Wednesday, June 15, 2022

The (Downplayed) Story of Female Scholars, Teachers and Leaders in Islam

The vibrant history of successful Muslim women has been disregarded and dismissed by conservative groups like the Taliban
June 3, 2022
French female imam Kahina Bahloul leads a Friday prayer in Paris on Feb. 21, 2020 / Lucas Barioulet / AFP via Getty Images


On the outskirts of Kabul, beneath shimmering snowflakes on a winter’s morning in 1099 CE, thousands braved the frost as they followed the bier of an eminent scholar and the region’s mufti. No, dear reader, this was not a man, but a woman: Biba al-Harthamiah. Biba was just one of hundreds of Muslim female scholars who once occupied positions of prestige and influence in the Muslim world yet who are now all but forgotten.

For 20 years, Afghan women and girls were permitted to excel in areas as diverse as jurisprudence, medicine, academia, professional soccer, robotics and classical music. Yet the current leadership is defining these accomplishments as part of an aberrant period, in conflict with Afghan historical culture and traditional Islamic norms. The Taliban are asserting a vision of Afghan society in which women can be prohibited from many areas of social participation and must abide by strict gender norms and forms of male guardianship.

Outside observers may thus understandably assume that Islam discourages or forbids female empowerment, success and participation in secular society. The association of Islam with restrictive gender norms and discouraging women and girls from developing and exercising self-agency is not a dilemma only for Afghan women. It is a genuine issue in different places: Muslim women in less-constrained societies often struggle with conflicting frameworks of values, one in which they are encouraged to develop their potential and contribute to society and another in which straying from clearly defined gender limitations is seen to detract from their piety, dignity and responsibilities as daughters, wives or mothers.

Ultraconservatives justify their restrictive treatment of women on two primary bases, namely Islam and historical cultural norms. But how definitive are these bases in substantiating their worldview? The strict patriarchal views espoused by the Taliban, and indeed others, primarily stem from their understanding of Quranic references such as “qawamah” and “nushuz,” often mistranslated as “guardianship” and “rebelliousness,” respectively. According to the worldview of the Taliban and other patriarchal interpreters, these concepts designate men as naturally superior to women and invest men with the control and responsibility of guardianship over them. In this worldview, women cannot be trusted to make decisions on their own and are regarded as susceptible to error and corruption.

Added to these concepts are pre-Islamic tribal ideals of morality and shame, linking women’s behavior to the honor of men and society. In this conception of society, men need to keep women in order, constraining their “evil” and preventing women from bringing shame on them, their family name and their community. This unfortunate cultural mindset underlies many harmful social practices and, in extreme cases, produces evils such as honor killing.

The interpretation of “qawwamun” as “guardians” relies on an association with the related word “qa’imun,” which means guardian or caretaker. Though sharing a root, the words have two distinctive connotations — the former is about flexible support, the latter about providing guardianship. A variation of the former concept, in the context of a building the word “qawa’im” refers to its internal supporting pillars; on the other hand, the “qa’imun” of a building are its custodians and guardians. Even Abdel Aziz Bin Baz, the former Saudi mufti, said in commentary about the verses: “The qawamah of men is one of responsibility to provide care (takleef) and not a privilege (tashreef).”

The term “nushuz” — commonly interpreted as female rebelliousness — literally describes the protruding fangs of an antagonized snake secreting venom. This image implies that “nushuz” is not a female characteristic or permanent state of being but a situation that arises from time to time in reaction to a threat. The Quran employs the term “nushuz” only twice, both in the same chapter, once in reference to women (4:34) and once in reference to men (4:128). Rather than an essential character deficiency in women‌, this word describes a situation that refers to either or both parties in the marriage, which can be remedied with the correct intervention. Hence, a more accurate understanding of “nushuz” refers to a toxic atmosphere in a relationship or in the behavior of the parties involved.

The conservative interpretation of these two terms is difficult to square when “nushuz” is applied equally to men and women: If men are superior guardians of women, how can they be described on their terms, as “rebellious and disobedient”? To maintain their interpretation, the text has to be further manipulated by providing a different definition of “nushuz” for a man — it is when they “deny their wives carnal gratification.” Yet, far from justifying a rigid patriarchal hierarchy, the Quran speaks of the importance of mutual support between husband and wife and offers ways for both men and women to address and heal from toxicity within their marriage.

Prior to the advent of puritanical or fundamental movements, the more constraining view of women needing guardians instead of support was not the dominant view. This view seems widely accepted because it has been emphasized in public discourse to the extent that it has become normative within the Muslim community. This, in turn, makes it difficult to discuss the alternative view without sounding revisionist. In other words, this is not a problem of original sources but of ideological indoctrination. Still, the point here is not to tackle an ideological mindset and prove or disprove one reading or the other definitively, but to show that the meaning as defined by conservatives is not as universally agreed as they make it sound. Do not take my word for it — the 13th-century classical Arabic dictionary Lisan al-Arab has an entry about verse 4:34 substantiating the distinction between “qawwamun” and “qa’imun” as made earlier, in contrast to the common interpretation espoused by conservative groups.

The terms are appropriated to suit restrictive measures imposed by society, which brings us to the second basis of the conservative justification, namely Afghan cultural norms that ignore history, as the forgotten story of Biba al-Harthamiah demonstrates.

The legacy of outstanding Muslim women stretches back to the days of the Prophet Muhammad, who not only considered women capable of leadership but also appointed them to prominent positions. This is unsurprising, given that he and his successors had several female mentors. He had worked for his first wife, Khadijah, running her business between Mecca and the Levant, until their marriage. Barakah, also known by her epitaph Umm Ayman, served as a close adviser to two of his successors (Abu Bakr and Umar), who held her counsel in high regard.

While there is a common understanding among Muslims that women cannot hold positions of religious leadership or scholarship, the Prophet Muhammad himself provided two clear counterexamples: naming Umm Waraqah as an imam of her community and Ash-Shifa bint Abdillah as Medina’s head educator. He named Umm Waraqah as an imam “because she had mastered the art of the Quran and memorized it” and assigned to her a muezzin, the person who calls people to prayers at the mosque. The implication was that the Prophet allowed a woman to lead congregational prayers, and this congregation was open to those outside of her immediate family and household.

The majority of Islamic scholars agree that a woman can lead other women in prayers, especially among three of the four main Sunni schools of jurisprudence — the Hanafi, Shafi’i and Hanbali — based on the example of both Aishah and Umm Salamah leading women in prayers. However, scholars differ on whether a woman can lead men in prayer. They cite limitations of rearing children, menstruation and other responsibilities that make it difficult for women to lead prayers regularly. This remains a point of contention and an open debate.

Based on the examples of Umm Waraqah and Ash-Shifa, eminent scholars such as At-Tabari (ninth century), Ibn Hazm (11th), Ibn Rushd (Averroes) (12th) and Ibn Abidin (19th) have declared that a woman can hold public office.

Though Umm Waraqah is virtually unknown today, she is referenced in numerous manuscripts held in Timbuktu, Damascus, Istanbul and other places, including highly authoritative works like “Al-Ahkam As-Sultaniyyah” by Abu al-Hassan al-Mawardi in the 11th century, “Al-Mughni” by Ibn Qudamah al-Maqdisi (13th) and “Irwa al-Ghalil” by Nasir al-Din al-Albani, who died in 1999. A reference to the Prophet Muhammad’s actions by Ibn al-Qattan, an authority on Hadith in 13th-century Córdoba, mentions “Imamatu Umm Waraqata bi-qawmiha” (Umm Waraqa leading her people), which is broader than her neighborhood, implying that she led a larger district. Another acclaimed scholar further east in 13th-century Syria, An-Nawawi, also cited three top jurists as permitting women to lead men in prayer.

Even the strict Ibn Taymiyyah, the ideological inspiration for several ultraconservative movements today, declared, “Ahmad [founder of the Hanbali school] permitted a woman to lead men in prayer, when the need arises, in cases when she is an expert on the Quran, when men are not, so she can lead them in the night prayers of Ramadan [“taraweeh”], the same way that the Prophet anointed Umm Waraqah as an Imam for her neighborhood and assigned a muezzin to her.” Ibn Taymiyyah clearly reiterates: “I say, for men to be led by a woman who is an expert in the Quran during taraweeh is permissible, based on the widely known [traditions] from the opinion of Ahmad.”

Summing up the general view, Andalusian sage Ibn Arabi declared, “There are those who unconditionally permit women to lead men in prayers, which is my opinion as well. There are those who completely prohibit her from such leadership and there are those who permit her to lead women, but not men.” He further explains his view, “The default state is that her leadership is permissible, and one should not heed to those who prohibit it without concrete proof, for there is no clear text to support their claim, and any evidence they bring forth could include them in the prohibition as well, thereby neutralizing the evidence in this regard, and maintaining the default state of her leadership’s permissibility.”


The Prophet Muhammad declared education not only a fundamental right, but also a solemn duty of all his followers. He taught that to teach a man is to educate an individual, yet to teach a woman is to inspire a nation.

The Prophet Muhammad declared education not only a fundamental right but also a solemn duty of all his followers. In fact, he taught that to teach a man is to educate an individual, yet to teach a woman is to inspire a nation. He understood very well that women not only teach their children but also influence their husbands. And if their husbands are powerful, they affect entire communities and a nation.

The Quran advises its readers, both female and male, to compete in seeking knowledge, and over 40 times it invokes not just rote memorization but the more nuanced concept of “aql,” connoting the development and use of reason and rational synthesis based on extensive research and analysis. Furthermore, the Quran instructed readers to increase their capacity in all forms of beneficial knowledge and understanding. It employed the concept of “ilm” in its indefinite form to encompass both spiritual and secular knowledge, as attested by the Prophet Muhammad hiring math and language tutors for his wife.

When the Prophet died in 632, his legacy to posterity was a book: the first manuscript of the Quran, the very first book to be written in the Arabic language. Despite the many men who could have been given the honor of custodianship of the manuscript, it was entrusted to a woman: Hafsah Bint Umar. Muhammad’s choice to give this task to a woman indicates that he held women in high regard. It was this very copy that would later be borrowed by Uthman, the third caliph, to compile the five standard copies of the scripture.

Biba Al-Harthamiah, the eminent female scholar from medieval Kabul, was not an anomaly. We have detailed records of scholars and teachers, thanks to the traditional Islamic approach to learning, whereby scholars established their credibility via unbroken chains of transmission. What is truly remarkable is the sheer number of women under whom eminent Islamic scholars studied. For example, 12th-century scholar Ibn al-Samaani studied under 69 female scholars; Muhammad Ibn al-Najjar (13th century) studied under 400 female scholars; Al-Sakhawi (15th) studied under 60 female scholars; and Al-Suyuti (16th) studied under 59 female scholars.

This trend was set from the very beginning of Islam. Thousands of men attended the great seventh-century jurist Umm Ad-Darda As-Sughra’s classes at the Umayyad Mosque, including the caliph Abdul-Malik ibn Marwan, who himself sat on the ground at her feet. In fact, one of her students, the celebrated scholar Iyas ibn Muawiyah al-Muzani, considered her to be the supreme authority of her time, surpassing all others.

In the 12th century, Fatimah As-Samarqandi was the mufti of Samarqand and served as an adviser and mentor to the legendary Crusades-era Salahaddin (Saladin). Fatimah was a brilliant scholar who amassed many certifications (called ijazah) from the most prominent scholars of her age and taught at prestigious academies in Syria.

Zaynab Bint al-Kamal of Damascus, one of scores of female teachers who taught the prolific Syrian scholar and historian Ibn Kathir, was considered a leading authority in the conservative Hanbali school in the 14th century. Several scholars of the school, including Ibn Taymiyyah, remarked how “she stood upon the pulpit with authority and spoke with great eloquence and erudition.” Zaynab was considered the top authority in the discipline of Hadith and was granted the prestigious title “Musnidat al-Sham” (senior transmission authority of the Levant).

Not only did women teach across the Islamic world, they also dominated many educational settings as students as well. The 12th-century eminent Syrian scholar Ibn Asakir documented concerns by men of his time about how women in classes “outnumbered” and “intimidated” them because of their “strong confidence and character.” Ibn Asakir informs us, “I personally studied at the feet of 80 female scholars, who surpassed their male counterparts in their respective fields.”

It is estimated that from the years 800 to 1100, Muslim women were credited with establishing over 35% of libraries and academic institutions in the Islamic world. They were led by the likes of Zubaidah (ninth century), who was a driving force and main sponsor behind the famed Bayt al-Hikamah at the time (The House of Wisdom) and Fatima al-Fihri, who established the world’s oldest, continually running university in 859 in Fez, Morocco. Both institutions had vast libraries, counting tens of thousands of books, launched with donations by these entrepreneurial women.

Women not only served as scholars and patrons of the arts but also held prominent positions of public authority. Influential women who held such offices included Lubna of Córdoba. An adviser to the caliph and polymath, Lubna distinguished herself as a master librarian and acquisition expert. When establishing the famed library at Medinat al-Zahra, she teamed up with Jewish scholar Hasdai ibn Shaprut to assemble a valuable collection of some 500,000 books. Despite being a former slave, 12th-century biographer Ibn Bashkuwal described Lubna as a “scholarly author, grammarian, poetess, erudite in arithmetic, comprehensive in her learning; none in the citadel was as noble as she.”

The formerly enslaved African, Thamal Al-Qahramanah, made history in 918 when she became the first female justice of the powerful Abbasid Empire. Notable scholars such as the 12th century’s Ibn al-Jawzi and al-Suyuti in the 16th century provided details of her office and mentioned that it “was not considered unusual at the time for a woman to preside over men in a public office so high.”

Women also ruled or governed, with over 90 attaining the position of “al-malikah al-hurrah,” meaning “the independent, sovereign queen.” Among those who combined both secular and academic authority were Razia of Delhi in the 13th century, patron of schools and libraries in northern India, and the 12th century’s Arwa As-Sulaihi, who was the senior scholarly authority and ruler of Yemen. Attaining the prestigious academic rank of “hujjah,” meaning “proof” or ”authority,” she is credited with establishing many of Yemen’s public libraries and academic institutions.

Why is it that, with such strong textual evidence, as well as practical evidence like the fact that women can pray next to men in the holy mosque in Mecca, women are still relegated to the back of so many mosques? Why is scripture in conflict with general behavior? On what basis did some communities decide to allow women to have a public role, and why did others turn their back on this rich history?

In some places, women can be jailed for preaching Islam in public, while in others, such as Turkey, they are increasing in number, with several hundred female preachers in the country, some even leading pilgrims to Mecca. Hui Muslim women in China have had their own mosques, where women have led them for over 300 years.

In Iran, a ban on women leading prayers was lifted in 2000, after a group of high-ranking ayatollahs issued the decree. Ali Asghar Nuri, then an official in the Iranian Education Ministry, said: “The employment of women as leaders of Friday congregation prayers at the head of other women during prayers held at schools constitutes a major development.”

Where does this leave us now? From the largely forgotten legacy of Muslim women, we learn that the development of women’s potential and their leadership is not inherently against an Islamic framework of values; it has, in fact, figured prominently throughout Muslim history. Yet we witness other voices, both in history and in our contemporary world, which present a much more constraining perspective toward women. Hence, the fundamental question is not whether Islam encourages or constrains women’s empowerment and exercise of leadership but rather who controls the narrative.

Understanding the history of Islam and the behavior of its founder provides a healthy example for the contemporary world. Though Afghanistan’s leaders may have forgotten Biba Al-Harthamiah, Afghans and others would do well to remember they once had leaders like her.

Mohamad Jebara is the author of “Muhammad the World-Changer: An Intimate Portrait” and the forthcoming “Life of the Qur’an”
ISIS WAR ON SUFIS
Afghanistan’s Sufis Are Under Attack

Recent bombing of a mosque in Kabul shows the growing security problems facing the Taliban government
Afghan followers of Sufism recite poetic verses from the Koran at the Pahlawan Mosque in Kabul, Afghanistan / Robert Nickelsberg / Getty Images

As I passed through my final years of high school in Kabul, it did not cross my mind that I might be able to go on and study at university. My father had just died from a long illness and, like so many Afghan teenagers, I was already thinking about how I might be able to support my family. We were poor enough that I had only one set of shirt and trousers to wear to my last two years of classes, so I knew I would have to find a job sooner rather than later.

I graduated from school in 2006 and, although times were tough on a personal level, there was a sense of optimism in much of the country back then. It’s true that security was starting to deteriorate, but memories of the 1990s civil war were still fresh in everyone’s minds, and there was a widespread belief that the international community would not abandon Afghanistan again.

After trying and failing to find a job with various NGOs for reasons none of them cared to explain, I was persuaded by one of my younger brothers to visit a local Sufi — “tasawwuf” — mosque in the hope that it might change my luck. I must admit that I initially laughed at his suggestion, not because I disliked Sufis but because I was skeptical of any practices that went against my belief in the more traditional tenets of Islam. I regard myself as a socially progressive Muslim who shows his devotion to God in conventional ways. I could not see how a visit to this particular mosque might be any better for me than praying in my usual mosque or at home. In the end, however, I agreed to go there to boost the morale of my brother and mother.

We cycled to the Khalifa Sahib mosque in Aladdin, a neighborhood in west Kabul near Parliament and the American University, and sat down to talk to one of its scholarly custodians. I remember him being a kind man who listened quietly from under his flat white turban as I explained about my futile search for a job. He then took out some paper talismans and told my brother to burn or smoke one at night. Another one he gave us was to be put in a glass of water, dissolved and drunk the next morning.

We obeyed his instructions and, while my luck didn’t change in the short term, it did eventually. I later found work as a journalist and graduated with a degree in Islamic law from Kabul University. I do not attribute this change in fortune to the Sufi mosque, but I have always looked back on that visit with fondness. I was a young man — a boy, really — going through a hard time, and it meant a lot to me to receive the kindness of a stranger, however eccentric his advice might have been.

Unfortunately, this memory of a more innocent time has taken on a melancholy hue in recent weeks. On April 29 an explosion ripped through that same Sufi mosque after Friday prayers. At least 10 people, and perhaps more than 50, were killed. There is confusion about whether the blast was a suicide attack or the result of a bomb planted at the scene, but it was not an isolated incident. A week earlier, on April 22, the Mawlawi Sekander Sufi mosque in the northern city of Kunduz was hit by a similar attack that killed at least 33 people and wounded dozens more. The Islamic State group claimed responsibility for that blast and is also believed to have been behind the bloodshed in Kabul. With Shia Muslims as well as Sufis being increasingly targeted, it is clear that attempts are underway to ignite a sectarian war in Afghanistan. History suggests this will not work, but nothing is certain anymore.

Sufism has roots in this country that are far older than the kind of ideology practiced by the Islamic State. While Afghans are often wary of its more esoteric aspects — such as the way worshipers engage in “dhikr” (chanting) to show their devotion to God — its mysticism has traditionally been a source of comfort for many people here. The sick visit Sufi shrines in search of cures for cancer or depression; infertile women go to them looking for the miracle they need to have a child. This has started to change in recent years and of course it would be better if everyone trusted in science, but it seems churlish to rebuke Afghans for finding hope wherever they can. During times of darkness we occasionally need artificial light.

Sufism is not a sect or a type of jurisprudence but a form of Islamic belief that emphasizes the mystical, peaceful aspects of our religion and prioritizes inner contemplation. As far as the Islamic State is concerned, this is enough to make Sufis idolators. But attacks such as the one on April 29 in Kabul are attacks on the heritage and culture of all Afghans. We do not have to be Sufis to understand and appreciate the role that Sufism has played in our history.

There are four main Sufi orders in Afghanistan and the wider region: the Chishti, the Qadiriyya, the Suhrawardiyya and the Naqshbandi. The Chishti originated near Herat in western Afghanistan, and some of our greatest poets were Sufis. The most famous of them, Jalaluddin Rumi, was born in Balkh in northern Afghanistan in the early 13th century. The United Nations cultural agency (UNESCO) celebrated his work in 2007, the same year I went to the Sufi mosque in Kabul. The U.N. secretary-general at the time, Ban Ki-moon, described Rumi’s work as “timeless” and praised his “humanist philosophy.” We Afghans also claim Abdur Rahman Baba, a 15th- and 16th-century Sufi poet from Peshawar, as one of our own and continue to draw inspiration from his writing.

Afghan Sufis fought against the Soviet occupation of our country in the 1980s, just like more hardline jihadists. Three of the seven Sunni mujahedeen parties during that time were led by Sufis. They may not have been as militarily effective as their rivals, but their followers still made enormous sacrifices in the name of defending Afghanistan and Islam.

Although the Taliban’s relationship with the Sufi community is complex, it is certainly not openly hostile. Afghan Sufi scholars have been vocal in their support for the current government and often refer to Sirajuddin Haqqani, the minister of interior, using the honorific “Khalifa” — a title traditionally given to Sufi disciples who reach scholarly levels of enlightenment. The respect seems both genuine and mutual, and it is arguably a good example of the compromises we Afghans need to make if we want our country to move forward. The shamans who always used to roam around Kabul collecting alms are no longer visible on the streets and seem to have been discouraged from carrying out their rituals in public since the Taliban’s takeover, but that is the only sign I have noticed of the Islamic Emirate possibly acting against Sufism.

This cordial relationship between the government and the Sufi community may be only a small cause for optimism, but it is worth noting. Given the increased activity of the Islamic State of late and the criticisms that have rightly been leveled at some of the Taliban’s more repressive social policies, we need to recognize that there is still some cause for hope. Whether this can be built on may well depend on whether security gets significantly worse.

A month after the attack on the Sufi mosque in Kabul, the Taliban marked the sixth anniversary of the death of their former leader, Mullah Akhtar Mohammad Mansour, who was killed by a U.S. drone strike in Pakistan in 2016. To honor his memory, several senior officials attended a commemorative event on May 22 in a wedding hall in Kabul, the kind of place that would once have been the scene of raucous late-night parties. Although the atmosphere was measured, the meeting was revolutionary in its own way. The former head of the Taliban’s political office in Doha and current deputy foreign minister, Sher Mohammad Abbas Stanikzai, used the occasion to call for girls’ schools to be reopened and for women’s rights to be respected. Even that meeting, however, was not allowed to pass peacefully. An explosion hit several vehicles parked outside, causing unknown numbers of casualties. This time a group calling itself the National Liberation Front claimed responsibility. Exactly who they are and what they want is unclear.

These kinds of mysterious attacks took place regularly under the governments of Hamid Karzai and Ashraf Ghani, and the Taliban will be keen to ensure they do not get out of hand. This spring we have often been without electricity in Kabul because the pylons in the north of the country that supply the city are being routinely targeted in sabotage operations. On the streets here no one is quite sure whether to blame rebel groups linked to the old Northern Alliance or hostile states — or, perhaps, both. Even as I write these lines at home now, I have just heard an explosion in the near distance. I will wait for the sound of ambulance sirens or a call from a friend or relative to find out if anyone was hurt.


Fazelminallah Qazizai is the Afghanistan correspondent at New Lines
June 1, 2022
“Letter from Kabul” is a newsletter in which our contributors provide their own unique glimpses into life on the ground in Taliban-controlled Afghanistan

SEE



Arab History Through Medieval Spanish Eyes — with Aymenn Al-Tamimi

New Lines Podcast
June 10, 2022
The Medieval city from the tower of the Alcazar fortress, Toledo, Spain
 / JMN / Getty Images


You could see a parallel between hostility to Islam today 
and hostility in the Middle Ages. I think it’s still there.

The bishop of Toledo, Rodrigo Ximénez de Rada, wrote “Historia Arabum” in the 13th century. The book is one of the earliest accounts of Arabic history written by a Western author. It was translated from the original Latin into Arabic by Aymenn Al-Tamimi, a non-resident fellow at the New Lines Institute and a PhD student at the University of Swansea in Wales. In this podcast, he joins New Lines’ Lydia Wilson to discuss the book and his reasons for translating it.

Rodrigo’s Europe was awash with Arabic influences. Though popular interpretations of medieval history usually focus on the Crusades and other instances of religious confrontation, European Christian scholars nevertheless held great respect for the achievements of their Islamic counterparts, and Latin translations of Arabic works were in high demand. Even Rodrigo himself, who participated in the Christian “reconquista” of Spain, shared this ambivalent view. “You see even words of praise given to various Muslim rulers of Al Andalus,” Al-Tamimi points out.

Any appreciation of the Islamic world’s philosophical and scientific prowess, however, did little to assuage his antipathy toward Islam itself, which he denounced as the “false sect of Muhammad.” Al-Tamimi sees the roots of modern European Islamophobia in these medieval attitudes: “I think it’s still there.”

And yet Rodrigo also described the Arabs of Spain as being an integral part of the country. This apparent contradiction, Al-Tamimi explains, is actually quite instructive. Rodrigo, he says, was “happy to tolerate the Muslims in Spain provided that they were subject to Christian power.” That logic continues to underpin many supremacist social arrangements today.

New Lines Magazine · Arab History Through Medieval Spanish Eyes — with Aymenn Al-Tamimi and Lydia Wilson

Produced by Joshua Martin


A 13th-Century Text Teaches Us About Arabs and Europeans

A Catholic bishop’s writings reveal much about tolerance and coexistence in medieval Andalusia

Antique engraving depicting the town of Granada in the South of Spain / Getty Images


There has been much interest in the depiction of Arabs in contemporary Western culture and literature, whether in popular movies, newspapers or books. Concerns about negative depictions in earlier centuries, too, led to the term “Orientalist” being widely seen as pejorative. What if, however, we try to go even further back? In fact, how far back can we go? What was the earliest Western book focused specifically on Arabs and their history?

​​I did not actively set out to discover such a book but stumbled upon it by chance while I was looking into the subject of Latin translations of the Quran. Eventually I was to translate a 13th-century Latin text, “Historia Arabum” (History of the Arabs) into Arabic, as I have long believed that there should be more translation of Latin works into Arabic in general, and this work would surely be of interest to Arab readers. More recently, I have also done an English translation that had not been done before, though there have been others — one into medieval Castilian, an early form of Spanish, in the 14th century, and more recently into German, in 2006.

In the process of translation and analysis, I struggled with many questions and seeming contradictions in this work, which was unusual for its time in its apparent objectivity and use of Arabic sources. This was particularly surprising given the prologue, which primes the reader to expect a polemic against Arabs and Muslims: the threat they posed to Christendom and the destruction they caused in Spain for more than 500 years. Did the apparent inconsistency between the bulk of the book’s content and the prologue reveal something about the author’s “real” attitude toward Arabs and Muslims beneath the surface of hostility to Islam as a religion? What could the work tell us about the author’s own times? Does it have lessons for us today in an increasingly polarized world?

The earliest complete and proper translation of the Quran into Latin (the lingua franca of the educated in medieval Europe) that was generally faithful to the original was completed by Mark of Toledo in 1210 CE. Despite the relative lack of polemical influence on the translation of the text, the reasons for commissioning it were anything but an objective study of Islam. The translator tells us in the prologue that it was at the behest of Toledo Archbishop Rodrigo Ximénez de Rada, who lamented how parts of his region were being “infested by the enemies of the cross” and that they still had control of some areas in the region. Where sacrifices to Christ were once offered, now the name of “the false prophet” was extolled. Rodrigo wanted the Quran translated so that its “sacrilegious institutes and monstrous precepts” should come to the attention of true Christian believers, and he could at least try to refute the Muslims through polemic if he could not do it through arms.

It is to this same Rodrigo that the distinction of composing the first Western book on Arab history belongs. Rodrigo, who was born in 1170 CE and served as archbishop of Toledo from 1209 until his death in 1247, lived through a key period of transition in Spain’s history that saw a significant reduction in Muslim power on the Iberian Peninsula. By the time of his death, Muslim rule was largely reduced to the Emirate of Granada, which had already become a mere tributary of the Christian kingdom of Castile and had emerged from the vacuum that the withdrawal of the Berber Almohad Caliphate from Spain left behind.

Rodrigo himself played a noteworthy role in blunting and reversing the Almohads’ fortunes in Spain, as he mobilized support for Crusader campaigns against them in Iberia and participated in the Battle of Las Navas de Tolosa in 1212 alongside King Alfonso VIII of Castile, which was a decisive defeat for the Almohads and probably the high point of Rodrigo’s career. But while Rodrigo may have contributed to the decline of Muslim influence in Spain, his own fortunes and influence within Christian Spain also went into decline, particularly in the last decade or so of his life. Besides ultimately failing in his quest to make the church of Toledo preeminent in the hierarchy of the Catholic church, Rodrigo himself ended up being exiled from Toledo by the city council amid controversies of corruption and favoritism.

Rodrigo’s primary legacy is his written output, and his main interest was in history. His first work was probably the “Breviarium Historie Catholice” (Summary of Catholic History), a book of liturgy guiding daily worship and prayer as well as a world history that begins from the time of the Creation of the world by God until the dispersal of the Apostles to preach the Gospel with the gift of languages. The work largely consists of quotations from the Bible with narrative elaborations and commentary, drawing heavily on a popular Bible companion work by the French scholar Peter Comestor. In commenting on verses of Genesis that apparently predict the rise of Ishmael (one of Abraham’s sons and the reputed ancestor of the Arabs), Rodrigo considers the later Arab conquests to be a fulfillment of the pronouncement that Ishmael will be a “wild man.” It is also here that Rodrigo first indicated his desire to write a history of the Arabs: “Concerning these things and the line of Ishmael, I have intended to follow up on the genealogy and deeds of his people in another volume if the Lord grants.”

This intention eventually came to fruition with “Historia Arabum,” which was the last work Rodrigo composed in his life, completed around 1245-1246. The book is not a standalone work but the last of a five-book “History of Spain” series, originally commissioned by King Ferdinand III and probably begun by Rodrigo in the 1230s. The first book, by far the longest with nine mini-“books” of its own, is called the “Gothic History,” telling the history of Spain from its first settlement by some descendants of Noah through the conquest of Spain by the Visigoths (a Germanic people who ultimately established their kingdom in Spain following the collapse of the Western Roman Empire, ruling a united peninsula before the Muslim conquest that began in 711), then the Christian kingdoms that arose in Iberia following the Muslim conquest, which were seen as effective “successors” of the Visigoths. The entire eighth book of the series is taken up by the events of the Battle of Las Navas de Tolosa. The last major event covered in the whole series is the Christian reconquest of Córdoba in 1236 and the conversion of its grand mosque into a cathedral.

The remaining history books of Rodrigo are in effect supplements that are intended to help the reader understand how foreign peoples have contributed to Spain’s history. In the second book, he deals with the history of the Romans; in the third book, the Vandals, Alans and Suevi (who established realms in Spain in the fifth century CE and were ultimately supplanted by the Visigoths); in the fourth book, the Ostrogoths (who ruled Italy and briefly controlled Gothic holdings in Spain through unification under Theodoric the Great); and finally the Arabs.

The “Historia Arabum” is by far the longest of these supplemental books, spanning a prologue and 49 chapters. It gives an account of Arab history that can effectively be divided into three parts: a biography of the Prophet Muhammad; a general account of Arab history detailing the immediate successors to Muhammad and the era of the Umayyad caliphate, including the conquest of Spain; and finally, a part focusing exclusively on Arab/Muslim history in Spain. This last part continues the narrative from the rise of the Umayyad Emirate of Córdoba (independent from the Abbasid Caliphate) through to its evolution into a rival caliphate, and then its final collapse in 1031, followed by the rise of the independent ta’ifa mini-states in the region, briefly charting the Berber Almoravid dynasty, which subjugated the ta’ifa states only to be eventually replaced by the Almohads (whose rise is dealt with in the Gothic history).

How does Rodrigo depict Arabs in the “Historia Arabum”? What sources did he use? The opening prologue gives a highly negative impression of the Arabs, as Rodrigo says that he will relate the “disasters” they brought, just as he related previously how Spain endured losses “in the piles of calamities.” For “532 years and beyond,” Spain was repeatedly cut apart by their sword, and only with the Battle of Las Navas de Tolosa was “the sword of the Arabs blunted” and “the Gothic strength restored,” thus opening up “the paths of revenge for the Christians.” Intending to begin his history of the Arabs from the time of Muhammad, Rodrigo hopes to “uncover the savagery and cunning” of the Arabs. The reader should notice how Muhammad’s “false” revelation “bound lustful souls in knots, as it were” and so the young should learn to “abstain from fables, be bound by the cords of Adam and be drawn by the bonds of kindness.”

The biography Rodrigo gives of Muhammad, then, is intended as an “anti-hagiography.” But it is more than a simple diatribe against Islam’s founder. While Rodrigo sees Muhammad as a malicious liar driven primarily by a lust for power, the biography he presents generally marks a notable improvement on the already existing and rather extensive body of Latin literature on Muhammad.

Indeed, Rodrigo presents a rather curious amalgamation of material from different sources. On the one hand, it would appear that he was the first Westerner to make detailed use of material from traditional Islamic sources, thus recounting episodes like the splitting of Muhammad’s chest by angels to cleanse and weigh his heart, the placing of the black stone during the renovation of the Kaaba in Mecca, and the story of his night journey and ascension to heaven. Rodrigo’s accounts here bear many parallels with material going back to Ibn Ishaq, the earliest biographer of the Prophet. Rodrigo also appears to have been one of the first Latin writers to establish more clearly the significance of the towns of Mecca and Medina (Yathrib) and the link between them in the Prophet’s life, noting how Muhammad left Mecca for Yathrib as the pagan Quraysh rejected his monotheistic message, only for him to return in triumph later.

On the other hand, Rodrigo’s account also contains some basic errors and elements that would seem strange to those familiar with the Islamic sources, suggesting he was working with translated excerpts compiled by an intermediary. For instance, he gives the name of Muhammad’s father as Ali (rather than Abdullah) and places Muhammad’s birth in Yathrib. He appears to duplicate the character of Muhammad’s first wife, Khadija, saying that Muhammad first worked for a wealthy widow named Hadiya before marrying Khadija and then marrying this Hadiya.

According to Rodrigo, Muhammad was supposedly instructed in secular sciences, Judaism and Catholicism by a Jewish astrologer who was a friend of Muhammad’s father. Muhammad subsequently draws on this education when he devises his religion, as he incorporates elements of both Judaism and Christianity. This element of Rodrigo’s biography is one of the many versions of the “Sergius-Bahira legend” that circulated in medieval Christian writings about Muhammad. This legend combines early Christian legends about a monk named Sergius (who taught Muhammad) and a story in Islamic tradition about a monk named Bahira who predicted Muhammad’s future prophethood. Though there are many versions, the “Sergius-Bahira legend” usually involves a non-Muslim instructor for Muhammad helping him to form the basis of his new religion, thus discrediting the idea that Muhammad received revelations from God.

The culmination of Muhammad’s career, in Rodrigo’s telling, is his elevation to become king of the Arabs, establishing his kingdom in Damascus and ruling for 10 years following a rebellion he led against the Byzantines. This element of the biography has a clearly identifiable source: the “Mozarabic Chronicle,” an anonymous mid-eighth-century Iberian text that is among the first Latin works to mention Muhammad by name and discuss Arab history in any way (it also deals with Byzantine and Visigoth history).

The “Mozarabic Chronicle,” as it turns out, forms the backbone of Rodrigo’s work detailing Muhammad’s immediate successors and the Umayyad Caliphate that followed. This can be seen in the close parallels in language and content between the two works. Indeed, in certain instances, we can identify where Rodrigo has apparently misunderstood the “Mozarabic Chronicle,” either because of poor manuscript transmission or because of difficulty in understanding the sometimes obscure and awkward Latin of the chronicle. In one memorable instance, he confuses the word “dodran” (Latin for “three-quarters”) with the name of a person and tells us that a character named “Dedran” incited rebellion during the reign of al-Walid II, thus bringing Spain into a state of turmoil.

The reliance on the “Mozarabic Chronicle” also means that Rodrigo follows the original source’s judgments on Arab rulers and governors, positive or negative. Thus, contrary to how the Umayyad caliph Yazid I is often reviled in popular Muslim memory for the killing of the Prophet’s grandson Hussein, Rodrigo tells us that he was considered “very pleasing to all,” as he never sought the glory of regal dignity but rather lived as a commoner. More glaringly, Rodrigo’s account, following the “Mozarabic Chronicle,” omits Ali’s caliphate, transitioning straight from Othman to the first Umayyad caliph Mu’awiya. Rodrigo informs us of Ali and his caliphate later, in Chapter 18, while relaying an erroneous account that the rival Umayyad and Abbasid dynasties originated from the offspring of Ali and his wife Fatima.

Occasionally, some information is used from sources besides the “Mozarabic Chronicle”: For example, Rodrigo narrates the legend of “Solomon’s table” found during the Muslim conquest of Spain, a story found in Arabic though not Latin sources. Sometimes, Rodrigo confuses information from different sources. The most notable example is when he tells us that “Zama” (al-Samh bin Malik al-Khawlani, an Umayyad governor of Spain) was killed during a failed siege of Toulouse in France, an account he takes from the “Mozarabic Chronicle.” He then tells us that the caliph sent a person named “Azham filius Melic” to govern Spain, providing information on him attested in Arabic sources. Azham filius Melic is the same person as Zama, but Rodrigo does not realize it.

If positive judgments of Arab and Muslim rulers seem rather sparse in this section of the work, they become much more common in the third major section, devoted to independent Umayyad Spain, which is also the most mysterious in terms of its sources. For example, Rodrigo tells us that the Umayyad Emir Hisham I “peacefully governed the whole land with justice and affection.” His successor al-Hakam I favored the poor in many of his judgments, worked to keep criminals in check and generously gave alms. Abd al-Rahman III, who established the independent Umayyad caliphate, governed with justice and sound judgment, and so on. The picture that emerges here is far more nuanced than the impression given by Rodrigo’s prologue, which could lead the reader into thinking that Arab history in Spain consisted of nothing but destruction and disaster. It is also clear that the history Rodrigo documents in this section is more than just Arab history in Spain: the Berbers emerge as a distinct group and faction who influence politics, as do the “eunuchs” — an apparent mistranslation of the Arabic term “fityan,” which refers to ex-slaves of Slavic origin who also came to have an influential role in politics and governance, including the establishment of the ta’ifa states.

The puzzle here is the sources Rodrigo is using. In general, his writings on Muslim Spain do not have any clear parallel in Latin works, though Arabic sources can offer some clues. In one memorable example, following the collapse of the Umayyad Caliphate in Córdoba, a certain individual named Umayya asks the people of Córdoba to make him ruler. They tell him that the city is in a state of disturbance and that they fear he will be killed, to which he replies: “Obey me today and kill me tomorrow.” The anecdote, intended to illustrate how love of power brought about the destabilization and collapse of the state, has a direct parallel in the words attributed to him in Arabic sources: “bay’iuni al-yawm wa uqtuluni ghadan” (pledge allegiance to me today and kill me tomorrow).

But Rodrigo shows only superficial understanding of Arab history beyond Spain and after 750, unaware, for example, of rivals to the Abbasids such as the Fatimid Caliphate. On this basis it is very unlikely that Rodrigo was drawing on any Arabic work covering general Arab history, as he would show a more detailed knowledge of events outside Spain. Perhaps the most likely suspect is not a single source but a compendium, given that a lot of medieval Arabic history survives in this form whereby quotations are taken from different sources to present different versions of events.

One possible example is the “day of the ditch”: a massacre of the rebels of Toledo during the reign of al-Hakam I, supposedly involving the digging of a ditch and the dumping of the rebels’ bodies into it after they were beheaded at a banquet to which they had been invited. Rodrigo covers this incident in two chapters, and there are multiple accounts of it in Arabic sources. While Rodrigo’s version does not precisely match a single Arabic account in all the details, it is closer to the family of versions linked to Ibn al-Qutiya (a 10th-century Andalusian historian and grammarian) and other writers than the family of versions linked to Ahmad al-Razi (a 10th-century historian who wrote a history, continued by his son Isa, of the Umayyad rulers in al-Andalus). In this case, comparison is partly enabled by surviving fragments of a compilation work by Ibn Hayyan (a prolific Andalusian compiler and writer of history). That work is called “al-Muqtabis,” and one could suppose that Rodrigo made use of it. However, more portions of it and other lost works would need to be recovered to enable firmer conclusions in that direction.

Regardless of the mystery of Rodrigo’s precise sources, the mere devotion of a book to Arab history, the repeated and extensive use of information coming from Arabic source materials and the general objectivity of much of this work are remarkable, especially in comparison with other medieval works. But does the uniqueness of this text and its approach show something similarly distinct about the author’s attitude toward Arabs and Muslims? In other words, does it demonstrate a tolerance and openness toward them?

There are two competing views on these questions. One is to say that the apparent objectivity of the “Historia Arabum” should not obscure the author’s undoubted hostility to Islam (as illustrated in the Muhammad biography and the purpose of commissioning a translation of the Quran) and a generally negative view of Arabs and Muslims, as outlined in the prologue. This reading highlights the need to consider the work in the context of Rodrigo’s bigger history of Spain project, the largest of which — the “Gothic History” — culminates in the recapture of Córdoba, thus cleansing the city “from the filth of Muhammad.” Furthermore, it draws attention to Rodrigo’s career and his participation in the Crusades in Iberia. To the extent that the “Historia Arabum” seems objective, it is argued that this derives from uncritical use of information from Arabic source material, not a real attitude of tolerance. In the view of some scholars, Rodrigo wanted to expel Muslims from Spain because he saw them as foreign invaders: In effect, his attitude was the precursor to the expulsions and forced conversions that targeted Jews and Muslims in the post-1492 era in Spain after Muslim sovereignty came to an end.

The contrasting view argues that Rodrigo believed in “tolerance” in a limited and relative sense, even if he wanted to see an end to Muslim sovereignty in Spain. In this reading, when Rodrigo offers words of praise for Arab and Muslim rulers, he does so because he wants to point out good examples for kings to follow, underlining his view of history as serving a didactic purpose as he outlined in the prologue to his “Gothic History.” Further, it is argued that he sees the Arabs in Spain as at least being part of Spain, such as when he speaks about the “Spanish Arabs” or at the end of the book about the “Vandal Arabs” (i.e., Arabs of al-Andalus, based on an etymology of al-Andalus, in effect recognizing their distinctness from the Berbers of North Africa and Arabs of the Middle East).

The concept of “tolerance,” though, is itself liable to misrepresentation in discussions about medieval Spain, especially the parts under Muslim rule. One often hears complaints of a “myth of the Andalusian paradise,” based on a supposedly multicultural and harmonious example for today’s world in which Muslims, Jews and Christians got along. While this conception may exist to some degree at a popular level, few modern scholars of medieval Spain would uphold it. “Tolerance” is rather understood here as allowing for some kind of coexistence even as one group asserts its dominance. In the case of Muslim-held Spain, Christians and Jews were, in general, second-class citizens (“dhimmis”) but were tolerated in the sense of being allowed to practice their religion and retain their property. In effect, one could apply the same reasoning to Christian-held parts of Spain and argue that what Rodrigo envisioned was a dhimmi status for Muslims (and Jews): subordinate to the ruling Christian authorities but allowed to practice their religion and retain their property.

The evidence seems to point in this direction, regardless of whether one reads Rodrigo’s praise for Arab rulers in the “Historia Arabum” as reflective of his own views. While Rodrigo’s hostility to Islam is clear, it is not necessarily any more hostile than his attitude toward Judaism. Rodrigo not only called Judaism the “Judaic perfidy” in this work but also wrote (or at least claimed as his own) a much earlier work dedicated to refuting Judaism: the “Dialogus Libri Vite” (Dialogue of the Book of Life). Yet the practical record shows Rodrigo not only had dealings with the Jewish community in Toledo but also sought to protect them from mob violence and harsher measures imposed by the Catholic Church’s central leadership. One could argue that he was driven in this regard by his own business and political interests, but this pragmatism is to be contrasted with an approach to forms of Christian “heresy,” which would have to be wiped out. The terminology of “heresy” is applied neither to Judaism nor in general to Islam: It is clear that Rodrigo did not view Islam as simply being some kind of Christian “heresy.”

Perhaps the prologue of the “Historia Arabum” itself shows the limited “tolerance” Rodrigo envisions, because after mentioning the opening of the ways of revenge for the Christians, he declares:

“Just as from the beginning they oppressed the Christian inhabitants under the burden of tribute, so also they now live in accustomed servitude under tribute following the restoration of the fortifications to the Christian leaders.”

These relative and nuanced understandings of “tolerance” and “coexistence,” of course, should not obscure the very real oppression that could and did come with second-class citizen status, whether in Muslim-held Spain or Christian-held Spain. It is therefore correct to caution against upholding these experiences as good examples for today. The reality is that “coexistence” and oppression can exist together at the same time. Even in the present setting, one sees attempts (such as in the Israeli-occupied West Bank or Turkish-occupied Afrin in Syria) to uphold coexistence as a cover for the realities of occupation and discriminatory systems. At the same time, the “Historia Arabum” and what it reveals about Rodrigo’s time are also good lessons against the tendency to polarized judgment that one sees in today’s popular discourse: Neither romanticizing nor absolute condemnation is called for, but rather a more objective understanding of history.

Aymenn Jawad Al-Tamimi is a nonresident fellow at New Lines Institute and an independent writer and analyst

In Archaeology, a Shard Isn’t Just a Shard

But as with other crimes they commit in their former colonies, privileged Westerners who steal from dig sites are somehow stunned by their arrests

June 13, 2022
Retired British geologist James Fitton and German psychologist Volker Waldmann were arrested in March at Baghdad Airport for having ancient pottery shards in their luggage 
/ Ameer Al-Mohammedawi / picture alliance via Getty Images

Turjuman is a newsletter about underreported cultural trends from the Middle East, emailed to subscribers every other week. Sign up here.

When I was based in the United Arab Emirates, there was a category of news story we came to expect, particularly from the British press, that was simply an exercise in Dubai-bashing. I’m not talking about legitimate stories like the plight of laborers or human rights abuses. But stories meant to bash the city for its self-promotion as a hub of modernity, business and diversity.

One perfect example of this phenomenon was the saga in 2008 of two Britons who were arrested and jailed for allegedly having sex on the beach in Dubai. The story had a lot of surrounding circumstances whose veracity is difficult to gauge, including whether they were actually having sex and claims that the police officer who detained them had initially warned them and was assaulted by the couple the second time he found them, among other titillating reports. They were ultimately convicted and sentenced to three months in jail, though the sentence was suspended, allowing them to leave the country.

The British press covered the salacious story with voracity, reporting in exaggerated bewilderment at the temerity of a city arresting someone for having public sex. The subtext was that Dubai, for all its pretensions to modernity, was this backward place that could not quite come to terms with Western customs. Never mind that the couple would have been arrested for public sex in most other places in the world.

Still, the tone of gentlemanly shock was fascinating to me — it seemed meant to convey an inoffensive stupefaction at the ways of these Stone Age natives. It also came with the presumption that laws should not apply to their own citizens. It had nothing to do with the actual validity of the law per se, but the prospect that citizens of a first-world country should be beholden to laws at all beyond their own shores, especially in backwards Arab countries. Later in college I learned there was a term for this sort of behavior — extraterritoriality. It was a legal principle that colonists applied to countries they colonized, where their own citizens enjoyed legal immunity in the colony for actions that would otherwise be crimes or that they would be prosecuted for at home, as though it were some type of imperial hangover.

Oddly enough the sex on the beach case came to my mind as I read the breathless coverage of the story of a retired British geologist who was sentenced to 15 years in prison in Iraq after allegedly taking a dozen rocks and pottery fragments (it’s not clear what the breakdown of each category is) from the ancient archaeological site of Eridu and trying to fly out of the country with them in his luggage, for the crime of trafficking antiquities.

Fifteen years, particularly given the man’s age, is an excessive sentence. I don’t know what he was thinking the moment he picked up the artifact fragments from the site, though presumably as a geologist he should have known better, at least in terms of the difference between indigenous rocks and archaeological fragments. He insists he did not know he was breaking the law.

The BBC published a statement from the family that I found fascinating, however. After declaring that they were heartbroken by the verdict, they described the crime as “trivial” and “dubious,” urging the British government to intervene in the case. The tone of the coverage has also generally been bafflement at the prospect of someone being tried at all for taking artifacts from one of the most important sites in ancient Mesopotamia.

First of all, there is nothing trivial about laws meant to protect Iraq’s heritage. The country has endured decades of looting and artifact trafficking and destruction, from the notorious images of the looting of Iraqi museums in the immediate aftermath of the American occupation to the destruction of heritage sites and manuscripts by the terrorists of the Islamic State group. Many of these priceless treasures have ended up in private collections or museums in the West, and efforts are ongoing to repatriate them.

There is also the fact that a British citizen would not attempt to take away pottery fragments from Stonehenge or a British museum, or even touch the historical artifacts on display. That they were simply lying around in the open on an archaeological dig site is not an excuse to lay claim to them.

Finally, the press coverage also inevitably incorporates demands of the British government and its diplomatic mission to intervene in the case and win the man’s freedom, which has of course been met with platitudes that they are providing consular assistance to a British national. It’s not clear to me what the British government is supposed to do exactly in a case where a citizen is convicted of a crime abroad. Are British subjects not supposed to be beholden to the laws that apply to citizens of the country they are in? To the law of the land? This is not a case of a human rights activist or dissident being jailed for their views, like the British citizen Alaa Abdel-Fattah (nothing of consequence has been done to free him from arbitrary detention in Egypt), or an academic being falsely accused of espionage. Can Iraq or Egypt or Lebanon or Syria intervene whenever one of their citizens is jailed in the West for a crime? Or is the assumption that Western laws are worthy of being followed, that their progenitors are above following the laws of those backward countries?

I do hope the man ultimately returns to his family and his sentence is reduced or suspended because of mitigating circumstances. But I also hope the media abandons this colonialist mindset — that crimes in the developing world don’t quite count.

   Kareem Shaheen is the Middle East and newsletters editor at New Lines





Climate Change Threatens Archaeology

Researchers’ number-one fear from Syria to Afghanistan is not war or terrorism but the coming shifts in nature itself
June 8, 2022
The Great Mosque, 1907, Djenne / DeAgostini / Getty Images


At Bagerhat in southern Bangladesh, a city of 360 mosques from the 15th century, salt water from the encroaching Indian Ocean is damaging the foundations. In Yemen, torrential rains are decimating the improbable mud-brick high-rises of Shibam’s 16th-century architecture, newly exposed owing to strikes from the conflict there. In Iraq, the country’s southern marshes are drying up, causing the Indigenous Bedouins to flee for cities, leading to drastic loss of intangible heritage.

The effects of climate change on cultural heritage vary extensively but are inevitably complex. It acts like a cancer from within, whose steady growth is as difficult to track as it is to solve.

“The effects of climate change cannot be seen from one day to the next,” says Ajmal Maiwandi, director of the Aga Khan Trust for Culture in Afghanistan. “The physical damage to monuments caused by war and natural disaster can often be reversible. However, the gradual changes caused by alteration in the climate often remain unnoticed until it is too late to take action.”

And they are often multiple, with complications that compound one another.

Bagerhat, a UNESCO World Heritage-listed city, has become one of the most famous cases of climate-change-induced peril. Its mosques bear the distinctive domed architecture of the Indo-Islamic style, better known in its later, grander exemplars such as the Taj Mahal. Many of them are still used by members of the public — with the call to prayer given not via recorded messages but by muezzins who climb up the mosques’ squat, red-brick minarets. During cyclones, residents often shelter in the structures, whose solidity provides better protection than their homes.

In addition to the rising sea level, shrimp cultivation and the construction of dikes in the delta are moving salt water closer to the mainland and keeping it there for longer. The salinity creeps into the Bagerhat mosques’ brickwork, in a process called efflorescence, resulting in encrustation and discoloration. The waterlogged ground, meanwhile, threatens the buildings’ structural integrity.

Khandoker Mahfuz-ud-Darain, professor of architecture at nearby Khulna University, says that salination was always a threat, even when the structures were built, because of the tidal rhythms of a now-defunct river that once flowed through the site. Despite its being a rarely used technique in southern Bangladesh, the original architects surrounded the foundations with stone to shield the bricks from the sea water. And as a living city, Bagerhat benefits from having locals who look after the walls by, at least, wiping away the vegetation and dirt.

However, these fixes are proving insufficient against the growing scale of the challenges.

“Local people and the keepers of the mosque told me that 15 to 30 years [ago] there was less need for regular maintenance,” he says. “But now the fungus, efflorescence, encrustation and cracking are increasing rapidly. We have some very nominal budget by the government in this area, but even though the cost of maintenance is low, it is not enough. We need more budget to cover more activities.”

Ongoing local maintenance is a similar bulwark against climate change for mud-brick mosques in places such as Mali and Niger. The Great Mosque of Djenné hosts an annual festival of “crépissage” (plastering), in which the entire Malian city works to replaster the mosque before the annual rainy season begins. In a coordinated effort, teams prepare the mud, transferring it into wicker baskets and giving them to young men who climb up the buildings’ jutting spokes and apply the mixture to the facade. But crépissage cannot keep up with the new pace of rains. Agadez has been a UNESCO World Heritage Site since 2013, with a great mosque and decorated earthen-architecture houses that were built along the caravan routes of Niger in the 15th century. After a series of flash floods in the past few years, local bodies applied to the Swiss cultural agency ALIPH for emergency funding.

“We are using ancient methods,” says Mohammed Alhassane, whose agency, Imane Atarikh, looks after Agadez. He explains that these local techniques of mixing clay and animal dung have proved more effective in safeguarding the structures than ideas developed elsewhere.

But Agadez, like most sites where cultural heritage is under threat, is also vulnerable in terms of the economy and security. One of the cruelest injustices of climate change is the overwhelming effect it has on countries that have contributed the least to carbon emissions. In the realm of cultural heritage, architects and archaeologists are discovering that Indigenous knowledge provides one of the best ways to protect sites against climate change — but it is precisely this knowledge that is being lost amid a wider global displacement in rural communities.

In Agadez, employment is harder to come by, tourism has stalled and Nigerians are emigrating — taking with them the local know-how that would help maintain the Agadez Grand Mosque and its surrounding structures.

“Climate change is a multiplier,” says Andrea Balbo, an archaeologist who leads on the subject at ALIPH. “We’ve been trying to cluster three ways in which climate change, conflict and heritage interact. But these are complex interactions in the sense that it’s not an addition — not like one plus one is two. It’s more like one and one creates 5, 10 or 15.”

Effects traceable to climate change—such as drought and crop failure—fuel conflict, which then destroys or limits access to vulnerable sites of cultural heritage. According to the study “When Rain Turns to Dust,” produced by the International Committee of the Red Cross in 2020, out of the top 20 countries affected by conflict, 12 were also among the most exposed to climate change.

Once the sites are damaged, Balbo adds, some of the meteorological effects that climate change has contributed to, such as torrential rains, then further exacerbate the problems. Shibam’s mud-brick walls, exposed during bombings in Yemen, drip away into gushing streams once their outer layer has been damaged. Strong winds across central Iraq, which scientists attribute to the more extreme weather patterns of climate change, are eroding many of the exposed or hilltop sites in the country that remain difficult to reach for archaeologists.

In the Middle East, North Africa and South Asia, most research focuses not on archaeological sites per se but on the more complex ways that climate change threatens Indigenous communities, intangible heritage and biodiversity. This broad purview comes at a time when understanding of cultural heritage has itself undergone a major shift. For most of the 20th century, cultural patrimony denoted monuments, architecture and tangible artifacts — the temples and statuary that furnished stops on tourist itineraries and the contents of museums in the West.

In the early part of this century, the idea of intangible heritage emerged, covering rituals and practices that are unique to cultures, such as forms of dancing, singing and handicrafts. Now, a third shift is underway that is linking natural and cultural heritage. Heritage experts are thinking not just about depictions like the lamassu (a deity with a human head and animal features) of Nineveh but also the fertile lands around Mosul, as well as how the two combine to create the area’s culture.

In southern Iraq, for example, climate change has exacerbated the already huge losses of the Indigenous marsh people that occurred after the marshes were drained by Saddam Hussein.

“Their traditions were undocumented, so what we Iraqis have lost is a disaster,” says Jaafar Jotheri, a professor at Al-Qadisiyah University and a co-director of the Nahrein Network, a group of archaeologists focused on Iraq that is based at University College London. “We had 300,000 Bedouins before 2003. And now we have around 3,000 or less living in the desert. In 15 years we lost 300,000 people, with their culture, with their community, with their handicrafts. Why? Because of climate change: no rain, high temperatures, no more water in their springs.”

Jotheri estimates that within 10 years, the marsh people and their traditions will have completely disappeared as they emigrate to urban areas and assimilate into mainstream Iraqi culture. He and other members of the Nahrein Network are conserving what practices they can, but he acknowledges it is a race against time.

In Kabul, a key area under threat is the expansive Bagh-e Babur, the Mughal gardens laid out by the ruler Babur in 1504 and 1505. Such gardens are one of the most incredible and long-lasting legacies of the Mughal era. Built across the empire in cities such as Delhi, Agra, Lahore and Srinagar, they transpose the era’s architectural taste for symmetry and geometric rigor into landscaped form.

The Bagh-e Babur offer a prime example of a “chahārbāgh,” a four-quartered rectangular garden that is based on the four gardens of paradise in Islamic tradition. They were added to and maintained throughout Mughal rule in Afghanistan but largely despoiled for firewood over the course of the country’s conflicts in the 20th century. The Aga Khan Trust for Culture began restoring them in 2003.

But now they are again vulnerable — and not because of the return of the Taliban, who have in fact recently submitted a dossier to have the garden registered as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Rather, decreased snowfall in the mountains and the extraction of water from deep wells by a growing urban population has lowered the water table in the Afghan capital. Maiwandi estimates that in the past 15 years, the water table level in Kabul has dropped, from 7 to 10 feet underground to some 130 to 200 feet below the surface.

The global temperature rise has also meant the introduction of new pests and diseases.

“The increase in new types of resilient diseases affecting the horticulture in the garden is a recent phenomenon — and the maintenance teams are not prepared to address the growing scale of the challenge,” Maiwandi says. “We are finding it more difficult to deal with them as traditional knowledge in treating these afflictions is not effective, and we are having a much higher rate of loss in the trees and plants.”

While monuments and artifacts can be conserved or reconstructed, nothing can be done to conserve the living species of the gardens once the ecology around them changes. As for climate change more broadly, there is both a surge of action and a general feeling of despondency over the chances of success.

Cultural heritage agencies are scrambling to reach out to scientists. The International Council on Museums and Sites (ICOMOS) released a widely read report on climate change and cultural heritage in 2019 (the rather poetically titled “Future of Our Pasts”), and in December last year ICOMOS convened with UNESCO and the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), bringing together scientists and those working in the field of cultural protection for the first time. A key outcome of the proceedings was the introduction of culture as a vulnerable category into discussions at the most recent U.N. climate summit, COP26 in Glasgow.

Smaller agencies, too, are creating dedicated stands to combat the threat, even in countries such as Syria and Iraq, where conflict has so far been the undisputedly largest danger to cultural heritage. The new agency Safina Projects is working to conserve traditional Iraqi handicrafts that are being lost because of water scarcity, such as boat-building techniques. The Nahrein Network recently added climate change as a sixth key aim to its charter, which focuses on the sustainable development of Iraqi heritage — an attempt, Jotheri says, to make up for the fact that Iraq still lacks a governmental body that oversees the effect of climate change across various sectors.

Many of the techniques used to address conflict-induced loss are being repositioned for climate change, such as high-data mapping and 3D visualizations that will create records of the vulnerable buildings should they collapse. Iconem, the French photography agency that mapped Aleppo after its siege, has worked on the mosques of Agadez, and the mosque city of Bagerhat partnered with the American company CyArk, which created 3D visualizations of the buildings and documented the process of efflorescence for Google Arts & Culture.

But the complexity of the problem and the fact that many of the most at-risk sites are in poorer countries mean that cultural heritage landscapes vulnerable to climate change will likely fall into the rhythm of reliance on international donor support. As the fallout from the Taliban takeover of Afghanistan shows, this funding is heavily contingent on broader political objectives — Maiwandi says he now spends much of his time persuading donors to resume their support for the preservation of Afghanistan’s heritage irrespective of their political differences with the Taliban.

At the same time, it is important to underline another shift in the cultural heritage sector: toward local knowledge and communities, which had long been sidelined by foreign “experts.” And the resolve among these communities is stronger and longer lasting. Mahfuz-ud-Darain notes that for Bangladeshi people in Bagerhat, the complications from climate change are bigger than just the threat to cultural heritage — and their resolve surpasses the idea of just steady maintenance.

The Bangladeshi people “are actively fighting and adapting to the new harsh climate,” he says, citing floating platforms for houses and new fishing practices alongside the regular activity of wiping down the Bagerhat brickwork. “They do not give up. These are their homelands — their motherland.”

Melissa Gronlund is a London-based writer
In Afghanistan, a Drought Highlights the Climate Crisis

A reservoir on the outskirts of Kabul offers a glimpse into the country’s past and its possible future


Fazelminallah Qazizai    
June 15, 2022
An Afghan youth sells corn at Qargha Lake on the outskirts of Kabul 
/ Hector Retamal / AFP via Getty Images

I have come to think of Qargha, a reservoir on Kabul’s outskirts, as a mirror for our country’s soul. So much of our recent history seems to reside in its waters and the hills and mountains that surround it. There is beauty and hope in the reflection, but there are also the scars of old wounds that have yet to heal and the worry lines of our uncertain future. While decades of war have left their mark on the lake, the worst damage may yet be done by something we Afghans are ill-prepared for: the global climate crisis.

A drought has afflicted Afghanistan for almost two years, crippling food production, killing livestock and plunging the country into a humanitarian emergency made worse by international sanctions imposed on the Taliban government. The water levels at Qargha — some 10 miles outside Kabul — are now pitifully low, exposing the cracked earth and trash that normally lies beneath the surface. Once again, then, we must ask ourselves what the lake says about us. Perhaps people in the West should ask themselves that same question too.

The reservoir and dam at Qargha were built in 1933, during the reign of Afghanistan’s last king, Zahir Shah, to provide water for Kabul. By the 1950s and 1960s it had become a popular picnic spot for Afghans and a tourist resort for the capital’s burgeoning expat community. The king’s prime minister, Daoud Khan, was said to enjoy visiting Qargha to ruminate and relax. But it would be wrong to think of these prewar years as a time of innocence. The U.S. and the Soviet Union were already eyeing Afghanistan as a strategic battleground in the Cold War, using the soft power of economic aid and infrastructure development to gain political influence. In the early 1970s, another drought ravaged the Afghan countryside, displacing thousands of people. As social unrest grew, Khan overthrew the king in 1973. He went on to establish a brutal autocracy that radicalized communists and Islamists alike.

During the Soviet occupation of the 1980s, music concerts were televised live from Qargha. People went there to swim, ride in paddle boats and eat “shor nakhod” — a dish of chickpeas, potatoes and mint — that was served at the lakeside restaurants and food stalls. But even before the reservoir was built, Afghan soldiers had been stationed at a military base nearby, and with the country at war, Qargha became another battlefield. Under the communists, the base was used by the Afghan Army’s 8th Division, while the mujahedeen roamed the surrounding hills and orchards. Inevitably, Qargha started to feel less secure. The military base was repeatedly hit by mortars, and in August 1986, a huge explosion occurred in its ammunition depot, lighting the night sky with flames that were visible in the city.

After the mujahedeen toppled the Afghan communist regime in 1992, Qargha — like Kabul itself — fell into disrepair. The main road to the lake was cratered with shell holes and blocked by the checkpoints of rival militias. In February 1993, one of the worst atrocities of the civil war occurred in the neighborhood of Afshar, on the way to Qargha, when houses were looted, women raped and hundreds of people forcibly disappeared during an operation by two mujahedeen parties, Jamiat-e-Islami and Ittehad-e-Islami. Afterward, a relative of mine saw the naked corpses of several women tied to trees nearby, rotting in the sun.

Under the first Taliban government, Afghans began to return to Qargha for picnics and to enjoy the scenery. But then we had another drought, and the water of the lake began to disappear. This drought, too, lasted for years and devastated the countryside. Much like now, the United Nations pleaded for international donors to send aid, only to be met by casual indifference. I remember visiting the lake and walking across its dry bed to touch a stranded boat that was rumored to belong to Ustad Farida Mahwash, an Afghan singer who had become famous here in the 1980s before she fled to Pakistan and later the U.S. In January 2001, the Taliban’s leader, Mullah Mohammad Omar Mujahid, called for three days of prayer to end the drought. By the time the rains came, the U.S. had invaded, and the Taliban seemed destined to fade into obscurity.

During the U.S. occupation, a small golf course was built on the hill leading up to the lake. A children’s playground opened. Eventually, Qargha came under private ownership, and we had to start paying an entrance fee just to sit next to the water and gaze at the horizon. On June 21, 2012, the Taliban attacked the Spogmai hotel and restaurant, which had been one of the main attractions in Qargha for decades. They accused foreigners and Afghan government officials of using it for illicit activities and killed at least 20 people. In 2013, a U.K.-funded military training academy, clumsily dubbed “Sandhurst in the Sand” by the British, was opened at the former communist base. It soon became the target of insurgent attacks. The official name of the new academy was Marshal Fahim National Defense University, in honor of a Northern Alliance warlord and former vice president disliked by millions of Afghans. On Aug. 5, 2014, a member of the Afghan Army opened fire on a group of dignitaries visiting the academy. He shot dead Maj. Gen. Harold J. Greene, the highest-ranking U.S. service member to be killed in hostilities since the Vietnam War. On the way to the lake from the city, meanwhile, a refugee camp for people displaced by the fighting in the south of the country had taken on a permanent appearance.

The current drought has been going on since early 2021. On Dec. 25 last year, the Taliban again called on people to perform the “istisqa” (rain-seeking prayer), and thousands of worshipers obliged in the city of Kandahar alone. But while March saw rainfall that was above average levels, it was still not enough.

In May, the U.N. warned that 19.7 million Afghans, or 47% of the population, face high levels of acute food insecurity and need urgent help. Of these, almost 6.6 million are in an emergency situation, with the worst hit provinces mostly in the center and north of the country. According to the U.N., the main causes of the food insecurity are lower household incomes, increased food prices and reduced international aid, which have become features of life since the Taliban retook power last summer, as well as the drought. It predicted that the conflict in Ukraine would also hinder wheat supplies to Afghanistan.

At present, the reservoir at Qargha is still privately owned and the Spogmai Hotel is again open for visitors. For a few cents, it is possible to ride a horse on the shore or take a turn on the Ferris wheel at the children’s playground. Every Friday families head to the lake to relax and enjoy themselves in the early summer sunshine. But we all need water to survive and, no matter how hard we try, Qargha will not let us forget our problems for long.

Fazelminallah Qazizai is the Afghanistan correspondent at New Lines
“Letter from Kabul” is a newsletter in which our contributors provide their own unique glimpses into life on the ground in Taliban-controlled Afghanistan