and Coptic Christianity are inexorably intertwined.

Furthermore, the repeated association of Biga I-type tomb owners with various “Coptic” monastic institutions and the lack of such epigraphic evidence for the owners of other tombs belies the notion that the native Nubian populations adopted only the religion from their Coptic neighbors. The construction of large, monumental, sepulchral structures atop their graves, and the composition of funerary inscriptions using traditional Coptic monastic titles are clear markers of exchange, both on a religious and cultural level. Thus, it can be established that the people of Lower Nubia, or at the very least a social stratum present in Nobatian society4, was heavily influenced by the cultural practices of their Coptic neighbors.

2

3

While there are clear monastic associations for some Nobatian elites, the lack of epigraphic data extracted from the burials and structures of other grave-types, coupled with the lack of Coptic cultural markers (i.e. Coptic crosses, textiles, burial shrouds, etc.) typical of monastic burials throughout Egypt (Godlewski 2014, 180), casts doubt upon the notion of a shared material and ritual culture for Coptic Egypt 2 Translation: J. Silvestri, 2017; inscription transcribed by Colin Firth. Maṣlaḥat alMisāḥah 1910, 104) 3 Translation: J. Silvestri, 2017; inscription transcribed by Colin Firth. Maṣlaḥat alMisāḥah 1910, 108) 4 Nobatia is a political term for the petty kingdom established between the first and second cataracts between the fall of the centralized Meroitic state and the introduction of Islam to Nubia. This polity is also referred to archaeologically as the X-group or Ballaña culture (“Ballaña Kingdom and Culture” 1991, 332a-b).

46

Plan 1: The Plan of the Nubian Christian settlement at Sabagura5

and5 Christian Lower Nubia (Nobatia).

Furthermore, it can be understood, through analysis of the tumulusbased grave types, namely Hesa IVa-c and Biga II grave types, that there is a certain degree of continuity between the native, pagan X-group population and Christian population of Nobatia, due to the great commonality of their grave types. It is highly likely that these grave types are direct structural descendants of the more traditional dromos and tumulus graves of early periods. This parallel was even drawn in Reisner’s survey (Maṣlaḥat al-Misāḥah 1910, 95), though it was established more firmly in Firth’s later studies following the conclusion of the survey in 1911 (Firth 1927, 32-33).

Whereas Obłuski claims that the change in grave architecture reflects an inherent change in burial and funerary rite made during the conversion to Christianity (Obłuski 2011, 533), this process may have been more fluid and dynamic, with certain social strata adopting more cultural features of the newly-introduced Coptic faith than others. Further clouding our understanding of the dynamics of cultural interaction is the nature of our understanding of Medieval Coptic culture. Due to the fact that the majority of Medieval (c. 600- 1200 CE) Coptic sites excavated and studied are monastic in nature, our modern understanding of Coptic cultural practices equates them to their contemporary Coptic monastic practices. Thus, our understanding of Coptic culture as a whole is greatly colored by the drastically greater availability of monastic archaeological evidence over the remains of secular, administrative, or even agricultural settlements.

Likewise, our understanding of Medieval Lower Nubian civilization is highly influenced by the supremacy of grave, agricultural, and military settlement data in the archaeological record. Foremost among several settlements excavated during the Archaeological Survey of Nubia is that of Sabagura (Firth 1912, 41). As can be 5 (Firth 1912, Vol.2 Plan XVI) 47

understood from its structure, the Sabagura settlement was likely an outgrowth of an earlier Hellenistic or Roman military outpost, which was Christianized during the evangelization of Lower Nubia in the (“Evangelization of Nubia” 1991, 1801b).

The lack of large public buildings, and the small size of the religious institutions in the town (see Plan 1 in Appendix II), lead to the present understanding of the site as not having been affiliated with a monastic institution, but rather as being an agricultural or military settlement (Firth 1912, 41-42). While the greater sense of uniformity of grave type and general organized structure of the nearby Ginari cemeteries suggests that the community at Sabagura was relatively wealthier than most other Lower Nubian settlements, the lack of larger public spaces and buildings implies a sense of rurality to the settlement and its immediate environs.

Thus, the clearly non-monastic character of many Nubian settlements, and by extension their cemeteries, can be held in stark contrast with the demonstrably monastic grave types, particularly Biga I graves, but also Hesa I, Hesa II, Hesa III, and Biga II grave types, uncovered throughout Lower Nubia. The monastic character of these grave types is perhaps indicative of a divide in the inhabitants of Nubian settlements, with various, more culturally-Coptic, anchorites residing among Nubians, even post-evangelization, so as to isolate themselves from a more “worldly” life in the highly-urbanized settlements of Coptic Egypt. This process of cultural isolation through anachoresis from the highly centralized settlements of the Egyptian Nile Valley to the idealized pastoral communities of the Lower Nubian Nile Valley can be mirrored on the other extreme of the Nobatian societal spectrum by fact that the Hesa IVa-c grave types in conjunction with the Biga II grave type are direct developments of the local X-Group/Ballaña Culture’s funerary customs and grave structures (Maṣlaḥat al-Misāḥah 1910, 95).

Additionally, comparison with the non-monastic Coptic Egyptian graves from the largely monastic site of Naqlun (Nekloni) illuminates the differences in cultural practices between the Coptic laity of Egypt and the Copticized Nubians of Lower Nubia. While Reisner and Firth noted the lack of grave goods among Nubian Christian graves, Godlewski and his team have demonstrated the typical Coptic lay burial to have included many grave goods of all different natures, from textiles to glass objects and metal jewelry (Godlewski 2014, 180).

While this difference could be explained by the disparity in economic status between a wealthy monastic center in Egypt, with more access to luxury goods, and a military/ agrarian village in Nubia like Sabagura, evidence of differences in burial practices and the funeral rites themselves between Nubian Christians and Egyptian Copts act to broaden the cultural divide. Godlewski notes that the majority of the 61 graves excavated from Cemetery A of Nekloni in the 2010-2011 archaeological season contained the remains of wooden coffins (Godlewski 2014, 180), while Reisner and Firth uncovered not a single Nubian Christian coffin in their four seasons of excavations throughout Lower Nubia. This lack of coffins points to differences in cultural practices and beliefs surrounding death and the funerary rite, and thus serves to distinguish the Egyptian Copts from their theological brothers and sisters in Nubia along cultural lines.

48

Conclusion Through careful comparison of all extant Christian grave types in Lower Nubia, it can be understood that there existed two major cultural influences in Medieval Nobatian society. One of these cultural influences, attested in the more monumental Hesa I, II, and III and Biga I grave types, can be firmly tied to the Coptic cultural and religious practice of anachoritic monasticism. The other is a native influence, and is attested in the more common grave forms, Hesa IVa-c and Ginari I, and is a clear outgrowth of earlier local cultures and their funerary institutions. Thus, while this study only concerns the sepulchral data of the Lower Nubian cultures, it can be extrapolated through comparison both with local Nubian sites, such as Sabagura, and with comparable Egyptian sites, such as Naqlun, that the cultural identity of the Nobatian Christians was distinct from that of their Egyptian neighbors, though strata of their society were inexorably religiously and culturally linked to the practices of their Coptic contemporaries.

Works Cited

Adams, William Y. “Ballaña Kingdom and Culture” in Claremont Coptic Encyclopedia. 332a333a Macmillan, 1991.

Adams, William Y. “Evangelization of Nubia” in Claremont Coptic Encyclopedia. 1801a1802b Macmillan, 1991.

Adams, William Y. “Medieval Nubia: Another Golden Age”. Expedition, 35,2:28-39. 1993 Firth, Colin. The Archaeological Survey of Nubia: Report for 1908-1909. Cairo, Government Press, 1912.

Firth, Colin. The Archaeological Survey of Nubia: Report for 1910-1911. Cairo, Government Press, 1927.

Grossman, Peter, G. Wagner, and G. Roquet. “Al-Bagawat” in Claremont Coptic Encyclopedia 326a-329a Macmillan, 1991.

Godlewski, Wlodzimierz. “Naqlun (Nekloni). Excavations in 2010-2011”. Polish Archaeology in the Mediterranean, 23/1: 173-191. Warsaw, 2014.

Obluski, Artur. “Tomb Building Tradition in Lower Nubia from the Meroitic Age to After Christianization”. Polish Archaeology in the Mediterranean, XX:525-540. Poland, 2011.

Shaw, Ian. “Egypt and the Outside World” in The Oxford History of Ancient Egypt. Oxford University Press, New York, 2000. pp. 308-323

49

Cultural Consciousness and the Evolution of Islamism in the Iranian Revolution of 1979 Nazanin Zarepour

Illustration adapted from David Burnett’s 44 Days: The Iranian Revolution 50

The Iranian Revolution of 1979 proves an idiosyncratic case for scholars of social movements – rather than the typical focus on structural constraints, our attention was pushed towards ideology. I will be using a Marxian approach for understanding why Islamism developed as the dominant ideology of the movement – however, I will be going beyond the scope of economic determinism to explore the cultural and ideational circumstances of the Iranian context.

Alienation of civil society from the state created circumstances for a cultural consciousness among the Iranian people, which resulted in a prevailing ideology that could successfully respond to this sense of cultural alienation. The Islamic ideology emerged as the victor during the revolution because it was not created by either the West nor the East, but rather was a nativist trend of intellectualism that spoke to the deeper cultural convictions of the people. While nationalism could speak to concerns of imperialism and leftism could speak to concerns of economic inequity, these ideologies were ultimately not only products of foreign entities but were also ideologies coopted by the state. They thus could not compete with the cultural idioms and symbols available in the Islamic repertoire, which could speak to distinct feelings of alienation. To demonstrate the emergence of Islamism and why nationalism and leftism failed, I will first explore how the cultural, economic, and political alienation of civil society from the state established the foundations for these ideologies to resonate. The alienation of civil society leads to the development of a discursive field of ideology – in other words, an “open conflict,” – until one emerges as the victorious revolutionary ideology. Second, I will discuss this “open conflict” of ideologies, namely how leftist and nationalist ideologies failed and how the discourse of political Islam developed under certain ideologues such as Jalal al-e Ahmad, Ali Shariati, and Ayatollah Khomeini. Lastly, I will be demonstrating the distinct ability of Islamism to turn into revolutionary praxis as opposed to the nationalist and leftist movements which largely lost momentum after 1953.

A central question in exploring the ideological roots of the Islamic Revolution of 1979 is why Islamism became the prevailing revolutionary ideology as opposed to leftism or nationalism. In Ideology as Episodic Discourse, Mansoor Moaddel explores the prevailing scholarly approaches to understanding the emergence of the Islamic Ideology in the 1979 Revolution – namely, the subjectivist, organisational, and Marxian models.1 Of particular importance is his rejection of the Marxian model, which posits that economic circumstances “produce a mass in a common situation which gives rise to a common interest.”2 This development of class-consciousness and the concomitant revolutionary class precedes the emergence of a resonating ideology, or an ideology which is the totality of said social and class-consciousness.

Moaddel rejects the Marxian model as it fails to explain why a diverse array of 1 Mansoor Moaddel, “Ideology as Episodic Discourse,” American Sociological Review 57, no. 3 (1992): 353.

2 Michael Levin, Marx, Engels, and Liberal Democracy, (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 1989), 74 51

classes came together in support of a particularly Islamic Republic.3 In other words, according to Moaddel, class-consciousness and economic circumstances are not adequate for understanding the revolution because they fail to explain diverse demographics and the emergence of Islamism as the dominant ideology.

First and foremost, the diversity of these groups should not be overemphasised.

“The social profiles” of the Revolution were uniform in many ways: they consisted of the “young (twenties and thirties), urban (mostly Tehran), and well educated (studied at secular universities in Iran or the West). Frequently they were followers of Ali Shariati, an intellectual who blended Marxist concerns for social justice with Islamic themes of authenticity.”4 If we broaden our scope of the Marxian approach to the development of a “revolutionary class” so that it includes cultural and ideational iterations, a great degree of uniformity can be found among Iranian protesters. Instead of economic circumstances leading to the development of a class-consciousness and thus a revolutionary class, a cultural consciousness developed increasingly at odds with the cultural and ideological bases of the state.

The Iranian people were thus increasingly alienated from the state, and Islamic ideologues spoke to this feeling of alienation with familiar cultural idioms. Thus, rather than exploring exclusively economic circumstances as responsible for the emergence of a revolutionary class, I will be highlighting the circumstances of alienation overall – cultural and economic – to explain the foundations that lead to the development of a revolutionary class, as well as how this alienation shaped the ideology that emerged as dominant.

Political, Economic, and Cultural Alienation Cultural, economic and political alienation of civil society from the state is a necessary precondition for the context in which revolutionary ideologies can resonate., Alienation and the actions of the state shape the manifestations of these ideologies themselves.5 It is essential to note that I will not be taking a structuralist perspective in my discussion of how Iranian civil society came to be alienated from the state. The structuralist perspective emphasises social dislocation as a cause of revolution, which does not explain why the framing of the Revolution was particularly Islamic as opposed to leftist or nationalist.6 In other words, alienation and structural conditions are not unilaterally responsible for the revolution in itself, and this paper does not wish to diminish our analysis to material conditions and thus disregard the mobilising role of ideologies. Alienation and structural conditions specifically create circumstances for a discursive field of revolutionary ideologies and shape the ideologies themselves. Thus, we will explore the 3 Moaddel, “Ideology as Episodic Discourse,” 359.

4 Glenn. E Robinson, “Hamas as Social Movement,” in Islamic Activism: A Social Movement Theory Approach, ed. Quintan Wiktorowicz (Indiana: Indiana University Press, 2004), 118.

5 Moaddel, “Ideology as Episodic Discourse,” 366.

6 Kingshuk Chatterjee, Ali Shari’ati and the Shaping of Political Islam in Iran, (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), 6-7.

52

foundations of alienation before exploring the emergence and resonance of the Islamic ideology.

In Gramscian theory, before a revolutionary bloc has the “capacity to confront (a) state’s armies directly”, it must first undergo the “development of a revolutionary consciousness.”7 The development of this consciousness necessitates first the establishment of a sense of solidarity of interests vis-à-vis the state. While Gramsci posits that these initial phases of revolutionary consciousness are “purely in economic terms,” for the sake of the Islamic movement, it is essential to explore the cultural and ideational iterations of revolutionary consciousness. I will argue that this cultural consciousness is formed through cultural, economic, and political alienation from the state, resulting in a convergence of interests. For example, the bazaar class was not uniformly motivated by the Islamic ideology – however, the state’s repressive and alienating policies such as the prioritisation of industrialisation and modern markets compelled even the bourgeois bazaaris to join the movement as they found a “convergence of interests” with the rest of civil society vis-à-vis the state.8 When there is an establishment of some solidarity of interest vis-à-vis the state, Gramsci claims that the ideologies of the revolution will come into “open conflict” until one emerges as the dominant superstructure of the movement.9 Therefore, it is the alienation of civil society from the state which both shapes the discursive field of ideology and attracts civil society to it as well.

Records of the repressive policies of the Pahlavis are well attested to in scholarly literature: beginning under Reza Shah (r. 1925-1941), elections were consistently manipulated, parliament was dominated by landowning elites, and the banning of traditional headgear meant that many women were suddenly pushed into the private sphere.10 The state, in other words, was not by any means a realm of popular participation. The feeling of alienation among civil society is evident in the flourishing of opposition parties in the 1940s after the arrival of Muhammad Reza Shah, who sought to “relax some of his father’s repressive order.”11 Muhammad Reza Shah’s kingship began with the allied invasion of Iran in 1941 and the subsequent forced abdication of Reza Shah. His rule was predicated on foreign intervention, and thus Iran during this postwar period was defined by “economic recession (…) food shortages, heightening inflation, increasing unemployment, and diminishing commerce.”12 Though still factionalised, as evident by the 7 Walter L. Adamson, Hegemony and Revolution: A Study of Antonio Gramsci’s Political and Cultural Theory, (California: University of California Press, 1983), 160.

8 Benjamin Smith, “Collective Action With and Without Islam,” in Islamic Activism: A Social Movement Theory Approach, ed. Quintan Wiktorowicz (Indiana: Indiana University Press, 2004), 188.

9 Adamson, Hegemony and Revolution, 160-161.

10 Chaterjee, Ali Shari’ati and the Shaping of Political Islam in Iran, 29-30; 40.

11 Chaterjee, Ali Shari’ati and the Shaping of Political Islam in Iran, 34.

12 Sean L. Yom, “Cliency and Coercion,” in From Resilience to Revolution: How Foreign Interventions Destabilize the Middle East, (New York: Columbia University Press, 2016), 102.

53

plurality of opposition parties, this context brought about a certain degree of solidarity of interests vis-à-vis the state – particularly interests pertaining to ideas of socioeconomic equality and anti-imperialism. These collective grievances and feelings of alienation gave rise to an “open conflict” of ideologies with the two most prominent being the leftist-nationalist ideology of the National Front party and the communist ideology of the Tudeh Party.

The nationalist-leftist National Front Party under Mohammad Mosaddeq emerged as the victor of this “open conflict” of ideas seeking to represent civil society.13 However, the ouster of Mosaddeq brought an end to the participation of civil society in the state and resurfaced a new age of alienation. In 1953, Mosaddeq was removed with the help of the CIA and a new phase of despotism began – made possible by the $500 million arms transfer from the United States which “strengthened the coercive machinery of the state.”14 This period was notably marked by the creation of the particularly repressive apparatus of SAVAK (National Security and Information Organisation) with the help of the CIA, which marked a crescendo of alienation by the state.15 The fall of Mosaddeq and the new era of despotism not only brought about public disenchantment with leftism and nationalism, but also brought state repression of these ideologies, almost to their nonexistence. As noted by Sean Yom, “thousands of activists faced mass arrests,” and by 1955, the Tudeh “was almost completely crushed.”16 The alienation of civil society had lost its means for representation, and the “open conflict” of ideologies had left a vacuum.

Economic, political, and cultural alienation of civil society peaked under the modernisation program of the White Revolution of the 1960s.17 The White Revolution was a modernisation program which sought land reforms and industrialisation and meant the Westernisation and secularisation of the public sphere.18 Yom highlights how the White Revolution disintegrated the social alliances of the state. The modernisation plan was marked by the involvement of imperialist forces and consisted of repeated concessions to the United States, such as granting “immunity for all crimes” to all American “military personnel in Iran” in 1964 as well as permitting the CIA to “operate intelligence stations” throughout the nation.19 Furthermore, the land reforms of the White Revolution alienated the landowning stratum and failed to secure a “new political surrogate” in the rural community. As most lands expropriated were those of “petty landlords rather than 13 Sean Yom, “Cliency and Coercion,” 103.

14 Chaterjee, Ali Shari’ati and the Shaping of Political Islam in Iran, 35-36.

15 Chaterjee, Ali Shari’ati and the Shaping of Political Islam in Iran, 35-36.

16 Sean Yom, “Cliency and Coercion,” 111.

17 Sean Yom, “Exclusionary Politics and the Revolutionary End,” in From Resilience to Revolution: How Foreign Interventions Destabilize the Middle East, (New York: Columbia University Press, 2016), 124.

18 Sean Yom, “Exclusionary Politics and the Revolutionary End,” 126.

19 Sean Yom, “Exclusionary Politics and the Revolutionary End,” 129-130.

54

titled notables”, the statist nature of these reforms meant that the rural community did not have much say – of which ultimately one third still remained landless.20 Industrialisation plans also dislocated “bazaar retailers, artisans, workshops, and guilds,” and failed to offer “alternative support” or means to take collective action for the new working class facing rising unemployment, inflation, and wage disparities.21 Moreover, the state also began attacking the religious sector – SAVAK began “eliminating religious critics”, co-opting clerics to become “spokespersons for the official Islam desired by the Shah,” and banning veils in religious schools.22 Despite secularisation, religious materials were high in demand and “informal religious associations” rose by “12,300 in Tehran alone.”23 It was evident that even in the face of cultural transformations from above, cultural traditions remained alive and flourished at the grassroots level. Large swaths of civil society were subject to a top down industrialisation and secularisation imposition by the state without any means for political representation during hardening economic circumstances.

The actions of the state, thus, created dislocated groups alienated by the state which formed the context in which revolutionary ideologies could emerge and resonate. Social dislocation, however, was not sufficient: a revolutionary ideology was still needed.

The New Discourse of Ideology In the context of alienation by the White Revolution, new “open conflict” of ideologies re-emerged. It is clear from the early 1960s that the Islamic ideology had not gained much traction – the Ashura uprising led by Khomeini in 1963 received “little support from the Ulama or the secular intelligentsia.”24 The central question, thus, becomes: what changed? Why did these alienated social groups turn to Islamism? To answer this, we must explore why leftist and nationalist ideologies were not resilient through the attacks of 1953. Their suppression in 1953 and subsequent disenchantment with them, as noted earlier, was an important development. Furthermore, their association with the Soviet Union, and their cooptation by the state came to be increasingly problematic for their survival in Iranian civil society. The leftist iterations of the National Front, for example, came to be increasingly associated with the Russian state. In fact, in 1952, “when Mosaddeq asked the Majlis for an extension of emergency powers, Kashani (…) spoke of Mosaddeq’s secular ministers as ‘Kremlin controlled atheists.’”25 While Mosaddeq was able to represent feelings of anti-Western nationalism brewing among Iranian civil society, his embrace of another foreign ideology that lacked a resonating cultural framework proved to be unfruitful. Later ideologues and even protestors in the revolution thus, came to argue for “neither East nor West” 20 Sean Yom, “Exclusionary Politics and the Revolutionary End,” 132.

21 Sean Yom, “Exclusionary Politics and the Revolutionary End,” 135-137.

22 Sean Yom, “Exclusionary Politics and the Revolutionary End,” 141.

23 Sean Yom, “Exclusionary Politics and the Revolutionary End,” 141.

24 Chaterjee, Ali Shari’ati and the Shaping of Political Islam in Iran, 122.

25 Chaterjee, Ali Shari’ati and the Shaping of Political Islam in Iran, 56.

55

in visions for the new state.26 Closer to the time of the revolution, Ayatollah Khomeini would come to write off leftism or even “Islamic activists with Marxist tendencies” -possibly referring to Ali Shariati- as “created by foreigners.”27 Moreover, the hegemonic superstructure or the ideology of the state, began to coopt these nationalist and secular ideologies.28 The Pahlavis, especially under Muhammad Reza Shah, came to base the kingdom’s legitimacy on a nationalist basis and emphasised an Iranian and pre-Islamic past.29 This consisted of, for example, changing the Iranian “solar calendar from its historical origin in the migration of Prophet Muhammad from Mecca to Medina to the (…) coronation of Cyrus the Great.”30 As highlighted by Moaddel, the state’s ideology is significantly responsible for defining the opposition’s identity – through totalitarian policies towards civil society, the cooptation of a nationalist ideology by the state made nationalism lose its momentum at the grassroots level.31 As noted by Kingshuk Chaterjee, “despite the attempted secularization of the public space, the private space in Iranian society remained deeply attached to the traditional forms of Ithna Ashari Shi’ism.” However, the transformation of this culture into a political ideology, remained underway.32 A few ideologues who developed a language of political Islam drew upon the “deepest and most enduring convictions of its constituency.”33 The Iranian regime, through its “over-Persianization,” as written by Dabashi, had lost its “reliance on (…) inner justification” and “increasingly relied (…) on external means.”34 A state apparatus that has lost its legitimacy, similar to ideologies that have “only economic, social, cultural (…) claims to truth (…) fade in light of a theological claim to having God at the top of (its) political language.”35 The intellectuals, thus, were responsible for reinterpreting symbols and idioms that related to the deepest convictions of civil society and providing a solution to the overwhelming sense of alienation. This began first with Jalal Al-e Ahmad, who recognised the mobilising role of Islam and framed ideas borrowed from Marxism in Islamic terms.36 Ahmad subsequently inspired the revolutionary words of Ali Shari’ati, who also rejected Western

56

26 Ervand Abrahamian, “The Crowd in the Iranian Revolution,” in Radical History Review 105 (2009): 27.

27 Hamid Dabashi, “Ayatollah Khomeini: The Theologian of Discontent,” in Theology of Discontent (New York: New York University Press, 1993), 474.

28 Moaddel, “Ideology as Episodic Discourse,” 363.

29 Hamid Dabashi, “Introduction,” in Theology of Discontent (New York: New York University Press, 1993), 9.

30 Dabashi, “Introduction,” 10.

31 Moaddel, “Ideology as Episodic Discourse,” 364.

32 Chaterjee, Ali Shari’ati and the Shaping of Political Islam in Iran, 82.

33 Dabashi, “Introduction,” 3.

34 Dabashi, “Introduction,” 10.

35 Dabashi, “Introduction,” 5-6.

36 Dabashi, “Introduction,” 14.

ideologies and began the most influential narrative of Islamic politics. Ultimately, Islamism was taken up by the resonating, and accessible words of Khomeini, who was able to successfully mobilise the Iranian people at large. Islamism, was thus not framed as a socialism or leftism created by the West, but rather as a nativist social justice movement that drew on native conceptions of identity and Islamic history, and was most able to respond to the overwhelming sense of cultural alienation. The words of these ideologues, moreover, helped formulate a further sense of cultural consciousness vis-à-vis the state.

Formulation of Political Islam: Ideologues and Developing Discourse The cooptation of Western secularism and nationalism by the state meant that alternative ideologies were necessary against the state. Jalal Al-e Ahmad was the first prominent ideologue to demonstrate the shortcomings of nationalist and secular ideologies – as these ideologies themselves belonged to the West, they were incapable of encapsulating the cultural alienation of the Iranian people.

The formulation of a revolutionary ideology, as shown by Hamid Dabashi, “necessitates an injured Self and a hostile Other.”37 Thus, Jalal Al-e Ahmad was able to establish this critical narrative by recognising Western domination both as Mosaddeq had, through calls to nationalise oil, and through thought and ideologies. The opposition (the state that was rendered a Western puppet), thus, came to shape the dominant ideology of the revolution, as Ahmed began a “visceral denial of the West” as well as a denial of the “machine” – in reference to the industrialisation and westernisation of the White Revolution.38 Al-e Ahmad joined the socialist Tudeh Party in 1943, which indicates his experience with secular ideologies.39 It is broadly thought that the moment Al-e Ahmad began feeling disenchanted with the Tudeh Party was after the Tudeh’s demonstrations defending an oil concession for Stalin during the Soviet military occupation of Iran during World War II. As noted by Dabashi, “Al-e Ahmad felt an acute feeling of shame for having organized demonstrations against his own government to give an oil concession to a foreign state.”40 This speaks to the public disenchantment with leftist ideologies for their association with the Soviet state noted earlier—this same disenchantment drew Ahmad to Islamism. Al-e Ahmad left the Tudeh Party in 1948, and, in 1955, he began a series of ethnographies of Iranian villages to explore the “exposure of typically Iranian villages to the ‘onslaught of machine civilisation.’”41 His ethnography of Kharg Island, the location of an oil consortium, particularly inspired feelings that the Iranian nation 37 Dabashi, “Introduction,” 5.

38 Dabashi, “introduction,” 5; Jalal Al-e Ahmad, Plagued by the West, trans. Paul Sprachman, (New York: Caravan Books, 1982), 105.

39 Hamid Dabashi, “Jalal Al-e Ahmad: The Dawn of “the Islamic Ideology,” in Theology of Discontent (New York: New York University Press, 1993), 46.

40 Dabashi, “Jalal Al-e Ahmad,” 49.

41 Dabashi, “Jalal Al-e Ahmad,” 58.

57

was an “exhausted body of a sick man” labouring over the oil industry to feed Western imperialism, and was witnessing the disintegration of a nativist culture and cultural alienation because of Western penetration.42 He thus addressed the feelings of Iranian cultural alienation and began a narrative centered around political Islam.

These feelings culminated in the publishing of Westoxication or Plague by the West (Gharbzadegi) in 1963. Ahmad recognised that the Islamic ideology had oft been successful as a mobilising force in Iranian history, such as through the calls to action by clerics in the Tobacco Revolt of 1890 and in the Constitutional Revolution of 1906.43 The Islamic ideology resonated with many Iranians, and was “read and discussed in high schools and universities (…) you were accepted into cliques of political activists by virtue of your ability to quote passages from the text verbatim.”44 It spoke to a demographic alienated by the state both economically and culturally. Thus, he brought Western ideologies into his critique as well—the simple class-based analysis and secularism inherent in the current opposition parties (Tudeh and National Front) were inadequate. As he writes in Plague by the West, “Today all of the “isms” and ideologies have become paths leading to the exalted throne of ‘mechanism’ and mechanization” – in other words, the predominant ideologies remain Western and thus cannot fully address cultural alienation. It was thus necessary to find a “well-thought-out position” – an ideology “vis-à-vis the monster of the modern age.”45 Ahmad would find the answer to this in Shi’ism.

According to Al-e Ahmad, the Iranian people had become alienated from their culture because of their attempts to imitate the West— it is likely this view was also a hidden attack against the White Revolution.46 He begins by criticizing the quietism of Shi’ism, wrapping itself in a “cocoon,” as they wait for the hidden Imam.47 Moreover, he criticized those involved in politics for trying to “find solutions to every problem like pseudo-Westerners” as opposed to looking towards their own history.48 Through Iranian history he learned that past uprisings that relied on nationalism were failures; the religious idiom and reliance on religious leaders had been unequivocally successful in the struggle to nationalise the oil industry so that “any uneducated commoner was able to see the forces of tyranny of the ruling elite” – in other words, it was an accessible repertoire.49 Most importantly, Ahmad found the paradox between the state-sanctioned pre-Islamic 42 Dabashi, “Jalal Al-e Ahmad,” 59.

43 Dabashi, “Jalal Al-e Ahmad,” 78.

44 Dabashi, “Jalal Al-e Ahmad,” 76.

45 Jalal Al-e Ahmad, Plagued by the West, trans. Paul Sprachman, (New York: Caravan Books, 1982), 5-7.

46 Al-e Ahmad, Plagued by the West, 19.

47 Al-e Ahmad, Plagued by the West, 24; 48.

48 Al-e Ahmad, Plagued by the West, 33.

49 Al-e Ahmad, Plagued by the West, 52.

58

nationalism and the prevailing spirit of Islam among the people, going so far to say that when a student “memorizes the ‘imperial anthem’ as his national anthem, he forgets his prayers.”50 Thus, he constructed an oppositional political Islam narrative vis-à-vis the ideology of the state, which began the discursive field of political Islam to come. The oppositional ideology needed to contrast the ideology of the state in order to be revolutionary, and be easily understood by large swaths of civil society— thus secular and nationalist perspectives could not be helpful.

The baton of discursive political Islam was handed to the charismatic Ali Shariati who was able to resonate with a plethora of Western-style educated students. By the time Shariati returned to Iran from the University of Sorbonne in mid 1960s, “organized opposition” was not plentiful and the “only available critique of the regime,” was Ahmad’s Gharbzadegi.51 Shariati went a step further than Ahmad and allowed for a “language that was easily intelligible to Western-educated Iranian youth”—as written by Chatterjee: For the modernized, urban component of his audience, he was a Sorbonne educated academic, always clad in western attire, smoking heavily and talking of sociology and the philosophy of history, Marxism, and existentialism (…) for the more traditional audience, his usage of Islamic idioms (…) made his arguments more acceptable as against others affiliated with the ‘godless’ Tudeh (…) (bridging) the gap between the more traditional and modern segments of Iran’s youth.52 Like Ahmad, Shariati spoke of the inherent limitations of leftist and nationalist ideologies due to their being products of the West, and of the cultural alienation experienced by the Iranian people. However, by incorporating modern Western political ideas, particularly Marxism, in distinctly Islamic terms, he was able to broaden the appeal of political Islam to academic crowds who may have previously been attracted to secular ideologies.

One of Shariati’s key ideas was the concept of tauheed – monotheism, unification, or oneness.53 Man’s cause of unhappiness was judai, “separation from God” – man being constrained to the “materiality of the zahiri (external) world.”54 Man, according to Shariati, must overcome adherence to the material conditions, and become one with God – a moment that was Shariati’s conception of tauheed. Transcending this materiality encompassed transcending wealth, power, and property. The oneness of tauheed, moreover, meant that there could be no

50 Al-e Ahmad, Plagued by the West, 49.

51 Chaterjee, Ali Shari’ati and the Shaping of Political Islam in Iran, 81.

52 Chaterjee, Ali Shari’ati and the Shaping of Political Islam in Iran, 117.

53 Chaterjee, Ali Shari’ati and the Shaping of Political Islam in Iran, 83.

54 Chaterjee, Ali Shari’ati and the Shaping of Political Islam in Iran, 85.

59

distinction between classes, races, “ruler and ruled (...) noble and vile).55 Shariati essentially made leftist arguments, but rather through resonating Islamic idioms.

Even though the conception of tauheed is distinctly leftist, Shariati distances himself from the tradition of Marxism and Western ideologies altogether. While Jalal al-e Ahmad spoke of Western ideologies as simply foreign ideologies that do not have enough mobilising potential, Shariati drew attention to the inherent intellectual problems of these ideologies in themselves, which were not simply due to their foreign-ness. “Western perspectives,” he wrote, have been “drawn into materialism” (...) “bourgeois liberalism and Marxism alike share, in theory and in practice, this human materialism; Voltaire and Marx both closed their eyes to the spiritual dimensions of the human essence.”56 According to Shariati, capitalism and communism alike adhere strictly to materialism: by regarding man as an “economic animal,” they “transform people into worshippers of consumption.”57 Since love, worship, and sacrifice are thought to be the virtues of humanity, Western ideologies and their adherence to materialism leave man perpetually alienated, always seeking the spiritual and mystical beyond the veil of matter and consumption. Thus, Nietszche is thought to be “senseless” for sacrificing his life for a horse. However, through this act of sacrifice, Shariati writes, Nietszche created a moral value worth far more than the existential material values of the external world.58 Islam, and particularly tauheed, allows us to escape the fetters of materiality and reach the “heights of the heavens”: to become one with God and to attain the virtues of spirituality and humanity.59 This transcending of material is thus thought to be the solution to circumventing alienation. By making a leftist argument while maintaining spirituality and using deeply held symbols like tauheed, Shariati was able to make religion compatible with modern thought.

According to Shariati, the Iranian people were not only alienated politically and economically, but also from the cultural and spiritual aspects of their being.60 The revolution was thus not simply meant to be a material transition to socialism, but also a victory for spiritualism, culture, and Islam.61 As they lacked cultural and spiritual liberation, “both Western civilization and communist ideology have failed to liberate humanity, causing the new spirit to recoil in disillusionment.”62 Islam, wrote Shariati, combined the virtues of existentialism, which gave man existential freedom to attain growth and perfection, the virtues of mysticism, and 55 Chaterjee, Ali Shari’ati and the Shaping of Political Islam in Iran, 87.

56 Ali Shariati, Marxism and Other Western Fallacies, trans. R. Campbell (Islamic Foundation Press), 11-12.

57 Shariati, Marxism and Other Western Fallacies, 19.

58 Shariati, Marxism and Other Western Fallacies, 18.

59 Ibid., 23.

60 Ibid., 32.

61 Ibid., 39.

62 Ibid., 61.

60

the virtues of socialism which “summons one to social responsibility.”63 Through tauheed, in seeking to reach God, man reached perfection, and, through Islam’s call for welfare and social justice, man reached the virtues of socialism. Mysticism is the very essence of Islam.

Shariati spoke in defense of not only political and revolutionary Islam, but also of an Islamic renaissance to move away from the quietism prevalent in Shi’ism.64 The Shi’ite community traditionally is in a phase of “intezar” (waiting) for the twelfth Imam in hiding. As such, no other temporal rule is considered legitimate.

This belief left many clerics and Shi’ites in a state of quietism and opposed to political participation. However, Shariati re-interpreted this concept of intezar.

The very act of waiting, Shariati wrote, was protest in itself – “saying ‘no’ to the present state.’65 The return of the Imam, according to Shariati, was a metaphor for the “return” to God – in other words tauheed. To attain tauheed, Muslims must overturn shirk, and thus active resistance was necessary – in the same way that Ali refused the caliphate of Abu Bakr. As such, a jihad had to be waged against illegitimate rule.66 In the early 1970s, Shariati was “pitching the tone of his radicalism fairly high.”

His calls to jihad against illegitimate rule and his linking of jihad with shahadat (martyrdom) coincided with the 1971 insurgency in Siahkal by the fedayan-e khalq.

The Fedayan-e Khalq insurgency triggered the Mojahedin-e Khalq to take up armed struggle against the state, and many of the participants were Shariati’s students.

It was evident that Shariati’s work was inciting radicalism and revolution: the Hosseiniyeh Ershad was closed in 1972 and Shariati was arrested in 1973. As written by Chaterjee, “his career as a demagogue ended at this point, but the force of his ideas continued.”67 Although vacuum was opened for a new ideologue to call the people to action— the discursive field of political Islam had been established. As a result, Ayatollah Khomeini came to be the dominant ideologue of the 1970s.68 It is also important to note that, through the establishment of a discourse of political Islam, in the 1970s, most relied on “informal networks and grouped around local mosques,” organised by college students, high schoolers, and the bazaaris.69 The words of Khomeini throughout this period proved to be instrumental in mobilising Iranian society.

From Theory to Praxis: The Impact of Ideologues Shariati’s work catered to the intellectual world, particularly Western-style educated students. Nonetheless, like Jalal Al-e Ahmad he created a cultural consciousness 63 Ibid., 75-76.

64 Shariati, Marxism and Other Western Fallacies, 61.

65 Chatterjee, Ali Shari’ati and the Shaping of Political Islam in Iran, 143.

66 Ibid., 141.

67 Ibid., 151.

68 Dabashi, “Ayatollah Khomeini,” 420.

69 Abrahamian, “The Crowd in the Iranian Revolution,” 32.

61

vis-à-vis the secularising nationalist ideology of the state. Khomeini would drive “deeper into the collective consciousness of his followers” to mobilise a mass audience.70 He was able to use the already established cultural consciousness and political Islam developed distinctly under Ali Shariati and extend his intellectual audience to the masses instead.71 As noted by Hamid Dabashi, while Shariati and Ahmad had to work within “state-controlled censorship,” Khomeini “exiled in 1964, could write freely” and critique the Pahlavi regime directly.72 While Shariati made calls to action indirectly by encouraging jihad against illegitimate rulers, Khomeini made explicit calls to action against the state. Thus, the moment in which theory became praxis at large coincided with the rise of Khomeini as central ideologue. As written by Dabashi, Khomeini’s method was “actionverbal response-action.” The state would take a certain action, and in turn, Khomeini’s “verbal response” would be an “ideological statement against that action.” Then, the state would either respond repressively, make concessions or incite “revolutionary demonstrations by Khomeini’s followers.”73 The repression of Khomeini’s followers would trigger other opposition movements (secular included) to join in mourning fortieth protests; this ultimately led to the prevailing coalition of forces culminating in the Revolution of 1979.

In October 1977, a group of leftist intellectuals held ten political poetry-reading nights at the Goethe House near the University of Tehran campus. Word of these politically charged poetry nights spread, and “by the tenth night—including high school teachers and students—were making their way from all parts of the city to the Goethe House.”74 The police promptly shut down the poetry nights and arrested fifty people, sparking a sit-in of five thousand people at the Arya Mehr University and the first street clashes of what would be the beginning of major protests against the state. Highly publicised correspondences between the Shah and President Carter intensified protests on Student Day on December 7th (a day dedicated to the commemoration of 1953 when three students were killed at Tehran University “while protesting the state visit of Richard Nixon.”)75 By January 1977, Tehran was seeing daily protests triggered by increasing state repression and, as written by Kurzman, “repression was a mobilizing force.”76 The real bombshell of the revolution, however, began at the turn of 1978 with the publication of an article in the Ettela’at newspaper accusing Khomeini of being 70 Dabashi, “Ayatollah Khomeini,” 418.

71 Dabashi, “Ayatollah Khomeini,” 418.

72 Dabashi, “Ayatollah Khomeini,” 417.

73 Dabashi, “Ayatollah Khomeini,” 418.

74 Abrahamian, “The Crowd in the Iranian Revolution,” 16.

75 Abrahamian, “The Crowd in the Iranian Revolution,” 17.

76 Charles Kurzman, “Structural Opportunity and Perceived Opportunity in Social Movement Theory: The Iranian Revolution of 1979,” in American Sociological Review, Vol. 61, No, 1 (1996): 161.

62

a foreign agent.77 Seminary students in Qom subsequently organised a gathering at the mosque and a march to the police station, shouting phrases such as “down with the Yazid Regime” – evidently using the language of political Islam which used Ali (against Yazid) as a means to politicise Shi’ism.78 These protests were met with violence by the regime and the opposition claimed the deaths of over seventy people. One of the major clerics, Ayatollah Shariatmadari, “called on the nation to show respect for the dead by attending forty-day memorial services at the local mosques of the deceased” – a traditional practice in the Iranian revolution.79 This would begin a major trend in the Revolution, known as the “five cycles of forty-day clashes,” beginning with multiple protests on February 18, 1978. The opposition spoke of hundreds of deaths and 650 people were brought to trial by the state, which triggered another forty-day cycle.80 Each cycle was met with state violence and triggered a new forty-day cycle. As all opposition groups took part in commemorating the deaths at the hands of the regime, the force of the state, thus, brought about a coalition of opposition forces vis-à-vis the regime.81 Prior to Aid-e Fetr on September 4, 1978, a cinema burnt down on August 19 1978 and the opposition accused the regime.82 This resulted in four major processions which finally filled the entirety of Shahyad Square – one “marshalled by college students; the second by neighbourhood youths; the third by bazaar shop assistants; and the fourth by local high school students”.83 On what came to be known as Black Friday, after continuous clashes, the “Shah declared martial law in twelve cities” on September 8, 1978,“moved tanks into downtown Tehran” and fired into crowds protesting. By the fortieth after Black Friday, “nationwide strikes had brought the whole economy to a halt.”84 By this point, the repressive measures of the regime had turned the population away from the moderate opposition of Shariatmadari and attracted protesters to the radicalism of Khomeini.85 The crisis was now snowballing – the more the regime met protesters with violence, the greater the resistance it encountered on the fortieths. Moreover, as noted by Kurzman, by September 1971, protesters began to see the opposition movement as stronger than the state, which attracted individuals from all opposition groups to join the Islamic protests.86 Referring to Gramsci, Kurzman notes, “an evaluation of the degree of homogeneity self-awareness, and organization attained by the various social classes” precipitates “revolutionary mobilization.”87 Thus, the 77 Abrahamian, “The Crowd in the Iranian Revolution,” 18.

78 Ibid., 18.

79 Ibid., 19.

80 Ibid., 20.

81 Abrahamian, “The Crowd in the Iranian Revolution,” 19.

82 Kurzman, “Structural Opportunity,” 156.

83 Abrahamian, “The Crowd in the Iranian Revolution,” 21.

84 Ibid., 24.

85 Ibid., 24.

86 Kurzman, “Structural Opportunity,” 156.

87 Kurzman, “Structural Opportunity,” 155.

63

“open conflict of ideologies” resulted in Islamism because of its ability to resonate with the cultural alienation of the masses and the strength of the Islamic ideology attracted those from differing ideologies to the movement as well.

By Tasua and Ashura on December 10-11 (marking the martyrdom of Imam Hussein and his family), rallies were coordinated and the masses took to the streets.

The influence of the discourses of major ideologues of political Islam is evident throughout these protests – crowds began renaming major streets: Shemran was renamed Shariati avenue, protestors exclaimed things such as “neither East nor West, but Islam!” and “Marx, if only you were alive, you would see that religion is not the opium of the people.”88 By the end of the Tasua Ashura Protests, the protesters created a proclamation, “demanding the establishment of an Islamic republic” and the return of Khomeini.89 The formulation of a political Islam by the prominent ideologues, which resonated as a result of a cultural consciousness developed by the repressive means of the state, led to Islamism as the victorious ideology. Its strength in numbers allowed for a united front of Iranians despite ideological differences, all shouting for the departure of the Shah in unison.

The Iranian Revolution of 1979 thus poses new questions about the role of ideologies in social movements. By expanding the Marxian model beyond economic circumstances, I demonstrated how the cultural and political alienation of civil society by the state resulted in the development of a cultural consciousness among the Iranian people. The development of this cultural consciousness created the circumstances for a discursive field of ideologies, in other words an “open conflict”, in which Islamism emerged as the victor for being able to successfully respond to the cultural alienation of the people – leftism and nationalism largely failed after 1953 because they were coopted by the state and were associated with foreign ideologies. The Islamic ideology dominated the revolution because it was a creation of neither the West nor the East, but rather a nativist trend of intellectualism that spoke to the deepest cultural convictions of the people and drew on familiar symbols and mythologies. Framing, as written by Okruhlik, must “have a center of gravity within the repertoire.”90 To demonstrate the Marxian methodology’s usefulness for explaining the development of Islamism, I first explored the circumstances of alienation, because of which these ideologies resonated with society. I then explored the Gramscian “open conflict” of ideologies, demonstrating the failure of leftism and nationalism as well as the development of a discourse of political Islam under Jalal al-e Ahmad, Ali Shariati, and Ayatollah Khomeini. These ideologues drew upon the feeling of cultural alienation of civil society, and also helped in further developing the cultural consciousness. One 88 Abrahamian, “The Crowd in the Iranian Revolution,” 24-27.

89 Abrahamian, “The Crowd in the Iranian Revolution,” 27.

90 Gwenn Okruhlik, “Making Conversation Permissible,” in Islamic Activism: A Social Movement Theory Approach, ed. Quintan Wiktorowicz (Indiana: Indiana University Press, 2004), 263.

64

strength of the Islamic movement was its ability to delve into the convictions of the people, which made it possible to draw large swaths of people to praxis. This was particularly due to Ayatollah Khomeini, who drew on the foundations developed

by Ahmad and Shariati and made it accessible to the masses. Another strength of the Islamic movement was that it drew a multiplicity of opposition movements under one umbrella against the Shah. The secularist-nationalist ideology of the state sans legitimacy could not possibly compete with an ideological movement possessing such a degree of unity and commitment to a theological mode of contention.

Bibliography Abrahamian, Ervand. “The Crowd in the Iranian Revolution.” Radical History Review 105 (2009): 13-38.

Al-e Ahmad, Jalal. Plagued by the West. Translated by Paul Sprachman. New York: Caravan Books, 1982.

Chatterjee, Kingshuk. Ali Shari’ati and the Shaping of Political Islam in Iran.

New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011.

Dabashi, Hamid. Theology of Discontent. New York: New York University Press, 1993.

Kurzman, Charles. “Structural Opportunity and Perceived Opportunity in Social Movement Theory: The Iranian Revolution of 1979.” American Sociological Review 61, no. 1 (1996) 153-170.

L. Adamson, Walter. Hegemony and Revolution: A Study of Antonio Gramsci’s Political and Cultural Theory. California: University of California Press, 1983.

Levin, Michael. Marx, Engels, and Liberal Democracy. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 1989.

L. Yom, Sean. From Resilience to Revolution: How Foreign Interventions Destabilize the Middle East. New York: Columbia University Press, 2016.

Moaddel, Mansour. “Ideology as Episodic Discourse.” American Sociological Review 57, no. 3 (1992): 353-379.

Shariati, Ali. Marxism and Other Western Fallacies. Translated by R. Campbell.

Islamic Foundation Press.

Wiktorowicz, Quintan. Islamic Activism: A Social Movement Theory Approach.

Indiana: Indiana University Press, 2004.

65