Monday, July 04, 2022

There Should Be a Juneteenth Equivalent in Iraq


With 1 million descendants of African slaves in the country, Baghdad leadership has been slow to officially recognize the region’s role

Rasha Al Aqeedi is the Middle East deputy editor

June 27, 2022

Iraqi members of the “Movement of Free Iraqis”, a political party formed by the black descendants of African slaves, gather to watch the inauguration of Barack Obama as the first black US president / Essam Al-Sudani / AFP via Getty Images

Analogies between the West and Middle East are often lazy, simplistic and beneficial to one party in creating a distraction from the problem at hand. “Just like al Qaeda” or “we have become a theological dictatorship like Saudi Arabia” is in fact a polite way of saying that “we are better than the brown barbarians,” an excuse to not look inward and acknowledge that basic human rights are a global dilemma because human-created power struggles are similar and those with power strive to maintain a status quo that keeps them atop of the hierarchy. In that context, the West and the Middle East aren’t too different. If there was one cynical historic deed that unites the two geographical entities, it would be slavery: in particular, the enslavement of humans from Africa. 

As America commemorated Juneteenth for the second time only, I set out to look for the closest equivalent in the Middle East. I couldn’t find an Arabic announcement stating that the last of slaves were now free. Slavery had initially lost part of its popularity when the Prophet Muhammad made his message public in Mecca. He denounced slavery and declared that all enslaved people should have equal rights. Bilal of Abyssinia, a slave to a powerful Meccan household, heard this message and converted to Islam. He became one of the earliest, and later among the most popular, Muslims in Mecca. Tortured to a near death by his master, Bilal was purchased by another new convert to Islam and set free. Though Islam discourages slavery and encourages freeing individuals, it never outright prohibited enslavement. The concept of enslavement gradually died out on its own over the centuries, but it was the religious establishments’ reluctancy to declare it an inhumane misdeed that opened the doors for it to continue despite Islam’s message of social equality. 

One little-known or little-discussed example of slavery after Muhammad was the Arab slave trade in the Persian Gulf. During the Abbasid dynasty in what is now Iraq in the early 9th century, farmers in the city of Basra bought thousands of men from East Africa to drain the large salt marshes in the city. In Arabic, they were referred to as “Zanj,” derived from the Arabic pronunciation of Zanzibar, which in turn means “land of the Black man.” While the n-word and zanj have different socio-historic contexts that make the first of the two words inappropriate and racist, the second refers to a particular period in which African men were enslaved and lived under miserable inhumane conditions. There should be a “Z” word in Arabic, but till this day there isn’t. I am, in fact, using it quite deliberately writing this article. The Black slaves of Basra endured cruel work conditions with little subsistence for survival for decades, and like most injustices, a rebellion was born from the heart of suffering. Many historians consider the “Zanj Rebellion,” which lasted nearly 14 years, as one of the most violent events of the Abbasid era. Other historians have argued that it was a social and economic revolt and not one led by slaves eager for freedom. Most historians agree that it was a social revolt inspired by slaves who joined other discontented Basrans to stage a huge political upheaval against their Baghdad rulers. 

Slavery was officially abolished in Iraq under Ottoman rule in the 19th century. Yet the stereotypes persist to this day despite growing social awareness in many other sensitive topics such as religious fundamentalism and our less-than-ideal but over-glorified history. There could be many reasons this part of history is not discussed in Iraq. 

One is that most Iraqis of African descent live in the Zubair district of Basra, where most of their ancestors were brought in. The restriction to one area in south Iraq made this issue more local and less national. Second, and perhaps more damaging, is how racist tropes and stereotypes in Iraq are so common that it is hard to distinguish a light-hearted joke based on a stereotype from a hurtful, racist comment built on “othering.” There are stereotypical jokes about certain attributes and characteristics of Mosul, for example, but none attacks the very being of a citizen from Mosul. That is categorically different from using the word “abed,” which literally means “slave” to describe an Iraqi of African origins. There are an estimated 1 million African Iraqis in the country today, but they have no political representation. Though most identify as Iraqi Shi’a and are allowed to vote, they do not possess the same status in Iraq’s society as their Shi’a fellow nationals of Arab background. With social discrimination and near-invisibility from the rest of Iraq outside Zubair, seeking political representation sounds logical. Yet all attempts to establish political representation in the post-2003 order were silenced, literally. In 2007, inspired by the presidential candidacy of Barack Obama in the U.S., the “Free Iraqi Movement” was established to defend the right of African Iraqis. The party ran in more than one local election in Basra but failed to win any seats. In 2013, its founder, Jalal Thiyab, was assassinated. According to a study by the International Republican Institute, African Iraqis experience high poverty and low educational attainment rates. 

I learned of the existence of Iraqis who were originally from Africa in the ’90s while listening to the songs “Khala w ya Khala” by Basim al-Ali and “Ridit minek Tiji” by Haithem Yousif. Both songs feature an up-tempo catchy beat that generates what I refer to as “the shoulder factor,” a reaction in which your shoulders automatically move to a certain rhythm. The videos include a group of joyous Black men dancing. I later learned that the “khashaba” dancing was one of many dances in Basra that were made mainstream by African-Iraqis. Though I was initially thrilled at the discovery, it quickly reminded me of a time when African Americans and Latinos were seen as just entertainers and athletes. Despite the historic significance if the Zanj Revolution, there is no mention of it in Iraqi history textbooks. There has not been, to the best of my knowledge, an issued acknowledgement or apology to the offspring of these slaves who live in Basra today. Granted, they are full Iraqi citizens and enjoy, theoretically, all the rights that any Iraqi citizen has, but do they not deserve a Juneteenth of their own? An Iraqi Juneteenth is overdue. If there is not a certain date, there are many consequential dates to choose from. As part of the celebration, maybe we could outlaw “zanj” and “abed” from our social vocabulary, too.

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Western Homophobes Denigrate Others But Act the Same

Pride month has turned into a useful tool for nations to telegraph an image of civil cohesion and national exceptionalism, but nothing else

Western Homophobes Denigrate Others But Act the Same
Rainbow arch installed over No. 10 to mark Pride month / London, 2021 / Leon Neal / Getty Images

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Iloathe Pride month. Before you jump to any conclusions, I’m not some conspiratorial right-wing reactionary. I’m queer, nonbinary, Iraqi-Egyptian and am firmly on the left when it comes to my political positions. But I really do hate Pride.

It’s not just the fact that even Udon noodle brands pretend to be bastions of gay rights for the month of June or that meaningless political platitudes like “being you is worth it” are blasted performatively by investment banks and hedge funds — mind you, only until July 1, when the rainbow posters are hastily ripped down, our pink profitability no longer potent — but it’s the sheer Western exceptionalism of it all that gets to me.

As Western democracies currently wither — yes, even in the U.S. and the U.K. — with civil rights being eviscerated by governments and courts at alarming speed, the month of Pride is a useful way for nations to telegraph an image of civil cohesion and national exceptionalism.

Take, for instance, the U.K. Home Office, the racist institution now run by the demagogic and genuinely frightening Priti Patel; unsurprisingly, it currently boasts the rainbow flag on its Twitter avatar, while this week the European Courts of Justice halted a barbaric deportation policy that would have had an Iraqi man potentially sent to his death. While British Conservatives broadcast glossy Pride signifiers throughout the sunny month of June, what’s happening on the ground in Britain tells a different story. The U.K. has fallen down Europe’s LGBTQ+ rights ranking for the third year running, with the Conservative party this year greenlighting abusive conversion therapy practices for transgender people around the country. I lived in the U.K. until very recently, and it was nearly impossible to avoid the way in which transgender lives are weaponized by right-wing political actors to fuel culture wars, stoke division and mask their terminal socio-economic program. It has been such a successful campaign of moral panic that pretty much every liberal publication, such as the Guardian, to the supposedly “neutral” BBC — which recently pulled out of the Stonewall diversity scheme meant to protect its own LGBTQ+ employees — is now complicit in this full-throttled demonization of transgender people.

As the U.K. becomes increasingly inhospitable for its LGBTQ+ citizens, its hardening immigration policies depend on the image of non-Western nations being primitive or stuck back in time; the performative politics of Pride are an excellent way to imply this imperial superiority.

I experience this firsthand as a queer Arab voice in the media; whenever I am critical of British immigration policies, I am hit with one of those intellectually disingenuous “what ifs” — “if you were back in Iraq, you’d be executed, wouldn’t you?” It’d be easier to take this line of argument in better faith if the U.K. hadn’t been so complicit in making life actively harder for Iraqi LGBTQ+ people. It’s no secret that the Western intervention was the perfect storm of conditions to create the Islamic State group in Iraq, who have brutally murdered LGBTQ+ Arabs in acts of violence that go beyond all comprehension. Much has been documented about the way extremist religious groups in Iraq have furthered their homophobic and transphobic efforts since the Western occupation. It’s no surprise that religious extremists have conceptualized homosexuality as a kind of Western export, fueled as they are by their anti-Western hatred, a lot of it in response to a senseless war that decimated a once-prosperous country.

Now I was raised in Bahrain and Dubai, and I know firsthand the difficulty of being a queer person living in an Arab country that treats my very existence as criminal. And I’m not writing this under the false pretense that Arab nations present a queer utopic offering. What is hard to stomach, however, is the way in which Arab countries are denigrated as barbaric by Western political parties, all while they legislate against LGBTQ+ people in similarly oppressive ways.

The U.S. Republican Party is a stark example of this flagrant hypocrisy. While right-wing commentators like Ben Shapiro have long used Islamophobic tropes in their bid to project American supremacy — “[Syrian Muslims] are not people who are engaged with Western values” — one has to wonder what “values” he’s actually referring to. To those of us on the left, “values” might connote civil rights victories for minorities or the fundamental tenets of a functioning democracy. Yet it’s hard to stomach the right’s fight to protect Western civil values when they mirror the very regimes they paint as primitive. While Western commentators look dismissively at the Arab countries that have banned the latest Pixar animation featuring a gay kiss, Republican legislatures are at this very second fighting to ban children from seeing drag queens, as well as having already prohibited the mentioning of all LGBTQ+ people in Florida’s schools (AR-15s are still permitted, though). In fact, here’s Ben Shapiro in a tweet critiquing Pixar’s inclusion of homosexuality, as if taken straight from the Saudi censorship playbook: “Disney works to push a ‘not-at-all-secret gay agenda’ and seeks to add ‘queerness’ to its programming, according to executive producer Latoya Raveneau. Parents should keep that in mind before deciding whether to take their kids to see ‘Lightyear,’ which hits theaters this week.”

Then there’s Marine Le Pen, the far-right French presidential candidate, whose political project was founded on anti-Islamic sentiment. Such statements as “Islamism is a monstrous totalitarian ideology” were part of her strategy to create a fictitious threat to the French republic. Notions of Muslims as an existential affront to the liberal way of life, in particular, allowed her in 2017 to grab 26% of the gay vote in Paris, with one third of all married gay men voting for her. The astonishing contradiction here is of gay voters co-opted into protecting their liberal “values” through supporting a candidate utterly opposed to all forms of legal migration, the routes that would in fact allow LGBTQ+ Arabs to find safety. Liberal hypocrisy at its finest.

In Israel this June, Tel Aviv saw 170,000 people come out for Pride. On its own, this mass celebration of queer diversity is something to be celebrated.

But then consider the politics. Government millions are channeled into Pride in Israel, again to promote an image of Western supremacy and to mask the horrors of the Palestinian occupation. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has publicly remarked that the Middle East is “a region where women are stoned, gays are hanged, Christians are persecuted.” As Palestinian children are mercilessly bulldozed out of their homes, innocent Palestinian journalists murdered in cold blood and no doubt LGBTQ+ Palestinians are being forced into further precariousness, the illusions of Pride are conveniently used as a liberal smokescreen for apartheid.

In the abstract, of course I support what Pride stands for. But right now, in this very moment in 2022, it is a lie. For what, really, is there to be proud of, when Western nations aggressively strip LGBTQ+ citizens of their human rights, all while contributing to the plight of LGBTQ+ Arabs — in fact, all Arabs — around the globe? It’s critical that we resist Pride’s glossy erasure of troubling realities and instead pour our collective focus and energies into the thorny political fights that are — quite literally right now — life or death.

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The Arab and Muslim Evolution of ‘Deviance’ in Homosexuality

In the Middle East, today’s understanding of gay relationships as abnormal or unnatural relies on concepts invented less than a century ago


The Arab and Muslim Evolution of ‘Deviance’ in Homosexuality
Illustrated by Joanna Andreasson / New Lines

Late last year, two incidents brought homosexuality to the forefront of public debates on Arab social media. The first was in November, when British racing driver Lewis Hamilton wore a rainbow helmet in support of the LGBTQ community at the Formula One races in Qatar, Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates. The second was the anti-gay rhetoric offered in December by former Egyptian football player Mohamed Aboutrika on the Qatari pan-Arab TV channel beIN Sports, in which he urged Muslim soccer players to boycott the English Premier League’s Rainbow Laces campaign.

In reaction to these incidents, hashtags, memes, fake news and fierce debates flooded Arab social media, with participation from hundreds of thousands of users. While both those for and against homosexuality participated in this conversation, the debate itself, like many other social media controversies, unfolded within echo chambers where no party is exposed to or interested in engaging with opposing arguments. And even when the sides engaged in debate, the discussion only reinforced one’s opinions.

Amid this chaos, there is at least one aspect of homosexuality both parties agreed on, namely labels. In today’s Arabic, two terms can be used to refer to homosexuality: “shudhudh jinsi” and “mithlyah jinsiah.” The literal English translation of the former is sexual abnormality, sexual deviance or perversion, whereas the latter translates as sexual sameness or similarity. Those against homosexuality insist on using the term “shudhudh” and vehemently reject the use of the term “mithlyah,” while the opposite is true for the supporters. In her study “The Phenomena of Shudhudh Jinsi in the Arab World: Causes, Effects, and Solution Mechanisms,” professor Nuha Qaterji proposes that the first tool to combat homosexuality in the Arab region is to “stress on using the term shudhudh when talking about this sexual activity and the refusal to use the more neutral and descriptive term mithlyah, which lacks any moral judgment that prohibits and rejects this activity.” Oddly enough, both those who oppose and support homosexuality acknowledge that shudhudh is a morally loaded and biased term against homosexuals. This is why proponents call for ending the use of this term, because it is derogatory, and opponents call for using it instead of mithlyah, because it is more authentic and less conciliatory to Western values.

Yet before the 20th century, Arabs and Muslims never used shudhudh jinsi to describe homosexuality. For more than a millennium, many learned elites, including religious scholars, linguists and poets, discussed all kinds of sexual relations, including what they called “liwat” and “sihaq” (which refer to male and female sexual acts respectively), that were close to our modern understanding of homosexuality, without using terms like deviant, abnormal or unnatural.

Shudhudh is a translation of a modern Western concept that was developed in the late 19th century within an emergent medical-scientific preoccupation with sexuality in Western Europe when anti-hedonist, Victorian morality of austerity, restraint and prohibition on expressing sexual desires was dominant. When it was first introduced in Arabic in the early 20th century, shudhudh did not exclusively mean homosexuality. Instead, it was more of a scientific and medical category and included a wide range of sexual activities deemed “deviant,” like masturbation, sadism, masochism, fetishism, etc. And contrary to what opponents of homosexuality often claim, mithlyah is not a recent translation of homosexuality that aimed to replace the term shudhudh and normalize homosexuality. Rather, it was the original term that earlier Arab translators chose for homosexuality, coined at the same time as the term shudhudh and within the same movement of translating modern European psychological and sexologist literature. It then took more than three decades for shudhudh to become a synonym of homosexuality and the favorite term in the anti-homosexuality Arab discourse.

Based on pre-modern Arabic dictionaries, it is clear that shudhudh has only recently been used to describe homosexuality. One of the best-known dictionaries, Lisan al-Arab (Tongue of the Arabs), written by the North African lexicographer Ibn Manzur in the late 13th century, has an entry for the term “shadh,” which is the linguistic root for shudhudh. Shadh has several meanings, and homosexuality is not among them. Instead, shudhudh means “becoming different from the majority, or rare” or being a stranger from one’s home and neighborhood.

One of the ways that Ibn Manzur explains the meaning of a word is to quote old poems, Quranic verses or the Prophet Muhammad’s hadiths (sayings and acts). The shadh among people, the dictionary explains, is the person who no longer resides among his own tribe and community. In one instance, while discussing the meaning of shudhudh, he quotes a hadith by the Prophet about “the People of Lut.” Unlike the Biblical Lot, the Quranic Lut is a prophet who was sent by God to a people equivalent to the Biblical Sodom whose sins include idolatry and sodomy. The divine punishment of the people of Lut came from the angel Gabriel, who uprooted their towns and raised them up to the sky before smashing them to the ground. If pre-modern Arabic language associated shudhudh with homosexuality, then this hadith would be the most appropriate place to show this association. Yet, the hadith does not use shudhudh to describe the sexual behavior of the people of Lut. Even more striking, the hadith uses a variation of the term shudhudh when it mentions that Gabriel did not miss the shadhs among them. However, shadhs here mean “their remnants” or “the rest of them.” In other words, even in this specific and supposedly appropriate context, the term kept its general meaning related to strangeness and rarity. (The Quran uses different words when referring to the condemned deeds of Lut’s people: “fahisha,” or obscenity, and “khaba’ith,” or lewdness. Both terms encompass acts beyond same-sex sexual relations, such as highway robbery and dealing in unspecified dishonorable or shameful acts in their assembly.)

This does not mean that pre-modern Arabic scholars did not know the terms shadh and shudhudh as intellectual and scholarly categories, but it does mean that they never associated them with sexual activity or understood them to mean unnatural or treated them as morally loaded terms. For example, the famous 15th-century Persian scholar al-Sharif al-Jurjani wrote an encyclopedia that includes the main Arabic terms of science, philosophy, art and religion. Under “shadh,” he provides one linguistic usage of the term. “Shadh,” al-Jurjani says, “is what contradicts the rule regardless of its quantity.” It signifies something equivalent to exceptions to grammar rules, and these exceptions can be plenty and common, not necessarily rare.

The science of hadith, a branch of Islamic studies, provides another notable example of shadh’s usage in pre-modern Arabic. In this field of study, scholars investigate the validity of a hadith attributed to the Prophet Muhammad and classify it according to its truthfulness. When a hadith meets a strict set of standards, it is accepted and called “sahih.” When it fails to meet any of these standards, it’s considered a fabricated hadith. Between these two extremes, other classifications exist. One of them is “shadh,” defined as a hadith that differs from a more reliable hadith that is told by a more trusted source.

It’s not only that pre-modern Arab-Islamic thought never used shudhudh in reference to homosexuality; it also had no term for the concept of homosexuality as understood today. Islamic intellectual and Harvard history professor Khaled El-Rouayheb made this conclusion in his book “Before Homosexuality in the Arab-Islamic World 1500-1800.” The modern concept of homosexuality includes not only a sexual relationship between two people of the same sex but also desires without action, love and aesthetic enjoyment. French philosopher Michel Foucault, in “The History of Sexuality,” shows the novelty of the term homosexual by comparing it with another related term, sodomist. According to Foucault, in European legal traditions before the 19th century, sodomy was “a category of illegal actions.” In other words, it did not include desires, identity and emotions. But this has changed with the rise of the term homosexual, which, he added, became “a person who has a past, case history, childhood, nature, and style of life, an exterior appearance and a collection of acts.” This shift from the illegal sexual act to the homosexual inclination of love, actions and character means that we are dealing with two different, albeit interconnected, subjects.

El-Rouayheb surveyed the pre-modern Arab-Islamic culture. He found that traditions distinguish between the partners in a same-sex relation — between the active and passive partners in the relationship. Whereas the term encompasses both partners, the active partner in Arabic and Islamic cultures is often called “luti” and the passive one is called “mukhanath” or “mabun.” Luti refers to the people of Prophet Lut and, as El-Rouayheb puts it, the closest English equivalent to it is a pederast.

Mabun, on the other hand, is a medical term that refers to a person inflicted with a disease called “abanah.” Pre-modern Arab and Greek medical scholars believed that a person inflicted with this disease desires being anally penetrated. Mukhanath refers to an effeminate man. Muslim scholars differentiate between an inherent form of this tendency and an acquired one. The 15th-century Islamic scholar Ibn Hajar says that a “mukhanath is one who looks like women in his acts and way of talking. If this was inherent, then no one can blame him. However, if this is not inherent, then this is the reprehensible one and he would be called mukhanath regardless of if he engaged in sexual activity or not.” Needless to say, these pre-modern scholarly views were not necessarily shared by society.

In addition to the absence in Arabic or Islamic terms that convey the modern meaning of homosexuality, this same culture is filled with same-sex love. El-Rouayheb quotes Joseph Pitts, an English sailor who was captured and enslaved in Algeria for 15 years in the 17th century and later wrote a book about his experience. Joseph noted that “this horrible sin of Sodomy is so far from being punish’d amongst” the Algerian society. Instead, it is “part of their ordinary Discourse to boast of their detestable Actions of that kind.” He then goes on to say, “’Tis common for Men there to fall in Love with Boys, as ’tis here in England to be in Love with Women.”

Indeed, the public display of same-sex love was common and normalized in pre-modern Arab writings and poetry. El-Rouayheb quotes many poems that were written by Muslim scholars such as Sheikh Abdullah al-Shabrawi, who was the 18th-century rector of al-Azhar, one of the most important Muslim universities in the world. In introducing one of his poems, al-Shabrawi writes, “I also said a love poem of a youth who studied with me the sciences of language, addressing him dallyingly.” The poem continues:

O gazelle! You whose movements are a snare for mankind.
What have you done to a lover who is anxious and visibly ailing?
Overflowing with cares, love-struck, ill, infatuated with your love.
Who is enraptured with joy if you confer a greeting one day.
And who, if you walk past, cries: “How sweet you are with that bearing!”

This public display of same-sex love in the pre-modern, Arab-Islamic tradition made Arab modernist intellectuals uncomfortable. The period between the late 19th and early 20th centuries witnessed the rise of an intellectual Arab modernist movement called Nahda, or Renaissance. In his book “Desiring Arabs,” Columbia University professor of modern Arab thought Joseph Massad shows how modern Arab Nahda intellectuals adopted a variety of strategies to explain away certain aspects of their culture that did not fit with Victorian notions of what is shameful and appropriate. One of the earliest examples of Nahda intellectuals’ perplexity with sexuality in the Arab-Muslim culture was the Egyptian pioneer Rifaah al-Tahtawi. In his famous book about his travels to Paris in the early 19th century, al-Tahtawi compliments the Parisians for “their not being inclined toward loving male youths and eulogizing them in poetry.” He stresses that this sort of inclination “is something unmentionable for them and contrary to their nature and morals.” He even compliments Parisians for replacing the masculine with feminine when they translate Arab poetry that involves same-sex love and conveys his unease with how widespread this form of literature is among Arabs. To prove his point, al-Tahtawi quotes verses from a Yemeni poet who defends himself for writing only about women:

I have never chosen flirting with beardless youths a doctrine
Even if my nature is ridiculed and blamed

So embedded was the practice of referencing same-sex love in poetry that when this poet chose to only write love poems about women, he was ridiculed to the point that he had to write a poem defending himself.

Shudhudh referred to a range of sexual activities such as masturbation, sadism and masochism when it first appeared in Arabic in the early 20th century. Egyptian psychologist Abdulaziz al-Qawsi was among the first psychotherapy specialists to introduce this translation. It appeared in an appendix to his 1946 book, “Fundamentals on Psychological Health,” which provided Arabic translations of English terms, and he used shudhudh as a translation of sexual abnormality. As for homosexuality, al-Qawsi used the term mithlyah — the very term that contemporary Arab anti-homosexuality discourse considers a recent innovation to replace shudhudh and normalize homosexuality.

That same year, another pioneer in Arab psychology, Sabri Jirjis, published his book “The Problem with the Psychopathy Behavior,” which also included an appendix of translated terms. Jirjis translated abnormal as shadh and homosexuality as mithlyah.

Shudhudh was also used in mainstream media articles in the same sense as academic and scientific Arabic. Also in 1946, in the article “Crime and Sexual Shudhudh,” which appeared in the Egyptian magazine al-Thaqafah (Culture), author Hassan Jallal described a series of crimes that occurred in Alexandria in which the perpetrator killed his female victims after raping them. For Jallal, this behavior was sadism and thus shudhudh.

The term shudhudh was not strictly used to describe what psychologists at the time considered sexual abnormality or deviance. It was used by practitioners, too, to refer to broader concepts of “abnormality.” Amin Sami Hassonah, the director of an Egyptian education institute, wrote an article about “shadh children,” in which he divided children at the institute’s psychology clinic into three categories: talented, ordinary and shadhs. Hassonah then divided the shadhs into three subcategories: mentally shadhs, sensually shadhs and bodily shadhs. A child with dwarfism, for example, was considered a bodily shadh child.

These diverse meanings of shudhudh that were dominant in the first half of the 20th century find their roots in several fields, such as psychology and mental illness in Europe. As Foucault once explained, the modern abnormal is “a descendant of… three individuals: the monster, the incorrigible, and the masturbator”. Let’s take the monster as an example. In pre-modern European law and science, the monster was differentiated from the disabled and deformed by the fact that it is basically a mixture of two realms that do not naturally mix. The monster can be partly human and partly animal, partly man and partly female, partly bird and partly horse, or even a human with two heads and one body. Because of its mixed nature, the monster is considered as a “transgression of natural limits.” The monster’s mere existence challenges nature’s classifications and laws as pre-modern scholars understood them. However, in modern times, the monster ceased to be a mixture of unmixable natural elements but a moral monster. While in the past criminal behavior was expected from natural monsters, the relationship was reversed in the 19th century. Instead of expecting criminal behavior from every natural monster, the new expectation is that there is a moral monster behind every criminal. Foucault showed how the natural monster became the extreme case of a motiveless cannibalistic criminal and, by the mid-19th century, became the abnormal who transgressed and deviated from the norms and traditions of society. These modern monsters commit their transgression by representing a minor diversion or deviance from what is familiar. The familiar here refers to the dominant social norms and values, and dissenting from these is not restricted to appearances but also includes behavior, morality and mental capacity.

Emerging 19th-century fields such as psychology, psychiatry and sexology focused on identifying sexual abnormality and its boundaries. In the process, however, these fields also played a role in reinforcing the familiar. Unlike pre-modern moralists and anatomists who thought that a weak moral will or a biological malfunction in the genitals caused sexual “perversions,” the main argument advanced by these specialists was that functional diseases of sexual instinct caused sexual deviance. At the core of this argument is the claim that there is something called sexual instinct, that it is naturally linked to its object — the opposite sex — and its purpose is reproduction. It also presumes that this instinct emerges in the human body during puberty and slowly decays thereafter.

Since these are the general natural characteristics of the sexual instinct, it seemed logical for 19th-century sexual theorists to consider any contrary sexual desire or activity to be unnatural and thus pathological. Also, this instinctual and psychological view about sexual deviances led these specialists to call for curing perverse individuals instead of considering them criminals or sinners. Given that these are not physical diseases, these specialists argued that the treatment should be psychological.

This was the theoretical background that shaped the modern study of what were deemed deviant or abnormal sexual activities and practices. The most important text in this field, published in 1886, was “Sexual Psychopathy: A Clinical-Forensic Study,” in which the Austro-German psychiatrist and forensic expert Richard Von Krafft-Ebing categorized homosexuality as antipathic sexuality, a sexual perversion, among others, that did not lead to reproduction.

Krafft-Ebing also popularized the term “homosexuality,” which was coined, according to historian Jonathan Ned Katz, in 1868 by the Austro-Hungarian nationalist and reformer Karl Maria Kerpentry. Kerpentry combined the Greek prefix “homo,” which means same, with the Latin noun “sexus,” which means sex. Kerpentry used the word in two pamphlets addressed to Prussian Minister of Justice Adolph Leonhardt, in which he advocated for the decriminalization of homosexuality in the German penal code.

It was Sigmund Freud who took these theories to another level, leading him to conclude that homosexuality should no longer be considered a pathological sexual deviancy. He achieved this, as philosopher Arnold Davidson has shown, through two critical engagements with the basic concept of the sexual instinct. In his 1905 “Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality,” Freud argued that there was no natural object of the sexual instinct. He emphasized this by using of the term “sexualtrieb,” or sexual drive, instead of the sexual instinct. Thus, by declaring that sexual instinct has no natural object, homosexuality ceased to be unnatural and thus not pathological deviance.

Freud’s second critical contribution was that sexual instinct is composed of a number of component instincts, which he specifies in two ways. The first are the parts of the body that are capable of sexual excitement, or erotogenic zones, such as the oral or anal regions. The second type of component instinct is vicarious experience, such as scopophilia (ogling or peeping). By allowing sexual instinct to include component instincts that originate from a variety of body parts other than the genitals and have aims other than propagation, Freud radically broke with the 19th-century consensus that the natural aim of sexual instinct is propagation and the natural object is the opposite sex’s genitals.

These critical engagements with the concept of sexual instinct led Freud to the conclusion that people are born sexually neither normal nor perverse but that they become this way or another. This conclusion meant two things: First, unlike other theorists who claimed that sexual drive starts during puberty, Freud claimed that a child has sexuality and characterized it as perverse sexuality since it involves a variety of partial component instincts. It also meant that not all perversions are pathological but that they become pathological if they satisfy certain conditions. The first is exclusivity. For example, if there is a person who enjoys punishment, this enjoyment by itself is not enough to declare him pathological. However, he becomes pathological if he enjoys punishment exclusively and nothing else. Freud explains this exclusivity by a fixation on one of the component instincts in the first five or six years of childhood and by regression to this fixation during puberty.

If exclusivity explains pathological sexual perversions, and a childhood fixation explains this exclusivity, then what explains the fixation itself? It took Freud 20 years to come up with an answer. In his short article “Fetishism,” published in 1927, Freud introduces a theory that all pathological sexual perversions result from the denial of a traumatizing sexual experience related to what he considers an inevitable Oedipus Complex. Each child will grow sexually attached to the parent of the opposite sex and hostile toward the parent of the same sex. At the same time, a boy will discover that girls have different genitals from his and vice versa. This situation creates what Freud calls castration anxiety and penis envy. Boys become scared of the idea of being castrated and girls become envious for lack of a penis. Thus, fixation is the result of the way each person resolves this complex in the early years of childhood. In this theoretical framework, it is not possible for homosexuality to be pathological deviance since it is not a result of the Oedipus Complex.

In parallel to these developments in psychology, there were other developments in another new field called sexology. The field’s most popular thinkers, namely Havelock Ellis, Magnus Hirschfield and August Forel, advocated for a sexual reform program that would decriminalize all kinds of sexual deviances. While they agreed that these sexual desires and activities were not aimed at reproduction, they insisted that they do not constitute any social harm.

When these theories and bodies of knowledge were translated into Arabic, they were introduced as scientific with all the authority that science carries. And it is within this translation movement that the term shudhudh was coined.

In “The Sexual Life and Psychology,” published in the famous al-Risalah (Message) magazine in 1946, Fadhl Abu Bakr summarized Freud’s theory and explained how the child is sexually “shadh.” “Sexuality begins with shudhudh when the child is three years old,” Fadhl wrote. When he wrote about the child’s sexual attachment to his mother, he commented that this was considered “shadh with regard to the tradition and norms, but it is natural with regards sexual instincts.” He talks about homosexuality at the end of the article without using an Arabic term for it. Instead, he uses a French term when he says that there are many kinds of sexual shudhudh: “One of these kinds is Homosexualité, which includes males and females where the sexual relationship is between two people of the same sex … and another kind is masturbation.” This quote is important as it shows that while shudhudh was used as a general term that includes homosexuality and masturbation, homosexuality itself has no equivalent Arabic term. This further demonstrates that when the term shudhudh was first translated into Arabic, it was not a translation of homosexuality.

Almost a decade before this article, Jirjis wrote “The Sexual Culture and Some of Its Pioneers,” which appeared in Almajalla Aljadidah (New Magazine). In it, Jirjis presented Krafft-Ebing’s book and commented that it “forces its readers to calmly sympathize with those unfortunates whose sexual preferences push them toward all kinds of shudhudh contrary to thousands of religions.” Jirjis then praised the sexologist Ellis for his steadfastness against the backlash his writings caused in Britain. He also introduced Forel, whose book “The Sexual Problem” he had translated and which the Egyptian intellectual Salamah Mousa reviewed in the same magazine. Before concluding his article, Jirjis left room to introduce female theorists in this field, such as the British activist Marie Carmichael Stopes, whose book “Married Love” (1918) was translated into Arabic in 1925. With this book, Stopes led the way in explaining female sexuality and educated her married female readers about their bodies and sexual needs, instilling in them a new set of sexual expectations from their husbands.

The early meaning of shudhudh, with its scientific and medical connotations, remained in circulation until the 1970s. In 1953, the Egyptian intellectual Abbas al-Aqqad published a book about the ninth-century Arab poet Abu Nawas. Abu Nawas was famous for his explicit sexual poems about girls and boys, and al-Aqqad relied on Ellis’ theory of narcissism as a sexual abnormality to psychoanalyze Abu Nawas’ personality. For al-Aqqad, Abu Nawas was shadh not because he was sexually attracted to other males, but because he was a narcissist. In 1975, Iraqi professor of Islamic studies Abdul-Malik al-Saadi published his master’s degree thesis “Prohibited Sexual Relationships and Their Punishments in the Sharia.” Al-Saadi uses shudhudh in the same generic, scientific meaning that includes homosexuality and masturbation. His usage of the term relies heavily on the writings of the Iraqi forensic medicine scholar Wasfi Muhammed Ali who taught at the Police College in Baghdad for several decades. In his writings, Wasfi uses shudhudh in the same way it was first translated. Despite the changes that the term went through in Arabic public discourse, Arab academics, especially those working in fields such as psychology, psychiatry and forensics, still use it in its original meaning.

Since the early 1970s, this broad, generic meaning of shudhudh has gone through three main transformations. The first was that its meaning was narrowed down to only include homosexuality. One of the earliest writers who used the term in this way was the famous Egyptian intellectual and feminist scholar Nawal El Saadawi in “Woman and Sex,” published in 1971. Here, we notice two important changes to the meaning of shudhudh. The first is that it becomes synonymous with homosexuality. As for other sexual abnormalities, El Saadawi uses the Arabic term “inhiraf,” which better captures the word deviancy. The second change is that El Saadawi challenged the psychological context within which the topic of shudhudh is often discussed and replaced it with a sociological one. Her basic claim is that both the state and social institutions play a consequential role in producing shudhudh. She advances this argument to show that schoolgirls who fall in love with other girls are doing this because of social and political pressures and not because of some internal psychological causes. Moreover, this transformation was presented as a critique of Freud, whom El Saadawi thinks was reductionist in his approach to the shudhudh phenomenon. She writes:

Traditional psychologists, Freud at the top of them, have neglected society and its role in shaping the person’s sexuality. Instead, they were interested in what happens inside the person more than in the external environment. For this, they missed a lot. The limitation of Freud’s theory became evident when we discover that … conflicts that a child struggle with, which Freud explained by sexual frustration and envy, are nothing but products of a person’s interaction with social forces and pressures.

Ten years after El Saadawi’s transformation of the shudhudh phenomenon from a psychological to a social one, Egyptian author and journalist Muhammed Jalal Kushk represented the second transformation, when he claimed that homosexuality is basically a civilizational issue. In 1984, he published “Muslim Impressions on the Sexual Question.” While the Nahda/Renaissance Arab intellectuals approached the topic from a Eurocentric, medical-scientific approach, Kushk adopted what he called an Islamist approach. By this, he meant approaching the topic within “the frame of the eternal civilizational confrontation between the west and the east.” For him, this confrontation was “my primary preoccupation. For me, Islam is the philosophy, identity, and personality of our oriental civilization.” This meant that he was in a state of “conflict of civilizations” with the West in his dealing with these topics, with the aim to achieve moral victory and cultural liberation. In other words, he was engaging in what can be described as a political and epistemological resistance against the West. While earlier Nahda’s intellectuals differentiated between the political in the West and the aesthetic, moral and epistemological, they thought of these latter aspects as universal and not necessarily Western. For Kushk, however, all of these aspects of the West are linked together and constitute parts of the same whole.

How does this Islamist approach differentiate Kushk’s dealing with the sexual question from the earlier Nahda intellectuals? There are three differences. First, he started from the premise that Islam considers sexual pleasure as a virtue or a blessing — a person gets divine rewards if engaged in sex legitimately — whereas Western civilization considers it a sin. He relied heavily on the British historian Reay Tannahill’s book “Sex in History” to prove the Christian origins of the “sex as sin” thesis that defines the West’s approach to sex. Regarding the Western sexual revolution, Kushk claims that this revolution proves his point. This revolution is nothing but a violent reaction to this view. In other words, without the negative view of sex, there will be no need for a revolution. Then he moves to prove “sex as virtue” in the Islamic tradition. He quotes the 13th-century Damascene scholar Ibn al-Qayem al-Jawzayah, who stated that sex has three aims: propagation, pleasure and the elimination of the harmful health issues resulting from not releasing the sexual liquids from the body. Thus, Kushk uses the premise of “sex as virtue” to declare that most sexual desires and activities are not abnormal or deviant. He rejects prohibition of masturbation, anal intercourse between males and females, oral sex and other behaviors.

Yet the only activity that he insists on keeping as shudhudh is homosexuality. This is not because he thinks there is something inherent in the sexual activity itself that renders it to be shudhudh but because he considers homosexuality to be a moral indicator of civilizational decline. For Kushk, every civilization goes through three stages: rise, prime and decline. To successfully pass the first stage, certain conditions are required, including men willing to sacrifice their lives for others and women willing to bear future fighters and soldiers. When a civilization succeeds and reaches the prime stage, Kushk claims, a moral shift takes place. Individualism slowly occupies the place of older ethics of sacrifice and reproduction. Being individualist means that one ceases being morally responsible for one’s civilization and future generations. With these ethical changes come changes in attitudes toward reproduction and raising children. They become a burden and different birth-control measures are invented. New sexual pleasures are explored, and chief among them is homosexuality. This is how Kushk defines the relationship between homosexuality and civilizational decline — as a symptom. For him, homosexuality represents the extreme expression of individualism and thus the extreme form of rejection of what he considers an imperative moral responsibility to one’s civilization and future generations. In this way, Kushk explains the growing visibility and recognition of homosexuality in the West as a sign of the beginning of the West’s decline.

To support his theory, he goes back to two Muslim cultural moments: the Abbasid era and Muslim Andalusia. In both moments, he claims, the decline of civilization was associated with homosexual activities becoming visible and widespread. While he agrees with the Nahda intellectuals in their rejection of the same-sex love poetry that was prevalent in pre-modern Arab-Islamic culture, he differs on how he expresses this rejection. The Nahda intellectuals rejected it because it is contrary to a Victorian morality that they internalized as universal; Kushk rejected them because of their role in bringing down civilization.

Although Kushk reserved the word shudhudh for homosexuality and looked at it from a civilizational perspective, he was against its criminalization. He argued extensively, trying to prove that there is no stated punishment in Islam for homosexuality and that it is left to the “legislative authority” to decide what should be done. He concluded his book with an odd opinion. In the Quran, there are several verses about heavens and the pleasures that Muslims will enjoy. Among these pleasures, some verses mentioned “al-wildan al-mukhaladun,” or the immortal boys, whose beauty was described as “scattered pearls.” For Kushk, these heavenly boys are there for sexual pleasure. He justified this opinion by saying that good and bad cease to exist in paradise. For him, the afterlife is only about what is delicious and more delicious.

These two transformations meant that the narrow meaning of shudhudh to exclusively mean homosexuality occurred only in the last third of the 20th century. It was also during this time that the term started to be used in a derogatory manner. The exact moment of this change is unknown but happened amid a rise in Islamist movements in the region starting from the 1970s and the global anti-homosexuality discourse associated with the spread of the AIDS pandemic.

The final transformation of the term shudhudh occurred in the past decade and it involved the fact of its becoming the central notion in an anti-homosexuality discourse that has become dominant and officially supported. When the two controversies that I started the article with erupted, the Saudi Grand Mufti Abdulaziz al-Shaikh issued a statement that was circulated in most Saudi media outlets. In the statement, he declared that “God considers shudhudh to be among the worst and ugliest crimes.” If one could travel back in time to 2009 and started observing what are the top 10 controversial topics discussed in the Arab media, my guess would be that homosexuality would not be among them. Something happened in the past 10 years that pushed it to be among the top controversies.

This last transformation has to do with an important recent political change that is taking place in the Arab world. Among the ways that Arab states substitute their lack of democratic legitimacy is by assuming moral authority. In the past five decades, this moral authority was exercised through regulating religion and subjugating Arab women. This is why gender and religious issues were among the hottest controversial topics in this period. But recently, and in reaction to the Arab Spring, the new authoritarian Arab regimes have changed how they treat both religion and women. If you are an Arab dictator and want moral legitimacy, but you do not want to derive it from Islam or gender, what is the most convenient source that fits your new secular conservative agenda? Arguably, the answer is adopting anti-homosexuality and, to a lesser degree, anti-atheism discourse.

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Spiritualism Experienced Its Heyday in 20th-Century Egypt

How a rise in the movement and summoning of the dead became characteristic of an era’s seismic change

Spiritualism Experienced Its Heyday in 20th-Century Egypt
Illustrated by Joanna Andreasson for New Lines

In the late 1940s, a strange story filled Alexandria’s press. It first appeared in the French-language weekly, La Reforme, before finding its way into several Arabic newspapers in the Egyptian port city.

The reports began with a young man who had spent a night out in the city eating, drinking and dancing. Over the course of his evening, he met a young woman he had never seen before. They danced into the night, and as they prepared to leave, the young man ordered a taxi to take her home, chivalrously giving her his jacket for the ride. But on that journey, something weird and unexplainable happened. As the couple drove past one of Alexandria’s many cemeteries, the woman suddenly disappeared from the young man’s side. He was utterly flummoxed; his date had vanished before his eyes without a trace. He went back to the cemetery the next morning to look for her in the light of day. As he scoured the area, he could find no trace of her; all he saw was his jacket, hanging from one of the gravestones.

The story of the disappearing woman became big news, and for several weeks, people picked apart its details and debated its implications in minute detail. Many called for a police investigation, saying that the disappearance of a young woman was a serious matter. But others insisted strange powers were at work that went far beyond the abilities of the police to explain. One writer said this woman was not an ordinary mortal — she was a jinni: a spirit in human form. Specifically, she was a woman’s “qarin” (companion), created from fire in the world of the jinn to accompany the woman through their existence. Her human double had died, but the qarin had lived on after her death, haunting the world and, apparently, attracted to the raucous music of Alexandria’s dance parties.

One man dissected the supernatural implications of this encounter at length. He was Ahmed Fahmy Abu al-Khair, Egypt’s most prominent Spiritualist at the time, who had recently started his own monthly magazine, Alam al-Ruh (The Spirit World), dedicated to supernatural and spiritualist research. The world beyond our perception, he wrote in al-Muqattam newspaper, was vast and complex. Jinn were just one part of a much larger spectrum — like infrared light was just one part of a wider spectrum. The unexplained apparition could have been a jinni, but it could also be the spirit of a dead woman who had crossed over from the other side.

Abu al-Khair was a science teacher who had spent much of the previous decade as a member of staff at the Princess Fawzia Secondary School for girls. He had also written books on the history of mathematics, as well as short articles on popular science, contributing explainers about topics including the telephone, wireless communication and electric light for the Egyptian newspaper al-Jihad. In the late 1930s he discovered Spiritualism, reading books and conducting extensive research on the subject. Afterward, he became a public advocate, lecturing, writing articles and translating classic Spiritualist texts into Arabic. Particularly inspired by the British Spiritualists Oliver Lodge and Arthur Findlay, he was committed to researching unexplained phenomena and scientifically proving the continued existence of the soul after death.

The mysterious story of the disappearing woman in Alexandria gave Abu al-Khair a chance to tell people about many of the recent developments in Spiritualist science. This was not a one-off incident; it was a surprisingly common occurrence, of the sort that was the subject of scholarly research across the world. “The phenomenon of physical manifestations of the spirits of the dead has been established by scientific experiments,” he told them. He mentioned the wide range of people — from classical Arabic scholars to modern Western scientists — who believed in the existence of a spirit world inhabited by the shades of the dead and who were using a variety of methods to communicate with it. The University of London, Abu al-Khair wrote, had even awarded a doctorate degree to a scholar researching Spiritualist science; this was the cutting edge of modern science, he told readers. He also reassured them that religious authorities, including the sheik of al-Azhar and the mufti of Egypt, endorsed the existence of the spirit world, at least in principle.

Abu al-Khair managed to find a small but very receptive audience for his message in the Arab world. In the decades after World War II, he became the most prominent public Spiritualist in Egypt, perhaps the whole Arab world, fielding questions on the subject from far and wide. People from across the Middle East wrote to his magazine — from Libya, Iraq, Syria and elsewhere. On one occasion, he helped a family in Port Sudan who were being harassed by a mischievous poltergeist-like entity, just by holding a seance in Cairo.

Abu al-Khair set up his own society to “study Spiritualist phenomena, spread the message of modern Spiritualist science and cooperate with similar organizations abroad.” His magazine, The Spirit World, kept going throughout the decade, publishing translations, news articles, historical precedents for the modern Spiritualist wave, and more. In perhaps its most attention-grabbing coup, the magazine claimed to have contacted the spirit of legendary Egyptian poet Ahmed Shawqi from beyond the grave. The Spirit World published some of his posthumously composed works in their pages and, a few years later, published an entire book of these newly discovered works by Shawqi.

By the 1950s, everyone seemed to be talking about Spiritualism. From the Free Officer Khaled Muhyiddin, who was said to be a particular devotee, to the woman remembered as Egypt’s first female lawyer, Naima al-Ayyoubi. Rumors about prominent politicians across the region consulting the spirit world were prevalent. One of the biggest film stars of the age, Youssef Wahby, spoke publicly about his experiments with Spiritualist healing. In 1959, an article in an Egyptian newspaper said that communicating with the spirits had become “the new hobby for society women.”

Looking back, Spiritualism seems like an eccentric curiosity — the weird detritus of a forgotten age. It is easy to forget how popular, important and influential it was. And although Spiritualism is largely seen as a Western movement — the preserve of Victorian gentlemen with top hats, tailored suits and thick mustaches — its reach was truly global.

In the Arab world in particular, the story of Spiritualism opens a window onto some of the most important debates of the 20th century — modernity, religion, colonialism, the relationship between the East and West. It also shows that some of these debates are considerably more complex than they first appear, and that intellectual history does not always follow a linear path. Spiritualism had a long and winding journey in the Arab world, which began at the turn of the 20th century, several decades before Abu al-Khair discovered it. It is a story that involved some of the most prominent thinkers of their era.

Spiritualism’s first committed apostle was Mohammed Farid Wagdy. Far from a fringe ideologue, he was making a name for himself at the turn of the century as a prolific and original scholar, committed to the revival of Islam in harmony with modern science. His early books, such as “Civilization and Islam” and “The Garden of Thought and the Scientific Proof for the Existence of God” (published in 1899 and 1901 respectively), had taken up the cause of religious reformation. Wagdy was following the path marked out by pioneering reformers of the 19th century, like Jamal al-Din al-Afghani and Mohammed Abduh, who had argued that, in order for the Muslim world to advance, they had to reconcile Islam with modernity.

At the very beginning of the 20th century, Wagdy discovered Spiritualism. He read about the experiments that scientists in the West had been conducting to investigate the strange phenomena produced by the spirits of the dead — from spirit photography to mediumship. Their findings immediately struck him. Here was scientific proof of the existence of the soul and its survival after death. Science was entering the battle on religion’s side, using its methods to prove what religions had been saying for centuries. Wagdy believed‌ Spiritualism was a scientific way to confront the rising tide of materialism that was threatening religious belief and, at the same time, to revivify Islam.

Wagdy started to write from an Islamic angle about Spiritualism, reporting on seances and experiments he had read about. In the years after he began his work on the subject, many more followed. The most prominent and influential of them was Sheik Tantawi Jawhari, an eccentric schoolteacher, al-Azhar graduate and independent religious scholar. He is now best remembered for his colossal, multivolume, scientific commentary on the Quran. In 1919, though, he released the revolutionary book “Al-Arwah” (The Spirits), calling on his fellow Muslims to open their eyes to the spirit world. It was a landmark in the history of Arabic spiritualism, a book-length call to people in the Arab world to take up the study of this new science.

Like Wagdy, he had heard about Spiritualism by reading accounts of seances conducted by mediums in the West. But, unlike Wagdy, he became an active practitioner of the new science, claiming that as a Muslim who believed in the survival of the soul and the metaphysical world of the spirits, he had “more right to this knowledge than the Westerners.” By the early 1920s, he and a small circle of comrades began to make contact with the ghosts of great heroes from the past, including Joan of Arc and Caliph Harun al-Rashid.

Spiritualism was first ushered into the Arab world by these religious scholars, who were exploring the world of modern science‌ to bolster some of the central tenets of Islam. The religious milieu of the early 20th century was a complicated place in which all kinds of new ideas were debated. In the 1920s, one of Jawhari’s fellow Spiritualists, Hussein Hassan, also published a book trying to explain the philosophies of yoga to a modern Arabic-speaking audience.

Politically, too, it was a fraught time. Jawhari, as well as being Egypt’s most prominent Spiritualist, was also an enthusiastic early member of the Muslim Brotherhood and editor of their official magazine for much of the 1930s. I am not sure what the official Muslim Brotherhood position on Spiritualism is now, but in the early 1930s, alongside their appeals to return to an Islamic golden age and to fight back against Western corruption, one of their most prominent members was actively spreading the doctrine in Egypt.

But this story of Islamic Spiritualism has many silences too — most noticeably from women. The 19th-century Spiritualist movement in America and Europe had given a prominent place to female mediums, turning many into celebrities. Jawhari and Wagdy, though, had conservative views about the place of women in society. Both men, at different stages in their careers, wrote warnings about giving too much license to women and failing to protect them from the dangers of the world. The early days of Spiritualism had no place for women.

Once it had arrived in the Middle East, Spiritualism quickly took off and developed. In the 1930s, politicians began to experiment with it, one man in Damascus published a short-lived journal on the subject, and different “Spiritualist scholars” advertised their services in the newspapers. As interest grew, Abu al-Khair found himself drawn into this world. In 1938, he gave a popular lecture on “Spiritualism and Modern Science” at the American University in Cairo. He also put out feelers for fellow enthusiasts, some of whom came to the small seances that he held in his house in Cairo.

By the 1950s, it was now unremarkable to see articles about it in the popular press and books dedicated to the subject. Abu al-Khair even dreamed of inaugurating programs for the study of Spiritualism at the major universities in Cairo and Alexandria, though he never realized this ambition. Women, too, were becoming active participants, as attendees at Spiritualist circles, as mediums and even as “Spiritualist singers” who channeled the power of the spirit world to put on exceptional performances.

Among the swirl of paranormal activity, one big question always remains about Spiritualism: What made it take off so much at certain times? Why did people suddenly flock to its message? Since the birth of the movement in the mid-19th century, its rise has been ‌a mystery. After all, fascination with ghosts and spirits had always existed; what made people turn to an organized movement that claimed to communicate with the dead?

Many scholars have puzzled over why there was a similar surge of interest in Spiritualism in Europe of the 1920s and 1930s. The simple reason has always been that people, desperate to contact their relatives who had died in World War I and the Spanish Flu pandemic, turned to Spiritualists for help. But I have always found this explanation unsatisfying. Not only did it mean very little to most self-professed Spiritualists at the time, but it also does not explain the global spread of Spiritualism in the early 20th century. Why were people across the world, whose lives had not been touched by the war in the same way as Europeans, taking up the study and practice of the paranormal? Jawhari, Wagdy and Abu al-Khair had different concerns.

Based on what Spiritualists at the time were writing and talking about, it is clear that a common desire to create new worlds united them across time and space. As well as attempting to contact the other side, every Spiritualist that I have come across was committed to at least one utopian project — often several. Exactly why this is so remains unknown, but it has been true since the early days of the Spiritualist movement in America, when a mix of socialists, feminists, abolitionists and others gathered under the flag of Spiritualism. One contemporary speculated: “The vision of a new heaven will perhaps be most gladly received by those whose eyes have been opened to the vision of a new earth.”

In the Arab world, this was also true. Jawhari, as well as writing on Spiritualism, published two books about the possibility of world peace and the improvement of humanity: “Where Is Humanity?” and “Dreams of Politics: How to Achieve World Peace.” Spiritualists, generally, were well represented in the peace movement in Egypt. Others found their way to different utopian philosophies. One of Abu al-Khair’s protégés, Nassif Isaac, published a book promoting both Spiritualism and the universal language Esperanto, which he called “The Two Aspirations of Humanity: One Universal Scientific Religion and One International Common Language.”

Spiritualism, I argue, always becomes popular ‌when a new world and a new order looks possible. Arab Spiritualists emerged ‌when new ways of existing in the world were being imagined.

The 1910s and 1920s in Egypt, where Jawhari and Wagdy promoted their Spiritualism, were times of huge political upheaval. Egyptians fought for and won their own nation-state, then went about developing their new country. Unsurprisingly, the nascent Spiritualists Wagdy and Jawhari were prominent advocates for the national cause. The Muslim Brotherhood, although it seems a long way from Spiritualism now, was also advocating for a fundamentally new society, founded on what they saw as traditional Islamic values.

In the 1950s, during the era of pan-Arabism and postcolonial liberation across the Middle East, Spiritualism became even more prevalent. Stories of seances held among the Egyptian and Syrian military lend further support to the argument that Spiritualism was enmeshed with the push for change.

This is also a more compelling explanation for the rise of Spiritualism in the 1920s and 1930s in Europe. It was not just the desire to contact departed relatives that energized Spiritualism, it was the desire to construct a new society on the rubble of a destroyed civilization.

In the late 1960s, the bottom fell out of the pan-Arab project, which had captured the imagination of so many intellectuals of the postcolonial era. In 1967, Israel captured the West Bank, including the Old City of Jerusalem, and defeated the armies of Jordan, Syria and Egypt. The ramifications were felt far away from the battlefield. The feelings of national self-confidence that people in the Middle East had in the previous two decades melted away, along with the sense that they had the power to change anything. The late 1960s and early 1970s were an age of disillusion.

Of course, Spiritualism had always had its critics, those who accused mediums of being charlatans, exploiting the naïve and vulnerable. Others had bigger problems with the philosophy. In 1960, one professor of modern literature at Alexandria University, Mohammed Hussein, published a book called “Modern Spiritualism, Its Truth and Its Aims.” In it he accused Spiritualists of promoting everything from paganism to communism, claiming that Spiritualism was an arm of “international Jewry” and a plot to destroy both Islam and Christianity.

After 1967, critics became more vocal. Hussein rereleased his book in 1969 in an updated edition with the new title “Modern Spiritualism: A Destructive Call: The Summoning of Spirits and its Links to Global Zionism.” In 1971, Spiritualism was in the newspapers again but, this time, as a strange conspiracy. Journalist Mohammed Hassanein Heikal had gotten hold of a tape recording of some seances conducted by a former Egyptian defense minister, Gen. Hussein Fawzi, and two former high-ranking intelligence officials, Shaarawi Guma and Sami Sharaf. These men had recently fallen out of favor with President Anwar Sadat, and this exposé of their seance, in which they sought advice about the turbulent political waters where they found themselves, was plastered on the front page of al-Ahram in an obvious attempt to discredit them.

In the space of a little over two decades since that strange apparition had appeared in Alexandria, sparking so much debate, Spiritualism had changed from an unusual new craze into a massive political liability. Abu al-Khair, who died in 1960, did not live to see its full trajectory. Today, it has largely disappeared from the public sphere in the Middle East (as it has in most other places in the world). Many in Egypt, for instance, have fond memories of childhood experiments with Ouija boards or telling ghost stories, but there is little organized Spiritualist presence in the country.

After looking at this complicated and often unusual chapter of modern Arab history, one pressing question remains: Why should we be interested in the history of Spiritualism in the Arab world? My answer is simple. The history of Spiritualism is the history of the 20th century.

For Wagdy and Jawhari, Spiritualism offered one‌ way to reconcile Islam and modern science. It also allowed them to carve out a place for Islamic traditions in the ever-developing study of Spiritualism, showing that they were a legitimate part of this global conversation, which was important for many of these early Spiritualists. Jawhari sent his books to international conferences and wrote letters to fellow scholars across the world, seeing himself as a partner in a wider search for answers. Likewise, Abu al-Khair, who turned to Spiritualism for an explanation of mysteries that he previously thought unsolvable, began his work by translating international scholars into Arabic. They all saw themselves as part of a much larger whole.

Most of the people who read this article, I assume, will be at least skeptical about the claims of Spiritualists to ‌contact the dead; many will think them ridiculous. Intellectual history is full of movements that held enormous currency in their time but have since been forgotten. What makes Spiritualism such an important example is that it was emblematic of the desire for change and progress that defined the 20th century, an embodiment of the optimism of a world in flux. It put on offer, perhaps, something of a false utopia. And what is more quintessentially 20th century than that?

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